gleaned from news accounts and the little gossip that reached Graveston Court indicated that he’d spent most of his time since returning from the army either at his principal seat or in London.
Would she have fled to Bath, had she known he was here? She’d had to go somewhere, quickly, as soon as Graveston’s remains had been laid to rest, somewhere she could live more cheaply and attract less notice than in London, but fashionable enough to attract excellent solicitors. Go while the servants were in turmoil, uncertain what to do now that their powerful master was no longer issuing orders, and before Blankford, her husband’s eldest son and heir, had time to travel back to Graveston from hunting in Scotland.
What would she do if the new Duke, not content with claiming his old home, was bent on retribution against the woman he blamed for his mother’s death and his father’s estrangement? What if he pursued her here?
Putting aside a question for which she had no answer, Diana turned her mind back to Alastair. What was she to do about him?
She wouldn’t remember how many years it had taken to lock his image, their love, and the dreams she’d cherished for the future into a place so deep within her that no trace of them ever escaped. All she had left of him was the pledge, if and when it was ever possible, to tell him why she’d spurned him without a word to marry Graveston.
She might well have that opportunity tomorrow if she accompanied Mannington to the park, where he hoped to encounter his new friend again. Should she take it?
Of course, the other boy might not come back, and if he did, Alastair might not accompany him. So rattled had she been by Alastair’s unexpected appearance, she’d not even caught the boy’s surname, though he must be some connection of Alastair’s. Even his own son, perhaps.
That Alastair Ransleigh had managed to disturb her so deeply argued for avoiding him. The process of locking away all emotion and reaction, of practising before her mirror until she’d perfected the art of letting nothing show in her face, had been arduous and difficult. She wasn’t sure how to reverse it, or even if she wanted to. Should that barrier of detachment ever be breached, whatever was left of her might crack like an eggshell.
As if in warning, despite her control, one memory from her marriage surfaced. The hope that she might some day speak to Alastair again had been the only thing that had kept her from succumbing to despair, or heeding the insidious whisper in the night that urged her to creep through the sleeping house to the parapets of Graveston Court and free herself in one great leap of defiance. Besides, though Alastair had almost certainly expunged her from his heart and mind years ago, in fairness, she owed him an explanation for that nightmare night of humiliation.
Very well, she thought, nodding to herself in the mirror. She would accompany her son to the park, and if Alastair did appear, she would approach him. He might well give her the cut direct, or slap her face, but if he allowed her to speak, she would fulfil her vow and tell him the story.
At the thought of seeing him again, a tiny flicker of anticipation bubbled up from deep within. Holding her breath and squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she stifled it.
* * *
Having awakened before dawn to pace his room until daylight, Alastair chose to avoid breakfast, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hide his agitation from his eagle-eyed sister. When mid-morning finally came, Alastair set out from the Crescent, his exuberant nephew in tow.
Much as he’d tried to tell himself this was just another day, a trip to the park with Robbie like any other, he failed miserably at keeping his mind from drifting always back, like a lodestone to the north, to the possibility of seeing Diana again—a possibility that flooded him with contradictory emotions.
The defiant need to confront her and force a reaction, and curiosity over what that reaction might be, warred with the desire to cut her completely. Overlaying all was a smouldering anger that she had the power to so effectively penetrate his defences that he’d been required to employ every bit of his self-control to keep the memories at bay—a task he’d not fared so well at while half-conscious. He’d slept poorly, waking time and again to scattered bits of images he’d hastily blotted out before trying to sleep again.
Fatigued and irritable, he tried to focus on Robbie’s eager chatter, which alternated between enthusiastic praise of the horse his uncle had ridden to Bath, a wheedling plea to be allowed to sit on said horse, and anticipation at meeting his new friend again.
‘The boy may not be able to come today,’ Alastair said, the warning as much for his own benefit as for Robbie’s. ‘You may have to settle for just the company of your dull old uncle.’
‘Uncle Alastair, you’re never dull! And you will let me ride Fury when we get back home, won’t you? We can still stop for cakes, can’t we? And I’m sure James will come again. His nurse promised!’
‘Did she, now?’ Alastair raised a sceptical eyebrow, amused out of his agitation by the ease with which his nephew turned a possibility into a certainty, simply because he wished it. How wonderful to possess such innocence!
But then, maybe it wasn’t. He’d had his innocence torched out of him by one splendid fireball of humiliation.
Whatever reply Robbie made faded in his ears as they entered Sidney Gardens—and Alastair saw her. Shock pulsated from his toes to his ears, and once again, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Dressed modestly all in black—at least her critics couldn’t fault her there—Diana sat on a bench, as her son tossed his ball to the nursemaid on a nearby verge of grass. While Alastair worked to slow his pulse and settle his breathing, Robbie, with a delighted shout, ran ahead to meet his friend.
Now was the moment, and with a sense of panic, Alastair realised he still wasn’t sure what he wanted. If Diana turned to him, should he speak with her? Ignore her? If she did not acknowledge him, should he go right up to her and force his presence on her?
Before he could settle on a course of action, with a grace that sent a shudder of memory and longing through him, Diana rose from the bench—and approached him.
‘Mr Ransleigh,’ she said as she dipped a curtsy to his stiff bow. ‘Might I claim a moment of your time?’
A reply sprang without thought to his lips. ‘Do you think you deserve that?’
‘I am sure I do not,’ she replied, the serenity of her countenance untroubled by his hostile words. ‘However, I vowed if I were ever given a chance, I would explain to you what happened eight years ago.’
The violet scent she’d always worn invaded his senses. Unconsciously, he looked down, into eyes as arrestingly blue as he remembered from the day they first captivated him. No lines marred the softness of her skin, and the few dark curls escaping from under her bonnet made him recall how he’d loved combing his fingers through those thick, sable locks. Desire—powerful, potent, unstoppable—rose up to choke him.
He had to get away. ‘Do you really think, after all this time, that I care what happened?’ he spat out. ‘Good day, Duchess.’ Pivoting on one boot, he paced away from her down the gravelled path.
He heard the crunch of her footsteps following behind him. Torn between a surge of triumph that this time, she was pursuing him, and a need to escape before he lost what little control he had left, he could barely make sense of her words.
‘Although I may not deserve to be heard, since you are a gentleman, Mr Ransleigh,
