She wondered if he realized the irony of what he said. “Papa, don’t worry. Please. I’m enjoying the city and wearing nice clothes and sampling some high life.”
His smile sliced at her heart. “I don’t want your head turned.”
“Don’t worry, it’s screwed on tight.” If only that were true. She’d felt ridiculously giddy when she made love to Ashcroft, and she wasn’t sure her balance had returned yet.
Her father continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps you’ll meet a nice young man. You bury yourself at Marsham, and you never see anyone new. You deserve a life of your own, not to spend your years chasing after your decrepit old father. Is that what
this is about, Diana? Is that what you can’t bear to tell me?”
Oh, Papa…
She leaned forward and hugged him with a mixture of guilt and love. “No, no, no. I told you—Lady Kelso needs someone to run her errands while her companion visits her sick mother in the north. I’m not husband hunting.”
No, she already had a husband lined up. A great catch indeed. At least in the world’s eyes.
Her father wouldn’t support the match. He wouldn’t like his daughter stepping outside her class, however rich the bridegroom. Nor would he want her to marry an old, sick man for his fortune. Her father’s principles were immovable, probably one of the reasons Lord Burnley kept him on despite the drawbacks.
Men of scrupulous honesty were rare. Her father, unlike his daughter, was incorruptible.
A discreet knock announced Mr. Brown’s return. “Lord Burnley’s carriage is outside, Mrs. Carrick.”
Her father frowned, his displeasure reviving. “This visit hardly merits the name, Diana.”
How she wished Burnley had left her in London, trusted her to follow her own strategy. This short conversation would do nothing to allay her father’s fears for her in the big, bad city.
She hugged him again, wretched to feel how stiffly he accepted her embrace. She was distinctly out of favor. As she deserved to be.
Would this plot drive a permanent wedge between her and her father? Dear heaven, pray not. She loved her father more than anyone else. She couldn’t bear if he turned away. Worse, she couldn’t bear to hurt him.
Everything hinged on falling pregnant quickly.
“I’m sorry, Papa. It’s only for a few weeks.” The words were as much for her reassurance as his. Her sight glazed with distress, she drew away and turned for the door. “Don’t come out. I know you’re busy.”
“Of course I’ll see you off and wish you Godspeed,” he snapped.
She took his arm although he knew the house so well, he was unlikely to have difficulty. The contact was for her benefit. She wanted to confirm the love that had sustained them for so many years.
He was tense under her hand, indication he was still annoyed with her. She hated knowing that nothing she said, apart from an immediate and impossible agreement to return, would content him.
Hot air blasted her as soon as she stepped out of the house. London would be sweltering. She should be grateful for the uncomfortably close weather. It meant the capital was emptier than usual at this time of year. But she couldn’t help wishing circumstances wouldn’t conspire to further her affair with Ashcroft. Like a coward, she’d dearly love an excuse to come home.
She climbed into the coach and, when Fredericks shut the door, she leaned out the window to catch a last glimpse of her father. He looked unhappy and irritated and bewildered. She could hardly blame him. His daughter ran wild, and even if he didn’t know what she did, he knew she acted to her detriment.
He stepped forward and patted the wood until he found her hand. He squeezed hard and with a love she felt to her bones. Again her heart lurched with guilt and pain for what she did. “Take care, Diana. And remember, whatever happens, I’m your father and I love you.”
As the coach rolled out of the neat little village, Diana subsided trembling against the upholstery. Her father’s blind eyes always saw more than she realized.
Chapter Thirteen
One hundred and fifteen hours.
So long since Ashcroft had seen the mysterious Diana. He loathed that he counted the time like a moony adolescent. Every second passed like an hour. The days were perpetual torment.
Had she finished with him? After what they’d shared?
It didn’t make sense. But as day followed day, and the promised message didn’t arrive, he couldn’t avoid the inevitable conclusion she’d sampled what he had to offer and decided she wanted no more.
For a man of his sophistication and experience, it shouldn’t smart. But it did. It smarted like hell.