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Authors: Isabella Bradford
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feel your forehead. Are you unwell? Are you feverish?”
“She’s fine as a fiddle, my dear,” Lord Lattimore said, winking broadly at Sheffield. “Ladies, hah.”
But Lady Lattimore would not be deterred. “She is feverish, sir; the excitement of love has made her so. Summon our coach, if you please. Your Grace, we must beg our leave, for Enid’s sake.”
There was a bustle of farewells and apologies, a promise that he’d call soon, a final, hurried smile from Lady Enid, and then they were gone, leaving Sheffield much freer than he’d expected from this night—free, really, in every way that mattered.
He raced back to the room with the dancing, to where he’d last seen Lady Diana. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do when he saw her again. His options were decidedly limited. He wasn’t in Paris any longer. Whether she was family or not, he and Lady Diana had yet to be introduced to each other, and even if they had been, they were both supposed to be bound to others. He couldn’t address her, separate her from Lord Crump, or ask her to dance, not without causing great scandal. He couldn’t even bow to her from across the room. About all he could do was watch her dance from a respectful distance and pray she’d look his way and notice him.
But as soon as he’d managed to work his way through the crowd, the dance ended, and the musicians put aside their instruments to show that the set had ended. Like waves coming into shore, the crowd of guests turned away from where the dancing had been and pushed back against him, looking for more diversions, other friends, and the supper room. Over their heads, he saw Lord Crump’s stiff bow before Lady Diana, and her curtsey. Then abruptly she turned away and left him, disappearing through another of the tall open doors to the gallery.
At once Sheffield followed, ducking through the nearest door and onto the same gallery. The evening had grown cooler, and a mist had begun to rise from the river and veil the moon, the same moon that had shone without magic on him and Lady Enid. The chill had driven the other guests back inside the house, leaving the gallery empty except for Lady Diana.
She stood alone in the farthest corner of the gallery, beside the stone balustrade and beneath the shading branch of a nearby tree. The white of her gown was like a wisp of moonlight captured in the shadows, and he went to her at once, unable to resist. He’d no idea what he’d say or do, no idea at all except that he wanted to be with her, which should, he decided, be inspiration enough when the time came for doing and saying.
As he drew closer, she heard his footsteps and swiftly turned to face him. He thought she might have been crying; now he could see that her hands had been knotted on the balustrade in frustration, not unhappiness. In an instant her expression changed from startled wariness to bewilderment to out-and-out wonder.
“It’s you,” she whispered, her eyes wide as he stood before her. “It’s you .”
“It is,” he said. “And you’re you, too.”
“What absolute foolishness,” she said. She smiled crookedly, displaying a single charming dimple, and then, to his eternal surprise, slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.
C HAPTER F OUR
Without thought or hesitation, Diana closed her eyes and kissed the stranger.
It was bold of her, and brazen, and not like her usual self at all. Despite what the gossips whispered, she wasn’t in the habit of kissing men willy-nilly, and certainly not men whose names and history she did not know. In fact, if pressed, she could likely only count a half dozen boys and men whom she’d kissed in all her eighteen years. Perhaps the number was greater than for other, more saintly ladies, but surely it was not enough to qualify her as slatternly or overly free.
At least not until now. Now she was standing in the moonlight on the gallery of Lady Fortescue’s house with the breezes from the river tossing her
“She’s fine as a fiddle, my dear,” Lord Lattimore said, winking broadly at Sheffield. “Ladies, hah.”
But Lady Lattimore would not be deterred. “She is feverish, sir; the excitement of love has made her so. Summon our coach, if you please. Your Grace, we must beg our leave, for Enid’s sake.”
There was a bustle of farewells and apologies, a promise that he’d call soon, a final, hurried smile from Lady Enid, and then they were gone, leaving Sheffield much freer than he’d expected from this night—free, really, in every way that mattered.
He raced back to the room with the dancing, to where he’d last seen Lady Diana. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do when he saw her again. His options were decidedly limited. He wasn’t in Paris any longer. Whether she was family or not, he and Lady Diana had yet to be introduced to each other, and even if they had been, they were both supposed to be bound to others. He couldn’t address her, separate her from Lord Crump, or ask her to dance, not without causing great scandal. He couldn’t even bow to her from across the room. About all he could do was watch her dance from a respectful distance and pray she’d look his way and notice him.
But as soon as he’d managed to work his way through the crowd, the dance ended, and the musicians put aside their instruments to show that the set had ended. Like waves coming into shore, the crowd of guests turned away from where the dancing had been and pushed back against him, looking for more diversions, other friends, and the supper room. Over their heads, he saw Lord Crump’s stiff bow before Lady Diana, and her curtsey. Then abruptly she turned away and left him, disappearing through another of the tall open doors to the gallery.
At once Sheffield followed, ducking through the nearest door and onto the same gallery. The evening had grown cooler, and a mist had begun to rise from the river and veil the moon, the same moon that had shone without magic on him and Lady Enid. The chill had driven the other guests back inside the house, leaving the gallery empty except for Lady Diana.
She stood alone in the farthest corner of the gallery, beside the stone balustrade and beneath the shading branch of a nearby tree. The white of her gown was like a wisp of moonlight captured in the shadows, and he went to her at once, unable to resist. He’d no idea what he’d say or do, no idea at all except that he wanted to be with her, which should, he decided, be inspiration enough when the time came for doing and saying.
As he drew closer, she heard his footsteps and swiftly turned to face him. He thought she might have been crying; now he could see that her hands had been knotted on the balustrade in frustration, not unhappiness. In an instant her expression changed from startled wariness to bewilderment to out-and-out wonder.
“It’s you,” she whispered, her eyes wide as he stood before her. “It’s you .”
“It is,” he said. “And you’re you, too.”
“What absolute foolishness,” she said. She smiled crookedly, displaying a single charming dimple, and then, to his eternal surprise, slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.
C HAPTER F OUR
Without thought or hesitation, Diana closed her eyes and kissed the stranger.
It was bold of her, and brazen, and not like her usual self at all. Despite what the gossips whispered, she wasn’t in the habit of kissing men willy-nilly, and certainly not men whose names and history she did not know. In fact, if pressed, she could likely only count a half dozen boys and men whom she’d kissed in all her eighteen years. Perhaps the number was greater than for other, more saintly ladies, but surely it was not enough to qualify her as slatternly or overly free.
At least not until now. Now she was standing in the moonlight on the gallery of Lady Fortescue’s house with the breezes from the river tossing her
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