“Nothing.” He shook his head, and his eyes darted away from her. “All is well.” He waved to the settee. “Why don’t we sit?”
Something was wrong. Hunt looked at her in a way he’d never looked at her before. She licked her lips. “You didn’t. . .I mean, remember I told you not to. . .” Her voice faded.
“Diana, I’m terribly sorry, but there was no way to recover the painting without looking at it. I’m sure that’s what you’re worried about.”
She nodded, a heated flush rising to her face. “Yes, that was a concern.”
“Just put it from your mind. Mr. Mallory no longer has the painting. He has no idea where it is, and you are safe.”
“But—”
Hunt held up his hand. “I no longer wish to speak about it.” With a shaky hand, he tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “It’s over.”
She grinned with relief and threw herself into Hunt’s arms. “Thank you so much.”
He pulled her close to his body and groaned.
7
A week passed while Diana was able to breathe and not worry about the portrait. The blasted piece had been retrieved, burned, and she’d heard nothing from Mr. Mallory. That was surprising.
What appeared odd, however, was since then Hunt seemed to be avoiding her.
Normally they would meet at a few social events during the week, but he was absent from each one she’d attended. It was almost like when she was first trying to track him down after her return from Italy. This evening, as she dressed for the Pennington ball, she wondered if he would be present.
She took one last look at herself, pleased with how Marguerite had fixed her hair with a blue ribbon and pearls woven throughout the coiffure. Her pale blue gown, shot through with silver, displaying dark blue embroidery around the neckline, sleeves, and hem, fit her perfectly and made an interesting swishing sound as she walked.
After having Marguerite help her with her necklace and bracelets, Diana attached her earbobs, picked up her reticule and shawl, and left the room. For some reason, she felt more excited about this ball. Perhaps this would be the one that Hunt attended, and she could find out why he appeared to be avoiding her.
Hunt.
In the time she’d spent in Italy he had rarely crossed her mind. In fact, it wasn’t until she needed his help with the portrait that she thought of him after her return. Odd that, since they’d been friends since childhood.
Now, however, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. His crooked smile, the scent of bay rum that wafted from him, his broad shoulders, emphasized by the fine cut of his clothing, and his a-bit-too-long hair that curled over his cravat. Had he always been so tempting?
Surely he had been, since she’d noted the looks he received from young and old women alike upon entering a ballroom, but she’d always been indifferent to him, thinking of Hunt as a brother.
That was no longer true. The thoughts that had been running through her head were anything but brotherlike.
“Are you ready, Mrs. Strickland?” Diana turned so Briggs could help her with her shawl. It matched her gown but was lined with satin, making it warm enough for the night air.
Her chaperone made her way from the back of the house, pulling on her gloves. “Yes. I am ready to leave, my lady.”
The two women descended the steps and entered Diana’s carriage. The vehicle had belonged to her grandmama and still bore the Abbott crest, but Diana did not have the heart to replace the carriage, even though it was more than twenty years old.
Since there had been no living direct heir when Grandfather passed, the obscure family member who had inherited the title lived a solitary life in an estate near the Scottish border. He had hired a steward and household staff enough to maintain the property. As far as Diana knew, he’d never even visited the place.
The inside of her carriage held the faint scent of Grandmama, although Diana feared she was fooling herself, and it was merely part imagination and part stubbornness to admit Grandmama was truly gone.
Their arrival was swift, but after waiting in a carriage line for about fifteen minutes, they finally reached the Pennington townhouse. A footman opened the door and helped them out. They made their way up the steps, surrendered their shawls, and proceeded up to the first floor ballroom, handing the invitation to the footman announcing the attendees.
“Lady Diana Pemberton.”
As she and Mrs. Strickland descended the stairs, Diana’s eyes immediately scanned the room, her heart speeding up when she noticed Hunt standing with two other gentlemen. Hunt held a glass of some sort of beverage in his hand and leaned one shoulder against the wall as they conversed.
His head whipped around when her name was announced. He straightened and handed his glass to a passing footman. He continued to study her as she reached the floor and was immediately surrounded by her friends.
Over Miss Spencer-Roth’s shoulder, Diana watched Hunt make his way across the ballroom, stopping to chat here and there, but his eyes always returning to her. She shivered. The look in his eyes was disconcerting.