The acid in her tone finally stopped him in his tracks. “I’ve been busy. As you saw, Father can’t do much these days.”
Mr. Holt’s illness was the excuse Diana had offered to call at the house. She never thought Ian’s father would ask her for a private moment with him. And only her dreams could have conjured the message he delivered from her mother.
Promise me, lass… Promise you’ll honor our wishes. Marry my son.
Ian had overheard everything. And had said nothing to Diana about it.
He must have been too overwhelmed with his father’s condition to think about anything else.
“I know he’s had a bad go of it, but I thought your father was in good form tonight,” she said optimistically.
“Today was a good day. An exception. The doctor says his heart will never recover. He has weeks, maybe a few months left.”
Ian kept his voice low, but she still heard the pain he tried to cover. She clutched her coat in her hands to avoid reaching for him.
“You shouldn’t have to face this alone,” she said. “Why is Jared persisting with his Grand Tour? It’s been two years.”
“Now he finally has something to entice him home.”
The rancorous insinuation cut like a knife.
Ian believed his father wanted Diana to marryhis brother.
And that she’d agreed to it.
As rain misted around them, she searched for the words to contradict his false assumption. She was livid that she had to. Grief must have scrambled his mind if he imagined she would ever promise herself to Jared.
How could he think she'd do something so unimaginably cruel to him? Or to herself?
The only acceptable option to preserve her pride was to whirl gallantly past him and march ahead on the footpath.
A shadow darted out of the side lane and blockaded her progress.
“Evenin’, luv,” drawled a man in a rumpled coat. The scarf tied around his mouth muffled his voice.
Ian rumbled from behind her, “We’ve no coin for you.”
“Now that’s a shame, innit?” The man drew a pistol from his pocket and whistled.
Three more toughs brandishing knives quickly surrounded them.
Diana’s lungs fought for air. Breathlessness was never something she’d had to account for in all her years of training with her fencing instructor. It irritated her beyond measure.
Ian swiveled so his back brushed against hers. His protective stance momentarily soothed her galloping heart, until the assailant whistled again and cocked the gun’s trigger.
“Hands up, where I can see ’em, mate.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw Ian slowly comply as he mumbled an Italian curse.
“Find it ’ard to believe you’re the only toff walkin’ about these streets wiv no coin,” said their assailant. “So I’m gonna do a wee inspection. You get defensive, you’ll get personal wiv me pistol, and me men will get personal wiv your lady, ’ere.”
The thieves guffawed, but Ian’s feral rasp silenced them. Diana could only imagine the glower he was giving them. She appreciated that he’d captured the attention of the thugs, so none of them would notice her slipping her hand into the hidden pocket of her skirt.
The leader stalked toward them and eyed Diana. “Ain’t you a pretty dove. Reckon I’d like to keep you in a cage.”
Diana could feel Ian’s back muscles tense; he was primed to spring at the man.
“Easy,” she murmured.
