Since now there was a face—and a figure—attached to this mystery woman, he pulled the box out of the safe with the idea of finding something that would suit Diana.
His soon to be wife.
Maybe.
What amazed him was how quickly he’d accepted Diana as his. What also amazed him was why it had taken him this long, and another misstep, to realize how much he wanted her. Had probably always wanted her. Even before he saw the portrait.
There were two types of perfect wives. The young debutantes who had been raised to never speak out, always agree, lay very still in bed until it was all over, produce perfect heirs while praying her husband was then done with the ‘nasty’ business, and run an efficient household.
Then there was a woman who was perfect for him.
Lady Diana Pemberton.
He selected what he thought would be the perfect ring for her. It was a black onyx surrounded by small diamonds. It seemed to be about the correct size, but that could be altered.
The question was, would she accept it?
* * *
Diana lifted her skirts as Marguerite helped her slide her slippers on. She straightened when that was finished and regarded herself in the mirror. The pale, rose gown with silver scrolls across the top and around the short capped sleeves had always been one of her favorites.
She leaned closer to the mirror and examined her face. In Italy, she had learned about Pear’s Almond Bloom, all the rage at the time, but once she returned to London, where the air was more moist, she decided her complexion looked better without the powder unless she was hiding anxiety.
Shaking her head back and forth, she smiled at the earbobs that caught the light next to the dressing table. She quickly stood. Whyever was she so concerned with how she looked tonight?
Simple. Because Hunt was escorting her to the theater, the first of their outings to mark the beginning of their courtship.
She grinned. Yes, they’d been caught in a compromising situation, but in all the disasters she’d been involved in and needed Hunt’s rescue, this was one they were in together.
Diana scooped up her shawl and reticule from the blue and white striped chair near the door to her bedroom. “I will be late, I am sure, since most likely we will stop for a late supper after the theater.”
“Then I shall rest on the small bed here in the room.” Marguerite had her own room one floor above, but on the evenings Diana expected to be late, the girl slept on the cot so she could help her mistress out of her clothing and then retire to her own room.
Deciding a sherry would be welcomed while waiting for Hunt, she made her way to the drawing room. Since she was supposedly ‘betrothed’ she no longer found it necessary to have Mrs. Strickland accompany her everywhere.
Not wanting to leave the poor—but annoying—woman without employment, Diana had arranged for her to be companion to elderly Lady Winborne, a long-time friend of Diana’s grandmama.
She downed the last of her sherry when the door knocker sounded, and she heard Hunt’s voice. She closed her eyes at the sliver of anticipation that glided over her. This was ridiculous. She would not allow herself to be affected by the man.
With a shaky hand—blast it—she placed the sherry glass on the table and smiled as he entered the room.
Men like the Earl of Huntington should be against the law. Uncommonly handsome, his deep brown eyes twinkled with mirth as he viewed her. Did she look so very amusing then?
His well-tailored suit fit him like a comfortable soft leather glove. His silk pure white ascot set off the warmth of his skin. He approached her with his hand extended. She raised her hand, and he took it, turned her hand to place a kiss with his warm lips on the sensitive skin of her wrist. Whyever hadn’t she put her gloves on already?
She curled her hand and cursed the rush of heat that rose to her face. “Would you care for a drink, my lord?”
Hunt laughed softly.
Refusing to allow him to view her as unsettled by his presence, she raised her chin. “A drink?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I will pour myself a brandy. We have some time. Why don’t you sit and I will bring you another”—he looked at her glass—"sherry?”
“Yes.”
Taking a deep breath, she settled on the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the room, a red flowered settee that had been a favorite of grandmama. Perhaps the discomfort would keep her sharp so she didn’t make a fool of herself.
Hunt sat next to her and took a sip of his brandy, then removed the glass of sherry from her hand and placed it on the table next to his. “I have something for you.”