Chapter One
Brighton, England, 1823
“He’s here.”
Diana felt an arm wrap around her waist, and she was almost yanked off her feet as she was pulled behind a potted fern that was starting to wilt. “Good Lord, Hannah, where have you been? You can’t just up and disappear for an hour—”
“Hide,” her friend urged frantically, crouching behind the massive pot at the far edge of the ballroom and dragging Diana down with her.
Diana’s right knee hit the ground, though she covered her wince with a light laugh. “Very funny, Hannah.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to keep him from seeing you. Or me.”
Diana sobered at Hannah’s urgent tone and cast a wary eye about them, but no one seemed to have noticed that she’d been all but wrestled to the ground. With the champagne flowing, conversation competing in volume with the music, and small, selfish dramas playing out all over the crowded room, no one even looked their way. Which had been Diana’s general objective in the first place. Stay in the background. Avoid notice.
And the idea that the Duke of Riddington had managed to follow her yet again made her both uncomfortable and furious at the same time.
Furious because the abhorrent man had the power to make her uncomfortable. Furious because she was reduced to crouching behind the imported shrubbery, on her hands and knees in a manner she hadn’t done since she was nine. Furious because her well-intentioned friend believed this was a better option than another conversation with him, or another round of not-so-subtle suggestions that Riddington would do Diana the honor of allowing her to warm his ducal bed, if only she would come to her senses.
“This is crushing my skirts,” she muttered.
“Who cares about your skirts?” Hannah slowly stuck her head over the top of the pot, pushing aside a spray of fronds. The theme for tonight’s ball was the wilds of the Far East. Swaths of embroidered crimson and tangerine silk were tacked to the walls, and potted ferns lined the perimeter of the entire room. Ropes of ivy had been hung from the chandeliers in an attempt to create a canopy of vines. A handful of peacocks strutted through the chairs and refreshment tables, occasionally voicing their displeasure over the sound of the music. Someone had even come up with a tiger hide, and that was draped over the dais upon which the orchestra sat. Its glass eyes stared unseeingly at the crush, its teeth bared in an eternal snarl. Diana rather felt that the entire display belonged on a stage and not in a ballroom, but Hannah adored such spectacles.
“I am not hiding behind a pot all night,” Diana said, making an effort to rise. Her pride was worth far more than the Duke of Riddington.
Hannah yanked her back down with more strength than should have been possible for a small, red-haired, green-eyed pixie. “Well, I can’t go out there.”
Diana finally extricated herself from Hannah’s grasp and staggered to her feet. The Duke of Riddington was her problem, not Hannah’s. Diana would deal with him again if she had to, but her more immediate concern was dealing with the woman who was still cowering behind the décor, looking pale and panicked and disheveled. In truth, Hannah hadn’t been herself in awhile—withdrawn and secretive and seemingly avoiding everyone, Diana included. She’d tried many times to gently extract the source of her friend’s discontent, but her efforts had been met only with mumbled apologies and no real explanations. Yet since the redhead had arrived in Brighton last week, the vivacious, cheerful Hannah Burton seemed to have returned.
“He shall see you.” Hannah’s eyes darted between Diana and the far side of the room.
Diana followed her gaze and saw nothing but a wall of people in a dizzying array of colors, none of whom seemed to be looking in their direction.
“And then he shall see me.” Hannah crouched lower behind the greenery. “He can’t see me. I’m not ready to see him. Promise me you won’t let him see me.”
Diana was aware she was scowling now, and she forced her expression to relax. “I don’t see the duke,” she told Hannah. A horrible thought struck her. Had Riddington threatened or propositioned Hannah in his vile manner? Had—
“The duke?” Hannah’s gaze snapped to Diana’s face. “What duke?”
“Riddington.” He was, in part, why Diana had left London in the first place, though that had been pointless, given the man had appeared in Brighton not three days later. The relentless gossip that linked Diana and the duke had followed hard on his heels.
“Riddington? He’s here too? Oh, good God, this is a disaster.”
“Wait, who were you talking about?” Diana asked.
Hannah pushed the fern fronds a little farther to the side and scrambled back. “No, no, no. I can’t do this now.”
Diana looked across the room again, half expecting to see a bloody troll with a great lurching gait and a mouthful of sharp, pointy fangs headed their way. But all she could see were knots of people standing and talking and drinking and laughing. One group of dandies, dressed obnoxiously and speaking in tones to match, were clearly well on their way to being utterly foxed. A dark-haired gentleman with his back to her stood just past them, a tall, masculine figure in well-tailored, elegant evening clothes. Those dandies would do well to take a lesson from him, she thought idly. There was nothing more attractive in a man than one who was confident enough that he felt no need to posture.
“Don’t tell him you saw me,” Hannah said, and Diana twisted to find her friend crawling from behind the pot toward the wall. “Promise me. I was never here.” Hannah reached the wall on her hands and knees and stood, sidling under a hanging swath of crimson silk.
Diana followed her, wondering if she should fetch Hannah’s aunt, who was somewhere in this crowd, and have her take her niece home. Because her niece had clearly taken leave of her senses.
“I need your word that you won’t mention me at all.” Hannah’s disembodied demand was frantic.
“You have my word. But, Hannah, this is ridiculous,” Diana started, though she was speaking now toward nothing but a curtain of crimson silk hanging on the wall. “I can handle the duke or anyone else who—”
“It’s not the duke or anyone else,” Hannah hissed. She poked her head out, making frantic gestures in the direction of the dance floor. “It’s Oliver.”