Of course, Papa was unlikely to protest now. Diana’s lovely face clouded as she considered the terrible step she had been forced to by her father’s harshness. If he had only listened this once, it wouldn’t have been necessary to defy him. But almost eighteen years as Mr. Gresham’s sole companion had repeatedly—and painfully—defeated any such hopes. Papa was implacable; he had never shown the least interest in her ideas or opinions, except to condemn them. Diana felt only a small admixture of guilt in her relief at having escaped her rigid, penurious home.
A tap on the door made her expression lighten. Sitting up and smiling expectantly, she called, “Come in.” The panels swung back to reveal first a loaded tray, then an extremely handsome young man.
“Voilà,” he said, returning her smile possessively. “Tea. And hot toast.” He swept a napkin from the tray to display it. “I play servant to you.”
Diana clapped her hands. “Thank you! I am so hungry.”
“The unaccustomed exertions of the night, no doubt,” he replied, placing the tray across her knees and resting a hand on her half-bare shoulder.
Diana flushed fiery red and gazed fixedly at the white teapot. She would get used to such frankness concerning the somewhat discomfiting intimacies of marriage, she thought. Her first experience last night had not been at all like the stolen kisses she and Gerald had exchanged in the weeks since they met. Yet Gerald had obviously seen nothing wrong so Diana dismissed her reaction as naiveté. She knew she was less sophisticated than other girls, even those not yet eighteen. Because her father had never allowed her to attend any party or assembly, nor meet any of the young men who visited her friends’ families, Diana was deeply humble about her ignorance, while passionately eager to be rid of it. Until Gerald’s miraculous appearance during one of her solitary country walks—an event she still could not help but compare to the illustration of the Archangel Michael in her Bible—she had never spoken to a man of her own age. That her sole opportunity should bring a veritable pink of the ton (a term Gerald had taught her) had been overwhelming. From the first, she had joyfully referred every question to him, and taken his answers as gospel.
Diana raised her eyes, found her promised husband gazing appreciatively at her scantily clad form, and promptly lowered them again.
For his part, Gerald Carshin was congratulating himself on his astuteness. He had been hanging out for a rich wife for nearly ten years, and his golden youth was beginning, however slightly, to tarnish. Even he saw that. His sunny hair remained thick—automatically he touched its fashionable perfection—and his blue eyes had lost none of their dancing charm, but he had started to notice alarming signs of thickness in his slim waist and a hint of sag in his smooth cheeks. At thirty, it was high time he wed, and he had cleverly unearthed an absolute peach of an heiress in the nick of time.
Carshin’s eyes passed admiringly over Diana’s slender rounded form, which was more revealed than hidden by the thin nightdress and coverlet. Her curves were his now; he breathed a little faster thinking of last night. And her face was equally exquisite. Like him, she was blond, but her hair was a deep rich gold, almost bronze, and her eyes were the color of aged sherry, with glints of the same gold in their depths. She wasn’t the least fashionable, of course. Her tartar of a father had never allowed her to crop her hair or buy modish gowns. Yet the waves of shining curls that fell nearly to Diana’s waist convinced Gerald that there was some substance in the old man’s strictures. It had taken his breath away last night when Diana had unpinned her fusty knot and shaken her hair loose.
“Your tea is getting cold,” Carshin said indulgently. “I thought you were hungry.”
Self-consciously Diana began to eat. She had never breakfasted with a man sitting on her bed—or, indeed, in bed at all until today. But of course, having Gerald there was wonderful, she told herself quickly. Everything about her life would be different and splendid now. “Are they getting the carriage ready?” she asked, needing to break the charged silence. “I can dress in a minute.”
“There’s no hurry.” His hand smoothed her fall of hair, then moved to cup a breast and fondle it. “We needn’t leave at once.” But as he bent to kiss Diana’s bare neck, he felt her stiffen. She won’t really relax till the knot’s tied, he thought, drawing back. A pity she’s so young. “Still, when you’ve finished your tea, you should get up,” he added.
Diana nodded, relieved, yet puzzled by her hesitant reaction to Gerald’s touch. This was the happiest day of her life, she repeated to herself.
Gerald moved to an armchair by the window. “Once we’re married, we’ll go straight to London. The season will be starting soon, and I…we must find a suitable house and furnish it.” Gerald pictured himself set up in his own house, giving card parties and taking a box at the opera. How the ton would stare! He would finally have his revenge on the damned high sticklers who cut him.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Diana, her breakfast forgotten. “I can hardly wait to see all the fashionable people and go to balls.”
Gerald scrutinized her, the visions he had conjured up altering slightly. Diana would of necessity accompany him. “We must get you some clothes first, and do something about your hair.” She put a stricken hand to it. “It’s lovely, but not quite the thing, you know.”
“No.” Diana looked worried. “You will tell me how I should go on, and what I am to wear, won’t you?”
“Naturally.” Gerald seemed to expand in the chair. “We shall be all the crack, you and I. Everyone will invite us.”
Diana sighed with pleasure at the thought. All her life she had longed for gaiety and crowds of chattering friends rather than the bleak, dingy walls of her father’s house. Now, because of Gerald, she would have them.
“You must write at once to your trustees and tell them you are married,” he added, still lost in a happy dream. “We shall have to draw quite a large sum to get settled in town.”
“My trustees?” Diana’s brown eyes grew puzzled.
“Yes. You told me their names, but I’ve forgotten. The banker and the solicitor in charge of your mother’s fortune—yours, I should say, now. You come into it when you marry, remember.”
“Not unless I am of age,” she corrected him.
Gerald went very still. “What?”
“Papa made her put that in. Mr. Merton at the bank told me so. Mama would have left me her money outright, but Papa insisted upon conditions. It is just like him. The money was to be mine when I married, unless I should do so before I came of age. Otherwise, I must wait until I am five-and-twenty. Isn’t that infamous?”
Carshin’s pale face had gone ashen. “But you are not eighteen for…”
“Four months,” she finished. Sensing his consternation, she added, “Is something wrong?”