She was slower answering tonight than she had been the night before, and he wondered for an instant if perhaps she was not expecting him. Perhaps she had already gone to bed—it was quite late, after all, and rather presumptuous of him to be here. Before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, however, the door opened and Diana was there, stepping back to allow him to enter the room.

She had already made herself ready for bed—she was wearing a high-necked nightgown that looked incongruously innocent, and her glorious hair was braided over one shoulder. It was the least seductive bedtime ensemble imaginable—barring ones that involved flannel, he supposed—and yet he felt a bolt of lust shoot through him at the sight of her. She had left one button undone at her neck, and it was enough to allow him the sight of her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. The sight of that faint beat reminded him of the feeling of sealing his lips over that very spot, and from there it was a mere hop, skip, and jump, mentally speaking, to envisioning her spread out on the bed before him, the nightgown lying in tatters around her.

Knowing Diana, however, she would then rise up on her elbows and give him a thorough scolding for destroying a perfectly good nightgown, which rather spoiled the fantasy. She was the oddest combination of seductive and practical that he had ever encountered, and yet he didn’t think he wanted her in spite of her practicality, but rather, in some way, because of it. It was part and parcel of her and, at the moment, every part of him wanted every single part of her.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” he said, feeling uncharacteristically ill at ease. He never felt awkward around anyone except her—what was it that she did to him? Was it merely lust? Did so much of his blood flee south at the mere sight of her that there was none left in his brain to allow him to produce any sort of intelligent conversation?

That was the simple explanation but not, he thought, the wholly accurate one. What happened to him in her presence—the conflicting need to press her up against the closest piece of furniture and to rile her until she threw claret in his face—was something that he, at least, did not understand well enough to put into words.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming,” she said. “It’s been a long day.” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, and there was something so casually intimate about the gesture that he froze, like an adolescent boy who had never been touched by a girl before. Sensing his stiffening, she started to take her hand away, and Jeremy seized it, not wanting her to mistake his reaction for distaste. Instead, he held her warm hand in his as he spoke, lacing her fingers through his own.

“My grandmother wanted a word. Several words, actually.” He paused, drew a breath. Diana’s hand squeezed his, the movement somehow silently encouraging him to continue. “She was full of complaints about my recent behavior.”

Diana arched an eyebrow. Of course. If he had any artistic talent whatsoever, and someone asked him to paint her, the painting he produced would feature her staring directly at the viewer with that frank, unsettling hazel gaze of hers, one eyebrow ironically arched.

“Only your recent behavior?” she asked. “I don’t see what you’ve done recently that is any more meriting of complaint than usual.”

She was entirely right, of course, and yet somehow he didn’t like to hear himself described this way, or at least not by her. It was nothing more than the reputation he had deliberately cultivated, and yet he wanted her to see beyond it, past it. And sometimes, he thought that she did. And yet other times, she spoke like this. They had built a wall of animosity, of teasing and bantering and needling, between them, and it was remarkably difficult to break down. They had created cracks in it recently, but it was still there.

“My grandmother is friends with the Countess of Cliffdale, whose granddaughter is Lady John Marksdale.” He paused, waiting.

Diana looked at him, not comprehending. “What does that have to do with—” She broke off with a gasp, her eyes widening as her hands came up to cover her mouth. “Oh, no.” Her voice sounded suspiciously close to laughter. “Don’t tell me that Lady John is who you recently wronged so grievously?”

Jeremy rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “I’m glad this is so amusing to you.”

“Willingham, you utter idiot,” Diana said, but it was an affectionate sort of insult, and it had the rather perverse effect of making him feel warm all over. Being called an idiot by Diana was better than any of Lady Helen’s flattery—or, indeed, any other compliment he’d ever received.

Perhaps he truly was losing his mind.

“Well,” she said, leading him further into the room with the hand she still held, “I hope this has been a valuable lesson for you. I’m sure you’ve a copy of Debrett’s floating around somewhere—perhaps you should consider using it the next time you set your sights on a lady, to ensure none of her relations are friends of your grandmother’s.”

He narrowed his eyes at her as she drew him down onto the same settee they had sat on before. He felt the tension that he had held within him all day beginning to unspool, even as her mere proximity sent a new sort of awareness coursing through him.

He made as if he were going to stand. “Shall I go consult it now? Do you have some relative who is going to come haring after me once all of this is over?” He spoke lightly, trying to mask the distaste he felt for that notion—the idea of this, whatever it was between them, having run its course. He couldn’t imagine it—but perhaps only because he had not yet bedded her. That was the explanation, of course.