A pair of young ladies in riding habits passed the carriage, cantering on their beautifully turned-out mounts. A groom rode at a polite distance behind them toward Hyde Park.
“Do you ride, Diana?” the earl asked, settling back against the squabs. He had a small furrow between his brows, and his lids were narrowed, as if the weak morning light hurt his eyes.
Her suspicions rose. Had he been drinking? Was he suffering the morning aftereffects of indulging the night before?
He had a stiffness about him. Tension? Anger? Her stomach tightened, and she gripped her hands inside her fur muff. She really knew little about him. Was he a drunkard? Was he subject to tempers like her father or pettiness like her brother? Was he a rake and philanderer? A bit of panic lodged in her throat at the thought of tying herself forever to this stranger who might turn out to be anything.
She forced herself to speak calmly. “Yes, I do enjoy riding, though I do not get the opportunity as often as I would like. My father has an extensive stable, but he doesn’t keep ladies’ mounts. I learned to ride at school, where equitation was a required discipline.” Though she hadn’t sat a horse in a half a year or more, not since being summoned back to Seaton Manor and Catherine’s disaster.
He nodded, and his hand came up to massage his temple. “I learned to ride as a boy. The local squire hired me to exercise his horses. He had several racehorses, and some of the best hours of my life were spent riding at a high gallop across the open fields. I missed riding when I joined the army. The Ninety-Fifth Rifles is an infantry unit. As an officer, I was eligible to ride, but as a lowly lieutenant, when mounts were in scarce supply, higher-ranking officers got first pick of the horses, and I mostly marched with the men.”
The duchess sniffed and rolled her eyes. “Such plebeian work, being a common foot soldier. It’s beneath the nobility, really.”
“Well, madam, I was a soldier,” Marcus reminded her.
“That’s different. You won’t hold a title like the earl here. You’re a mere second son. That’s why we sent you into the military. What else is to be done with a spare once the heir has reached his majority? It was either the army or the clergy, and we knew you’d be worthless to the church—you’re such a rogue. Buying you a commission solved the problem.”
Diana sent Marcus a compassionate look. His mother talked about him as if she didn’t care about him at all. Something they shared in their parentage, evidently, since her father didn’t care about her as a person, merely as his pawn to help him get what he wanted.
Marcus did not appear surprised or even hurt by his mother’s words. Instead, he gave Diana attention. “You look lovely, Lady Diana. Evan is the envy of the ton, snapping you up so quickly.”
Diana knew she blushed, and Marcus laughed. “It’s true. I don’t know another debutante who has made such a splash her first night at Almack’s.”
“I don’t suppose,” his mother interjected, “that you yourself made a favorable impression on any of the young ladies? It’s past time that you were looking for a suitable bride. I shall have to step in and find someone if you won’t put yourself out to do the job on your own.”
“Now, madam, there’s plenty of time. After all, as a second son, I’m not responsible for carrying on the family line. Neville’s married, and I expect an announcement in the not-too-distant future that he’s managed to beget an heir.” Marcus’s brows came down, as if her jab had gotten under his armor this time.
Again Diana felt sorry for him.
“Be that as it may, I shall have to cast about for some baronet’s daughter for you. You can’t really hope for someone of higher rank.”
The carriage wove through traffic, passing through the fashionable Mayfair district quickly. The ground was bare, no trace of the sleet that had fallen earlier in the week. Perhaps they would have an early spring. When Diana had given thought to marriage, she had always assumed she would wed in the late spring or early summer, not the dead of winter.
She studied the earl in small glances, the man she was supposed to marry in just five days. Anxiety hammered against her breastbone. They had met all of three times before, and soon she would be his wife. And yet he had insisted upon the hasty marriage the moment he’d seen the damage her father’s blow had done. She felt at once vulnerable and protected. Confusing, to be sure.
“How are the wedding plans coming?” Marcus asked.
Diana gave a small shrug. “I have no idea. My father put Lady Cathcart in charge, and I’ve been told nothing. A modiste has moved into the house with two assistants, and they’re all working feverishly on the wedding dress. I understand invitations went out this morning. I am sure the ton is abuzz at the short notice.”
“It will be a nine-days’ wonder, I shouldn’t think. A week or two after the wedding, someone else will be providing the on dits for the ton to whisper over.”
“We can hope.” The earl shifted, his leg brushing Diana’s. “I feel as if I live in a glass box, everyone feeling free to stare in and comment. I barely recognize myself when I look in the shaving glass each morning.” He rubbed his temple again, turning away from the window.
The carriage pulled to the curb. The earl didn’t wait for the coachman to open the door, grasping the handle and stepping down. He turned back to assist Diana, and she placed her gloved hand in his. His blue eyes pierced hers, and she noted the strain there. Was he really distressed by the nosiness of society? Or was it something else? Was he regretting his decision to hurry the wedding? Or was he frustrated at being boxed so neatly into a corner by the Prince Regent? If only she knew him well enough to ask. But he’d been on edge the entire journey, and she wasn’t accustomed to asking anything of the men in her life, lest she get a severe setdown.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Bending to whisper against her ear, he said, “I think you can stop with the ‘my lord.’ My name’s Evan.”
A shiver went through her as his breath tickled her skin.
He offered her his arm. “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me that, especially when we’re alone.”
“Very well … Evan.” The word tasted strange on her tongue. It wasn’t a common name amongst the aristocracy, which tended to be peppered with Williams, Georges, Henrys, and Charleses. She felt shy using it. It seemed too intimate for their brief acquaintance. And yet he’d asked so nicely.
They followed Marcus and the Duchess of Haverly into the stone building, left their cloaks at the desk, and Marcus guided them to a skylit room filled with paintings and statues.
“Don’t rush. This is the first time this collection has been on exhibit, and I’m looking forward to seeing it,” Marcus said.
Evan offered his arm once more, and Diana placed her hand lightly on his sleeve. Pale winter sunlight cascaded from the iron and glass skylights onto the artworks in their massive frames. Seaton Manor had a long gallery of paintings, but they were all of Seaton ancestors, stern and sober-faced strangers Diana knew little about. Her father cared more for horses and a fine wine cellar than collecting art.
“Are you a connoisseur of oil paintings?” Evan asked. “I’ll confess, I know little, and what I do know is about religious art.”