“What have you been occupied with in the past few days, Diana?” asked Violet, handing her a teacup and then proceeding to somewhat clumsily refill her own. “I’ve not seen you in nearly a week.”

“Mmm,” Diana said, her mouth curling up as she surveyed her friend over the rim of her teacup. “And whose fault is that? I didn’t dare call on you, lest I inadvertently stumble upon an amorous scene that might have damaged me permanently.” She was delighted to see that, instead of denying this charge, both Violet and Audley flushed. She gave them a moment to stew in their own discomfort, then took pity on them and continued. “But to answer your question, I’ve been exceedingly busy fending off every gossip in the ton eager to hear about your reconciliation, of course. And painting.”

This was a bit of a lie by omission—Diana was certain that Violet would be very interested indeed to learn of Willingham presenting himself at her home, confessing his bedroom woes, and propositioning her, but she didn’t care to enlighten Violet and Audley at the moment. Or perhaps ever—she was already somewhat regretting having let even Emily into her confidence.

“What have you been working on?” Violet asked curiously.

Were she speaking to anyone else, Diana would likely have downplayed her work, dismissing it as merely dabbling in watercolors or something similarly inane. (In fact, Diana loathed watercolors.) She didn’t like to speak of her painting overmuch—even with Violet, her oldest friend, who had seen and admired plenty of her art. It was impossible to put into words the sense of stillness and calm she achieved when seated before a canvas, and any attempt on her part to articulate this made her feel frustrated and fraudulent. Because who was she, other than the daughter of a viscount who had had a drawing master as a child? She was hardly Botticelli.

She was aware, of course, that she had some talent, but she also knew that society wouldn’t value her art beyond a cursory compliment now and then. She was proficient at painting, and this earned her a tick mark next to that item on the list of desired qualities in a lady of good breeding. It didn’t really matter to anyone that she was better at it than any other lady—or man—she knew, and so she tried not to let it matter to herself, either.

She did not say any of this to Violet, of course. Instead, she merely said, “I’ve been attempting a still life, with mixed results.” She’d been working on it in her sunroom for the better part of the past two weeks. She had been distracted by her thoughts of late, and found the unceasing attention to detail that a still life required to be the only thing that could make her mind go blissfully blank. She wasn’t entirely pleased with the painting yet, and she’d left it behind in London; perhaps a change of scenery and some practice with landscapes here in the countryside would give her renewed energy for the project upon her return.

Before Violet could prod her further on this score, the drawing room door opened behind them, and the lord of the manor himself joined the party. Willingham looked vaguely harried, which Diana uncharitably but fervently hoped was on account of having spent a quarter hour in the company of Lady Helen but which, knowing him, could just as easily be on account of his cravat not having been elaborately knotted enough that morning.

A moment later, though, he proved the cause to be the former. He produced a flask from somewhere within his jacket and took a hearty swallow before muttering, “Women.”

Diana smiled sweetly. “I have been given to understand you are rather fond of the sex, Willingham.”

He narrowed his eyes at her as he took another sizable gulp. “In certain contexts, undoubtedly. But in my own home, in the form of an eligible miss, I have the gravest qualms.”

“You invited her, old chap,” Audley said unsympathetically, with all the smugness of a man who is safely married.

“I was backed into a corner by Rothsmere,” Willingham said, replacing the flask in his coat and crossing to sit in the armchair next to Diana’s. “Hard to say no to an old friend, you understand.”

Violet arched a brow and Audley looked skeptical in the extreme, but it was Diana who gave voice to the thought: “He has some sordid story about you he’s holding over your head, doesn’t he?”

“If he did, I’d hardly admit to it, now, would I?” Willingham said, grumpily enough that Diana knew she was correct.

“Was it the time you cast up your accounts in the lap of that French actress you were attempting to seduce?” Audley asked.

“No,” Willingham said, giving him a withering look. “But thank you so much for bringing up that particular cherished memory.”

“Or the time you accidentally kissed your mistress’s sister on a balcony at Lady Montlake’s ball because it was dark and you couldn’t tell the difference?” Violet asked.

“They were twins,” Willingham said, a pained expression upon his face. “And I’d had a bit to drink,” he added grudgingly.

“You might as well tell us,” Diana informed him. “We could go on like this all day.”

Willingham took a deep, fortifying breath. “Let us just say I was once… friendly with a lady whose husband publishes broadsides. He was somewhat irate when he got word of our liaison and printed a rather unflattering one about me detailing some, er, unconventional bedroom activities he claimed to have learned about from one of my former mistresses.” He shuddered a bit at the thought. “Rothsmere knows the man and bought them all up and had them destroyed once he got wind of what was afoot, but he saved one for blackmail purposes,” he finished darkly.