twin to make himself scarce while he could still move under his own power. And Rory had fled, leaving Diana to her husband’s tender mercies.
She had made no particular attempt to justify her actions, because she had not felt she could do so without betraying the subject of their conversation, which Rory had particularly asked her not to do. She had not even (though she had told Lydia otherwise) tried to tell Simon he was in error in believing she held a tenderness for his twin. Instead, she had held her tongue while he read her a severe scold. Not until he had begun berating her for past misdeeds, not until he had accused her of flirting with a list of men long enough to count as a squadron, if not an entire army, had she lost her temper and lashed out at him, accusing him of worse things, taunting him until she had thought for a moment that he would lose all control over his temper, that he might even strike her. At that point she had fallen silent, and Simon, after one parting blast, had left the room.
The episode had taken place after supper the previous night, and Diana had not seen Simon afterward. She had slept alone in a very large bed, and the next morning her headache had been only half imagined. Sending a chambermaid to tender her excuses for not taking part in the day’s hunting, Diana had packed her bandboxes, ordered Ned Tredegar to saddle her favorite mount, and ridden nearly forty miles through a drizzling rain to Ethelmoor Hall.
Now, as these images faded and she began to remember her talk with Lydia, she was besieged with visions of Simon as he had been when she had first become acquainted with him—at Bedford House, the night they first met, when Simon, a golden giant in a dark blue coat, golden waistcoat, and cream-colored knee breeches, had swept down upon her and informed her with his charming smile that he needed her company at supper.
“You need me?” She had laughed at him, feeling very sure of herself simply because his eyes told her that she was the most beautiful, the most fascinating creature he had ever seen.
“Indeed I do,” he assured her, his low voice like music to her enchanted ears. “You are exactly the sort of young lady my aunt would approve of, so if you will go down to dinner on my arm, she will not attempt to foist the daughter of one of her bosom bows upon me. Boring, every one of them, I assure you. You will be doing me a signal service, thereby putting me forever in your debt.”
How they had laughed, and how much they enjoyed themselves that night and a host of other nights afterward. For the young Earl of Andover suddenly seemed to appear everywhere she went, and Diana, who had never been tempted to marry any of the young men who had pursued her through several Seasons, suddenly found herself hoping and praying that Simon would approach her father to seek permission to court her. In those days Simon had only to suggest that he liked her best in pink for her to discard every gown in her wardrobe that was not pink. And if, on a whim, he decided the following week that pale yellow would become her, Diana had sent for her long-suffering dressmaker to effect the change. She grimaced now, thinking about how he had changed after the wedding.
The wedding itself had been the highlight of a sparkling Season. It was as though the marriage of Andover and the Earl of Trent’s lovely, fickle daughter had resented the beau monde with the perfect way to celebrate the Peace of Amiens. After a succession of lesser celebrations, they had gone all out with a special fete at Ranelagh Gardens and even a grand display of fireworks in Hyde Park.
There had been fireworks afterward, too, Diana remembered, squirming a little in her bed. Not immediately afterward, though she had been annoyed when Simon had refused to take her into France on their bride trip, saying it was still much too dangerous, when everyone knew people were simply flocking to Paris again. He had taken her to Scotland