Page 10 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord
“No, poppet,” he said. “You’ve burned that bridge but good.” And every other in the village besides. What neighborly courtesy he might have prevailed upon had been exhausted at last, and all because—because Diana wasright, damn her.
He had a proper hellion for a daughter.
“I don’t like Miss Wright,” Hannah said, stealing the pencil straight from his hand to fist it in her own once again. Though she had formed her letters awkwardly, she was much more proficient at sketching, it seemed. Her features contorted with intent, she began to draw two figures; one larger, one smaller, standing before the blocky outline of a house. The two of them, he supposed. “I wish you could stay with me all the time,” she murmured wistfully.
Oh, his heart. “I wish I could, too, sweetheart.” Thus far, his efforts in the mine had been profoundly unproductive. There was only so much earth a man could move on his own. Thus far, he’d found pockets enough of graphite to revitalize their coffers just in time to avoid complete ruin—but it always ran out too quickly. “Unfortunately, I have got to work.”
Hannah thrust out her lower lip in a pout. “But why?”
“Because, my dear, you keep growing and growing.” He tweaked her nose so she wouldn’t feel the comment as censure or judgment. “Things cost money, poppet. I’ll never let you go hungry.” Not even if he had to starve first. Not even if he had to beg, borrow, or steal.
And as Hannah had exhausted the last bit of goodwill he might’ve had within the village, unfortunately the time had come to beg.
Chapter Four
Diana roused to a knock on the door. The sound had torn her from a miserable, uncomfortable sleep, and she shoved herself upright in bed, feeling bruised all over. How long had she slept? Rather too long, if she had to guess by the light pouring in through the window. It seemed the storm had passed during the night, and the day was now well advanced.
Somehow, the house had held up through it. By the grace of God, perhaps.
Another knock, a bit louder. Diana scowled at the door and rubbed the back of her aching neck. “What it is?”
“Breakfast is ready, if you’d care to join us,” Ben called through the door. And then, “I understand my daughter owes you an apology for her behavior yesterday.”
Diana could feel the grittiness of the flour in her hair still. “I’ll say she does.”
“You’ll have one,” he said, and then there was the sound of his footsteps retreating, the creak of the stairs beneath his feet as he left.
Diana was willing to bet that the little wretch hadn’t tendered an apology in the whole of her life; not with a father so ready and willing to make excuses for her behavior, or to deny it entirely. Which would makethisapology doubly delicious. She slid out of bed, wincing at the ache in her back. How did he manage to sleep on such a wretched excuse for a bed? She’d emerged from it more exhausted than when she’d entered.
It was a matter of a few moments to slip into her dress and boots and to settle her spectacles on the bridge of her nose. Two paces took her toward the door, but she paused, one hand outstretched toward the handle, and then turned back around.
Ben’s bedchamber. She’d given it a passing glance evening last, but then there had been no light but the candle and she had been too tired to give it much consideration besides, other than to judge it a dour little room.
It was still dour in daylight. The roughhewn wooden furniture was limited to a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. Everything in a drab shade of brown, everything cheaply made, with no ornamentation to speak of. Curiosity compelled her back across the floor, toward the dresser, which was comprised of three stacked drawers. A brief inspection revealed it held three shirts, three sets of trousers. Smallclothes. Two pairs of thick woolen stockings.
How dire, exactly, were their circumstances?
That a man of his lineage should be living in such conditions was unthinkable. Surely his father had provided him with some sort of allowance? Even younger sons could reasonably have the expectation that they would be supported financially in some small manner, lest they be forced to soil their hands with work. They might be nudged into military service, or the path of the clergy, but never anything so menial as actuallabor. And Ben was the heir, not a spare. Surely he had been due something better than this?
A frown pleated itself into her brow as she collected a handful of pins and wound her hair upon her head. It was somewhat less elegant than what a lady’s maid could have accomplished, but then she doubted a lady’s maid had ever had to work with hair that had gone stiff with a coat of flour.
She needed a bath. Desperately.
At least there was the promise of a meal awaiting her below. There was the screech of wood against wood as she opened the door and headed for the stairs. Light sounds rose to meet her ears as she descended—a muted male voice, followed by a high-pitched childish giggle.
The earl and his daughter sat at the table within the small kitchen, heads bent together. “See here,” Ben was saying, tapping something upon the table before them. “The letternappears twice within your first name. And there’s an additionalhat the end.”
“Why?” The small blond head turned toward him, a scrunched frown visible even in profile.
“Because—because—” Ben gave a roll of his shoulders, leaning back in his chair until only the rear two legs remained upon the floor, and Diana could hear the exasperation lingering at the edges of his voice. “Well, I don’t know. That’s just how it’s spelled.”
“That’s silly,” Hannah said. “You can’t hear them. Couldn’t I spell it different?”
“You could, but it wouldn’t be the name I gave you.” He placed one hand upon the top of her head and ruffled the mussy blond locks that hadbeen, however haphazardly, coerced into plaits. “We’ll work on your spelling, poppet.”
Diana cleared her throat to announce her presence, and the front legs of Ben’s chair thumped back upon the floor, then scraped across it as he pushed it back. “Diana,” he said, rising to his feet.
Hannah shot her a scowl. She was appallingly proficient at it, for such a young girl. The perfect blend of scorn and fury. Diana guessed that she had been informed that she would have express her remorse, and had not been well-pleased by it.
