Dinner was a lively affair, with all the tables pushed together and the guests sharing the meal as if they’d planned to be snowed in together. Afterward, they played cards—which Diana fumbled through with Simon’s guidance—while Miss Haskins read to the children by the fire. When Mrs. Taft left to put Mary to bed, Mrs. Woodlawn appeared in the common room with a large, shallow bowl.

“Time for Snapdragon!” she announced, clapping her hands together.

The boys cried with glee, and Diana couldn’t help but smile. Snapdragon could be terribly fun—so long as her parents weren’t around. And luckily for her, they were not.

Mr. Woodlawn hurried to move one of the smaller tables away from the others, and Mrs. Woodlawn set the bowl in the center. She looked down at the boys, who stood on either side of her. “You’ve played Snapdragon, then?”

They nodded. “You’re going to light the brandy on fire, and then we must grab as many raisins as we can and eat them,” Jonathan said eagerly.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Woodlawn said with a smile. “However, we’re not going to eat them in this version. I don’t want anyone burning their mouths. Here comes Mr. Woodlawn now to set the brandy alight.” She looked about the room. “Who else is joining us?”

“Me,” Mr. Pickford the younger said, moving toward the table.

His older brother followed. “I will too.” He looked back toward Miss Haskins, who’d risen from her chair by the fire.

She blushed prettily, and Diana wondered if a match was in the making. “I’ll play too,” she said, joining them at the table.

“Anyone else?” Mrs. Woodlawn asked. “Or is this just for the unmarried folks?”

Diana nearly raised her hand to say she wasn’t married, but quickly bit her tongue. Simon seemed to catch on to her near mistake and chuckled softly. “Do you want to play?”

“I think I do,” she whispered.

“Then by all means, do. Be careful—don’t burn yourself.”

She stared into his deep brown eyes, the golden flecks near the center glowing like the bowl of brandy soon would. “You aren’t coming?”

He shook his head. “I’ll watch.”

Diana stepped toward the table, “I’ll play.”

The six of them stood around the table, the anticipation palpable as Mr. Woodlawn lit a spill from the hearth and brought it to the bowl. “Only one hand allowed—unless you’re under the age of twelve.” He winked at the Taft boys. “Ready?”

“Yes!” the young boys cried in unison.

The innkeeper lit the brandy and the bowl was immediately aflame. Dozens of raisins bobbed about the liquid. It should be relatively easy to grab a few, at least. But one had to brave the flames.

Diana sucked in a breath and plunged her fingertips into the brandy near the edge. Heat licked her fingers, and she pulled back without a single raisin. Blast. Exhaling to settle her nerves, she tried again, working to recall how she’d done this last time. That had been a few years ago, Christmas at Beaumont Tower, after Verity’s husband had gone missing. Perhaps Diana would spend this Christmas at Beaumont Tower too. No, she couldn’t afford to stay that long—her father would find her.

Shaking those thoughts from her brain, she refocused on the task at hand before the fire went out. Or worse, before there were no raisins left.

Tensing her muscles, she narrowed her eyes at the flames. The key was to set aside your fear. Don’t think, just act. It was, she realized, the opposite of how she’d been taught to live.

That only increased her resolve.

She thrust her hand into the flames, using her thumb and forefinger as pincers to snap up as many raisins as she could. She didn’t think, just acted, moving with quick audacity. She was vaguely aware of Miss Haskins sucking on her finger and no longer participating, and of Mr. Pickford paying her attention.

But Diana was intent on her task. She didn’t count the raisins, just plucked as many as she could before the fire went out. The flames began to die down, and there were only a few raisins left. Diana moved quickly and was the last to steal a raisin from the bowl, just before the fire was gone.

“Huzzah!” Mr. Woodlawn clapped, and the adults joined in as the Taft boys began counting their raisins.

It happened that they had the exact same amount, a disheartening fact to both of them.

“I wonder if Mrs. Byrd has won, however,” Simon said, drawing everyone to look at the substantial pile of raisins in front of Diana.

He set about counting them, and when he was finished, she had won.

The boys seemed pleased with this turn of events, but not so much when their father informed them it was time for bed.

They said good night, and Matthias even gave all the women, including Diana, a hug before chasing his brother up the stairs. The rest of the guests said their good nights, but Diana noticed the lingering glances between the elder Mr. Pickford and Miss Haskins. Soon it was just Diana and Simon alone in the common room.

She scooped up all the raisins and put them into the bowl. “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Woodlawn said, picking up the bowl. “Can I bring you two a nightcap?” She looked to Simon. “Or tea?”

He smiled at her thoughtfulness. “No, thank you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Woodlawn,” Diana said.

When they were alone, Simon peered at her with interest. “You were shockingly good at that game. How are your fingers?” He reached for her hand and held it up so he could inspect her reddened flesh.

“A bit sensitive, but it will pass.”

He blew on them gently. “Does this help?”

A shiver danced over her hand and traveled up her arm, then shot down her spine. “A bit.” Whether it helped or not, she didn’t want him to stop.

“Do you think we can leave in the morning?” she asked.

He blew again before answering. “I’m optimistic. We had a good melt this afternoon.” After the snow had finished falling that morning, the sun had come out and turned the yard into a muddy mess. “We should rise at first light just in case.”

“Mmm.” She was having a hard time focusing on what he was saying because of the way his thumb was stroking her hand and the proximity of his mouth to her fingers. She fought an urge to trace his lips.

She couldn’t do that. Searching about for something to distract herself, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “You did well with the children today.”

Blast, she probably shouldn’t have said that. She didn’t wish to dredge up bad memories, not when this moment was so lovely.

“They’re good children,” he said softly. “Matthias seems quite taken with you. I think you have a mother’s instinct.”

She wasn’t sure she agreed. “They were enthralled with you. They spent most of the day reliving that snowball fight, and you indulged them—quite happily, it seemed. You even acted it out again in here.” That had been after luncheon. The boys had taken on the roles of Simon and Mr. Pickford, who’d both fallen down in the snow. Simon had told them they didn’t have it quite right, so he’d demonstrated the correct way to slip and tumble on his arse.

He dropped her hand and moved to the fireplace, his back to her as he stared into the flames. “I was looking forward to being a father.”

She almost didn’t hear him, but was glad she did. Moving slowly, lest she make him tense, she joined him at the hearth. “You still could.”

He flicked her a look filled with doubt—and something far more sinister: self-loathing. “That’s unlikely. I’d need a wife.”

“Yes, you would. Don’t you want one?”

He focused on the fire, his face impassive. “I did.”

She turned toward him and moved closer, so that they were barely a hand’s width apart. “What changed?”

“I don’t think any woman would have me, not when she heard of my past. And I would never enter into marriage without telling her the truth.”

“I think you underestimate yourself,” she said softly.

He turned toward her, his gaze naked and vulnerable. “Do I? Then let me tell you the truth. I’m afraid, Diana. I’m afraid to marry again.”

The weight of her heart nearly buckled her knees. She surrendered to her desire and touched her sensitive fingertips to his jaw, rubbing lightly against his flesh and feeling the whiskers starting to emerge. She thought of her revelation during Snapdragon and whispered, “Don’t be afraid.”

A soft creak from the stairwell was followed by “Oh!”

Diana dropped her hand from his face and turned at the sound of one of the boys. Jonathan stood on the bottom step, his eyes wide for a brief moment. Then he rolled them back into his head and snorted. “You’re going to kiss like Mama and Papa.” He made an expression of disgust, then dashed to a table and picked up a handful of soldiers. “Good night!” He ran back up the stairs.

Diana exhaled with relief, then smiled, turning back to Simon.

He was still staring at her with a passion that stirred her soul.

“Diana.” He breathed her name across her lips a second before his mouth sealed over hers.

She returned her hand to his face and cupped it, then slipped her other hand around his waist, clutching him as he kissed her. His lips were soft and instructive, moving over hers with intent. This was different from Kiss the Nun, which had been a fast peck that had lasted perhaps a moment too long.

This kiss already surpassed that—both in length and intensity. That first kiss had been an awakening. This was a promise. And she wanted him to deliver on it.

His hands came around her, pressing into her back and drawing her tight against his chest. He was warm and hard. She felt safe and protected in the circle of his embrace.

He tilted his head slightly, and she felt moisture against her lips. His tongue. She’d heard of this kind of kissing, but had no notion how to proceed. Guilelessly, she opened her mouth and awaited his direction.

The changes in him were subtle, but she caught them. He held her a bit tighter. An almost imperceptible sound lodged deep in his throat. His mouth opened with hers, and he gently thrust his tongue inside.

The sensation was overwhelming. Desire burst through her. She curled her hand around the back of his neck and tipped her head back, giving him access to whatever he wanted.

What had been gentle and tentative was now strong and sure. He kissed her thoroughly, igniting a need she’d never experienced. Her sex pulsed as it had in Coventry, when he’d taught her to pleasure herself. She thought of that night, of that release, and realized she wanted that now.

This was nothing like her mother had told her. Nothing. But then she oughtn’t be surprised that she’d been lied to. She’d been nothing more than an instrument for her parents’ own ends.

Well, no more. Now she was living for herself. This moment and all the moments to come were for her.

She dug her fingers into his neck and met his tongue with her own, sweeping against his with delicious abandon and never wanting it to end.

The creak in the stairwell sounded again. Oh dear, what else had the boy forgotten?

“My goodness, I thought everyone had gone to bed.”

That wasn’t Jonathan. In fact, that wasn’t a voice Diana recognized at all.

Simon ended the kiss but didn’t release her. He looked over her shoulder and said, “We were just heading upstairs.”

“Well, don’t let us stop you,” the woman said. She sounded haughty and self-important, like so many people Diana’s parents chose to spend time with.

“Your Grace?” This was a masculine voice, and the pair of words he uttered sent ice spiking through every part of Diana’s body.

Simon kept one arm around her and tightened his hold. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “Keep your back to the room.”

Then he was gone, moving away from her, and she fought to keep herself from turning around. What she really wanted to do was flee up the stairs. If they’d recognized Simon, how long would it be until they recognized her as well?

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name?” Simon said genially. He wasn’t even going to try to convince them he wasn’t the duke?

“Sir Fletcher Dunford-Whaley, and this is Lady Dunford-Whaley.”

“I’d no idea any of the other guests were Quality,” the woman said in her high-pitched tone of superiority. “If I had, I wouldn’t have felt the need to keep ourselves apart.”

“We didn’t have to do that, dear,” the baronet said in a quieter tone.

Lady Dunford-Whaley sniffed. “Of course we did. And actually, I’m not certain knowing His Grace was here would have changed my mind.” She lowered her tone to say the last, but Diana still heard what she said and the way in which she said it. Irritation curled along her spine, and she gritted her teeth lest she deliver the woman a well-deserved set-down and reveal herself. She couldn’t do that.

“Care to introduce your, ah, lady friend?” Sir Fletcher asked.

“We can’t ask to meet the Duke’s paramour,” his wife said, again using a tone that was probably meant to be a whisper but wasn’t.

Simon sidled close to Diana once more, his side against her back. He leaned in and spoke softly against her ear. “Let them think you’re my mistress. I’ll distract them while you start toward the stairs.”

She nodded slightly, then waited for him to step away once more.

“As I said before, we were about to retire,” Simon said evenly. “Please excuse us.”

It was at that moment that Diana made a fateful error. She took a step toward the stairs but must have turned too much or in just the right way for the light from the fire to splash across her features.

Lady Dunford-Whaley’s indrawn breath struck fear deep into Diana’s heart.

“My goodness, it’s Miss Kingman! Fletcher, this is that young woman I told you about—the one who was engaged to the Duke of Ice, the Duke of Kilve. But he left London, and then she did too. Rumors abound at what happened.” She had the audacity to step toward Diana. “I would be the envy of everyone if you could just tell me—”

“You can’t think to be so rude,” Simon said coldly. If Diana hadn’t already been struck with abject terror, his tone would have made her shiver.

As Diana crept slowly toward the stairs, she saw Sir Fletcher pull his wife to his side. He kept his voice low, but Diana was able to hear what he said, “He is a duke.”

“The Duke of Ruin!” Again, she used her not-whisper, her voice seething. “He’s Kilve’s closest friend. Can you imagine? Did he steal his friend’s fiancée? When people hear—”

Diana couldn’t stand another moment. Without care, she picked up her skirts and ran upstairs.

Yes, he was the Duke of Ruin. And now she was ruined too.

---

Bloody fucking hell.

This couldn’t be worse if a playwright had penned it for maximum drama. He bit his tongue lest he use it to lash at the sniping bitch before him. On second thought, what did he care? She more than deserved it.

“Women like you are a menace,” Simon spat. He looked at her husband, who’d gone pale. “My apologies, but I can’t abide gossip, especially when it causes pain.”

Lady Dunford-Whaley sniffed as she pushed back her shoulders. “I’m not the one running off with my best friend’s fiancée. If she suffers pain, it’s her own doing. And yours.”

Simon advanced on her, baring his teeth in his rage. “You’ve no idea what she suffers or what’s her doing or not. You’re a presumptuous, self-important termagant with no business in polite Society.”

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. “You can’t speak to me that way.”

“Actually, I don’t need to speak to you at all. As your husband so aptly pointed out—I’m a duke.” He pitched forward with a sneer. “Regardless of my reputation.”

Her lips opened and closed, but she said nothing.

“Go upstairs, dear,” the baronet said quietly, but with a steel that brooked no argument.

She snapped her gaze to his and pursed her lips before stamping toward the staircase. Simon watched her go but felt no relief.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Lord Dunford-Whaley said. “My wife does like her gossip.”

“This isn’t gossip,” Simon said.

“Well, it is, I’m sorry to say. You and Miss Kingman have eloped. Headed to Gretna Green, are you?”

Simon startled. He stared at the baronet, nonplussed for a moment.

Well, of course they were.

Simon took a deep breath. “Yes. And we’d like to keep things quiet, at least for a few more days. Is there any chance of that happening?”

The baronet tipped his head to the side and back upright again, seeming to dither. “A slight one. I’ll do my best to keep my wife quiet—it helps that we’re so far from London, of course. But I daresay she’s upstairs drafting a letter to her sister already.” He winced.

“You could burn it,” Simon suggested.

“I could. But she’ll write another.” Sir Fletcher shook his graying head. “Never you mind. I’ll take care of it. Get yourselves to the anvil, and by the time anyone is the wiser, she’ll be your duchess.”

Except she wouldn’t.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It seemed Simon could only think in curse words.

He gave a slight nod in lieu of saying good night and hurried up to the second floor, anxious to see Diana and hopefully put her at ease. Did he really think that was possible? There was no good end to this scenario, not unless she decided to disappear.

He opened the door to the sight of her pacing in front of the fire.

She briefly looked up at him but didn’t pause. “I-I-I c-c-can’t ev-even p-p-pack.”

Simon had never seen her so distressed, not even when he’d told her that her fiancé wanted to marry someone else. “Why can’t you pack?” He strived to keep his voice even and his tone soft.

“B-b-be-c-c-cause the c-c-c-lo…thes are s-s-still in th-the k-kitch-kitchen.” She stopped pacing suddenly and took several deep breaths.

Alarmed, he moved toward her, taking slow steps lest he agitate her further. “Are you all right?” When she didn’t respond, he wondered if she’d even heard him. “Diana?”

Finally, her gaze swung to his. Her blue eyes were as dark as midnight. “I’m f-fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

She turned from him then and stared at the fire. Inhaling deeply once more, she took a moment to repeat, “I am fine.” The words came out slow and measured, as if it had taken great effort. Was speech a problem for her? He wouldn’t have guessed and yet he seemed to recall a few other times she’d struggled… He swallowed the question before he could ask it. Now was not the time to broach the subject.

“I spoke with Sir Fletcher, and he made the assumption we were headed to Gretna Green. I said we were and asked him to keep quiet for a few days to buy us enough time to get you situated.”

She kept her gaze averted from him. “S-s-so…that’s…m-my…choice…then?” She shook her head. “Th-that’s…no…choice…at-at…all. You’ve f-forced my h-h-hand.”

He moved to her side and tried to take her hand, but she crossed her arms over her chest. “It doesn’t have to be your choice. It merely gives us the time we need to get to Blackburn. Then you can choose where you want to start anew.”

She remained silent, staring into the fire, her shoulders stiff and her body radiating tension. It was a far cry from the embrace they’d shared downstairs. Whatever happened, he would remember that kiss for the rest of his days. He’d never thought to experience that rush of excitement, of desire, of the promise of joy again. She’d given him a beautiful gift, and he would cherish it.

He took a step back. “I’m going to speak with Tinley and ask him to be ready to leave at first light. I’ll make sure our belongings are ready too.” He turned toward the door and added, “I’ll ask Mrs. Woodlawn to come up and assist you. Try to sleep, Diana.”

He wanted to comfort her, but there was nothing he could say or do to fix things. She’d had choice taken away from her—first by her parents and their demands for a lofty match, then by Nick when he’d decided not to go through with their marriage, and now by Lady Dunford-Whaley who would certainly tell everyone that Diana had run off with the Duke of Ruin. Even if she wanted to go back to her parents and manage the scandal of not marrying Nick, she now had a much bigger scandal to deal with. And this one would ruin her.

His nickname had never been more bloody apt.

He made his way back downstairs and came upon Mrs. Woodlawn sweeping the common room.

She started when she saw him. “Oh! I thought everyone had gone to bed.”

“I need to speak with my coachman.”

She nodded and made only brief eye contact. Something was amiss.

“We met your other guests—Sir Fletcher and his wife.” The harridan.

“I suspected that had occurred,” she said carefully.

“Did you hear the conversation? I won’t be angry if you did.”

She met his gaze then, her cheeks turning a pale pink. “I did, but I didn’t mean to. Lady Dunford-Whaley has a rather loud voice.” There was a wealth of disdain buried in that true statement.

“She does indeed.”

“Would you think terribly of me if I told you I’d hoped they would keep to their room until they left?” She winced, and tiny lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes. “I could only imagine what her presence would’ve done to our pleasant activities.”

“I think my opinion of you, and of this entire establishment, just improved tenfold.” He leaned forward with a wink. “And it was already quite good.”

Her blush deepened. “Pshaw! You’re too kind, Mr. Byrd.” Her eyes widened, and her mouth rounded briefly. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsey.

He waved a hand, gesturing her to stand up. “Knock that off. I prefer Mr. Byrd. I travel with that name whether I’m eloping or not.” Just saying that he was eloping sent a little shiver up his neck. He ignored the sensation. “Would you have a few minutes to go up and help Mrs. Byrd prepare for bed?”

“Of course, Your—Mr. Byrd.”

“Very good. And remember, she’s Mrs. Byrd.” He gave her a pointed look.

Mrs. Woodlawn nodded enthusiastically. “Certainly. And may I say, whatever your names and your current situation, you are a delightful couple.”

Again, a shiver raced up his spine. A delightful couple. Diana was delightful. He was only delightful by association. And they weren’t a couple, not really. But the fact that Mrs. Woodlawn believed they were filled him with a sense of satisfaction and at the same time left him feeling hollow.

“Thank you. We do appreciate your hospitality. However, I hope you’ll understand when I sincerely pray we’ll be able to leave at first light.”

“I absolutely understand. I’ll make sure to pack up plenty of food for you to take along.”

Simon nodded, about to turn, then recalled what else he needed. “Our clothing is still drying in the kitchen, I believe. Will you be able to pack that up too?”

“It would be my pleasure. I think it’s about dry now. I’ll take care of it directly. After I see to Mrs. Byrd.” She offered a smile before leaning her broom in the corner and heading toward the stairs.

Simon opened the door and stepped outside. A gust of cold wind stole his breath, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself as he walked briskly to the stable. While still chilly, it wasn’t as cold as it had been last night. He hoped the temperature wouldn’t drop too much more, if at all. He looked up, thinking they needed some divine cooperation. “For her, not for me,” he whispered.

A young man greeted him at the stable door. “Can I help ye?” He opened the door wide to allow Simon to enter.

“I’m looking for my coachman, Tinley,” Simon said, moving inside, where it was much warmer without the wind.

“Here.” Tinley came from a doorway at the back. That had to be where the grooms and coachmen were staying.

The young man slipped away, leaving Simon and Tinley alone. The sound of a whinny from a nearby stall broke the silence before Simon spoke. “Will you be ready to leave first thing? And I mean first thing—as soon as we have enough light.”

“I can be ready whenever you tell me to be, but it all depends on the weather. It was a bit muddy this afternoon.”

“Yes, but the temperature has dropped enough to harden much of it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We have to leave in the morning, even if we only transfer to another inn.”

Tinley’s brows rose. “Problem?” he asked quietly.

Simon’s lip curled. “Couple of bloody scandalmongers.”

Tinley grimaced. “They recognize you?”

“And her.” Simon exhaled. There was nothing to be done about it now. He could wallow in frustration and anger, or he could push it to the recesses of his mind along with the other emotions he chose not to deal with.

“Well, that’s a bloody mess.”

“It could be, but hopefully it won’t. We have a bit of time, but only a bit.”

“Which is why we need to get on the road tomorrow.” The coachman nodded sharply. “I’ll be ready.”

Simon clasped his retainer’s bicep. Tinley was one of only a small handful of his staff that had stayed on after Miriam had died. “Thank you, Tinley.”

Departing the stable, Simon looked up at the second-floor windows of the inn. He couldn’t see anything—or more importantly, anyone—but decided to give Diana a few more minutes to ensconce herself in bed.

He slowly made his way to the inn. If he’d still been a drinking man, he’d find Woodlawn’s supply of liquor and give Diana many, many minutes.

But he wasn’t that man anymore. When he thought of the time he’d wasted—the women, the gambling, the drinking… It made him angry. And sad and agonizingly full of regret.

He’d always been glad that Miriam hadn’t met him in London. She never would have given him a second glance, let alone allowed him to court her. He suspected Diana would’ve felt the same. She had little tolerance for the life she’d been raised to lead. How could she choose anything other than leaving it behind completely?

The choice seemed clear to him, and it wasn’t a trip to Gretna Green. Though, he’d offer that if she wanted it.

Would he? Could he take her as his duchess? Live with her at Lyndhurst in the shadow of Miriam’s death?

Simon’s heart began to pound, and sweat speckled the back of his neck. It wouldn’t come to that. She’d been horrified by the very idea of it.

And he didn’t blame her one bit.