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With a savage growl that came from the depths of his being, he crushed the letter into a ball and flung it into the fire.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Diana’s wedding day dawned sunny and bright, perfect October weather. Strange to see the world en fête when everything should be gray and stormy to match the misery in her heart.
As she trudged downstairs to go to the church, she looked without optimism for her father. Still, her belly cramped with hurt to notice he wasn’t in the hall to give her his blessing, however reluctant.
Such a different occasion to her wedding to William. She’d left laughing on her father’s arm to walk the short distance to St. Mark’s, and her heart had caroled hallelujahs at the prospect of becoming Mrs. Carrick. Her whole life had stretched before her like a richly patterned carpet, a life of companionship and love and fulfillment.
Today, she knew her heart would never sing again. She felt a thousand years old. Soiled to the bone.
Three months ago, this wedding would have proved her crowning achievement.
Three months ago, she’d been a different woman.
Nervously, Diana smoothed the skirts of her yellow silk gown. The dress was part of her London wardrobe, and when she’d put it on this morning, it hung with unbecoming looseness. It would have to suffice. Even if she’d had the heart to get a new dress made, she hadn’t had time. After obtaining her agreement, Burnley had quickly organized the wedding.
When she expressed doubts about the rush, he’d told her he wanted no questions about his child’s legitimacy. She supposed that made sense, although if she went to full term, the baby would be born six or seven months after the ceremony.
She suspected Burnley was afraid she’d bolt. But she resigned herself to her fate. Where could she go to escape unhappiness? Nowhere. At least marriage provided for her child and gave it a name.
She paused when she reached the base of the staircase and met Laura’s compassionate gaze in the shadowy light. “Has he said anything?”
Laura shook her head, automatically identifying the “he” Diana referred to as John Dean. “No.”
She looked straight at Laura. “Where is he?”
“In his study. With Mr. Brown.”
Pain shafted through her. When she’d told her father five days ago she was marrying Burnley, he’d turned away and he hadn’t spoken to her since. If he encountered her in a corridor, and in such a small, cluttered house, avoiding each other was impossible, he treated her like a stranger. She’d tried several times to breach the wall between them, to explain her good fortune would be his as well. He just kept walking as if he were deaf as well as blind.
Fleetingly, Diana contemplated throwing open the study door and insisting her father acknowledge her wedding day. The impulse died as soon as it was born. What was the point? Her father would never forgive her for whoring herself to Ashcroft, for lying, and now for giving herself in a loveless marriage to Burnley.
“You think I’m wrong, don’t you?” she asked, although Laura had made no secret that she considered Diana’s choices destructive.
“I can’t judge you. I don’t have the right.” Laura touched her arm in a fleeting gesture of comfort. “You’re doing this for the baby.”
It was the first time Laura had mentioned the pregnancy. “I wanted the house. It was madness.” Diana realized she spoke in the past tense, and Laura would notice the telltale slip.
“Yes. Now you know better.”
“Now it’s too late to change anything,” she said bitterly.
Laura’s eyes flashed, although her response was calm. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” she said finally.
To her relief, Laura didn’t argue. Instead, she bent her head as if acknowledging the grim inevitability.
Diana paused to check her appearance in the mirror near the door. When she woke up, she’d been sick. Most days started like that now, but her stomach had since settled. She looked pale and composed. Hardly bridelike but not nearly the apparition of doom she’d imagined. She collected her worn prayer book from the hall table and glanced at Laura. “I’m ready.”
It was a lie. She knew that she’d tell thousands of similar lies in the future.
The familiar stone church with its square Saxon tower waited ahead as Diana stepped down from Lord Burnley’s carriage. She’d suggested walking, but his lordship had been appalled that his new marchioness planned to arrive at her wedding on foot, like a peasant.
A sign of how protocol would crowd her in future, she supposed. If she ever started to feel again, she guessed she’d find the rules and regulations tiresome.
Right now, like everything else except the life growing under her heart, it didn’t matter.
