Page 27 of Taken by the Icy Duke (Marriage Deals #3)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
D iana stared at her reflection in the mirror while Ruth pinned the final curl into place. Under the glow of the dressing room lamp, she looked every inch a duchess in a pale green silk gown embroidered with subtle silver thread at the bodice, her features composed to hide the gnawing anxiety that lay beneath.
Tonight’s ball promised grandeur, yet the usual sparkle of anticipation would not come. She felt ill, but attributed the feeling to a poor night’s sleep.
“Your Grace,” Ruth said, taking a small step back. “That is the last pin. The curls frame your face beautifully.”
She descended the staircase to find Gilbert awaiting her in the foyer, clad in formal evening attire. He looked immaculate; broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and every inch the confident duke. He seemed not to notice her hesitation.
He inclined his head in greeting, offering his arm.
“Shall we?” he asked, his voice politely subdued.
“Yes,” she answered, letting him guide her out to the carriage. The footman closed the door behind them, and the vehicle lurched forward onto the lamplit street.
Neither spoke during the short ride, though Diana felt Gilbert’s cautious glances. Perhaps he had noticed her paleness or the shadows beneath her eyes. She had brushed him off with the same ready excuse: a mild headache, nothing more.
At the ball’s grand entrance, bright lanterns illuminated the polished marble steps. A cluster of footmen in matching livery bowed as they passed, and the pair glided into a foyer bustling with elegantly dressed guests. The distant strains of music and the low hum of conversation washed over Diana; she steeled herself, lifting her chin so no flicker of her inner dread would betray her.
They exchanged civilities with Lord and Lady Whittaker, their hosts, who welcomed them with the effusiveness typical of hosts greeting a prominent duke. Diana offered polite smiles, carefully controlling each word, conscious that half a dozen bystanders hung on every syllable.
Once inside the ballroom proper, the swirl of color and movement dazzled her. Gowns in brilliant hues caught the candlelight beneath elaborate chandeliers, while gentlemen in fine coats gathered near the walls or on the dance floor.
Diana’s heart pounded. She recalled how easy these gatherings had once seemed; nothing more than a chance to see and be seen, to dance, and enjoy conversation. Now, every swirl of perfume and every press of bodies made her stomach tighten in protest.
Gilbert led her through the throng, occasionally halting to greet acquaintances or exchange polite remarks. Murmurs of curiosity and lingering rumors followed them. She sensed that, for some, the novelty of a once-scandalous bride had not fully worn off. Yet no one addressed it openly.
The newness of her attire and her carefully curated image kept them at bay, just as she had planned. But she remembered the sting of hearing that plan laid out by Victor, and how it had reduced her to nothing more than a pawn in Gilbert’s strategy.
Eventually, Gilbert steered her toward a quieter corner near a refreshment table. As soon as they reached it he turned to her, concern radiating from behind his composed facade. “Have you eaten enough today?” he asked under his breath, picking up a glass of lemonade and offering it to her. “You look pale.”
She forced a smile. “I am perfectly fine,” she said, sipping the lemonade. Its sweetness momentarily steadied her nerves. She did not want to lean on him, not when she feared he would recoil if he knew her secret. “It must be the heat of the room.”
He studied her face more closely, but before he could press the matter, a group of acquaintances approached, drawing his attention. As he turned to greet them, she stepped back, clasping her cup, breathing slowly to quell a new wave of queasiness. She willed the swirl of faces not to overwhelm her.
The next hour passed in a blur of courtesies and forced small talk. Diana found herself caught in conversation with two older matrons who praised her gown. She offered polite thanks, her mind drifting every so often to scan the crowd for glimpses of Leopold. He had arrived separately, and she spotted him at the far side of the ballroom talking to a petite blonde woman.
Occasionally, his gaze darted toward Diana in silent worry. She had confided in him that she might not feel strong enough for a long evening, begging him not to reveal her pregnancy. He had promised to keep her confidence, offering to assist her if she felt faint.
Gilbert, meanwhile, circulated among lords discussing politics or estate matters. Every so often, Diana sensed his concerned gaze resting on her, yet they did not linger together. She had steeled herself against leaning on him, and it seemed he did not quite know how to break past her reserve.
At last, the orchestra struck up a spirited waltz and couples flocked to the dance floor. Diana edged around them, searching for a spot to rest and catch her breath. But the flow of the crowd pushed her deeper into the press of bodies. The heat, the swirling colors, and the swift movements turned her stomach as the room began to spin. She forced a calm expression, telling herself not to panic.
Then, out of nowhere, Josephine Halfacre appeared, a regal figure in amethyst satin. She offered Diana a tight smile, blocking her path with an air of false civility. “Duchess,” Josephine drawled softly, “you look quite… refined tonight. Marvelous how new gowns can transform a person.”
Diana’s stomach churned with barely contained nausea. She tried not to let Josephine’s barbed comment bother her. “Lady Halfacre,” she replied, her voice clipped. “If you will excuse me, I need air.”
Josephine’s eyes glinted with smug satisfaction. “Running off so soon? My, you do look a trifle peaky.”
A fresh wave of nausea rose. Desperate to leave, Diana stepped around her without further reply and nearly bumped into another guest. Her sense of claustrophobia mounted. Finally, she managed to slip free, stumbling along the perimeter until she reached the open French doors that led to a small side terrace.
She stepped out into the cooler night air, gripping the balustrade, each breath ragged.
Calm, just breathe.
The faintness receded slightly, but not enough to banish the dark spots that flitted at the edges of her vision. If she could just remain outside, and not move for a few minutes, perhaps she could pull herself together.
Leopold, who must have been watching her from inside, followed her onto the terrace. “Diana,” he said with alarm as he stopped beside her. “You are as white as a sheet.”
She closed her eyes, fighting the sickening swirl in her stomach. “I only need a moment’s rest,” she whispered.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Let me fetch you some water. At least that might help.”
She nodded, forcing a smile of thanks. “Fine. Then I will go back in.”
Leopold hurried off, leaving her to cling to the balustrade. The cool, fresh night air soothed her senses. She told herself to breathe slowly. She could not collapse in front of Josephine or half the ton.
Still, her body betrayed her. Even as she inhaled the cool air, another wave of biliousness swept through her. The drumming in her head intensified. She did not notice Gilbert stepping onto the terrace until he was right behind her, a hand grazing her arm.
“Diana,” he said, his voice ripe with worry. “What is it? Leopold dashed inside for water and said you were ill.”
She managed to straighten, forcing a tight smile. “It is only the warmth and the crush of people,” she told him. “Nothing more.”
His frown deepened. He reached for her elbow, guiding her gently away from the balustrade. “I am taking you home. You should not push yourself.”
Her heart hammered. The idea of leaving mid-ball, giving gossip fresh fodder, terrified her. But she could not deny how terrible she felt. Still, she bristled at the notion of letting him see her vulnerability. “No—I can continue. I do not want rumors?—”
Her voice died as a flare of dizziness slammed into her. The next thing she knew, her knees buckled. Gilbert caught her against his chest, swearing softly. She dimly heard guests exclaiming in alarm from the open doorway. The edges of her vision blurred, color draining from the terrace’s lanterns, and she clutched at his coat with a feeble grip.
The world tilted, voices rose—a man’s panicked order for a physician, a swirl of silks as guests crowded in. Diana fought to remain conscious, blinking rapidly. The last sight she registered was Gilbert’s face, drawn with alarm and something else she could not read, before everything receded into a hazy darkness.
She came to herself lying on a small chaise in an antechamber, candlelight flickering across the white walls. Her body felt heavy and her head throbbed. With effort, she blinked, focusing on the shape of a man bent over her, checking her pulse. A group of onlookers gathered near the doorway. She recognized Leopold’s silhouette among them, but not Gilbert’s.
The physician—an older man with a neat gray beard—spoke quietly, “Your Grace, do you recall fainting?”
Diana managed a slight nod, her throat too dry for words. She realized the physician was performing a basic examination, pressing his fingers gently to her wrist. A rush of relief and fresh panic struck her.
He might discover I am with child if he checks thoroughly.
Outside, footsteps approached rapidly. Gilbert burst in, his hair slightly disheveled, his face tight with worry. “Diana,” he said, his voice breaking on her name, “are you all right?”
The doctor straightened. “She fainted from what appears to be exhaustion or overexertion. The crush of the ballroom air did not help.” He nodded at Gilbert. “I see no immediate danger, but she must rest and remain free of such crowds for the near future.”
Gilbert exhaled. “I will take her home at once,” he said tersely. “Are you sure there is no?—”
Diana pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, forcing her lips to move before the physician could elaborate. “He is right, I was only overwhelmed,” she insisted, her voice shaky.
No mention of pregnancy, no mention… please.
The doctor gave her a measured look. She sensed his mild suspicion that something else was amiss, but he said nothing further, offering only, “Get some fresh air and quiet, Your Grace. You must not remain in a hot ballroom.”
Gilbert stooped to slip an arm around Diana’s shoulders, helping her to sit. She spotted Leopold at the threshold, his gaze flicking between them in anxious solidarity, but she quickly averted her eyes. She dared not show any sign that Leopold knew more than Gilbert did.
“Lean on me,” Gilbert murmured. He carefully guided her to her feet. Her stomach churned but she swallowed the nausea and forced a small nod.
Gilbert kept a protective arm around her waist as they left the antechamber, the gaggle of curious onlookers drifting behind them. She glimpsed Josephine’s silhouette in the corner of her vision but refused to meet her eye. The entire ball had ground to a subdued lull, other guests peering discreetly as the Duke of Rivenhall escorted his pale wife from the ball.
Outside, the crisp air greeted them. A carriage was immediately summoned. Servants assisted Diana inside, where she slumped against the velvet cushions, exhaustion pounding at her temples. Gilbert climbed in beside her, ignoring the gawking crowd, and pulled the door shut.
In the dim carriage light, his concern radiated. He held her hand, speaking softly, “Rest. We will be home soon.”
She stared at the passing lanterns outside, trembling from her brush with near disaster. Wondering how Gilbert might react to becoming a father made her nausea swell again. She felt drained, both physically and emotionally, as if she had spent every bit of her fortitude. Thankfully, Gilbert did not press her further, but maintained a firm grip on her hand.
When they reached Rivenhall House, anxious footmen rushed forward to assist Diana. Gilbert lifted her from the carriage, ignoring the stares of his staff. She clung weakly to his neck, her body trembling, and sweat beading along her collar. He paused in the foyer’s muted glow, seemingly torn between rage and trepidation.
“Diana…” he began, his voice thick with worry. “You said you were fine, but I cannot ignore how ill you appear.”
“Perhaps a lie down and some tea would help,” she suggested feebly, letting him carry her up the stairs.
The worry etched in his face made her chest tighten. She sensed he wanted answers, but she could not reveal the truth, not while half-swooning in his arms, sweating and disheveled.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, swallowing her panic. “I did not realize how weak I was.”
He nodded grimly. “We will speak in the morning. For now, you need to rest.”
Ruth met them in Diana’s chambers and turned back the covers. Gilbert set her down in bed, letting Ruth take over, but he hovered for a moment, as though debating staying with her. She saw the conflict in his eyes—he was too upset, too uncertain, and she was too exhausted to reassure him.
Part of her wanted him to stay, to hold her until she felt better, reassure her that everything would be well in the end. However, she told herself that he still only saw their marriage as an arrangement, that he did not care for her beyond the appearances they were required to keep. His worry over her fainting could only stem from how the ton would see the whole affair.
When Diana did not encourage him to stay, he turned without another word, leaving her in Ruth’s experienced hands. Once Ruth helped her undress, Diana dismissed her quickly, wanting privacy.
Alone, she sat up against her pillows, her hands trembling in her lap. She tried to steady her breathing and tell herself she was now safe.
She crawled under the covers and pressed a hand over her still-flat abdomen, anguish pooling in her chest.
How long can I hide this?
Eventually, her body would change enough that no gown could disguise it. Yet she could not forget how Gilbert had insisted he never wanted a child, and had no intention of being a father. After the fiasco at the ball, how would he react if he discovered the fainting was not a consequence of mere exhaustion?
Sleep finally claimed her, but her dreams were troubled by half-formed nightmares of swirling crowds and Josephine’s mocking face. She dreamed of doctors pointing at her, announcing her secret for all to hear, while Gilbert stood off to one side, his expression stricken and resentful.