It was North’s fault, the whole of it. If only he’d been perceptive enough to see that Diana didn’t love him—in fact, loathed him—he would never have proposed. She would still be in a London ballroom, perhaps dancing with a man whom she could love.
And he?
He wouldn’t have spent over a year in yellow heels and towering wigs, trying to match her elegance. Showing off his finery as if he were Fitzy, the family’s peacock.
He knocked again, more loudly.
“I’m coming!”
Her voice gave him a sudden sense of vertigo. The sickening part of it all was that Diana may have preferred exile to marriage—but he didn’t seem to be able to stop loving her.
That hopeless love had driven him to this visit. His courtship had ruined her life, and he had to make amends before leaving for war.
He would take her out of this pitiful cottage, for one thing, and make sure that she was never destitute again. He would have to phrase it in such a way that Diana was able to accept his help—with the understanding that there were no strings attached. That he would never bother her again.
The door swung open, and there she was.
When North first saw Diana Belgrave laughing on the side of the ballroom, he thought she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
But now?
She was wearing an unfashionable bonnet that framed her face. Her eyes were outlined not by black kohl, but by long eyelashes. Her lips were a natural rose.
She was exquisite.
He lost the ability to speak and just stared at her.
Finely drawn brows drew together. “Lord Roland, what are you doing here?” Her eyes swept down his body, and froze. “What are you wearing?”
He glanced down. After months of military training, he no longer noticed his dark crimson coat with its standing collar, plain breeches, and sturdy, beautifully made boots. Or if he did, it was only to thank God that he didn’t have to squeeze his shoulders into tight, embroidered coats meant to bedazzle Diana.
“I’ve bought a commission,” he said flatly. “I’m leaving for the war in America.”
To his surprise, her eyes filled with horror. “No!” She reached out and caught his sleeve. “You mustn’t, North! Is it too late?”
Stupidly, his heart thudded in his chest at her touch. Gently he disengaged his sleeve. “I command a regiment that leaves directly. I came to say goodbye but, more than that, I want to apologize.”
Her face had lost all color. She looked as shocked as if she’d really cared for him.
“I spoke to your mother several times over the last week,” he said, trying to ease into a discussion of her circumstances.
She shook her head. “A waste of words.”
That was true: her bloody-minded mother had actually detailed the money she’d made by reselling Diana’s gowns. “I may not be able to convince Mrs. Belgrave to accept you as her daughter,” North said, “but the least I can do is ensure that you don’t suffer due to my courtship. Why did—”
But he made himself cut off that question. It didn’t matter why she had accepted his proposal, or why she jilted him, for that matter.
If possible, she had turned even whiter. “She didn’t tell you, did she?”
“Tell me what?”
Sunlight loved her, he thought numbly. It lit the perfect cream of her cheek, the shadow cast by her fringe of eyelashes. Deluded fool though he was, he found himself memorizing every detail so that he could take it with him into war.
Diana didn’t want him or love him, but her disdain hadn’t killed his idiotic passion for her.
She opened her mouth, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, Lord Roland.”
“You called me North a moment ago.”
Just then, he heard a thump from behind her, in the shadowed cottage. As if someone had dropped an object.
Diana’s eyes widened, and she shifted to block the cottage interior from his sight.
The truth of it seared down North’s body. She had a lover. She had told him that she hadn’t—and he had believed her—but obviously she lied.
Likely she fled to the country with someone whom her mother would never accept. A footman, or a grocer, like her grandfather. Mrs. Belgrave had cast off her daughter for that sin; it had nothing to do with him.
She didn’t need his help. She had chosen another man, and all those lies she had told were … lies. Just lies. No different than the words she spoke when she promised to marry him.
A sensation of pure emptiness filled him, a chilly wave of nausea in its wake. “I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping backward. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Another thump came from inside: something wooden tumbled off a table and rolled across the floor.
“I must be on my way.”
She swallowed so hard that he saw the lump in her throat. “I never wished to hurt you,” she said haltingly.
North bowed his head. What was he supposed to say? Thank you for small blessings? She watched silently as he swung up on his horse. He was about to say goodbye when another thump came from behind her, this one followed by a wail. The voice was high and young, full of tears.
A baby.
Diana had a baby.
Epilogue
Eleven years later
An unnamed and uncharted island in the West Indies
Two young boys ran across the white sand and threw themselves into turquoise water as joyously as otters.
Miss Katerina Wilde looked up from her book and squinted. She had inherited her mother’s imperfect eyesight, and the distinction between the cool, shady palm and the glaring sun made it impossible to see, especially with her spectacles on. “Don’t go too far out!” she shouted at Benjamin and Shaw.
Their nursemaid, who was infatuated with one of the footmen, was nowhere to be seen.
A footman was a strange creature to find on a West Indian island. But their mother insisted on a proper evening meal, which meant the Wildes traveled with footmen, linen, silver, and china. A cook and a butler.
Katie’s brothers had spent the last four months turning brown as nuts, cavorting in the warm water of the Caribbean. Katie preferred to lie around under a tree wearing a pair of breeches so she could dash into the water to cool off. Their mother spent her days studying sea turtles, making delicate watercolors of their eggs.
Their father worked on his next book, of course.
Every night the whole family donned proper clothing and cut their goat stew with silver utensils.
Their mother wouldn’t have it any other way.
Katie let her book slide to the ground as she lay back, hands behind her head. Her beloved cat, Sweetpea, was curled up next to her, purring loudly. Sweetpea was the daughter of her father’s favorite cat, and named after her mother’s favorite pet—but she loved Katie better than anyone else in the world.
Looking up into the waving palm fronds, Katie decided that she was probably the luckiest ten-year-old girl anywhere in the world.
Just this morning, her father had said she was old enough to edit any scene he’d written in which she appeared. Even delete it, if she wished.
Not that she would. She loved Lord Wilde’s stories of their family’s adventures as much as the rest of England did. Well, England, and France, and even America, now. Father was trying to talk their mother into traveling to New York City next.
Katie gave the palm fronds far above her a happy grin. She meant to marry a man as big and handsome as her father. They would travel the world, returning to England every once in a while.
She didn’t want to study animals, the way her mother did. No, she’d rather be a writer like her father. If she took off her spectacles, she could just see a hazy green lump on the horizon that was another island. This part of the ocean was full of them … island after island, all waiting to be visited. Waiting to be described by Miss Katie Wilde.
This particular island was pretty, but it didn’t have any residents other than sea turtles, wild goats, and birds. If she had her druthers, they’d be living on an island with people, so she could learn another language. Unfortunately, when her father settled into writing, he liked to find somewhere private.
You couldn’t get more private than an island with no name and no inhabitants.
With a sigh, she put her glasses back on and picked up her book. It was one of her favorites, written by an ancient fellow named Pliny. Pliny’s uncle had sailed right into a volcanic explosion, trying to save its victims.
Katie would have done exactly the same, except she wouldn’t have died in the attempt. She could tell that Pliny agreed with her; his uncle should have been more careful. She fell asleep dreaming of captaining her own ship, steering it (carefully) toward great deeds and even greater adventures.
A while later, a coconut fell beside her with such a thump that it sprayed her face with sand. Katie sat bolt upright, mouth open in shock, which meant that sand from yet another “falling” coconut made her cough and spit.
Sweetpea fled, and Katie was forced to jump to her feet and chase Ben and Shaw round the island, shrieking so loudly that it woke up their parents.
They were sleeping in the shaded platform house whose timbers traveled from place to place in the hold of the Lindow, the huge ship designed and built to the highest specifications and with no expense spared. A ship that Lord Wilde had described in his last book as a corner of England that floated from place to place.
At the moment, the king and queen of that small corner of England were lying in a bed covered with snowy-white linen sheets. Hearing shrieks, Alaric raised his head just long enough to discern that the sounds indicated happy rage. “Let’s do that again,” he said, the suggestion rumbling from his chest.