By all that was holy, they’d been lovers a matter of weeks. In that time, she couldn’t change him and everything he believed in. She’d have to be a miracle worker to do that.
He’d forget her soon enough.
Once he discovered why she’d left.
Once he talked her into coming back, and he took his fill.
Which would probably require the next thirty years.
At least.
He insisted he only wanted to talk to her. Too much remained unsaid, unexplained. Unfortunately, he, the cool man about town, didn’t trust himself not to steal her away if he got within reach of her. Every minute without her increased that risk. He hoped a trace of civilization remained under the barbaric savage.
He wouldn’t bet on it.
Whenever he’d watched men make fools of themselves over women, he’d wondered how in Hades the poor saps reached such a pass. Now, to his everlasting regret, he knew.
By the time he arrived in Marsham, he’d reined in his anger long enough to establish a strategy. He couldn’t risk Diana’s father or Burnley discovering him. Nor could he be sure Diana wouldn’t run off if she guessed he pursued her.
He registered under a false name at an inn in the nearest town. While he set up vigil in the bushes, he sent his valet into Marsham to buy drinks in the tavern and learn all he could about Burnley, his bailiff, and, most important of all, Mrs. Carrick.
Unfortunately, so far, his valet discovered little to contradict Diana’s tales. Although he hadn’t managed to identify her prospective bridegroom. The only rich man locally was the Marquess of Burnley.
Diana indeed ran the estate, if nominally as her father’s assistant. Ashcroft’s valet related copious anecdotes about young Mrs. Carrick’s cleverness and diligence.
The glowing reports had been unwelcome. Ashcroft wanted an excuse
to hate her, something to shatter this damnable fascination, which persisted no matter how she’d deceived him. But it seemed she was exactly what she claimed. A country widow of respectable but not spectacular standing. Which made those fashionable clothes and the opulent little nest in Chelsea a complete puzzle.
Questions never ceased to torment him. Had Lord Burnley funded her visit to London? Had her mysterious betrothed? In either case, why?
In spite of everything, Ashcroft couldn’t believe she’d accept money from one man and immediately jump into another man’s bed. He’d always been a complete cynic where women were concerned. Early and extensive sexual experience ensured that. But something about Diana made him doubt she was so venal or so wanton.
And didn’t that make him a credulous numbskull?
Other facts, like her husband’s untimely death, turned out to be true. The impression in the village was she’d worn the trousers in that union, although William Carrick had been a good man, and the couple had been close. Tidings which made Ashcroft’s teeth gnash, God forgive him. After all, the poor sod died too young and with a loving wife left to mourn. He deserved compassion rather than jealous resentment.
Ashcroft leaned against a beech tree and folded his arms across his chest. He directed a disgruntled glare through the leaves at the house where Cranston Abbey’s bailiff lived with his beautiful daughter. The place was on the edge of the estate in its own grounds. A tidy, unpretentious building from last century. Just behind it, the village church’s square tower rose into the sky.
Of course, he’d caught glimpses of Diana since he’d arrived. Never alone. And he needed her alone. Despite his anger and confusion, he didn’t want to ruin her reputation in this village. Another sign of how she undermined his will, devil take her. He should let the hellcat suffer the consequences of lying. Although for the life of him, he still couldn’t work out exactly what her game had been in London.
He wanted to know what she’d been up to. He needed to know.
As if to mock his dark humor, the summer day was perfect. He wasn’t surprised when Diana and her father emerged from the house, and she settled him in a chair in the sun. Ashcroft’s pulse surged at the sight of her. Even at this distance, the stiffness in their interactions indicated John Dean hadn’t forgiven his daughter.
The old spaniel, now familiar, ambled out and flopped at John Dean’s side. The scene was so classically bucolic, it could be a sentimental painting. Not for the first time, Ashcroft felt out of place in this rural idyll. Over the last days, he’d realized Diana Carrick had a life, a family, duties, and purpose. None of which had anything to do with her London lover.
Had she meant it when she called him a passing amusement?
He quashed the thought. He’d never believe that. He wouldn’t let doubt eat away his determination.
Miss Smith appeared at the door and beckoned Diana inside. With a heavy sigh, Ashcroft slid down against the beech. He stretched his booted legs across the leaf-strewn grass and drew a small morocco leather volume from his pocket.
As so often recently, he found himself unable to concentrate on the printed word. Trapped in the leafy woodland overlooking Diana’s home, his troubled mind pricked at him. Undistracted by anything except his angry misery, he confronted a life as barren as a desert.
How lowering to fall into self-pity.
It was all Diana’s blasted fault. He’d been content before she barged into his library with her wanton demands.