The boy bent again to the game. His hand descended upon the white bishop.
Wyn cleared his throat. “My knight?”
“My knight!” Diantha swept into the library in a cascade of sunshine. “Mr. Yale, you milked the cow.”
Owen jumped up and pulled off his cap. “G’day, miss.”
“Hello, Owen. And Ramses.” She bent and stroked the dog’s head, her fingers tender in the beast’s matted fur. “Owen, since the sun is finally shining, will you bathe poor Ramses?”
“Yes, miss. Right away.” His cheeks sported fiery red spots. “Come on, boy.” He hurried out of the library, Ramses alongside.
She set her lapis gaze upon Wyn. “How did you do it? How did you milk that cow?” Ribbons glimmered in her hair, her dimples glowed with life, and he could only stare. She was simply dazzling.
“In the usual manner,” he managed.
The pink on her cheeks deepened and he remembered when he’d last used those words with her, when he had taught her how to breathe.
But she recovered swiftly. “There is no usual manner in which a gentleman milks a cow. Mrs. Polley told me just now that it was you and not Owen. I could not believe it. But now here you are saying it is to be believed.” Her smile could not be bridled even by embarrassment.
He turned back to the chessboard. He had not stood when she entered, not because of weakness but because of a remarkable strength in one area of his body whenever she came near. “I am variously talented, it seems.”
“You truly are. I have never met a gentleman like you, Wyn.”
“Under the circumstances, Diantha, I am not quite certain how to take that. Although of course you have admitted that you are acquainted with very few gentlemen.”
“It’s true: my society has been limited.” She ran a finger down the glass panel of a bookcase. “Mrs. Polley dusted in here.” She opened the door and drew forth a volume. “She would be a remarkably fine housekeeper. Bess at Glenhaven Hall does not drop off to sleep unexpectedly, of course, but she’s not so clever in the kitchen. Or perhaps Mrs. Polley could open a bakery.” She slanted him a quick glance, her lips twisting. “And Owen could open a school for blushing ne’er-do-wells.”
Wyn allowed a grin. “He is very taken with you.”
“He is a thief.”
Not precisely. “He wishes to please you.”
“He will get us discovered.” She reshelved the book, drew out another, and pursed her lips to blow across its binding. Dust puffed into the air. “But so are we thieves lately, of course,” she said, her fingertip turning pages swiftly. “By the by, Mr. Eads has just been by to retrieve his horse.” She took the book in both hands before her like a shield. “We spoke then he left with his horse.”
Wyn stood and, carefully—because although today he was considerably improved, his pulse ran now with unaccustomed speed—moved toward her.
“About what did you speak, I wonder?” His voice pitched low without any effort.
Her gaze flickered up and down him. “You shouldn’t be upsetting yourself. You haven’t been well, which of course is an extraordinary understatement.”
“Upsetting myself? Isn’t that rather inaccurately fixing the blame?” He halted before her, the scent drifting about her not her usual scent yet so familiar. “You are wearing perfume.”
“I am.” She blinked. “You know, you were just about to chastise me. Are you still delirious, then?”
“Merely easily distracted, it seems. Why did Eads leave without speaking to me?”
“He said it would be far too easy to take advantage of you in your current state. As he prides himself on being a man of his word, he thought it best to depart and return when you are more yourself.”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words. But, yes.”
Of course he had. Duncan Eads was not a dishonorable man, only misguided. But Eads’s quarry was equally misguided, standing now far too close to a maiden whose berry lips tasted like honey and kissed like sin.
He backed away and returned to the table. She would put it off to his illness. Damn Carlyle for not being home when he should. If Kitty Blackwood didn’t arrive within a day he just might tie up Diantha Lucas, sling her across Galahad’s flanks, and carry her to London himself.
“Where did you find the perfume?” He knew perfectly well.
“If you are asking if Owen stole it, he didn’t. I found it here in the master suite.” She tucked the book back into the case and ran her fingertips along the row of gold-embossed bindings then plucked out another volume. “Mrs. Polley made a tasty oatcake with buttermilk contrived with beeswing from a recipe I found in here yesterday.” She opened the book and seemed to peruse it, but her body had stilled. “Are you hungry?” Her lashes flickered but she did not lift her gaze. “That is, will you have some of the oatcake concoction?” In the light streaming through the window her hair gleamed like polished oak, her figure picked out in motes of sun.
“I am Welsh, Diantha. A surfeit of oats is the reason I started drinking to excess.”
“Really?”
“No.”
She tilted her head. “Why did you start drinking to excess?”
“To be able to talk to my father and elder brothers.”
Her brow dipped.
“They drank every night,” he said simply, as though it were simple. “When I did not, they were . . . disinterested in my conversation.”
“Why didn’t you just tell them to sod off?”
He lifted a brow. She twisted her damnably delectable lips.
“I did not tell them to ‘sod off,’ ” he said, “because if I did not make myself available to them for sport they invariably turned to my mother instead.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.” He set the white queen in the velvet-lined case and—as always—the black king beside her, just as his great-aunt used to like to arrange them. Remarkable how the gesture could push those other memories back, like the scent of perfume in a dusty room. “But that is ancient history and best forgotten.”
She moved toward the window, a book in her hands. “Well, this is marvelous.” She drew a loose page from the volume, unfolded it, and read aloud, “ ‘Rules a Man is Well Advised to Follow in Order to Be a True Gentleman.’ ”
Breath stalling, Wyn closed the case’s lid. She reached for a chair and settled onto it without taking her eyes from the page.
“Oh, I simply must read them to you! You will adore it.” She glanced up.
He could only nod her onward. His heart beat slow and hard now, but he could not resist.
“They are in descending order. ‘Rule Number Ten,’ ” she read. “ ‘A gentleman must always act with honor and honesty toward other men—men of lesser rank, equal rank, and higher rank.’ I suppose that is good advice, isn’t it?”
“Quite good.”
“ ‘Rule Number Nine: A gentleman must always put a lady’s welfare before his own.’ Well, I like that one a lot.” Her dimples appeared. “ ‘Rule Number Eight: A man is only a gentleman if he is never otherwise.’ ” Her brow puckered. “You said something very much like that once, I think.”
“Did I?” He should leave. He should walk over to her, take the page from her hand, and distract her with other activity. He should entreat her to play chess. Or promise to eat the oatcakes. Or grab her and kiss her until she forgot about everything but touching him. “Rule Number Seven?”
“ ‘A gentleman must never blaspheme before a lady.’ Oh, very right. Ladies can become offended so easily.” But her dimples peeked out again. “ ‘Rule Number Six: All ladies like to be recognized for their accomplishments, but a virtuous lady is immune to empty praise. Compliment her on that which she excels, but do not seek to flatter.’ That one is tremendous, don’t you agree?”
“Ladies do not like to be flattered emptily.”