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‘Then I’ll notify my solicitor to start drawing up the necessary documents for you immediately.’
If she had her own house, they could begin again as lovers. Heat fired within her at the realisation.
But she could hardly take him as a lover while protesting she needed to keep him at arm’s length. Could she? After such a forceful rejection, he wasn’t likely to proposition her any time soon.
Her body protested the idea of further chastity, but her skittish mind rebuked it. Everything had changed since their sojourn in Green Park Buildings, when she’d thought he disliked her and would soon tire of the liaison. While she hungered for him, she knew right now she couldn’t bear the weight of any expectations he might cherish for a future.
So it seemed, for the time being, she would burn.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry I...can’t offer more.’
He smiled. ‘You are a brave, resourceful, strong woman. You will heal, Diana. And as adviser, friend—or lover—I will always be available. But now, I must go find Mother. She doesn’t yet know I’ve returned.’
He came towards her and she tensed, but he simply lifted her fingers for a kiss. She searched his face—was he angry, impatient, disappointed? She couldn’t tell.
‘I’ll see you at dinner.’
She stared after him as he walked out, then turned to sink down on to the sofa.
She’d greeted him as a long-lost lover and sent him off like a nervous virgin. Almost literally pushed him away, and then been illogically disappointed that he hadn’t tried to kiss her before he left.
How could she expect him to comprehend her behaviour, when she didn’t understand it herself?
But she’d been uncertain all along, she reminded herself, retreating in confusion every time she’d tried to contemplate a future, putting off making any decisions until the threat of Graveston was settled.
Well, now it was, and she’d just met the first challenge by, at the least disappointing, if not actually insulting, the man who’d won her back her life.
She put her head in her hands. Alastair seemed confident she would heal in time. She could only hope he was right—and that by her intransigence, she wouldn’t risk losing for ever a man she might soon decide she didn’t want to live without.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following morning, Alastair hesitated outside the door to the north parlour Diana used as her painting studio. He’d speculated many different endings to the meeting at which he conveyed the glad tidings of her deliverance from Blankford’s revenge, but he’d never anticipated her withdrawing from him so completely—and right after he’d comforted her in his arms.
He’d had a hard time concealing a dismay and disappointment that cut even deeper that night when, after visions of having her fall rapturously into his arms upon hearing the news, he took himself off instead to a bed that promised to remain cold and empty for a good long time. He could only be glad he’d listened to the instincts that told him not to press her, or he might have frightened her away completely.
But the rejection stung nonetheless.
Well, enough repining. One skirmish lost did not determine the course of a war, and he was far from ready to retire from the field. He might not be able to cosset and care for her as he’d like—or make love to her for a week—but he’d pledged to aid her recovery in whatever way he could, and he intended to do so.
Besides, there was no need to despair—she had confessed that she still loved him, had always loved him. She might not believe it yet, but he had full confidence that the courageous, determined, resilient woman who’d resisted the intimidation of a duke would eventually fight her way out of the prison of her past, back to a free and vibrant life.
Back to him.
He just had to stay patient and lure her slowly, gently, gradually out of her self-imposed isolation.
He’d take the first step this morning. After a deep breath, he rapped on the door.
He walked in when she bid him enter, but rather than cross the room to claim a kiss, as he might have only a day ago, he remained near the door.
The alarmed expression that swiftly crossed her face before she schooled her features made him glad of his caution, even as it struck a blow to his heart. How could they have become so awkward with each other in only a day?
Ah, Diana, do you not yet realise I would never do anything to hurt you?
Pushing back the sadness, he summoned a smile. ‘Mama thought you’d be at your easel. I noticed yesterday that you’d almost finished your painting of the asters. I thought you might like to start one for these.’
From behind his back, he produced a bouquet of late-blooming damask roses.
To his relief, the gesture seemed to put her at ease. ‘How lovely!’ she exclaimed, coming over to him.
‘The cool autumn nights give the petals an interesting mix of shades—pink, salmon, cream, pale pink, with a touch of saffron. When I saw them this morning, I immediately thought you’d enjoy trying to capture the different hues.’ He handed over the bouquet. ‘And as James would say, they are wonderfully smelly.’
‘They are indeed,’ she said, bending down to inhale a deep breath of the sweet, spicy aroma.
‘James dotes on you, you know. I watched him while you were gathering asters and ferns by the brook that day. He mimics what you do and hangs on every word you utter. By offering affection and responding to his needs and interests, you’ve made a great start at reviving your relationship. It will only grow deeper over time.’
‘You truly think so?’
‘I do. But you needn’t trust the word of an old bachelor—ask my mother.’
She smiled shyly. ‘She said much the same.’
‘Well, there you have it. Enjoy the flowers.’
Curbing the ever-present longing to touch her, he made himself turn towards the door.
‘Alastair!’ she called as he reached the threshold. When he looked back over his shoulder, she said, ‘I do appreciate you thinking of me, even if I’m...still not very good at expressing gratitude.’
‘You have to start trusting that good things will happen to you. How would you react to a gift if you had no reservations, felt no fear, no sense of threat?’
She paused, considering. ‘I suppose I would be...delighted.’
‘Then let yourself be. For eight years, you merely endured. This is what you endured for—so you might feel delight, and happiness, and enthusiasm again. I’ll hope to see the painting when you’ve finished it.’ With a bow, he exited the room.
Thank heaven the estate required a great deal of work and long hours in the saddle, he thought as he headed for the stables. Else, thrown together with Diana day after day in the house, stymied love and frustrated desire would drive him mad.
He’d be glad when Reynolds finished obtaining her new property, so she might establish her own household. Once secure and independent, in a home of her own making, she could begin to heal—and he’d be that much closer to winning her back.
* * *
Six weeks later, Diana sat at her desk in the morning room at Winston Hollow, making notes on the menus left by Mrs Jenkins, her new housekeeper. After living in the manor for a month, served by staff she’d chosen herself, a sense of anticipation had begun to replace the foreboding with which she’d awakened for as long as she could remember.
Trust that good things will happen to you, Alastair had advised. It had been difficult at first, but as she became immersed in the rhythm of her own household, taking up the duties she’d enjoyed performing in her father’s house, the dread that had haunted her for so long had gradually begun to dissipate.
Putting down her pen, she gazed out the window that overlooked the gravel drive, empty of visitors, and sighed. She’d begged Alastair for time to herself, and he’d certainly given it to her—rather more than she would have liked.
Indeed, almost as soon as she’d set him at a distance—and he complied with her wishes—she’d begun to regret pushing him away. After all his care and consideration, how could she have feared he would pressure her, force on her anything for which she was not ready?
Until she’d left Barton Abbey, she’d continued to see him—in company at dinner, in passing as he rode out on estate business. Several times, he’d joined them as she walked with James, to her son’s delight, showing him how to skip pebbles in the brook, tossing him a ball, and one rainy day, taking him to explore the old gatehouse that had so fascinated him the afternoon they arrived.
Often, he dropped off little gifts—a book of poetry from his library he thought she’d enjoy, a colourful plant he’d found while riding through the meadows, some fresh berry tarts from the kitchen to share with James. He was unfailingly kind, gentle, patient—and he never touched her.
Oh, how she missed his touch! The mere thought of the passionate nights they’d shared in Bath made her body throb with need and her soul ache with longing.
