Page 45 of Taken By the Icy Duke

Once Diana’s father and sister returned to mingling, Gilbert leaned closer, keeping his tone low enough so only she could hear.

“Must I infer, my lady, that you were…jealous?” The playful wiggle of his brows belied his usual reserve.

A soft laugh escaped Diana, and she gave him a light tap on the arm with her fan. “Hardly. But your mortified expression suggested you were in dire need of rescuing. I took pity on you.”

He let out a genuine, unguarded laugh that startled a passing guest. Gilbert rarely allowed himself such open mirth in public, but the memory of Josephine’s thwarted triumph and Diana’s perfectly timed intervention stirred a degree of amusement he could not suppress. Diana, for her part, seemed pleased by his reaction and her eyes danced with warm satisfaction.

When his laughter subsided, he fixed her with a grateful look. “Then I owe you a debt for sparing me a most uncomfortable predicament. My thanks, Diana.”

“Think nothing of it,” she replied, adjusting a stray ribbon at her sleeve. “But if it happens again,” she added with feigned gravity, “I shall expect you to appear less mortified.”

He nodded his agreement, the smile remaining on his lips. “I shall endeavor to manage my countenance more admirably in the future.”

Together, they rejoined the company, making polite conversation with Diana’s father and sister until the event drew to a close.

As the last strains of laughter and conversation at Josephine’s garden party dwindled, Gilbert felt a rush of relief. Even so, he knew better than to assume the ton’s rumors would vanish overnight. When a footman discreetly provided them with anembossed envelope from Lady Bembridge, inviting them to another social gathering, Diana’s smile assured Gilbert that it had been worth the effort.

By then, the sun was slipping below the horizon, painting the sky in amber and rose hues. With the final courtesies exchanged and farewells offered, they departed Josephine’s estate in their waiting carriage, the warm summer air drifting through open windows.

Chapter Twenty

Diana lounged on a small settee, reading another novel from their expansive library, while across from her Gilbert perused a newly arrived stack of correspondence. Carriages clattered along cobblestones, a muffled reminder of the bustling city outside. The morning’s calm might have lulled anyone else, but Diana’s nerves still crackled from the memory of Josephine’s garden party mere days earlier.

She laid aside her book and sighed .

“Gilbert, are there any invitations of note? Something we should attend?” she asked, wondering what she might need to prepare herself for.

He glanced up from a thick envelope and smirked. “There is no end to the invitations. Dinners, soirées, garden parties, balls; the choice is yours to make.”

“Anything of interest?”.

“Well, wedidreceive that insistent missive from Lady Bembridge, summoning us to a small philanthropic gathering.” The dryness of his tone made it clear he suspected an ulterior motive. “Apparently, our presence is ‘very much desired to give society confidence in our union.’”

A charitable soirée, smaller than a grand ball, might be just the forum for onlookers they needed to scrutinize them further, sniffing for signs of discord. However, Lady Bembridge seemed to have taken a genuine liking to Diana.

“Lady Bembridge was quite gracious at the garden party,” Diana said softly. “But I suspect she also thrives on ensuring the ton’s talk remains…interesting. Perhaps she wishes to prove to her friends that I am not quite the social disgrace rumors claim.”

Gilbert gave a noncommittal grunt, tossing the letter onto the table.

“We said we would return to London to quell the gossip. Attending such soirées is precisely the kind of show we must give,” he assured her. He cast a disparaging glance at the remaining invitations. “I shall let you dictate what others, if any, we attend.”

Though she heard the resigned practicality in his tone, a feeling of warmth filled her chest.

“I appreciate your deference,” she laughed, reaching for the pile. “Let us not disappoint Lady Bembridge—or the ton.”

The sun was sinking behind London’s rooftops as Diana and Gilbert stepped from their carriage onto the cobblestone street of Mayfair, where Lady Bembridge’s townhouse stood in genteel splendor. Footmen in pale livery lined the steps and muted musical strains from a small chamber ensemble filtered through the open windows.

A discreet hush fell over the guests when the Duke and Duchess of Rivenhall appeared, arm in arm. Diana felt the weight of many eyes descend upon her. However, Gilbert’s presence at her side infused her with an unexpected confidence, his tall frame radiating silent assurance, his hand lightly cradling hers.

They ascended the steps and entered a foyer glittering with candlelit chandeliers. Soft laughter from an adjoining salon merged with the faint clink of teacups and glassware. Lady Bembridge, a regal woman clad in silver satin, hurried forward to greet them.

“Your Graces!” She extended both hands as though they were dear friends. “How delighted I am to see you. So gracious of you to attend, especially with all the demands on your time.”

“We appreciate the invitation, Lady Bembridge,” Gilbert dipped his head politely.

“We look forward to supporting your charitable efforts,” Diana added in a steady voice, despite the thudding of her pulse, and managed a composed smile.

“Charity, indeed!”

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