Chapter Three
He was getting married.
Married, married, married. Diana repeated this to herself as she slipped from the Montmartin House and out into the dark coolness of the night. Married, married, married.
Not to her, but to Miss Hannah Burton.
Diana had known this since she was eight, when the Burton and Graham families had cordially agreed upon the union. She’d known it every minute of every hour she and Oliver had spent together, exploring the dales up north every summer where their parents had both kept modest country estates. She’d known it as they had played in the ponds and the barns and the forests. She’d known it as they had become older and their time spent together had lessened, but their friendship had strengthened. She’d known it with every letter she’d ever sent to him as he had worked his way through Eton and Oxford, and then after he’d departed for India to seek his fortunes with the East India Company.
She’d known it the entire time she’d fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him.
And now Oliver was back in England, no longer a young buck with something to prove, but a confident man who had made his fortune and had come home to claim the bride he had promised to marry and the new life that was waiting for them both.
Somehow, this made Diana want to weep.
Which was indeed selfish, because if she were a better person, this union between Hannah and Oliver, her two closest friends, would be cause for boundless joy. Diana had thought she had accepted this reality. But the second she had turned around to find Oliver Graham standing behind her, she’d no longer wanted to accept it. The moment she had thrown herself into his arms, the moment she had felt them tighten around her as he held her close, she’d known she had made a monumental mistake. In his arms, she’d finally felt whole.
He wasn’t the slim young man she had hugged goodbye on the docks. He was bigger and stronger and harder. His shoulders were broader, his muscles honed to a steely strength that was obvious even through the layers of his evening clothes. His features had sharpened too as they had matured, his cheeks more distinguished, his jaw more defined. His hair was as dark as she remembered, his skin the same rich olive, and his chocolate-colored eyes held the same warmth and humor.
He had transcended handsome to become compelling.
Yet, he still had a quick smile, and the time apart had not dimmed the ease with which conversation had always flowed. Until, of course, he had asked why she had been talking to a fern. And she had dodged his question because Hannah had made her promise not to give her away.
No doubt because the reality of the man Hannah would spend the rest of her life with, the man who would be at her side during her days and dominate her nights, needed adjusting to. She didn’t blame Hannah for wanting time to prepare herself in the face of his sudden, unexpected appearance. Had she been the woman who would marry this man, perhaps she too would have asked for distance—
Diana made a face. Who was she trying to fool? If she were going to marry Oliver Graham, she’d be kissing him right now. Not reminding herself why that could and would never, ever happen.
“Dee.”
She whirled to find him behind her in the shadows, the soft, flickering light of the torches along the sweeping walking paths highlighting his silhouette. “There you are,” she said brightly, clasping her hands behind her back.
“This was a good idea, Dee. You can hear yourself think out here.”
“Yes,” she agreed, thinking that she was thinking entirely too much.
He smiled, his teeth bright in the darkness, and offered her his arm.
She eyed it uncertainly.
“I promise not to kidnap you and ravish you in the bushes.”
Diana’s mouth went dry as she tried not to consider just how much she might enjoy being ravished by Oliver Graham. She pasted on what she hoped was a benign smile, counting on the shadows to hide any deficiencies, and slipped her hand around his arm.
She would not dwell on the heat of his body beneath her bare hand. She would not pretend that he was taking her on a romantic moonlight stroll. She would not imagine that he had come back from India to be hers.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” she said as they began to walk. “You didn’t mention visiting the coast at all in your letters.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Oliver replied after a brief hesitation. “But what are you doing here? There were no Brighton plans in your last letter either.”
“My last letter was months and months ago. I didn’t know I was coming here until last week, when Belinda and Eugenia invited me.” She was careful not to mention Hannah. “You’ve met them, I think.”
He nodded slowly. “A very long time ago. But you’ve spoken of them often enough in your letters.”
“They thought a break from London would be… therapeutic.”
“I can imagine.”
No, she thought, he couldn’t. Because Oliver hadn’t been reduced to a bloody bet in the ledgers at Boodle’s and Brooks’s and White’s, like a high-priced whore whose services were up for auction. Though she certainly wasn’t going to discuss that with Oliver. Not here. Not now. Probably not ever.
“How was your voyage back?” she blurted.
Oliver shrugged, his arm moving beneath her hand. “No storms, no pirates, no outbreaks of anything deadly. By all measures, a positively decadent trip.”
“When do you start at the college?” she asked, continuing with reasonable, rational questions a friend would ask.
“In a fortnight.”
“I’m so pleased for you. You deserve it.” She meant it. Teaching positions at the East India College were rare opportunities, and they were wildly sought after, awarded to individuals who were truly masters in their field.
“Thank you,” he said, putting his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “But I want to talk about you.”
“I think I’ve talked about me enough in my letters, don’t you? There’s not much more to tell,” she answered. She didn’t really want to talk about herself. Because then there was the risk that she might say the wrong thing and ruin everything.
“I was so sorry to hear about your husband.”
Diana looked at his hand covering hers, a familiar feeling of guilt bubbling from somewhere deep. “Laurence was a good man,” she said. A good man she had married at her family’s urging. A man she had admired and respected and cared for deeply. But she’d never been in love with him, and the guilt that came with that knowledge lingered, as it had right after Laurence Thompson’s death eight years ago. He’d been killed in Belgium fighting the French barely three months after they had wed.
“Did he make you happy?” Oliver asked.
“Yes,” Diana answered. Any shortcomings in her happiness were hers and hers alone.
“Good,” Oliver replied with more vehemence than she’d expected. “Not everyone is so lucky to find happiness in a marriage arrangement.”
Diana resisted the urge to look at him. The arrangement between her family and that of Laurence Thompson’s hadn’t been much different than the arrangement between Oliver’s and Hannah’s, though Diana didn’t point that out. She waited instead for Oliver to bring up his own impending nuptials.
He didn’t.
Though, perhaps he was as reluctant as Hannah was to discuss their planned marriage until he had had a chance to properly prepare and speak to his bride and her family. Diana had, after all, left Hannah hiding behind the wall décor in a ballroom. Not talking about it was fine with her. She’d rather run naked through a forest of nettles than discuss Oliver’s wedding.
They continued down the path, the quiet broken only by the faint crunch of gravel beneath their feet. The torchlight flickered, sending fingers of light dancing wildly across the manicured lawns, and the breeze was laced with the salty tang of the sea.
“How’s your family?” she asked, unable to stand the awkward silence that the topic of marriage had left behind.
“I came to Brighton directly from London,” Oliver said, and without warning, he stopped in the middle of the path. “Madelene never went to Boston.”
Diana stumbled into him before righting herself. She cursed herself, knowing she should never have asked that last question without being better prepared. She knew that this was the part when she was supposed to feign shock. Instead, she felt only faint surprise that it had taken Oliver this long to discover that his sister had never sailed for Boston.
“No,” she said. “She didn’t.”
“You knew that? And yet, you let me believe the same story my parents fed everyone else?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asked, his voice rough. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Madelene asked me not to.”
His muscles went stiff beneath her hand. “Madelene asked you not to,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
“I know why she left.”
Diana hesitated, wondering just how much he knew. “I’m not sure you—”
“I recovered a letter she tried to send to our parents. A letter they didn’t open and tossed into the hearth to be burned. Our housekeeper saved it and kept it all these years. Gave it to me when I went back to the house.”
“Ah.” Diana sighed. “Then you might know why she felt ashamed. Afraid.”
“She’s hardly the first woman who’s been seduced, believing herself to be in love. What would she be afraid of?”
“When you talked to your parents, your brothers, what did they say?”
Oliver flinched. “They told me that they no longer have a daughter. Or a sister.”
“That. She was afraid of that same reaction from you.”
“My parents and my brothers are punishing her. And they’re wrong to do so.”
“They are. And I’m glad to hear you say it. Madelene would be too.”
“Who did this to her?” Oliver asked, and his voice was like cut glass. “Who took advantage of her?”
Diana cursed herself again for not having a better response prepared. “That is Madelene’s secret.” She’d made a promise to Madelene a long time ago to keep her secret, and Diana was not about to break that promise now. God only knew what Oliver would do. “Does it really matter after all this time?”
“Yes, it matters,” he growled. “It’s all that matters. It matters that the bastard who ruined her life didn’t have to answer for it.” He pulled away from her and stalked a few paces ahead before turning back. “I wasn’t there to protect her then, but such a transgression will not go unaddressed now. Whoever he is, I will make sure he answers for it.”
“And do what?”
“Whatever it takes.” He sounded unnaturally calm.
This was what she had been afraid of. “Oliver—”
“You helped Madelene, didn’t you?” Almost an accusation.
Diana lifted her chin. “She’s your sister, Oliver. And a friend. Of course I helped her.”
“How?”
“I gave her the means and money to leave the rot of London without looking back. To start over.” She frowned. “And I’ll not apologize for it.”
Oliver exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry. Thank you. For being there for her when I wasn’t.”
“Of course.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I did not require or expect her to take anything from her old life with her. Including me. In fact, I encouraged her not to.”
“I think she’s here somewhere. Somewhere near Brighton.”
Diana glanced up in surprise. “Why do you think that?”
“She mentioned Brighton in her letter.” He paused, a look of anguish chasing itself across his features. “That letter also had a lock of baby hair in it. Madelene has a son.”
“Yes.”
“You knew that too?” It sounded raw.
“Yes,” Diana murmured. “She’s sent me similar letters over the years.”
“And you’ve never looked for her?”
“If she wanted me to know where she is, she would have told me. I’ve respected that.”
“You should have told me.”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”
“I need to find her.”
“Perhaps it would be better if Madelene was the one who—”
“I need you to help me.”
“Oliver—”
“Do you remember when we were twelve and Madelene was ten, and she followed us when we trekked up to the old ruins near Reeth without us knowing? And got lost somewhere on the way?”
Diana bit her lip. “Yes.”
“I remember feeling sick when we got back and realized what had happened. That my little sister was somewhere in those forests on her own. This is like that, only a hundred times worse.” He came back to her, catching her hand in his. “You helped me then, Dee. You helped me keep my head, and you helped me search, and in the end, we found her. And I’m asking for your help again.” Oliver took a ragged breath. “She’s my sister and I love her, and I haven’t seen her in a dozen years, and whatever she did or didn’t do changes none of that. And I have a nephew I haven’t met.” The words came out in an anguished jumble. “Please.”
Diana tightened her hand in his. Because she couldn’t wrap her arms around him and lean her head against his chest and listen to the beautiful heart that beat inside this beautiful man. “Yes,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll help you find her.”
“Thank you.” Oliver slid his free arm around her shoulders and drew her close.
Diana let him and pretended that everything might have been different. Pretended that in another time, in another place, she might slide her hand up the front of his lapel to his face so that her fingers might explore the angles of his jaw and the softness of his lips. Pretended that she might tangle those fingers in his thick, dark hair and pull his head down to hers—
“Mrs. Thompson.” The voice cut through the shadows. “If you’re not careful, you’ll catch your death out here.”
* * *
Oliver felt every muscle in Diana’s body go rigid.
She spun away from him, and Oliver was left gazing at a man standing in the center of the gravel path before them, the wavering torchlight casting uneven shadows across his features. Not that Oliver needed much light to recognize him. Even after all these years, Ludlow Thrup still had the same smug expression, the same arrogant set to his mouth, the same haughty cast of his eyes. He still possessed the good looks he had always taken an inordinate pride in, and combining that with the wealth and power of the dukedom he now held, Oliver could understand why such a man would believe that he was entitled to everything he desired. And everyone.
I heard she won’t have him.
Diana, it seemed, had not been swayed. A petty satisfaction gripped him.
Oliver spoke first. “Your Grace, it’s been a long time.”
Riddington’s dark eyes narrowed as he stared at Oliver, before they widened in recognition. “Graham,” he said and seemed to falter slightly.
“Nothing gets past you, does it, Your Grace?”
Riddington’s lips thinned. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You barely look like an Englishman anymore. It’s clear you’ve been living too long in whatever backward place you hared off to all those years ago.”
“You’ve been, then?” Oliver inquired flatly.
“Been?”
“To India? China? Mongolia?”
“Of course I haven’t.” The duke straightened his shoulders. “Those places are nothing but barbaric cesspools of disease and violence. Places Englishmen go to die. I’ve heard all the stories.”
“It’s a pity you remain so sheltered, Your Grace, for it’s clear you’ve not, in fact, heard all the stories. You fail to mention the wealth of culture and beauty in each of those places. The rich history and knowledge that those lands and their people possess. It is both humbling and exhilarating to have had the privilege of being there. To have learned and experienced new and incredible things.”
The duke was staring at him, an unpleasant expression on his face.
“Any worthwhile endeavor has risks,” Oliver continued with a shrug. “A man must simply have the courage to face those risks.”
“How dare you imply that—”
“I’m not implying anything, Your Grace. I’m telling you that the world is shrinking. That the future and the men who will control it lie beyond this island.”
“The future of this empire lies with men like me,” Riddington bit out. “I am a very influential man, with more power and wealth at my fingertips than you will ever have. If you doubt that, you only need to read any newspaper in London and every other city and town I travel to. I am mentioned almost daily. Something you wouldn’t be aware of, scraping out an existence in the jungles for as long as you have, Graham.”
“Mmm.”
“Though Mrs. Thompson can certainly enlighten you, can’t you, darling?” The duke bowed to Diana, his eyes lingering on her bodice before he straightened.
Diana stared back at him, expressionless.
Oliver resisted the urge to wipe that smug, satisfied smirk off the duke’s face with a well-placed right hook.
Riddington brought his fingers up to brush a stray curl from Diana’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out here in the cold and in the dark, Mrs. Thompson. It would be my pleasure to see you back inside and attend to your every comfort.”
“Thank you, but no,” Diana replied, edging away. “I was retiring early.”
“Then allow me to escort you. You’re staying at Ainsworth House, correct?”
“That is not necessary, Your Grace.”
“Come, Mrs. Thompson, I—”
“She said it was not necessary,” Oliver cut him off.
A dark look passed over Riddington’s face before it cleared. “Of course. I will call upon you tomorrow, then, Mrs. Thompson.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I won’t be available.”
“Mrs. Thompson, I do think that you should reconsider very carefully.” The duke leaned toward Diana. “And remember who I am.”
“Otherwise?” Oliver prompted.
“I beg your pardon?” Riddington’s jaw was set.
“If Mrs. Thompson doesn’t reconsider?” Oliver asked, deliberately and gently brushing at an ivory-colored moth fluttering near the sleeve of his coat. “You sounded like you were making a threat,” he continued. “Though I’m sure I was mistaken.”
“I’m sure you were.” The duke’s words were tight. He turned his back on Oliver and picked up Diana’s unproffered hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Another time, then, Mrs. Thompson. When we are not so… encumbered.”
Diana said nothing, only pulled her hand from his and buried it in her skirts.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” Oliver shifted, once again offering his arm to Diana.
She moved to take it without hesitation.
The duke glanced at Diana’s hand on Oliver’s arm. He looked as though he might say something further, but instead, he merely sniffed, turned his back on both of them, and stalked away in the direction of the house. Oliver forced himself to relax. Riddington would not ruin this night.
Beside him, Diana remained silent.
“Dee? Are you all right?”
She sighed. “I’m fine. And I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
“I know. I’ve been gone too long to have earned that honor. My lance and armor are rusty, and my noble steed is most surely out of condition.”
Diana laughed, the greatest reward she could have given him. “He’s not worth it,” she said.
“Agreed. But knocking him on his pompous backside would have been exceedingly gratifying.”
“Maybe next time.” Her fingers slid more securely around his arm.
He covered her hand with his free one, as if that gesture could keep her with him beyond this night. “I didn’t think Riddington could get any more detestable than he was in school, but it appears as though I was mistaken.”
“He despises you.”
“He despises everyone. The things that most people admire in a man—or a woman, for that matter—have only ever threatened Riddington. All the way through Oxford, he loathed anyone with courage and athleticism, and hated those who possessed creativity and industriousness. Simply because their abilities were greater than his. He is a small man with a small mind who can’t understand that title and fortune cannot ever compensate for talent and character.”
Diana made a funny sound. “He must have abhorred your academic success.”
“He abhorred the fact that I was a nobody and that no matter what he bribed or threatened me with, I wouldn’t cheat for him. I refused to sacrifice my honor and integrity for him. Worse, I never apologized for it when he failed. I think Riddington hated me most of all.”
“Mmm.” It was a pensive sound.
“If a man like that still hates me, I suppose I’ve done something right in my life,” Oliver said, trying to lighten the saturnine turn that the conversation had taken. “But enough about detestable dukes. This night is about you and me.”
He glanced down at her just as she looked up, her eyes luminous and her lips slightly parted. And he found himself ambushed by a desperate impulse to kiss her. To catch her mouth with his and run his tongue over those lush, seductive lips. To draw her into his arms and slide his hands over those lush, seductive curves.
He looked away instantly, horrified at the desire and arousal flooding through him. These feelings were unacceptable. They were not part of any plan for any part of his life and, in fact, threatened to obliterate his neatly ordered responsibilities and duties, the way artillery fire annihilated neatly ordered infantry squares.
“Thank you. For what you said. For what you did. For your… friendship. No matter how rusty your armor might be.”
“Always,” Oliver replied, trying to regain his bearings.
Friendship. Something he’d always taken for granted with Diana. Yet, friendship did not adequately explain the possessiveness that seemed to be getting stronger with every minute. Friendship did not address the way his blood raced when he touched her. Nor did it explain his overwhelming urge to kiss her.
But friendship was all he could have with Diana Thompson. Because he was a man of honor who had made promises. Without honor, a man had nothing.
“Come, Dee,” he said, his cheer sounding forced even to his own ears. “Let me see you safely home before we come across a dragon that requires you to ride to my rescue. I might not recover from the indignity.”
Diana laughed again.
And Oliver reminded himself that he was an honorable man.