“Religious art?” They stopped before a seascape. Diana thought she knew just how that little boat being tossed on the waves and at the mercy of the wind must feel.
“Did I not tell you? Though come to think of it, when would there have been time? My father is a clergyman.” He stared up at the painting, his brow furrowed. “And the village schoolmaster, in order to help make ends meet, since our parish is so small.”
A clergyman? No, he certainly hadn’t mentioned it. “That must account for a foot soldier sounding so educated.” Her hand came up to cover her mouth. She’d sounded as snobbish as the duchess. Would he be angry?
He grimaced. “Thought I’d be soundin’ like a mush-mouthed peasant, then? Droppin’ me haitches and rhyming me words like a Cockney?” Then he smiled, though there was still a tightness around his eyes.
Heat swirled up her cheeks, glad he wasn’t angry. He patted her hand, chuckling, though he also winced and tilted his head, as if stretching a crick in his neck. “I’m only quizzing you. My father is an excellent teacher and preacher. Though I never attended university, my education would compare well to those of most of the ton’s elite. And I would venture to say that my Greek and Latin would stand up to scrutiny better than most, thanks to my studious parent.”
Diana observed him, feeling oddly proud. A learned husband was more than she had hoped for. She was no bluestocking herself, but an ignorant husband would be unbearable. That he should be so accomplished and yet be a soldier … a unique individual, to be sure.
And yet for such a well-studied man, he had much to learn about the world he had now entered. He’d already proven his education was lacking in key areas.
“You mentioned that you were feeling as if you lived in a glass box with the beau monde looking on. That’s an apt description because your every move will now be scrutinized. And the hasty wedding date is going to start rumors. You must be prepared for that.” There would be those speculating that the rush to the altar was because a baby was on the way, though that was absurd, since they’d met less than a fortnight ago. That wouldn’t stop tongues from wagging though. Biddies seemed to relish speculating about the worst in people. What was that old saying? Second babies took nine months, but first babies could arrive anytime? It wasn’t true in her case, but the gossips never took truth into account when spreading their tales.
“I don’t put much stock in rumors.” He squinted as they walked through a shaft of light. “We have our own reasons for marrying quickly, and we have the blessing of the Prince Regent. Why should we care what others think?” With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shall we sit?” Indicating a bench in the center of the room, he led her that way, easing down beside her and stretching one leg before him, kneading his thigh. His wound must be paining him. Perhaps that was the reason for the strain in his face.
Marcus and his mother stood at a distance, staring at a bucolic landscape and not talking. There were a few other patrons, but not many due to the early hour.
She straightened her skirts, knowing she should warn him about the severity of crossing the ton’s conventions and expectations. “That is something you do not seem to grasp. It is very important what other people think. If you break too many of the rules, you won’t be received in polite society. You’ll be blackballed, and then where will you be? You’ll bring dishonor on your family, your title, and …”
“And?” He frowned.
“And me. As your countess. If you are ostracized from society, then I shall be ostracized as well.”
He grunted. “From what I can see, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Pompous, critical, strict. And what do they do with themselves all day and night but seek pleasure and approval from their own small sect?”
She recoiled, startled at the contempt in his voice. Is that what he really thought of her and her peers?
“I say, fancy running into you two here.” Viscount Fitzroy’s voice dripped with ennui. “Becoming an art aficionado, are you, Whitelock?”
Evan stiffened and rose slowly, his eyelids narrowed. “Fitzroy.”
Diana remained seated, wishing the viscount would go away, feeling her skin crawl as he studied her under his heavy-lidded eyes. His hair had just the right amount of tousle, his linens were immaculate, and the cut of his breeches was near scandalous, just as fashion dictated, and yet he repelled her. With insolent courtesy, he lifted her hand from her lap and bent over it.
“Lady Diana. You look particularly lovely today. Dare I say your swift conquest of the newly minted earl has put the bloom in your cheeks? I have to hand it to you. I knew Seaton ladies were fast workers, but really, even I was surprised at your speed.” He kissed the air over her knuckles, and she yanked her hand from his clasp. “Still, I suppose it’s in the blood.”
His sideswipe mention of her sister had Diana’s blood heating. She gripped her hands together in her lap. How such a wretched man could’ve sired such a sweet baby as Cian, she would never know. And she would never reveal the baby’s existence to this man. He didn’t deserve to know, not after the way he had treated Catherine, trifling with her and the very next day shaming her by giving her the cut direct in front of a drawing room full of people. As if once he’d had her, she was tainted goods no longer worthy of his notice.
“I believe I’ll join the duchess.” Diana rose and walked away, her legs stiff, her back rigid. She had no desire to spend even a moment more of her life in Fitzroy’s presence. Perhaps if she weren’t within earshot, he would stop dropping his double entendres and veiled messages. And perhaps she wouldn’t feel compelled to smack his supercilious face.
Marcus smiled at her approach, but he looked over her head. “Ah, Fitzroy. He’s got a knack for turning up where you are these days, doesn’t he, Lady Diana?” He narrowed his eyes, and his lips tightened.
She felt an immediate kinship with Marcus. Nothing like a common dislike to bring people together.
The duchess pulled out her lorgnette, half raising it to her eye. “He’s from an impeccable family. Quite a commodity. Heir to his uncle’s title. He’ll be Earl of Rothwell someday. Many a matchmaking mother has her eye on him as a husband for her daughter.”
“It wouldn’t matter to me if he were the heir to the Persian Empire. I wouldn’t have him if he were hung from top to toe with diamonds.” Diana rubbed her arms, trying to ward off the shiver Fitzroy had given her.
“You show good sense.” Marcus crooked his elbow, and she took it. “He seems to have plenty to say to Whitelock, doesn’t he?”
Evan’s and Fitzroy’s voices rose.
“Oh no.” Marcus’s muscles tightened.
Diana turned in time to see Evan planting his fist in Fitzroy’s face. The viscount staggered back, his yell echoing through the gallery and bouncing off the skylights.
“You bounder!” Fitzroy’s shout was muffled behind his hands as he sought to stanch the flow of blood coming from his nose.
Evan straightened his coat and flexed his fingers, as if the blow had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
“I should call you out.” Fitzroy glowered as he clapped his handkerchief to his face. “I should kill you for this.” His shirt and cravat bore bright claret-red splotches.