Forgotten Fiancée (London Ladies Book 3) Page 4

  Were Charlotte anyone but who she was, Dianna would have told a tiny white lie and changed the subject to fashion or weather or a hundred other topics that did not involve the return of her long lost betrothed. But Charlotte was her closest friend - in truth, besides her beloved Aunt Abigail, one of her only friends - and with a little sigh she closed her eyes and murmured, “Miles Radnor.”

  “Bloody hell in a box!”

  Dianna’s eyes flew open. “Charlotte.”

  “I am sorry,” the redhead said automatically. “Actually, no.” The sun glinted off her plain gold wedding band as she held up her left hand. “I most certainly am not sorry. In fact, I believe I shall curse again. Bloody hell. In a box.”

  “That does not even make sense,” Dianna pointed out.

  “I know. That is why I like saying it.”

  “Ladies should not curse.” Even as she said it, Dianna knew the reminder would fall on deaf ears. Charlotte had always been stubbornly independent, and while her bloodline was one of the bluest in all of England she identified more with the working class than the peerage which was no doubt why, all things considered, she’d ended up married to a commoner.

  “Ladies should not do a lot of things. That, however, is a discussion for another time.”

  But Dianna’s temporary surge of courage was failing, and she latched onto the potential topic like a sailor clinging to a life raft. “Really? Because I rather think we should talk about it now in great detail-”

  “Miles Radnor,” Charlotte interrupted. “Tell me why you thought Miles Radnor, of all people, would be knocking on your bedroom door at the crack of dawn.”

  Dianna let her skull fall back against the ornate mahogany headboard with a heavy thunk. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it too early to have a glass of wine?”

  “Well, I suppose-”

  “Yes,” Dianna said hastily, answering her own question as she recalled what had happened the last time they’d gotten into the wine. Suffice it to say she did not care to repeat the experience, especially before seven in the morning. “I believe it would be wise to stay away from any type of spirits at this juncture in time. It is only that… well… this is very difficult for me to talk about.” She bit her lip, gaze flitting down to her lap. Sun spots dappled the top quilt, illuminating tiny yellow rosebuds that had been hand sewn onto the fabric. Like everything else in Ashburn Manor, the bedding was of top quality and far beyond anything Dianna had in her own home.

  Her parents may have been readily accepted amidst the ton courtesy of their sterling reputation and their penchant for hobnobbing with high society, but when all was said and done her father was no more than a baron and his wealth reflected such a lowly title. Marrying their only daughter to an earl would have been a fine feather in their cap, a feather Dianna knew they secretly blamed her for losing. Oh, never in so many words, but the implication was always there, simmering just beneath the surface.

  ‘We did our best to give you the life you deserved’, her mother was fond of saying. And then, under her breath she would always mutter, ‘How unfortunate you chose to squander it all away’.

  As though it had been Dianna’s choice to have Miles leave her. As though it had been her decision to be left humiliated and alone. Dianna knew her mother did not mean to hurt with her careless words - Martha Foxcroft may have been a vain woman, but she was not a cruel one - although that did not serve to make them any less painful.

  “He was here last night.” She lifted her head. Took a deep, weary breath. “Miles. He was here at Ashburn.”

  The amusement drained from Charlotte’s countenance, along with a great deal of blood. The very picture of concern, she leaned forward and took one of Dianna’s hands between her own. She rubbed briskly, trying to bring warmth back into flesh that had gone cold and white as newly fallen snow. “Tell me everything,” she said simply.

  Slowly, haltingly, Dianna proceeded to do precisely that. She left out nothing, repeating nearly word for word the first painful conversation she’d had with Miles in nearly half a decade. When she was finally finished Charlotte sat back in her chair, looking absolutely stunned.

  “Bloody hell in a box.”

  This time, Dianna nodded her head in agreement. “Yes,” she said softly. “Bloody hell in a box. Oh Charlotte, what am I going to do?” She pinched the bridge of her nose where a dull ache had settled. “I thought he was dead.”

  “Did you really?”

  Something in Charlotte’s tone had Dianna lowering her arm and peering closely at her friend. Her hands settled in her lap, fingers anxiously plucking at a rosebud. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I wish to be frank with you, my dear, but I do not want to hurt your feelings. We are the closest of friends, are we not?”

  “I always rather thought of us more as sisters.”

  The faintest hint of a smile lifted the corners of Charlotte’s mouth, although her gaze remained steady and, Dianna thought, a bit sad. “Of course we are. Of course. Which is how I know these past few months could not have been easy for you, what with my whirlwind wedding to Gavin and your aunt rekindling her love affair with the Duke of Ashburn. Congratulations are in order, by the by. Aunt Abigail made a lovely bride and you an even lovelier bridesmaid.”

  “Thank you,” Dianna murmured even as she struggled to understand what point Charlotte was attempting to make.

  While seeing her best friend and closest relative find their happily-ever-afters within weeks of one another had been rather trying (especially given her own tragic history in the marriage department), she’d been nothing if not supportive. She was genuinely happy for both Charlotte and Aunt Abigail. They deserved husbands who loved them beyond measure, which by all accounts Gavin and Reginald did. And yet Dianna supposed a part of her - a very small part, but a part nevertheless - couldn’t help but wonder why she had been excluded. Why she, of all people, had been left nursing a broken heart while her peers and loved ones were married off in rapid succession.

  All of Dianna’s life she’d followed the rules set forth by both her parents and society. Her manners and etiquette were flawless. Her fashion impeccable. She was a lady through and through and, with only a handful of exceptions (most of them involving the spirited redhead sitting beside her), she’d conducted herself with the utmost of decorum. The most defiant thing she had ever done in her entire life was cut her hair, but even that small act had been in accordance with a new precedent already set forth by a dozen women of much higher influence than herself.

  And yet, when all was said and done, she was the one rapidly approaching spinsterhood.

  The irony of it did not escape her.

  “I suppose what I am trying to say,” Charlotte continued bluntly, “is that if you really thought Radnor dead these past four years, why haven’t you moved on?”

  Dianna’s mouth opened. Closed. Two tiny parallel lines appeared on her forehead as her eyebrows knitted together. “I have,” she said defensively.

  “How so? I do not want to twist the knife, as they say, but I feel as though I must be honest with you as you were once honest with me. The first season after Radnor ran off it was quite understandable you remained a shut in, but what of the second, and the third? I know you have received countless invitations from young, eligible bachelors, just as I know you have ignored every single one of them. If you honestly believed Radnor to be dead, why not find another man to marry, or at the very least court?”

  The question hit Dianna hard, drawing an immediate frown. Was that what she had been doing these past four years? Shutting herself in? Closing herself off from the rest of society? No. Positively not.

  “I have attended several balls.”

  “Three.” Charlotte crossed her legs at the knee and sat back, draping an arm across the windowsill. She began to drum her fingers against the wood. “You have attended three balls. The masquerade we snuck into does not count,” she said, holding up a finger when Di
anna’s lips parted in protest. “And neither does your aunt’s wedding reception.”

  “They should,” Dianna muttered.

  “Well, they don’t. You have said time and time again you never loved Radnor. You’ve said you haven’t missed him. But if that is the truth, why would his return affect you so much?”

  Dianna bristled. “Who ever said his return-”

  “Your eyes are swollen from crying,” Charlotte said gently. “And you were white as a bedsheet when I came into the room. Pretend with others if you must, but not with me. I know you.” Standing, she shook the wrinkles from her nightgown. “Perhaps even better than you know yourself. There is a reason you never moved on. A reason you never sought love elsewhere. I cannot tell you what it is. Only you can do that.”

  In hindsight, smothering herself with a pillow wouldn’t have been such a terrible idea. If Dianna had been hiding herself away as Charlotte claimed, then this was certainly the reason why.

  She didn’t want to think about Miles. Didn’t want to face her feelings. Didn’t want to admit to herself - or anyone else for that matter - she wasn’t as over her fiancée as she claimed to be.

  With Miles gone it had been easy to pretend he’d never existed at all. But now that he had returned… now that he had returned she would once again have to face the pain of his betrayal, as well as the pain of accepting some part of her still cared for a man who had played her for a fool.

  “I do not want to think about it, or him.” Her response may have been childish, but at least it was honest.

  Charlotte smiled and shook her head. “I know you don’t, dear. None of us like to face the thing which frightens us the most.”

  “When did you become so wise?” Dianna wondered aloud. If there was a more rash, impulsive woman in all the world than Charlotte Graystone, Dianna had yet to meet her. Act first and think later had always been her friend’s favorite adage, which had served to land her in quite a bit of hot water over the years.

  Charlotte rubbed her chin. “You know,” she said after a thoughtful pause, “I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps it is because I have always needed to be the recipient of advice instead of the giver. Either way, I am only here to help. If you do not wish to see Radnor again, there is nothing that says you have to.” Her face suddenly brightened. “And if you’d like, I could probably have Gavin find someone to break one of his legs.”

  Because she knew Charlotte was only half-joking, Dianna quickly shook her head. “No. Leg breaking will not be necessary.”

  “What about an arm? Or a finger? After everything he did he deserves at least a finger.”

  “No,” she said firmly. If there was going to be any punishment meted out, she would be the one delivering it. Of that, at least, she was certain.

  “Well the offer stands if you change your mind.” Charlotte stretched her arms high above her head and yawned. “I should be getting back to my room before Gavin sends out a search party. You will join us for breakfast, won’t you?”

  Dianna hesitated. As things currently stood the very last thing she felt like doing was having breakfast with a roomful of people who would no doubt still be discussing the wedding from the day before. Given the choice she would rather not think or talk about weddings or marriage for, oh, about a decade or so. “I am not certain-”

  “It will only be the three of us. I promise. I shall have a maid bring up cold water and lemons to put on your face. You’ll look right as rain in no time at all and a bit of food will make you feel better. Sausage and toast in the solarium in half an hour, then? I will make certain they bring out that raspberry jam you so adore.”

  “I really do not think-”

  “Half an hour or I am coming back in here and dragging you out of bed myself if need be,” Charlotte called over her shoulder as she sailed out of the room as abruptly as she’d entered it.

  Feeling a bit as though she’d just been visited by a whirlwind, Dianna stood up and, knowing Charlotte would make good on her promise to return in thirty minutes and drag her downstairs willing or not, began to get dressed.

  Chapter Five

  It wasn’t only the three of them.

  When all was said and done, Dianna found herself having breakfast with Charlotte, Gavin, Aunt Abigail, the Duke of Ashburn, his daughter and son-in-law, their two children, and an elderly man who, by all appearances, seemed to have fallen asleep in his bread pudding.

  The mood was high, the conversation lively. From her cushioned seat beside a potted fern Dianna sipped her coffee - extra cream, positively no sugar - and did her best to make it appear as though she were listening to every word even though her mind was far, far removed from the glass solarium and its lively occupants.

  Instead she thought of a man. A man with piercing green eyes and rich brown hair just a touch too long. A man who still managed to make her pulse quicken and her heart pound. A man she hated… and a man she feared she was still very much in love with.

  Had Miles returned to Winfield after she left him last night? Like her, was he having a late morning breakfast with friends and family? Or had he already eaten and gone out for a ride?

  How easy it was to recall his habits. His likes and dislikes. Even his daily schedule. Dianna’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on her delicate porcelain cup. They may never have lived together as husband and wife, but growing up with their estates within easy walking distance of one another had given her more than enough insight into Miles’ life.

  As a child, often bored and left alone for days on end with only her Aunt Abigail for company, she had spent more time under his parent’s roof than her own. Was it any wonder, then, that she knew Miles liked to rise early and retire late? Or that he liked the taste of coffee over tea? Or that he always preferred riding astride to sitting in a carriage? Or that-

  “Miss Dianna, what do you think?”

  Startled by the sound of her name, Dianna jumped to attention, gaze flicking around the room as she tried to find the person who’d asked for her opinion. Discovering all eyes on her - a rather discomfiting notion - she managed a strangled laugh and said, “I do apologize. It seems you caught me daydreaming. Might you repeat the question?”

  The Duke of Ashburn’s daughter, Lady Patricia Herring, a woman not much older than Dianna herself with warm brown eyes and dark brown hair tucked neatly beneath a white lace cap, smiled in a friendly manner and said, “The fault is entirely mine. I was merely asking where you think Abigail and my father should spend their honeymoon, in Bath or Scotland?”

  “Scotland,” Abigail said immediately.

  “Bath,” her new husband put in at same time.

  They exchanged a significant look, their mouths settling into identically stubborn lines. The Duke of Ashburn - better known as Reginald by his close friends and family - was the first to crack. Countenance softening, he reached out and took Abigail’s gloved hand. “Scotland it is, my dear. We shall go to Bath another time.”

  Abigail smiled as Dianna felt an empty pang reverberate inside of her chest.

  What would it be like to love someone more than you loved yourself? To put their interests above your own? To have their happiness be your happiness? Lovely, Dianna thought with the tiniest of sighs. It would be positively lovely.

  “I have heard Scotland is quite nice this time of year,” she said with an encouraging smile, refusing to let her melancholia dampen the spirits of those around her. “A fine choice, Aunt Abigail.”

  “It certainly is,” Abigail said with a snort. “Which is why I made it.”

  Despite her pensive mood, Dianna found herself biting back a smile. Though she was rapidly approaching her forty-eighth birthday, Abigail remained as lively and beautiful as ever.

  Her hair, once as blonde as Dianna’s, may have dulled and begun to turn silver, but her eyes were the same deep, intelligent blue and her smile still as bright and infectious as it had always been. It was wonderful to see her so happy, especially since Dianna knew her aunt had suffere
d more than her fair share of heartache.

  They’d only recently exchanged the vows that made them husband and wife, but Reginald and Abigail’s story actually began many decades ago. In love as reckless teenagers, they were even engaged for a short time before Reginald’s mother put an abrupt end to the nuptials and coerced her only son and heir into taking a far more suitable - in her eyes, at least - woman for a wife and future duchess of Ashburn. As a result Reginald and Abigail went nearly thirty years without seeing one another… but even separated by great time and distance they never forgot the love they’d once shared, and when Reginald at long last returned to England following his wife’s passing, he wasted no time in seeking out his childhood sweetheart.

  While their reconciliation had not been without its bumps and bruises, there was no denying the fact that Reginald and Abigail were meant to be together. There was also, Dianna thought darkly as she raised her cup and took a small sip, no denying the similarities between her past and her aunt’s.

  For she, too, had been engaged at a young age and she, too, had been abandoned by the man she loved. But as far as Dianna was concerned that was where the similarities most definitely ended. Unlike Reginald and Abigail, there would be no reconciliation between her and Miles. Not now. Not thirty years from now. Not a hundred years from now. Lifting her coffee again she took one more slow, deliberate sip, using the brim to disguise the faint quivering of her bottom lip.

  Between dressing and coming downstairs for breakfast, Dianna had made up her mind. No matter what lingering feelings she may or may not have had, what happened between her and Miles was in the past. It had no place in her present, and certainly no place in her future. If for some inexplicable reason he came to call, she would simply ignore him as she had done with all of her other suitors. From personal experience she knew that once shown the door, they rarely came back around a second time.

  And why should they?

  Other than a pretty face and a good family name, she had nothing to entice them with. She had no impressive dowry of which to speak. No duke’s in her lineage. No property of value her future children might one day inherit. In short, nothing to make her stand out from the countless other young women of similar age and social standing.