Page 52 of A Duke for Diana
Geoffrey’s stomach twisted into knots. “Do you have your eye on Lady Diana?” Geoffrey asked. “As a possible wife, I mean.”
“I don’t have my eye on anyone. I’m not finished sowing my wild oats.” Foxstead regarded him closely. “But you seem inordinately interested in the woman for a man who’d previously stated he had no plans to marry anytime soon.”
“I still don’t. I merely think she . . . is a fascinating woman, that’s all.”
“Damn, Grenwood. You’re smitten, aren’t you?”
Geoffrey scoffed at that. “No more smitten than you are with your glass of champagne there.”
“Ah, you’re such a romantic fellow, comparing a woman to champagne. Then again, this is bloody good champagne.”
“As well I know,” Geoffrey said, “because I paid for it.”
Foxstead let him change the subject, thankfully. “I could use another glass. Will you join me?”
“Certainly.” Geoffrey sighed. “I have to make a toast to Rosy, so I might as well do it with champagne.”
Geoffrey’s mention of Rosy seemed to give the earl pause. “I assure you I took your lecture to heart earlier. I won’t do more in future than dance respectably with your sister, I swear.” Foxstead broke into a grin. “Although I understand she has a fortune, which is always an asset. Besides which, she is a fine-looking female, if I do say so myself.”
“I recommend that younotsay so yourself inmyhearing,” Geoffrey growled. “And whoever offers for her had better not be doing so only because of her fortune, or I will end the betrothal before it’s begun.”
Foxstead laughed. “Duly noted.”
The rest of the evening was a blur . . . partly because Geoffrey had for once drunk a bit too much champagne with Foxstead, who’d stayed well past midnight. And partly because Diana’s words about passion kept ricocheting through his brain, not to mention through certain other parts of him.
Geoffrey dragged himself to bed shortly after Foxstead left, but didn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, he lay staring up at the canopy of his four-poster bed in his impressive master bedchamber while he futilely attempted not to imagine Diana lying in it with him.
The fantasy tantalized him—of her naked beneath him, beckoning him down atop her, while he planted his knees between her thighs, and savored the look and feel of her plump breasts, there for the taking, as he had his wicked way with her. He fell asleep to that glorious image.
Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, he awoke from a vivid dream of her, just long enough to frig and fall back to sleep. When next he awoke, the sun was high.
Fortunately, everyone else in the house had slept as late as he had. Now he understood why the ladies of Elegant Occasions had been so sluggish and ill-tempered the first morning he’d met them. There was no way in hell he’d be able to attend any meetings at ten a.m. today. Thank God he’d had the foresight to cancel them.
He debated whether he should show up at Mrs. Pierce’s, given how angry Diana had been with him last night. But how else was he to gauge the depths of her anger? How else was he to determine whether she was just tormenting him by mentioning having him tutor her in “the ways of passion”? Or whether she really had considered that? And if so, if she might consider it again?
Because God knew he would find it impossible to get any work done when the thought of her in his bed filled his mind. So either he needed to clarify her willingness on that score. Or wash his hands of her entirely and let Mother and Rosy deal with Elegant Occasions without him from now on.
With that decided, he downed his new valet’s cure for being cropsick—a nasty concoction of sage tea, Epsom salts, vinegar, and sack-whey—and headed downstairs to see what the ladies would be up to today. He wasn’t too terribly cropsick, thank God, because his valet’s cure, while banishing his headache, was only increasing his nausea.
He found his mother and Rosy at breakfast, dressed well enough to impress. After pouring himself a cup of coffee, he joined them at the table. “You two look very nice this morning. Where are you off to?”
“The dressmaker,” Rosy said, loudly enough to make him wince. “Our gowns for my ball are ready, so we’re off to try them on. Then Diana is taking us shopping for suitable reticules, shoes, and gloves to go with them.”
“Among other things,” Mother said, and exchanged a glance with Rosy that had them both giggling like schoolgirls.
“Do I dare ask what the ‘other things’ are?” he drawled.
“No,” Mother said. “You don’t have to knoweverything, Geoffrey.”
“Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. But perhaps I will join you for the shopping.” Which might give him a chance to talk to Diana alone. “I could use gloves and shoes myself.”
“You most certainly could.” Rosy peeked under the table. “The Hessians you have on now are marginally presentable, but they will not do for Almack’s, where boots aren’t allowed. And you can’t wear the same shoes you wore last night to my début ball. You must have fancier ones.”
He blinked at her. Elegant Occasions already had her talking like them. “I had no idea my sister had become such an expert on men’s boots. I do hope no cobblers have been courting you in secret. I’ll have to put my foot down.”
Rosy laughed gaily. “The only cobblers I’ve met are either old or recently married, with jealous wives standing by as they measure my feet. So they’d hardly make suitable husbands.”
“Especially not the married ones,” Geoffrey said.
