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however, was proving elusive. She was ready to resist the kind of improper advances hinted at by her mother, but none had been forthcoming. So far, Blake hadn’t said a word to her that couldn’t have been overheard by anyone. She’d hoped for more when he’d asked her to take a stroll outside. She told herself that Blake was paying homage to the proprieties by inviting James Lambton to accompany them. Though Diana had nothing against Lamb, an amusing charmer and one of Blake’s closest friends, at this moment she found him definitely
de trop.
    “My mother’s devoted to roses,” Blake said. “The walled garden is her scheme.”
    “Even from here the scent is heavenly. Close up it must outdo all the perfumes of Arabia.”
    Instead of following this blatant hint with an invitation to explore, preferably leaving Lambton behind, Blake actually pulled back from her. What was the matter with him? Diana knew she looked her best and she knew he admired her. Yet in a situation that should have been rife with romantic possibilities he failed to press his advantage.
    “Shall we walk?” he asked. At least he offered his arm. She placed her gloved hand on it and they strolled decorously over the flagstones, Lambton keeping pace on her other side.
    “If the country were always like this,” Diana said, “I might even be tempted to live here.”
    “Don’t say that, Diana,” Lamb complained. “London needs you.”
    “I’m not serious. I can’t wait to get back to town in the autumn and take my exercise on busy pavements instead of muddy fields. Not to mention that my wardrobe is in dire need of replenishment.”
    “Are you suggesting,” Blake said, “that Mandeville Wallop cannot satisfy a lady’s every whim?”
    “There are certain needs that can only be met in Bond Street. I had quite enough of country life in the year after Fanshawe died.”
    “Talking of Wallop, are your estimable parents as singular as ever?”
    “Thank you, Blake, I found them in good health.” Which didn’t quite answer the question.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Montrose are famous in Shropshire,” Blake explained to Lambton. “She is the Master of the Mandeville Hunt. Or should I say Mistress? I never quite know. Which is it, Diana?”
    “I believe,” Diana replied, keeping her face and tone neutral, “that she is known as the Master of the Hunt. In this she follows the example of Lady Salisbury at Hatfield.”
    “And does your father keep household?” Both men chuckled and Diana gritted her teeth.
    “My father is of a mechanical bent,” she said lightly, trying to walk the fine line between irony anddisrespect. “His inventions are not always practical, or even successful, but we appreciate his ingenuity.”
    “What’s Rufus doing these days? We used to play together as boys. He became quite a crammer at Oxford, though. Always at lectures or in the library.”
    “He is pursuing his classical studies abroad.”
    Blake sighed. “Pity. He was a regular fellow once. Then he became as bad as my cousin. Of course, Iverley never was a regular fellow. He hasn’t changed since the first time he came here. We must have been ten or eleven years old and I never saw a worse seat on a horse. He couldn’t stay on at anything faster than a trot. Blind too. We called him the Owl.”
    Whatever he’d been like at ten, Mr. Iverley could certainly ride now, but Diana didn’t argue the point. The rest of the party wasn’t aware he’d accompanied her that morning.
    “The Owl always has his head in a book,” Blake went on. “M’father thinks he’s brilliant. Probably because he listens to the old man bore on about politics.”
    “I was at school with him,” Lamb said.
    “I forgot he was a Wykehamist,” Blake said. “Was dear Sebastian as odd then?”
    “Almost everyone at Winchester was strange. It’s a strange place. He didn’t stand out much then, but while the rest of us became normal once we escaped, Iverley grew stranger. He never goes