Only at sunset.
Sunrise. Morning. Noon. Afternoon. Evening…
She bit her lip and battled futile tears. Lately, she’d been ridiculously weepy. These days it took little to turn her into a complete watering pot. And something about the house’s elaborate, symmetrical façade as the sun sank and the last roses released their heady perfume struck her as unbearably poignant.
Perhaps because since London, the fragrance of roses was a piercing reminder of those days and nights at Lord Peregrine Montjoy’s improbable mishmash of a house. She fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief.
“Here you are. I’ve searched the estate for you.”
She turned slowly, blinking the moisture from her eyes. Lord Burnley stood at the end of the path. These days he leaned more heavily on his stick. The last months hadn’t been kind. The disease eroding his remaining hours bit deep. It was as if he’d expended his final vitality vanquishing Ashcroft.
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He’d lost so much weight, his clothes hung loose. Once he’d stood ramrod straight. Now he stooped, and his shoulders hunched against pain. Skin stretched tight against the bones of his face, and his eyes were sunken and dull.
Even without knowing of his illness, she’d guess he hadn’t long to live.
Always the opportunist, he’d arrived at her father’s house the day after Ashcroft’s departure to press his suit. He’d been shocked when she refused him.
Shocked, but strangely not angry.
Which was unlike the marquess when his will was thwarted. He was like an overindulged child, and the sound of “no” drove him to distraction. Vengeful distraction. She remembered how he’d badgered a farmer who’d opposed his right of way over a property into bankruptcy just to prove nobody gainsaid Lord Burnley.
Nonetheless, she couldn’t regret her decision to reject his offer. After what she’d shared with Ashcroft, she couldn’t marry Burnley. More, she couldn’t benefit from the evil she’d done.
The Abbey was lost to her. And that was how it should be.
Her dream had hovered within reach. She only had to say one word of agreement, and Cranston Abbey came into her care. But the dream was irredeemably tarnished by the wickedness she’d perpetrated in striving to attain it.
After Burnley’s proposal, days passed, on the surface each like every other day. She continued to work. Making decisions about the estate. Assigning tasks. Answering questions from the tenants. The thousand duties that tied her to Cranston Abbey as closely as roots bound an oak tree to the soil.
All the time she felt like a watch with a broken spring. The numbers remained on the dial, but the mechanism no longer worked.
Now, with the marquess’s appearance, a distant warning clanged in her mind.
Perhaps Burnley had finally decided to throw the Deans off his estate. After all, he’d sought Diana out, and he hadn’t done that since she refused his hand. She tried to summon fear, resentment, anxiety. The pall of bleakness that had settled over her like thick fog since London didn’t shift.
She dipped into a curtsy. “My lord.”
“Are you well?”
Burnley was the most self-involved man she knew. He never inquired after anyone’s health. Tightness at the back of her neck alerted her he was up to something. She summoned a conventional answer. “Yes, thank you.”
“Would you like to sit down?”
She guessed he wanted to rest. He might be a sorry excuse for a human being, but only a monster would expect a dying man to remain on his feet. This was turning into a very strange interview. Curiosity stirred but not strongly enough to pierce the perpetual throb of loss.
“Yes, thank you, my lord.” She waited for him to settle in an arbor massed with climbing white roses before she reluctantly joined him. Usually she wouldn’t risk such lèsemajesté, but he’d suggested sitting, and unless she plopped herself down on the grass like a farmhand, she had nowhere else to perch herself.
A silence fell. Again, not like him.
Usually he went straight to what he wanted—invariably he wanted something—then moved on to his next target. It struck Diana she knew Lord Burnley as well as she knew her father.
She wished familiarity meant esteem.
He was a spider sitting in his web, waiting for the hapless fly to collide with his sticky trap. Inevitably, when dealing with Burnley, Diana played the fly.
In a proprietary gesture, his hand curved over the top of his stick. “Have you heard from Lord Ashcroft?”