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It pained her to place a woman such as Florence in his path but Diana had already blurted a lie, and he must never know that she had lost all of her honor. It would at least allow her time to gauge his attitude and whether or not he would look at her badly if he discovered the truth of her past. Still, the feeling of deceiving him brought a knotting ache in her stomach. Hopefully, he would not call upon them and all of this could be avoided.
Last night in the gallery, she had felt sensations she had never felt before, never dreamed of feeling. She still remembered his scent, how firm his body was as he held her, how she had smiled in her bed when she recalled his smirk and voice. He was everything she had imagined he would be and more, but he could not be hers.
“Florence,” she called, folding her hands in front of her.
Her cousin stopped playing the distasteful tune and turned to glare at her. She had gray eyes like Margaret’s, and Diana thought she looked very much like her mother at that instant, except that Florence had hair the color of chestnut, and Margaret’s was blonde.
“What are you doing here? I thought Mother asked you never to leave your room unless you are summoned.”
“I require your help,” Diana said politely, drawing a laugh from her cousin.
“Why do you suppose I would ever help you?” Florence rose and folded her arms across her chest, her eyes gleaming with contempt.
“I am hoping to plead to your generosity, Florence.” Diana knew just how she could persuade her.
“What do you want?”
“I have this friend—"
“You do not have any friends,” she scoffed, interrupting Diana. “Your only friend was Annabelle Windhill, and you lost her friendship long ago.”
Diana hated thinking of how she had lost the only friend she’d ever had besides Matthew, and she wished she could see her again and explain to her that Baron Crawford had forcibly tried to kiss her. Everyone believed she had attempted to seduce him, even her dearest friend. Shaking the thoughts away, she returned her attention to the present.
“There are many things about me that you do not know, Florence. Now, my friend is acquainted with Stormwood…” She watched her cousin’s eyes light up at the mention of Matthew. “They used to correspond but they never met each other. She gave him the name Dee instead of her real name. I want you to pretend to be her if he calls.”
“Why do you want me to pretend to be your friend?” It was evident in Florence’s smile that she was already agreeing to Diana’s request even before she knew more about the matter.
“I saw him yesterday and something—”
“You saw him?” Florence’s eyes bulged. “Where did you see him?”
“At the ball,” Diana said, composed. If she chose her words with care, Florence would cooperate without giving her trouble. “He saw me leaving and something I said made him think I am Dee. I denied it but he did not seem to believe me, thus, I told him that you are Dee.”
Her cousin’s eyes narrowed. “Where is this Dee, and why has she never met the duke?”
Diana gritted her teeth at the manner in which Florence referred to Matthew. She could not see beyond his title.
“She stopped corresponding with him some time ago. She is married now.”
Florence narrowed her eyes in confusion. “So why not simply tell him the truth—wait, no, I suppose I can pretend to be Dee. It just might get the duke to court me.” She took Diana’s hand and pulled her to sit on a sofa. “Now, tell me everything I must know. Everything!”
Diana rolled her eyes. She knew she would believe the foolish tale, and she did not have to put too much effort into making it entirely believable. “You should know that they began corresponding when Dee wrote a letter to her friend here in Bath, and he received it by accident.”
“How romantic!” Florence sighed.
It had been exciting and romantic. Diana had written the wrong address on the letter she sent to Annabelle who was visiting relatives in Bath, and Matthew had received it. He wrote back, telling her that she had sent it to the wrong person and joked about revealing her secrets. Diana had written back and they quickly became friends.
“What do I tell him if he asks me why I stopped writing to him?” Florence asked.
“Tell him you got nervous when he asked to meet you, and then you moved from London to Kent.”
“Hmm. How do you know so much, Diana?”
Diana had not anticipated that question but she thought very quickly for a reply. She supposed desperation made one very efficient at telling tales. “Dee told me everything. The long walks I take some afternoons, when aunt allows of course, are to the post office to receive her letters.”
When Diana wrote to Matthew, she made him send her letters to the post office and had her lady’s maid collect them for her in secret because society frowned upon an unmarried woman receiving letters from a man unless they were engaged. She hardly received letters now, and when she did, Florence and Margaret opened them before she did.
“How clever of you to keep her letters from us,” Florence snickered.
