Free When the Duke Found Love by Isabella Bradford Page A

recognize mischief, let alone seek it out, while she herself seemed to tumble into it as naturally as breathing.
    “I’m sure he’ll return to us here, Aunt Sophronia,” Diana said. “The rooms are so crowded that it’s difficult to move through them.”
    “I certainly hope he will return to you, my dear,” said her aunt. “It would not do for you to lose your betrothed the way you would mislay an old glove.”
    Charlotte took Diana’s hand in a show of sisterly support.
    “Lord Crump would never wander far from Diana, Aunt Sophronia,” she said. “What gentleman would?”
    Smiling, she gently pulled Diana’s hand, drawing her closer so she could whisper to her.
    “I do not know where you’ve been, Di, or what you’ve been doing,” she said so softly that none of the others could overhear, “but there are leaves in your hair.”
    Immediately Diana’s hands flew to her head. Charlotte was right. There were bits of leaves in her hair, doubtless left from kissing the stranger beneath the tree, and as quickly as she could she pulled them out, twisting the curls back into place with her fingers.
    Charlotte suddenly smiled, looking past Diana and releasing her hand.
    “Here’s March,” she said. “Goodness, look who he has with him!”
    Expecting March to have returned with Lord Crump, Diana didn’t turn at once, taking an extra second to compose herself. She had to smile and look welcoming; at least she could be grateful she wouldn’t have to dance with him again that night.
    “I knew he’d returned to London,” March said, “but I didn’t expect to find him here tonight. You recall my wicked cousin Sheffield, fresh from conquering Paris?”
    Another cousin of March’s; sometimes it seemed to Diana there was always another, the way they kept popping up in company. But at least it wasn’t Lord Crump, and she exhaled with relief.
    “Be more honest, March,” Aunt Sophronia said with an arch little huff. “Your cousin’s fresh from a single lamentable conquest. Though I’ll admit that scandal agrees with you, Sheffield. You’re even more handsome than I remember. No wonder that dreadful French lady was so besotted.”
    “Ancient history, Lady Sanborn,” the newcomer replied confidently, “ancient history, and all in my past. Handsome or not, I’m thoroughly reformed, and as safe and tame as your own little dogs.”
    Everyone laughed, except for Diana. She recognized that voice, that easy charm, and her heart squeezed tight in her breast. It couldn’t possibly be true, could it? Could her luck have run so incredibly badly as this?
    “You know His Grace the Duke of Sheffield, don’t you, Diana?” Charlotte asked, a gentle prodding intended to make Diana turn about and be civil. “He has lived abroad for a great while and you have been tucked away in Dorset, but surely you must have been in London to have met at least once, yes?”
    Oh, yes, we’ve met, thought Diana grimly. But, family or not, it was never polite to keep one’s back toward a duke, and with a deep breath she turned swiftly around to face him.
    “Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head and making the curtsey that was proper when greeting a duke. “Forgive me, for I do not believe I’ve yet had the honor.”
    “Ah, well, that’s easily remedied,” March said. “Sheffield, this is Charlotte’s little sister, Lady Diana Wylder. Diana, my cousin, the Duke of Sheffield.”
    So Sheffield was his name, and he was a duke. She shouldn’t be surprised, not really. He’d that kind of easy, inborn confidence that usually came with titles and good fortune. Here in the candlelight, she could see how costly his clothing was, perfectly tailored to his height and broad shoulders, and richly embroidered to add to the overall impression of luxurious wealth. She should have recognized the resemblance between him and March and Brecon. They’d the same strong jaw and dark coloring, and the same preference for wearing their own