Chapter 19
“Ye look like the cat that got the cream, my lady,” said Nellie who then clucked as she adjusted Diana’s hair. “Listen to me, Yer Grace. I didna think I was so old as to be so set in my ways that I’d still be calling ye my lady.”
Diana turned and clasped Nellie’s hand, taking the wrinkled appendage in her own, savoring its warmth. “Nellie, ye may call me anything ye wish. And I think on some occasions, ye have.”
Nellie lifted a shocked hand to her chin. “Away with ye, lass. Ye were quite a cheeky young thing.”
“Indeed,” Diana intoned. “Ye had the patience of a saint.”
“I still do,” said Nellie, who added the last touch of a diamond moon to Diana’s curled and coiled coiffure.
Diana pulled on her long, white, silk gloves, buttoning the clasps. Her middle fluttering so, she struggled to do the delicate buttons by the candlelight.
Tonight, her husband was taking her to the theater. She felt as if she were in one of the tales Nellie had told her as a child. At long last, she was to be freed from the evil spell put on her by one of the dark Fae and she would be able to laugh and find love in the court of light.
She stood, slowly, allowing the lush, ridiculously delicate folds of her gown to fall about her legs, and gazed at herself in the mirror. “Nellie, ye dinna think it’s too daring do ye?”
“Och, lass,” Nellie said, her voice thick with pride. “It is the fashion of the time and I’ll no’ have my mistress dress as a dowdy for her first night out in this town. We must show them. Highland ladies are the best ladies in the world.”
Diana did something then that a duchess wasn’t supposed to do, for propriety did not allow it, but she didn’t care. Diana folded Nellie in her arms, which were all but bare save for her gloves and beautifully-arranged whispers of golden fabric.
“Thank ye, Nellie,” she replied softly. “I shall show them.”
“Of course ye shall. Ye’re yer mother’s daughter, are ye no’?”
And with that, Diana nodded then headed for the door. She whisked out into the hall lit only by a few flickering wall sconces.
With each step she took, she gained in confidence. The gown had been picked with some care. After all, with her particular hue of hair, one could go terribly wrong with a poor color choice. She looked absolutely dreadful in any shade of pink.
But gold?
The golden silk gown she wore was perfection. It was the gown of a woman, not a debutante, and it was by far the most adventurous thing she’d ever worn. After all, young ladies were quite restricted in their choices of evening gowns.
But now, married, she could wear whatever color, whatever cut she pleased and with as many jewels as she liked.
Her hair fairly danced with diamonds, but she’d chosen a simple golden chain with a teardrop diamond that rested between the swells of her breasts.
Other than that, her breasts and chest were a creamy expanse, adorned by only the smallest amount of silk fabric.
Her gown bore a braided gold rope about her waist which then traced down towards her knees from just under her breasts.
When she reached the top of the landing, she heard male voices. Max and O’Malley.
Drawing in a slow breath, she lifted her head, placed a hand lightly on the carved balustrade then descended. Tonight, all that had been dark would fall away. Tonight, she was going to celebrate life.
***
Max nodded at O’Malley, relieved to hear that there had been no sight of Hamish Argyle or any who might be in his service. It seemed that the man had listened and decided to leave his sister in peace.
The news was a decided relief.
O’Malley, who was incredibly thorough, had reported that his work had been entirely uneventful. He only needed to look out for footpads in the East End but he’d also reported that the duchess wasn’t a fool who went wandering off down dark alleyways to do good. No, she investigated who needed help first and then did her best to get said person out of their situation.
Max was intensely glad she wasn’t one of those foolish young women who believed their status protected them or gave them the right to go crusading in the most dangerous parts of London. For many resented the sight of wealth in their rough ranks.
Resented it so thoroughly, they’d rough up whoever came their way if given the chance.
He couldn’t blame them. So many of the societies created to assist the poor were run by puritanical hypocrites. He loathed hypocrites. For they believed in the rod and cruelty when the poor had been punished enough simply by being born.
Diana was as far from a hypocrite as one could get.
O’Malley suddenly cleared his throat and gave a pointed stare behind Max’s shoulder.
Max turned slowly, feeling a burning anticipation course through him.
The sight that met him awakened his soul. For Diana had shed the cocoon of a young woman who had been raised away from society. Of a young woman who had been harried and greatly distressed by a brother who would have done her great harm.
Now, Diana descended the stairs like a goddess.
His goddess and he knew little of it had to do with him.
Oh, he was her means to safety, but it was she whose intellect shone, whose spirit was indomitable. He had only helped her to a place where she could allow herself to be truly seen.
And every pair of eyes in Drury Lane would be seeing nothing but her this night. Every man would follow her with their gazes, follow her with desire and envy of Max that she was his.
His.
Her fiery red hair was a cloud of soft coils atop her head with but a single long curl caressing her neck, tracing down to the top of her left breast. Diamonds studded the waves, but they were nothing against the burnished perfection of her locks.
Her pale skin glowed alabaster in the candlelight and her eyes. . . those intense blue eyes sought his out and stared into his very soul.
Did she know that she did that? That she had such power over him should she but choose to use it?
Could she see deep within him, past the surface he allowed the world to see, to the deep well inside his soul?
Yes. Yes, he felt she could.
It terrified him.
In this moment, he had never felt so seen in his life, and it was tempting to take a step back.
But he did not. He waited for his beautiful duchess to take the last steps. Her golden gown, glimmering in the light, caressed her body like a lover.
Every man would wish to be the silk of her gown tonight.
But it was he who had the right to touch her. If she so wished.
Max felt transported in her presence. And the more he allowed the feeling, the more it grew.
There was something else too. In her look, there was a woman he had known once before. The sensation grew inside him until it fairly unnerved him. But he shook it away.
He lifted his hand, holding it out to her as he strode across the foyer.
“Your Grace,” he greeted, his voice lower and rougher than he’d intended.
She gazed at him, slowly, before she winked. “Good evening, Yer Grace. Will ye please take me to Illyria?”
He stared for a moment then laughed. “Only if we can avoid a shipwreck.”
“Since we will take a coach, I do think we can risk it. Yer thoughts?”
It amused him greatly that she had not asked that he take her to Drury Lane, but rather to the fictional land of Illyria that Shakespeare had created for his comedy Twelfth Night. It was a boon that the company of actors there had deigned to put it on for the Christmas Season.
“My thoughts?” He peered down at her with exaggerated thought. “That I have a merry wife, with a merrier imagination, and that our children will be the most intelligent and unique in all the land.”
At the mention of their children, her cheeks blossomed red. “I am glad ye find me merry for there is little relief in choosing woe.”
He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Well said, Wife.”
With that, he swept her through the foyer, pausing to allow Abbot to place a cloak of deepest amber velvet, lined with fur, about her shoulders.
They stepped out into the already dark, crisp night, O’Malley following a few paces behind.
Easily, he assisted her into the coach, and yet, he found he was reticent to release her hand.
The gentle warmth of her fingers, even through the fabric of her glove, sent a wave of desire through him. It was so simple, so innocent. . . and yet, so very raw.
He wanted his wife.
There was no question about it. No, the only question now, as he climbed into the lamp-lit coach, was, even with his scars, and the true twisted nature of his body, could she truly desire him in return?