Page 72 of A Duke for Diana
“Didyoutell her? Or ask her or Geoffrey about the laudanum?”
“Are you daft? And risk Geoffrey being angry with me? No, thank you. I’d rather eat worms.” Rosy’s gaze turned troubled. “But lately, thinking of Papa . . . well, I just want to know what laudanum is and why it would make Papa so sick that he died.”
Diana only knew that any amount of laudanum could be dangerous. When combined with strong drink, who knew what could happen?
The poor man. No wonder Geoffrey didn’t talk much about his father. It must still be painful to know that the man had become dependent on laudanum to get through his days. That was what she assumed had happened anyway. Because what fool mistook laudanum for tincture of rhubarb?
But what was she to tell Rosy?
The truth, of course. The dear girl had endured enough worry as it was. “Laudanum is given for pain mostly, but it can also act as a poison if you take too much of it. No doubt when your father . . . er . . . made his mistake with the tincture of rhubarb, it was, as you said, ‘the last straw.’”
“Then why doesn’t Geoffrey want Mama to know about it?”
What had he said?Becausetheydon’t know it. And I’d prefer to keep it that way. Hence my refusal to tellyou.
But that made no sense. Their father was dead regardless. There was little point in hiding a vice that part of good society already indulged in. Diana had always thought it a dangerous habit—and clearly she’d been right to do so—but no one generally considered it shameful. Or nottooshameful anyway.
Then again, Geoffrey had strange ideas about such things. Who knew what he’d decided it meant?
Rosy was still eyeing her, patiently waiting for an explanation Diana didn’t have. “Honestly, I don’t know why your brother wants to keep it from your mother. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him. Anything I could say would be speculation.”
“I can understand that, I suppose.” With a sigh, Rosy looked down at her hands. “There’s something else I need to know. It has nothing to do with Papa.”
“All right.”
“Did you . . . tell my brother that I danced with Lord Winston last night?”
Thatwasquite a shift in subject, but one that made sense, given Rosy’s current situation. “No. I saw no point.” Diana kept a close eye on Rosy. “How was it? Did you find him as interesting as before?”
Her face lit up. “He’s very funny. I like that about him.”
“Me too.”
Then Rosy caught herself. “But Lord Foxstead is funny, too. He was so kind to me. I just think he’s a bit old. He’s almost as old as Geoffrey.”
Diana bit back a laugh. Foxstead was probably in his late twenties, not old by most people’s reckoning. But Diana could see how he might seem so to a woman fresh out of the schoolroom.
Sometimes Geoffrey seemed older than he was. It was the weight of the world he kept placing on his own shoulders. One of these days she might actually get through that tough exterior of his and find out what made him so wary and why he didn’t wish to marry right now.
Unless he just didn’t wish to marryher.
She stiffened. If that were the case, to hell with him. She was a pretty woman with much to commend her. If he couldn’t see that, it was his loss. She refused to waste her life waiting for him.
Chapter Sixteen
Geoffrey was at his wit’s end. He hadn’t seen Diana for more than a few minutes here and there in days. Between his meetings and her race to prepare Grenwood House for an influx of two hundred guests, they hadn’t crossed paths very often.
And how they’d left things was beginning to weigh on him. Especially now that Rosy’s début ball was here. Or almost here. He, Rosy, and Mother were assembled in the family parlor for inspection by Diana, who hadn’t arrived yet. But he was more concerned about Rosy at present. She kept pacing around the parlor, probably nervous about the ball, and for the life of him, he didn’t know what to say to her.
He’d seen Mother whispering to her, but it hadn’t seemed to change her expression any. Perhapsheshould say something. “You look beautiful, poppet.”
Rosy’s gaze flew to him, fraught with worry. “Do I really?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t say so if you didn’t. Besides, I did my gushing last time I saw your gown, remember?” When she nodded, as if incapable of doing more, he stifled a sigh. “Do I have to gush again? Because I’m not good at that, as you know. I mean, I think the small roses in that band about your head are very pretty. I do like the pink stuff overlaying the white gown and those triangles on your hem and sleeves. And how those triangle things are repeated in larger fashion on the pink stuff so it exposes the white shiny fabric—”
“The white shiny fabric is satin, Son, and the pink stuff is rose-pink crape,” Mother said with a roll of her eyes. “Those triangle things are Vandykes. It’s Vandyking on her gown.”
“Forgive me if I’m not a man of fashion,” he grumbled.
