Well, she reminded herself, she was taking steps toward the latter, at least, and the person with whom she was taking those steps was still standing behind her; she could feel him watching her intently. She found this oddly unsettling, and so she said, rather briskly, “Am I holding everyone up? Show me this horse of mine, and let’s be off.”

She turned to see Willingham gazing at her with a curious expression upon his face—not at all the usual sort of sardonic one he wore when looking at her, but rather one that implied he was actually curious, that he found her painting interesting. It was vastly different from the half-amused, taunting smirk that she usually found herself on the receiving end of. He reached out and grasped her wrist, stopping her when she would have moved past him. “Did you bring your painting supplies with you from London? I’d be happy to send to the village for anything you might need—or even to London, if we’re too provincial for whatever supplies you require.”

Diana worked hard to keep her surprise from registering on her face, but doubted she was entirely successful—thoughtful had never been one of the many adjectives she might have used to describe Willingham.

“I brought my things,” she said, walking past him in the direction of the rest of the party before pausing to look back over her shoulder. “But thank you,” she added, and then turned before he could make any sort of reply.

It was, she was fairly certain, the first entirely civil interlude they’d shared in years.

And it felt both wrong and right in almost equal measure.

* * *

Once Diana and Willingham had rejoined the party and mounted their horses, they were off, taking one of the many paths that wound away from the house and into the forest that surrounded it on all sides. This one led steadily uphill, their ultimate destination being a patch of clear ridgeline that, Willingham claimed, offered one of the finest views for miles. The width of the trail only allowed them to ride two abreast, and Diana found herself next to, of all people, her brother.

“Well,” Penvale said after they had ridden in companionable silence for a while, “out with it. What is your plan?”

“My plan?” Diana asked, turning her head to look at him. Her brother, she’d been told often, resembled her quite strongly. They shared the same honey-colored hair and hazel eyes. They even had similar mannerisms, a certain laziness of movement that Diana, at least, found to be useful. It made people relaxed around her, caused them to let their guards down, never dreaming of the sharp, calculating mind behind the pretty face and elegant slouch. She strongly suspected that her brother took similar advantage of the misconception.

At the moment, he was eyeing her speculatively, the reins held loosely in his hands. “For Jeremy and Lady Helen,” he clarified, casting a quick glance about to make sure that they couldn’t be overheard. There was enough distance between them and the closest riders that they could manage a private conversation.

“Willingham and Lady Helen,” she repeated, feigning confusion.

“Don’t profess innocence with me, Diana,” he said sternly. “I overheard you speaking to the dowager marchioness at breakfast this morning. I know perfectly well that you are up to something nefarious.”

“Dear brother of mine,” she said with a sunny smile, “I am never not up to something nefarious.”

Penvale snorted. “You don’t need to tell me that, I assure you.” He paused for a moment, and they rode a few paces in silence. “Truth be told, despite the farce Violet and Audley have enacted this summer, marriage is more often than not a business arrangement—if you’re hoping to pair Jeremy with Lady Helen, you might appeal to his practical side. I understand her dowry is enormous.”

“I’m surprised you’re not dangling after her, then,” Diana said grumpily. “Isn’t that your plan, after all? Amass enough of a fortune that Uncle John will consider selling Trethwick Abbey back to you?”

When Penvale and Diana’s parents had died when they were children, their ancestral home in Cornwall had been sold to cover death duties—it was the rare seat to a title that was unentailed. There had been a very willing buyer at hand: their father’s youngest brother, from whom the late viscount had been long estranged, who had made his fortune with the East India Company. Their father’s solicitors had seen little choice but to sell to him, given that there had been no ready money to cover the debts. Diana and Penvale had been bundled off to live with their mother’s sister in Hampshire, and Uncle John had been living at Trethwick Abbey ever since.

Even before he had gained his majority, Penvale had been obsessed with buying back the estate that went with his title. Diana knew he was a dab hand at cards, and he had multiplied his initial holdings many times over through the distasteful business of dabbling in the stock market, but it seemed obvious to her that an advantageous marriage would be a clear path to the fortune he needed with the least amount of effort on his part.

Penvale, however, shrugged off her suggestion, as always. “I’ve other ideas for myself, thank you very much, sister dearest. Meanwhile,” he added, ducking under a low-hanging branch, “do tell. What misery have you in store for Willingham? Do you plan to catch him in a compromising position with Lady Helen? Or somehow coach her to be more appealing?”

Some part of her was vaguely nettled to hear her brother so blithely referring to a lady as unappealing, even though she happened to agree with him. It seemed unfair—a lady was expected to get herself married off as quickly as possible, without ever giving the appearance of expending any effort toward that aim. It was a delicate balancing act, and an exhausting one at that.