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Prologue
April 1812
“There are not enough elephants in Africa to make me consider marrying him, Annabelle!” Diana Pearson said after staring at her dearest friend, Annabelle Windhill, as if she had lost her mind.
“Well, that is a rather peculiar thing to say, but he is an earl, Diana,” Annabelle insisted, and Diana peeked from behind the curtain to look at the subject of their conversation, a portly middle-aged man who had just picked his teeth with his fingernails when he thought no one was watching him and was now inspecting them.
Her stomach turned when he wiped his hand on his waistcoat. If he could do that in a ballroom full of people, she shuddered to imagine what he did in private. He had asked her to dance earlier, and she was hiding from him in an alcove with Annabelle.
“I do not care if he is the Prince Regent himself. I cannot accept the suit of such a man, let alone marry him.” Diana followed that with an indignant huff. She was positively outraged by her friend’s suggestion.
“Earl or not, my heart is spoken for.”
“Are you referring to that man you have been writing letters to?” Annabelle asked in a whisper.
“…Perhaps,” Diana replied.
“You cannot love him when you do not even know his name or what he looks like.”
That was true, but Diana had been corresponding with him for two years. He was the most charming and intelligent man she had ever known, nothing like the pompous fops who asked her to dance or tried to catch her alone. Every time his letters arrived, she would lock herself in her bedchamber, heart leaping in anticipation, and break the sealing wax to read every word and commit it to memory.
“I know him, Annabelle.” Diana smiled dreamily. “And I know his name.”
“What is his name?” Annabelle folded her arms across her chest. Her questions today were rather forceful, and it puzzled Diana.
“James,” Diana answered.
“Are you certain it is his actual name?”
James was not the man’s actual name but Diana did not tell her friend that and instead nodded, for Annabelle would likely continue to ask questions she did not want to answer yet.
Annabelle shook her head, her straw-colored curls bouncing around her neck. “You have to abandon this fantasy, Diana. This is our second season and we must secure husbands.”
“I will not marry an old man.”
“Why ever not? You will be eternally young beside him.” Annabelle was quite fond of youth and beauty, and she often used pomades that promised to keep her face from freckling. Diana was unsure of their effectiveness, though. She dismissed that thought and returned to the subject of their conversation.
In James’ last letter, he had expressed his desire to see her, and Diana had begun to dream of meeting him and perhaps finding love with him. On her parents’ insistence, she attended balls and tolerated the company of gentlemen who could not hold her interest, but three nights ago, her father, Viscount Edgington, had summoned her to his study and spoken to her about marriage.
“You must find a husband before the end of this season or I will choose one for you,” he had told her the instant she sat.
“But, Father—"
“Do not interrupt me when I am speaking to you. You have wasted your first season and my money. I will not have you waste another. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Diana replied with her head bowed,and thus, desperation in her was born.
If she could meet James and have him court her and propose to her before the end of the season, then she would not have to worry about her father possibly choosing the earl she was hiding from for her. She had written back to James and told him that she wanted to meet him, as well, and had been waiting for his response now for almost a fortnight.
“Oh, Diana, I just remembered something I wanted to show you,” Annabelle's voice interrupted her thoughts.
“What is it?”
“I saw a painting by one Marguerite Gérard in one of the rooms here that I think you will like.” Annabelle’s green eyes sparkled.
Diana smiled. She was fond of paintings and admired the art wherever she found it, particularly landscapes. But a portrait from the French virtuoso was always something to behold. “A painting of Marguerite Gérard? Here? Why did you not tell me this before? I would have had a good reason to leave the ballroom before that senile earl asked me to dance.”
“Now you can flee, my dear friend,” Annabelle giggled. “My mother will not be pleased if she sees me leaving the ballroom. Go first and I will meet you once I am able to sneak out. The painting is in the last room in the hallway outside this ballroom.”
