Belfry was unable to stay for the entire duration of the house party, but had accepted the invitation to visit for a few days nonetheless. Diana and Violet had noted his arrival the night before with expressions of speculative interest that had made Jeremy decidedly uneasy, but he’d learned long ago that the best thing to do when a woman looked like that was to stay as far removed as possible, so he’d not inquired about whatever scheme they were hatching.

The truth was, he had very little excess mental energy to dedicate to anything other than his… situation with Diana.

He was, all in all, feeling rather pleased with himself; matters with Diana were proceeding nicely, and a few weeks in the country were certain to pass more pleasantly with female companionship than they would have done otherwise. He’d left her the night before with wine dripping down his face and an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh at the look on hers—part irritation, part smugness, and entirely, utterly her. He was beginning to realize that their liaison was going to be… fun. He’d get past his difficulties in the bedroom—as well as his tendency to start mentally undressing Diana whenever they were in the same room—and be able to move on to his next affair with complete ease of mind.

True, it was a trifle unexpected just how much he’d enjoyed the kiss they had shared the night before, but surely the allure would fade fairly quickly.

In truth, he had assumed a somewhat limited experience on Diana’s part; her husband had been considerably older than she, and had shuffled off this mortal coil fairly early in their marriage. Despite her reputation as a flirt, he’d never heard a single piece of reliable gossip linking her to any man in particular. However, that kiss had not seemed like the innocent kiss of a repressed widow. It was the kiss of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—and how to take it.

It was…

… not something that made for appropriate breakfast table contemplation, if one wanted to avoid shocking one’s guests.

With some difficulty, Jeremy steered his thoughts away from this pleasurable detour and back to the present matter, which was the unfortunate appearance of Lady Helen Courtenay at the breakfast table. Jeremy heaved a heavy internal sigh; he supposed he could not have expected her to remain in her bedchamber indefinitely, though a man could dream.

Lady Helen was tall and willowy, and moved with a certain elegant grace that Jeremy reluctantly had to admire. Her hair was a pale blond, her eyes very light blue, her complexion fair and unblemished. She was an entirely pleasing creature to look upon.

Until she opened her mouth.

“Ahahaha! My lord, you are too droll!” she said to Penvale as she entered the room, his arm grasped tightly in her clutches. Jeremy guessed his friend had had the misfortune to encounter the lady in the corridor on his way into the breakfast room, and—judging by the barely concealed grimace upon his face—was heartily wishing he’d lingered in bed a few minutes longer.

“Jeremy,” Penvale said loudly as soon as he spotted his host. “I was fortunate enough to encounter Lady Helen on her way down to breakfast and offer her my escort.”

“Yes,” Jeremy agreed. “Most fortunate.” He blinked, and peered closer at Penvale’s arm—were Lady Helen’s fingernails actually digging into his flesh?

“Oh, my Lord Willingham!” the lady trilled, dropping Penvale’s arm—to the visible relief of its owner—and coming toward him, arms outstretched. “How positively delightful to see you this morning.”

“Likewise, Lady Helen,” Jeremy said, rising to his feet and offering a rather listless excuse for a bow. For perhaps the first time in his life, he experienced a moment’s longing for a wife—if there were a lady of the house, he could pass Lady Helen over to her to entertain with whatever it was ladies liked to chat about. Gloves, perhaps. Watercolors. Handkerchiefs. Et cetera.

However, as the sole host for the house party, Jeremy had no one upon whom he could foist Lady Helen without appearing abominably rude, and so he resigned himself to a never-ending breakfast with the eagerly chattering lady at his side. He did his best to tune out her prattle—at one point, he distinctly noted that she was discussing the relative merits of fichus versus exposed necklines, and he promptly rededicated himself to the stack of generously buttered toast before him.

At some point during the proceedings, Diana entered the room; he glanced up and caught her eye, watching as she registered his captive state, her mouth twitching as she clearly fought to suppress a grin. He gave her a look that he hoped implied his promise that she would shortly suffer from mocking his misfortune, but the effect did not seem to be as threatening as he might have wished, for her mouth twitchings widened into a proper smile in response.

Meanwhile, farther down the table, Penvale and West were deep in conversation, no doubt regarding something exceptionally dull, like irrigation. Or sheep. Penvale’s family estate had been unentailed and sold to cover his parents’ debts upon their death, and he was obsessed with reclaiming Trethwick Abbey, his ancestral lands. West, who as Audley’s elder brother was heir to a dukedom, no doubt had all sorts of frightfully dull insights about estate management.

It never occurred to Penvale to ask Jeremy any of these questions, despite the fact that Jeremy was, in fact, a marquess—and one who had rescued his family estate from the brink of ruin, no less. Penvale knew this, in theory. In practice, however, it seemed that no one could imagine asking the merry, freewheeling Marquess of Willingham for advice on land management.