Why would Diana be selling jewellery? Whatever the reason, he knew at once he would buy the necklace back.
Beaming, the jeweller disappeared, returning a moment later with a long double-twisted strand of perfectly matched pearls.
For a moment, shock displaced curiosity, as Alastair recognised the necklace. One of the few mementos Diana had of her mother, who’d died giving her birth, the pearls had been a gift to her from her father on her sixteenth birthday. She’d mentioned several times how special it was to her. He couldn’t imagine why she would part with it.
Glad he’d encountered the jeweller before the piece had been shown to some other customer, he said, ‘You are right. It’s exquisite. I shall take that, too.’
Purchases completed, he picked up the wrapped parcel containing the vase and tucked the velvet case with the pearls in his pocket. He’d give Jane the vase just before guests arrived for dinner, leaving them only a short time for conversation, then slip away when her party left for the theatre.
Already impatient to see Diana again, he was now even more eager for the day to fade into evening. He’d present her with the pearls immediately—and try to discover what circumstance could possibly have induced her to part with something that held such dear memories of her long-dead mother.
* * *
Alastair arrived at the rendezvous even earlier than the previous nights, then paced the parlour until Diana arrived. Though he’d intended to return the pearls to her immediately, the intensity of the kiss she gave him in greeting fired his simmering desire at once to irresistible need. Almost ravenous enough to take her right then and there, he restrained himself, barely, hurrying her to the bedchamber moments after she stepped in the door.
She seemed as ravenous as he was, kissing him urgently while she tugged at his neckcloth and made short work of the buttons of his trouser flap. Pushing him back to sit on the bed, she lifted her skirts and straddled him, guided him deep and rocked against him, driving them both to their peak within moments.
The next loving was nearly as swift, clothing scattered as it was removed in haste. Then after another, languid cherishing they both drifted into the sleep of the satiated.
* * *
Awaking sometime later with Diana tucked in his arms, Alastair smiled as he surveyed the chamber: candles burned low in their sconces, her gown tossed on the back of a chair, her stockings on the bedside table, his neckcloth flung into a corner. Sated for now, he knew that after they consumed the cold collation he’d had set out for them, he’d want her again.
He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Underlying desire, this odd sense of impending loss throbbed in his head like a ticking clock, as if the hours they had together would be limited this time, as they had been before, by some malevolent fate.
Nonsense, he told himself, shaking off the feeling. Eight years ago, they had both been young, still susceptible to the demands of Society and dependent upon others for their support. With him the master of his own estate, she a widow, they now controlled their own destinies, alone and together.
At that encouraging thought, Diana stirred in his arms. Waking, she opened sleepy blue eyes—those beautiful, mesmerising, intense blue eyes—and smiled at him.
Ignoring the wise intention to proceed with caution, his heart leapt with gladness.
Placing a kiss on her forehead, he eased her up against the pillows. ‘I’m famished. There’s refreshment in the next room.’
He wrapped her in his banyan, donned another, and escorted her to the sitting room, where a fire glowed on the hearth and a simple meal awaited. Though she sipped her wine and accepted bread and cheese, something in the set of her body and the guarded expression of her face suggested an underlying tension.
In a rush, he remembered the necklace. She might well be troubled by whatever had made her part with that once-cherished memento.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said, hopping up to find his breeches and extract the velvet pouch from the pocket.
‘What, more gifts? You really don’t have to get me things.’
‘I like to get you things—especially when you have such delightful ways of appreciating them.’
‘Ever calculating,’ she said with a smile. ‘Ingenious Alastair.’
His mouth dried and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Ingenious Alastair... Diana had coined the nickname, and taken up by his cousins, it had stuck.
It was only one of those she’d devised, her favourite in the game they played, he praising her in verse, she describing him in different moods and circumstances: Adulating Alastair, Adamant Alastair, Eccentric Alastair. He’d joked that she would run out of adjectives, and she’d assured him she had an endless trove of them, enough to last all the years they’d spend together.
He refocused his gaze on Diana. From the stark expression on her face, he knew she was remembering, too—the lost years, the unrealised promise.
‘I’ve brought you something,’ he repeated, breaking the mood. He held out the pouch.
Uncertain—the wounded look still in her eyes—she took it from him and extracted the pearls. Colour came and went in her cheeks before she looked back up at him. ‘How did you get these?’
‘I happened to stop by the jeweller right after he purchased them. Thinking me a likely customer, he showed them to me. I knew at once they must be yours, and bought them back. Why on earth would you sell your mother’s pearls?’
The subtle agitation he’d noticed in her earlier intensified. At first he thought she’d simply refuse to answer, but after obvious struggle, she said, ‘I was short of funds. I must consult a solicitor about a matter I’d hoped to delay until...until later, but changing circumstances make the need to settle it urgent.’
‘Short of funds?’ he tossed back, his tone sharpened by a bitterness he’d not quite mastered. ‘I find it hard to believe a duke’s widow would be less than amply provided for. Graveston was exceedingly wealthy. I should think the settlements would have left you very well off.’
She shook her head. ‘In the haste of the wedding, I don’t believe settlements were ever drawn up.’
Alastair frowned. ‘It would have been exceedingly careless of your father to neglect doing that.’
‘You must remember, the Duke possessed a large number of my father’s vowels. If the Duke assured him settlements were unnecessary, he was not in a position to press the issue.’
‘In the absence of settlements, you’re still entitled to the dower. Though much of the estate, like my own, is probably tied up in land, your right to a third of it should provide more than sufficient funds to meet whatever needs you have.’
‘Perhaps. Except for the fact that the new Duke despises me. Any claims I might make against the estate, whether entitled to them or not, he would do his utmost to disapprove or delay. And I can’t afford to delay.’
‘What is it you must do that is so imperative, you would sell your mother’s pearls to accomplish it?’
She opened her lips, closed them. With short, jerky movements, she set down her wine glass and leapt up. ‘I...I must go. It’s late, and I cannot stay the night this time.’
Everything about her radiated distress. His concern intensifying, Alastair caught her arm. ‘What is it, Diana? You can tell me. Surely you know I wouldn’t break a confidence.’
Eyes wide, she stared up at him, her breathing quickening, then cast a glance through the open door, towards the dressing table.
‘Talk to me,’ Alastair urged, following the direction of her gaze. ‘I think I can be at least as much help