They finished the rest of the dance in typical useless chatter. Once he escorted her to her chaperone, he bowed. “Have a pleasant evening, my lady.”
She tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan. “Have a pleasant evening as well, my lord. I look forward to your visit.” She sashayed away as if she knew his eyes followed every move her delectable hips made.
Which they did.
Bloody hell. What was he getting himself into this time?
2
Diana breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way through the crowd and headed to the front door. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long for her carriage to be brought around and she could leave this blasted place. She grew more and more weary of these events as the Season wore on. Her feet hurt, the room was far too warm, and the beginnings of a megrim teased the back of her head.
She’d finally been able to take a deep breath when she spotted Hunt across the ballroom. For someone who was rumored to be searching for a bride this Season, he’d not been easy to run down. It seemed every event she’d attended, he was somewhere else.
“The carriage is ready.” Her companion and chaperone, Mrs. Rachel Strickland, waved to her from the front door. Someday, she really must take the woman in hand and instruct her on proper behavior. One did not wave and shout across the entrance hall like some sort of fishmonger touting her wares. Diana’s grandmama, Lady Priscilla Abbottt, had been exacting about good manners and would have been appalled.
She smiled every time she remembered her grandmother. Grandmama had been notorious in her time, which led Diana to believe she’d inherited some of the woman’s infamous traits. Lady Priscilla Abbottt had been well-known throughout Polite Society for her shocking beliefs in equality for women and had held meetings on a regular basis espousing such outrageous ideas based on the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft and the scandalous Lady Caroline Lamb.
Lady Abbottt had indulged in scandalous affairs and, over the years, she’d broken several hearts. There had been quite a bit of grieving from the men of the ton at her passing.
And relief by their wives.
Diana held onto the footman’s arm as she descended the slippery steps from the Billingsley townhouse and entered her carriage. A light drizzle had turned the pathway dangerous, and her dance slippers held no more purchase than stockinged feet. However, the coach was warm and dry, and she settled comfortably across from Mrs. Strickland.
She thanked God every day for the substantial fortune she’d inherited from her grandmama so that marriage was not something with which she needed to concern herself to maintain her comfortable lifestyle. Diana had not espoused Grandmama’s ideas about no marriage and taking lovers instead, since she would like a family one day, but so far no man had tempted her enough to give up the freedom she enjoyed as a wealthy, unmarried woman.
Diana leaned back on the squab and closed her eyes to rest her head. At least the first part of her plan had worked. Despite his reluctance, Hunt had agreed to call upon her the next afternoon. Not that she’d expected him to decline her request. He’d always helped her in the past.
In fact, when she’d departed for Italy the year before—running from another potential sc
andal—he’d helped make the arrangements and had seen her off with his blessing. She tried not to be annoyed by his elation at her departure.
Lord knew she could not afford another opprobrium. Papa had already washed his hands of her and one more mishap would likely encourage him to send her to one of his far-flung estates near the Scottish border. It annoyed her to no end that even at four and twenty, he maintained control over her person. Thank God, not her money, though.
The following afternoon, Diana dipped her fingers into the blue-tinted powder box holding her Pear’s Almond Bloom, the little bit of makeup she allowed herself. She rarely used it, but with the dark circles under her eyes giving testimony to her many sleepless nights since the problem had arisen, it kept her from answering countless questions from nosy matrons about the state of her health.
She’d always been outside the inner circle of young ladies who did everything they were supposed to do to maintain their standing with the virtue vultures, as Diana had tagged them. Those were the older ladies who set the standard for young girls’ behavior. While never being given the cut direct by those ladies, they certainly did not view her with warmth or welcome her with open arms.
She checked the small pink and white flowered china clock on her dresser. It grew close to two o’clock. With her stomach in knots, she descended the stairs in search of her lady’s maid, Marguerite, to act as chaperone when Hunt visited. Even though he was an old childhood friend, she did not want any sign of impropriety. She’d given Mrs. Strickland the afternoon off, since Diana did not trust her as she trusted Marguerite, who had been with her since she’d made her come-out four years before.
Plus, Marguerite already knew about the humiliation looming on the horizon. “Marguerite, Lord Huntington will be here momentarily. Please have Cook send in tea once he arrives, then join us in the drawing room so there will be no talk of us being alone together.”
Tea, indeed. What she really needed was a glass of sherry, or even brandy, but it was necessary to keep her faculties if she wasn’t going to make a complete cake of herself.
“Yes, my lady.” The girl curtsied and hurried to the kitchen.
Diana wandered the drawing room, picking up objects, not really seeing them, then placing them back down, trying her best to calm herself. If Hunt refused her plea for help, she had no idea what she would do.
Her head jerked up and her pulse jumped, butterflies taking up residence in her stomach. The echo of a horse riding to the mews behind her house announced the arrival of her guest. Just be calm. State your problem and appeal to his sense of duty and honor, on which he always prided himself.
Within minutes, a knock sounded at the front door. Her butler opened the drawing room door and stood aside to let her guest enter. “His lordship, the Earl of Huntington, has arrived, my lady.”
“Thank you, Briggs.”
She sucked in a breath as she beheld the man she needed to save her from ruin. Tall—indeed much taller than he seemed in the ballroom last night—his presence overwhelmed the space in her drawing room. His thick, light brown hair, known for its inability to be tamed, fell over his broad forehead and teased the back of his cravat.
No tailor needed to pad his chestnut sack jacket, which his broad shoulders filled out nicely. His deep tan trousers below a snug brown and black checked waistcoat outlined well-muscled thighs. A starched white pristine shirt set off his slightly tanned skin.
He’d gone from the gangly youth who had plucked her from trees and tended to her scrapes to a man who knew his place in the world and commanded a good part of it with aplomb and a touch of arrogance.