Her eyes clouded for a moment, then she pulled a face. “I am too suspicious to be surprised and too happily wedded to my freedoms to be bothered to try. As his daughter I suffered seventeen years as a powerless chattel. It did not suit me.”
“Therefore, you think marriage a prison and all husbands the jailers?”
“Not always. Some couples seem to thrive together, and I realize many more rub along quite content, but I have always chafed against the confines of other people’s expectations; I am too selfish to compromise any of what I fought hard to achieve. I much prefer to make my own decisions, even if they are flawed sometimes. I loathe being at the mercy of others and beholden to comply with their rules.” Her dark brows furrowed as if her own stark honesty surprised her before she disguised it with a smile.
“So much so that even being the middle sister annoys me. I plan to grow old disgracefully in my own little apartment somewhere, doing exactly as I please, when I please. And before you say I shall be lonely, as everybody always does whenever a woman dares break the accepted mold we are all supposed to fit in, I shan’t. I have two sisters who seem determined to fill the world with offspring, so I shall lead my nieces and nephews astray whenever I feel the transient urge for the hearth and home of family.” Before he could respond, she turned on her heel. “And talking of hearths, I’d best fetch our milk. I don’t want to face the wrath of Mrs. Townsend if it boils over and burns on the range.”
When she came back a few minutes later clutching the handles of two steaming mugs in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other, she seemed so determined to change the subject to something less personal, she did so while walking. “These, I take it”—she pointed to the anarchy on the floor with the biscuit plate—“are the estate accounts?”
“Sadly, for the last four years at least, yes. Alongside everything else unfiled from contracts to correspondence.”
“Oh dear. That really is an unholy mess to unravel.”
He nodded as he stared at the carnage. “It appears once my father stopped his fleeting annual duty visit, his dreadful steward stopped organizing. I don’t know where to start, really wish I hadn’t, and fear it will take the best part of forever to get into the heart of it all.”
She blew out a slow breath then smiled. “But a journey of a thousand miles always begins with a single step, Giles, and many hands make light work. I propose we fortify ourselves with this hot milk, and then, seeing as apparently neither of us is in any mood to sleep, I suggest we get cracking on it.”
Chapter Eleven
In her haste to finish it before they left in the morning, Diana was in grave danger of making a hash of her promised article. Not all of that was her fault. Today had been consumed by the funeral. There had been few opportunities to write much of it on the way to Shropshire, because she had shared a room with Vee at every inn they stopped at, and she could hardly work on it in the carriage in full view of everyone.
The first real chance she’d had to make some headway on it was last night, but she had allowed herself to become distracted by Giles and had helped him organize a fraction of the mountain of papers amassed in his steward’s office instead of writing until she was done as she intended.
She bitterly regretted that now for two reasons.
The first being she was now so behind with her Camden Union Canal swindle story it was unlikely she would get the thing finished for the day she got back, as she had faithfully assured Charlie she would. And second, she had enjoyed those few uninterrupted, unwatched hours with Giles far more than she was comfortable admitting.
Especially to herself.
Even as they both started yawning, she had lingered in his company longer than she should have simply because she had wanted to—as her current wandering mind and severe lack of concentration were testament. No human could function properly on three hours’ sleep. Diana always needed at least seven.
Yet she had still chosen listening to all his plans over counting sheep, impressed more than she had been prepared to acknowledge aloud at the altruism he had been plotting for at least a decade. A rent amnesty for six months to make up for his father’s overcharging, urgent cottage repairs, new roads to help his tenants get their produce to market easier, interest-free loans to help them purchase modern farm equipment or to improve their herds, a school and apprenticeships. He wanted the younger generation to have more choices in the world than their parents had had and the opportunity not to work the land if they wanted a different path. All admirable goals, which he intended to fund out of his now uncomfortably deep pockets—just as soon as he could make head or tail of Mr. Bryant’s atrocious record keeping.
They had talked nonstop for hours and that had been… nice.
There had been an easiness between them since he had sought her out at the newspaper office, which added a new dimension to their sparring relationship. Giles was confiding in her, and apparently her alone, and that was both humbling and rather lovely. Last night, as he had poured out all his worries about the state of his estate, he seemed to want her advice as well as her help. He had certainly allowed her carte blanche to organize the mess he had made of his steward’s office in the way she saw fit, teasing her about her nitpicking skills coming in handy in his hour of need while lugging ledgers and boxes to her designated piles uncomplaining.
More than once she had caught herself watching as he did that. The way the muscles bunched in his arms beneath the soft linen of his rolled-up shirtsleeves as he lifted and the way the fabric of his breeches pulled taut over his tight behind each time he bent over were most distracting. Enough that her mind had wandered to them plenty of times since, just as it wanted to do now.
Good grief, she’d never get this story written at this rate!
She wasn’t usually prone to daydreaming, and if her cynical mind wandered, it was usually to the dark or tragic circumstances of something rather than musing on the components of a gentleman’s physique.
Diana huffed and gave herself a good telling-off for that uncharacteristic weakness, then dipped her quill in the ink again and forced herself to write:
According to my source at the Stock Exchange, Lord Jonathan Tubbs is still selling shares for £150 apiece, and has already sold…
She doubled-checked her notes for accuracy.
… a staggering 800 fake certificates at that extortionate price. Where those funds have gone is unclear. Lord Tubbs claims they are being used to purchase materials and to pay the wages of the battalion of Irish navvies he has hired to dig the canal, but a year after the plans were approved not a single spade of earth has been dug yet anywhere along the proposed route; nor is there any sign of those navvies in the lodging houses nearby. Lord Tubbs, however,is lording it up all over the capital and spending his pocket money as if it is going out of fashion—which is ironic when one considers Lord Tubbs isn’t actually a lord at all. He was born Hubert Greengage, a humble miner’s son from Cornwall. After a misspent youth, young Hubert was transported to ten years’ hard labor in the Antipodes…
“I see you are in the midst of writing a piece for that tawdry rag youdon’twrite for?”
Diana squealed at the interruption. Then promptly knocked over the inkwell as she tried to cover her damning article with one of the books she had grabbed as a prop to hide what she was really doing if anyone happened to wander into the library. Thick blue ink oozed over the desk, forcing her to gather up her precious notes and hug them close to her chest while she attempted to mop up the spillage one-handed with a fresh piece of paper.
“You frightened the life out of me! What do you think you are about, Giles Sinclair, sneaking up on me like that?”
“I certainly did not sneak.” He frowned in mock offense as he saved the books from the ink. “Giles Sinclair never sneaks. Or creeps or shuffles or prances, for that matter. He either strides in a manly fashion that makes all the ladies swoon, or he moves with deadly stealth.” He passed her a pristine handkerchief to finish off her mopping. “Istrodein here to tell you dinner is about to be served. Or at least it will be in fifteen minutes.” Then he seemed awkward to be there. “Olivia sent me.”
