“He will think you have run off with that rake.” Mrs. Oliver stood from her desk.

“I am not going to run off with him,” Diana said, then shut the door behind her. She would apologize to Mrs. Oliver later and beg forgiveness from Nate. But for now, she had to see Lord Bryant, proper or no. She had bungled his plans and used him poorly. She had to release him from their ridiculous agreement and help him, in any way she could, with Lady Emily’s situation.

Chapter 22

Everton crumpled the letter in his hand and laid his head on his desk. This was not the news he had wanted to receive upon returning from Alfriston. Lady Emily was happy with her soon-to-be marriage, was she? The letter had been addressed to Mrs. Cuthbert, but it had always been intended for him. The question was, did Lady Emily write it on her own, or did her parents force her to write it?

He smoothed out the letter and read it once again, trying to reconcile his preconceived notions with what this young girl had written to him. A few of her reasons made sense.

Lord Silverstone owned a quarry, and not just any quarry, but one that produced fossils. He read her underlined sentence once again. Her excitement was palpable and most likely not written by her mother’s hand or dictated.

A blasted quarry, a pianoforte sitting neglected, and the fact that she wouldn’t have to attend balls or host many callers, as Lord Silverstone’s estate was far from London. Those were apparently reasons enough for her to agree to the marriage.

Her last reason, though . . .

Why was everyone foisting Diana Barton on him? Of course Lady Emily would believe Diana looked at him as though she were in love with him. It was all part of the charade. That part of his relationship with Diana was a sham—exactly like all his other relationships. She was using him, and he was happy to help. She didn’t love him. She was everything vibrant and optimistic. He was darkness. They had at some point during all of this nonsense become friends, but that was it. And even that was astounding.

He stood up, strode to where his jacket hung, and pulled from his pocket the dried violets Rachel’s nurse had given him. Just underneath them was a packet of seeds Rachel had collected and carefully wrapped.

She had been planning on coming home, and these seeds were the proof of it. She was the one who had gathered together and bound up those seeds. They were going to sprout violets at their country estate.

“She wasn’t ready to be married,” her nurse had said when she placed the package in his hands, “but she was trying. Her garden has bloomed here every spring for the past four years. You should come visit it sometime.”

Everton had nodded, but he wasn’t certain he ever would.

“She wanted to go back to you. She wanted to do what was right.”