Now she looked forward to seeing Mama deal with the widow. And she ached to see Alistair again, even though it was certain to be difficult. They had not been apart for three months, she realised—now two days seemed an eternity. Whatever else lay between them, she could not forget that she loved him. That emotion was not the product of the shock of the shipwreck, she knew that for certain now. She loved him, in spite of everything.
Lady Wycombe asked for his lordship, not her ladyship, when Barstow opened the door to them, an interesting breach of etiquette. His lordship was At Home and would be with them directly, the butler informed them as he ushered them through to the drawing room.
When Alistair came in Dita found she could not take her eyes off him as he shook hands with her mother. The space of those two days seemed to have sharpened her focus. He looked fine-drawn and there was a pallor under his eyes that spoke of late nights and worry; in the darkly formal clothes, he looked older, too. They must be his father’s, she realised, and wondered if he minded very much having that intimate connection to a man from whom he had been estranged.
‘Lady Perdita.’ He took her hand and she looked into his eyes. Was he happy? Was he looking after himself? Was her expression betraying how much she needed him? There was something in his face that warned her that he had not forgotten, or changed his mind. He was going to do something to force a marriage, whatever she had to say about it.
‘Lord Iwerne. Have you settled in yet? I expect, like me, you are having to borrow everything from slippers to combs.’
He nodded and smiled. ‘Yes—it feels very strange, does it not? Lady Evaline.’ His eyebrows rose a trifle as he turned to her sister and Dita felt a sudden, quite shocking, pang of jealousy. Evaline looked lovely, and sweet, and the perfect image of the kind of young lady Alistair had been talking of marrying. The sort of young lady he ought to be marrying. ‘May I say that you have grown up quite considerably since I last saw you? And very charmingly, too.’
Evaline blushed and lowered her lashes, but she did not simper or stammer. ‘You are very kind, Lord Iwerne, but as it is eight years, I think a little change is to be expected.’
Alistair laughed and they settled around the tea table as the footmen brought in the urn and china. ‘Before we say anything else, I must thank you for everything that you have done for my daughter,’ her mother said with her usual directness. ‘I know now that if was not for your courage and endurance Dita would have drowned—or met a horrible death if that dog had bitten her. My husband will be calling, of course, but I felt I had to say what I feel as a mother: I will never forget and if there is ever anything the family can do for you, you have only to ask.’
Alistair was silent, looking down at his clasped hands on the table. Dita saw the unfamiliar ring on his signet finger and how he rubbed it, absently, as though it helped him think.
After a moment he said, ‘If I have been able to be of service to Lady Perdita, it is an honour. You should know, ma’am, that your daughter is a lady of courage and integrity. Great courage,’ he added. ‘She put herself at risk to save a child.’ The silence grew uncomfortable. Evaline gave a little sob, Lady Wycombe cleared her throat. ‘And talent,’ Alistair added. ‘Did you realise that Lady Perdita is a novelist?’
‘Really?’ Her sister turned, wide-eyed. ‘You have written a book?’
‘It is at the bottom of the sea, I fear,’ Dita said. ‘Although that is probably the best place for it.’
‘Never say that!’ Alistair began to tell the story of Adventures of Angelica and soon had Evaline and Lady Wycombe in a ripple of laughter while Dita buried her face in her hands and implored him to spare her.
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Evaline declared as the door opened and a lady walked it. She was quite, quite lovely, Dita thought, staring at her for a startled moment before she recognised her, and her mood. The marchioness was furiously angry.
‘My dear Lady Wycombe!’ She advanced with hands outstretched, a charming smile on her lips, ice in the big blue eyes. ‘I am so sorry! My fool of a butler announced you to Alistair and not, as he should, to me. Really …’ she turned her gaze on Alistair ‘… the man is incompetent—you must dismiss him.’
‘You are labouring under a misapprehension, Lady Iwerne,’ Lady Wycombe said. ‘I asked for Lord Iwerne. We have come to welcome him home and to thank him for everything he has done for Perdita.’
‘I see. I quite long to hear all about these adventures. Will you walk with me in the garden, Lady Perdita? I am certain your mother and sister will not want to listen to the tale all over again.’
It was the last thing Dita wanted to do. She opened her mouth to invent a twisted ankle and was suddenly seized by curiosity. This self-centred female most certainly did not want to hear about her, so what did she want? ‘I would love to see the gardens, Lady Iwerne,’ she said, getting up. Her skirts brushed Alistair’s knees as she passed and he looked up and frowned at her. So he did not want her walking alone with his youthful stepmother. That was interesting.
‘I am glad you have come home,’ Imogen began, the moment they were on the terrace. ‘I so need a female friend of my own age to confide in.’ She was a couple of years Dita’s senior, but she was not going to correct her—this was too intriguing.
‘How flattering,’ she murmured, ‘but I will be going up to town very soon with my parents and sister.’
‘You will?’ The prettily arched eyebrows rose. ‘But—forgive me—I thought you were no longer in society … after the elopement.’
‘That little affair?’ Dita laughed. ‘I am used to dealing with gossip; I will not regard it. And besides, I am not husband-hunting.’
‘Oh? Perhaps that is wise, under the circumstances. But I am quite cast down, for I shall be so lonely, shut away in the Dower House.’
She made it sound like a prison. Dita was vividly reminded of Adventures of Angelica—how well Lady Iwerne would fit into such a melodrama. ‘Shut away? Surely not. You are two months into your mourning; the first year will soon go. And besides, there is this lovely park, the gardens …’
‘Ah, but you do not understand.’ Imogen cast a hunted look around, as if expecting to see assassins appearing from behind every topiary bush. ‘I must shut myself away for my own protection.’
Dita pinched herself. No, she was awake so she could not be dreaming that she had strayed into a Minerva Press novel. ‘From what? Or whom?’
‘Alistair,’ Imogen declared, as she sank on to a bench and pulled Dita down beside her. ‘May I confide in you?’
‘I think you had better,’ Dita said. ‘You can hardly leave it there.’
‘When I was a girl, he loved me, you see,’ Imogen said. ‘He adored me, worshipped the ground I walked upon. It was a pure love. A young man’s love.’
‘Er … quite,’ Dita said, feeling vaguely nauseous. ‘It would be if this was before Alistair left home.’ At least, he was only twenty, so young was accurate, although whether his affections were entirely pure, she had her doubts—very few young men of that age had a pure thought in their heads in her experience. ‘And you loved him? Encouraged him?’