Chapter Four
Diana spread the letters out across the surface of the desk.
In the late afternoon, the house was quiet, both Belinda and Eugenia gone for the day, and only the sound of a whitethroat singing outside the open window broke the silence. Which suited her just fine. At the moment, she did not want to explain why she had left the ball early. Why she had slept late after tossing and turning all night.
She would not have been able to look either woman in the eye and remark in a blasé manner about what a lovely coincidence it had been to run into Oliver Graham, and what a pleasant conversation they had had, and how splendidly he seemed to be doing. Not without both women seeing right through such inanity.
Diana rearranged the third and fourth letters so that they reflected the dates chronologically. She needed to do better. With Oliver back in England, she would need to set aside her emotions. He did not belong to her, but he was still her friend. And she would have to learn to settle for that.
A soft breeze drifted in, bringing with it the scent of roses and lifting the edge of the letter closest to Diana. She picked up the folded paper, turning it over. It was the second-to-last letter she had received from Madelene, and the only letter that did not have a Brighton postmark, but instead, a mileage mark. Which, in theory, should tell Diana exactly how many miles that that letter had traveled to London. Which, in theory, should allow Diana to take an educated guess at the town or village close to Brighton that it had been posted from. Except, mileage marks could be notoriously inaccurate, and even if it was somewhat precise, that left a wide swath of possibilities that surrounded Brighton.
She frowned and sat back, gazing at the collection of little glass goats arranged on a table by the window. A dozen pairs of beady, glossy eyes stared back at her, offering her no answers. But at least this was a start. She’d give these letters to Oliver. At the very least, he would want to read them and see for himself that Madelene had—
“What did he say?”
Diana jumped and nearly upset the inkpot near her elbow. “Saints, Hannah, you need to knock.”
“I came in the back through the kitchens.” Hannah strode into the room, her eyes darting into the corners as though she thought someone might be lurking behind the curtains. She was wearing a plain gray cloak over her yellow dress, even though the day was warm. “What did Oliver say last night before you encountered Riddington?” she repeated as she paced back and forth. “Did he talk about me last night? Did he say anything about me or a wedding or—”
“No.” Diana moved the inkpot to a place of safety in the center of the desk. “And how did you know we encountered Riddington?”
Hannah blinked at her, looking a little abashed. She paused long enough to thrust what looked like a crumpled newspaper in Diana’s direction. It landed on the corner of the desk, and Diana made no move to pick it up.
“The social pages,” Hannah mumbled.
“The fictitious gossip pages, you mean.” Diana refused to read them, but for as long as Diana had known her, Hannah had always had a weakness for the frivolity. There was rarely a column she missed.
“Whatever you want to call them, they say that you and the duke were seen together, out in front of Montmartin House last night.”
“With Oliver.” She snatched up the paper, crumpling it in her hand, and tossed it in the direction of the dustbin. She missed. “Oliver was there too.”
“Oliver didn’t get a mention. But they’ve speculated that you are now… intimately acquainted with His Grace.”
A familiar revulsion gripped her. “Again? Based on what?”
“Ambiguous comments by the duke, of course.”
“Perhaps I should have let Oliver knock him on his pompous backside.”
Hannah picked up one of the glass goats. “What’s he doing in Brighton? Oliver, I mean.”
Diana forced the contemptible Duke of Riddington from her mind and slid the letters in front of her into a neat pile. She turned them over, reluctant to speak of Madelene or Oliver’s search for her. Which was foolish, because Hannah would eventually be Oliver’s wife and would know everything then. But it seemed as though perhaps this, being a close family matter, was something that Oliver should impart, how and when he wished.
“A visit, I suppose, until he heads to Hertfordshire to assume his post at the college,” Diana told her instead, consoling herself that it wasn’t actually a lie, just not the complete truth.
“Right. Hertfordshire.”
“Where you will live with him once you are married,” Diana said slowly and in the most matter-of-fact voice she could manage. She wasn’t sure whose benefit that was for.
Hannah nearly dropped the goat before she recovered and set it back on the table with exaggerated care.
“What’s going on, Hannah?” Diana asked, impatience and concern rising in equal measure.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Diana repeated. “That’s what you said when I asked last time. And the time before that. And the time before that. You’ve been avoiding me for months—”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I intended—”
Diana held her hand up. “I’m not angry. Just worried. Whatever is going on with you, you can tell me.”
Hannah pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers, looking wretched.
A terrible thought struck Diana. “Are you ill?”
“What?” Hannah’s head came up, her eyes wide. “No. Of course not.”
Relief washed through her. “Then whatever it is, just tell me. Perhaps I can help.”
“You can’t.”
“It’s clear that this has something to do with Oliver.”
“Yes. And no.” Her words were barely audible, but at least they resembled an answer.
“Oliver hasn’t changed,” Diana tried. “He’s still decent and honorable.” And handsome and strong and loyal and kind… She stopped before she made a fool of herself.
The pretty redhead’s fingers twisted and untwisted around the edge of her cloak. “That is what I am afraid of.”
“He’ll make a wonderful husband.” It was hard to force the words past the mass of awful, unwanted jealousy that lodged in the back of her throat. She would be happy for them if it killed her.
“Yes,” Hannah said slowly. “He will make a wonderful husband. But to the right woman.”
Diana swallowed a horrified gasp, wondering if her jealousy was that transparent. Dear Lord, she was a terrible friend. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are that woman. You always have been.”
“Have I?”
This conversation was starting to slide into places Diana had no intention of going. She was always so careful, especially around Hannah. She had never, ever spoken to anyone about how she truly felt about Oliver Graham. Nor did she intend to. Doing so would be pointless. The die was cast long ago.
“You have,” Diana said loudly. Too loudly.
“Will he still want to marry me, do you think? After all this time?”
Diana stared at her. “Of course he will—” She stopped abruptly as understanding dawned. “You don’t want to marry Oliver.” It wasn’t really a question.
“It’s complicated.” That wasn’t really an answer.
“Complicated?”
“I thought I’d have more time,” Hannah whispered.
At least, that was what Diana thought she heard her say. Because another voice from somewhere in the house intruded.
“Dee? Where are you?”
Hannah’s eyes went as wide as saucers, and her face went even chalkier. “Mother of God. Oliver’s here? Why is he here?”
Diana stood behind the desk. “Because I asked him here.” A completely inappropriate thrill of anticipation shot through her, making her pulse kick and her breath quicken. “Whatever it is that is going on with you concerns him too. Even if you don’t want to tell me, you need to talk to him,” she said firmly, as if that would rectify her response. “This is as good a time as any.”
“I can’t. Not yet.” Hannah looked around wildly.
“Well, you’re not hiding behind the plants or the curtains this time to avoid him.” Diana put her hands on her hips. “We’re in here,” she called.
Hannah blanched.
“Perhaps he can—Hannah?” Diana felt her jaw slacken. “What are you doing?”
“Promise me you won’t tell him I was here.” Hannah had shoved the window all the way up and was levering herself out the opening. “I just need one more day.”
“What?”
“Promise me,” Hannah hissed as her legs swung over the sill. She stuffed her yellow skirts in front of her with frantic movements.
“You can’t do this.” Diana hurried to the window, but Hannah had already dropped out of sight into the rose garden below.
She landed in a thorny maze of bushes with a loud curse and clambered awkwardly to her feet. The redhead crouched and pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head, but not before she was forced to untangle hair that had become snagged on an errant branch. She scrambled through the greenery before disappearing over a manicured hedge in a flurry of petticoats and more curses.
“I think the butler forgot about me in the hall. I got tired of waiting. Hope you don’t mind.”
Diana spun just as Oliver appeared in the door. He was dressed simply, in dusty boots and a well-worn coat and snug breeches that only emphasized the impressive lines of his body. Her heart skipped a beat. He had never looked so touchable. So real.
And so concerned.
He glanced around the empty room. “Who were you talking to?”
“There was a… bird. There was a bird.”
“Well.” He raised a dark brow. “I suppose that’s a step up from ferns.”
Diana shoved the window closed, knowing there wasn’t anything she could say that would make her sound less daft.
“There is an entire conservatory of flowers in the hall,” he continued, his forehead creasing. “The butler tells me you’ve exhausted their supply of vases. It seems you have a lot of suitors.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“Competitors,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Competitors, not suitors.” All vying for her bed or her fortune or both.
“What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.” She should not have mentioned it. “Here,” she said, returning to the desk and picking up the pile of letters to distract him. “These are from Madelene. I’ve spent the morning rereading them. I want you to have them now.”
Oliver lunged forward before catching himself and took them carefully from her hand. “You kept them.”
Her face heated. “Of course I did. They were important.” She gestured at her battered mahogany writing box that sat open on the desk. Which was the wrong thing to do, because now he was staring at the box and the bundle of correspondence resting inside, tied with a sky-blue ribbon.
“You kept my letters.”
Diana moved to close the box as casually as she could manage. “Of course,” she said again. But she wouldn’t tell him just how valuable each and every one of his letters was. She wouldn’t tell him how often she read them, imagining him in the far-away world he described. Just imagining… him. “You were gone a long time.”
“Yet, you were with me every step of the way. Your letters, Dee—it was like you were there with me. I should have written you more.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You were busy. And you wrote plenty. It wasn’t as good as having you here, in person, but it was better—”
“I missed you terribly.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken, and breathing became a chore. She should say something light. Something flippant and funny that would diffuse whatever this was that was happening between them.
“I missed you too,” was what she said.
“Diana—”
She cleared her throat. She couldn’t do this, whatever this was. “Madelene sent me one letter a year. Usually around Christmastide. They’re not terribly long, but they let me know that she is doing all right.”
He looked down at the letters in his hand. “She should have told me,” he said eventually, and when he looked up again, frustration and unhappiness etched lines across his features.
“She told me,” Diana said. “Came to me for help. Knowing, I think, that I would make sure that when you returned, these would be passed on to you if…”
“If I forgave her.”
“Yes.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Save, of course, for her lack of faith in me.”
Diana stepped closer to him, unable to help herself. “They’re postmarked in Brighton,” she said, resisting the longing to smooth the lines of worry from his face. “All of them except this one.” She reached for one of the letters in his hand. “This one only has a mileage mark. Which means she sent it from a smaller village somewhere around Brighton, because in it, she still speaks of the sea and the construction of the Pavilion.”
“She sent it from where she lives.” He sounded hopeful.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Does she mention anything else in any of her letters that would give us a clue where that might be?”
“She mentioned a church once. An old one, with a crenellated tower. She said her son pretended he was riding to besiege the castle when they went to church.”
He smiled, and his eyes went soft. “What else?”
“A river. She talks of fishing in a river.”
“We need a map of Brighton and the surrounding parishes.” He glanced around as though one might suddenly appear in this elegant morning room.
“The Dowager Countess of Ainsworth keeps a lovely home here, but I’m afraid that local maps are not one of the things that she collects. Glass goats, on the other hand…” Diana eyed their caprine audience.
“I thought those were donkeys,” Oliver said. “Or maybe llamas.”
“Llamas? Really?”
“Doesn’t matter. There is a bookseller on Church Street who has maps. He’ll have one of Brighton.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I sold him a map yesterday that I brought back from India. Besides books, he has hundreds of maps. From all over.” The hope in his expression was unmistakable. “Let’s go.” He tucked the small bundle of letters inside his coat.
“Now?”
“You have other plans for the day?”
“Um.” Her only other plans for the day had included avoiding anywhere the Duke of Riddington might be so that she wouldn’t be tempted to kick him. Now, she was wondering if her other plans should include avoiding anywhere Oliver Graham might be so that she wouldn’t be tempted to kiss him.
“Dee, I need you,” he said, catching her hand in his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The echoes of those words lodged deep in her belly, sending waves of want through every nerve ending.
“Um.” She needed to gather her wits and drag her mind from the indecent depths to which it had sunk. He needed her help. This was simply another adventure that they were undertaking. Though they were older now, and the stakes were much more real than hunting an imaginary dragon to its imaginary lair deep in the dales. “Of course.” She couldn’t refuse him this, help with finding his sister.
“Thank you.” He squeezed her hand, pulling her closer. “Thank you for doing this for me. For doing what you did for Madelene.”
Diana might have nodded, but time seemed to have slowed, the sounds of the house around them strangely muffled. He had gone utterly still, her hand caught tightly in his and pressed against his chest. He was looking down at her, his brows drawn together, his eyes intense as they held hers. And then they dropped to her mouth, and on his face, she saw a reflection of the desire that was coiling through her with exquisitely excruciating force.
Oliver brought his free hand up and touched a loose curl that had escaped its pins. He tucked it back over her ear, the backs of his fingers brushing the side of her neck. He let them drift lower, coming to rest at the edge of her bodice.
Surely he would feel the way her heart was thundering in her chest. Surely he would feel the shudder that coursed through her, evidence of the want and longing that rendered her immobile and unable to breathe. She wanted his lips on hers, his hands on her skin, his body where she needed it the most. She wanted all of him. In this moment, right now.
Oliver remained right where he was, within kissing distance. His hand drifted from the edge of her bodice, along the side of her breast, to her waist. His mouth was only inches from hers. All she had to do was push herself to her toes and take everything that she had wanted since forever.
But she would not. For the same reasons that had existed since forever.
“We should go,” she managed, a little surprised that her voice still worked, though it was hoarse and uneven. She pulled her hand from his, because if she kept touching him, she was not going to have enough willpower left to do the right thing.
Oliver steadied himself against the side of the desk, and it didn’t escape Diana’s notice that his breathing was fast and shallow, his forehead creased, his color high. She wasn’t sure if she should be happy or horrified.
She needed to stop this. She was walking a very dangerous line, one that could have no happy endings and could cost her friendships.
“The dowager has allowed me the use of her carriage if I need it,” she continued, doing her best to pretend that the last minute never happened. Because it couldn’t happen. “I think we should take it in the event we need to travel further afield.”
She was babbling now, but she needed to put some normalcy back between them. Right the ship, as it were.
Oliver nodded. “Yes.”
“Good.” Diana clasped her hands together. “I’ll see to the arrangements.”
“Yes.”
Diana fled.