To Love and to Loathe: A Novel

Prologue

July 1812

Diana Bourne was only eighteen, but she knew one thing already: men were fools. Adorable fools sometimes, enticing fools occasionally, but fools one and all.

This was not a complaint—for Diana’s purposes, the fact that most men of her acquaintance seemed to have little more than a few bits of cotton wool floating around between their ears was really rather ideal. Because Diana’s purposes, quite simply, were to be wed to a man of means—one did not need to possess intellect to boast a hefty purse, and furthermore, in her experience thus far, the two qualities seemed to be mutually exclusive.

Take her brother, Viscount Penvale. Penvale was a touch addlepated, of course, by virtue of the male anatomy he possessed, but he was well-read, a deft hand at cards, and, at times, unsettlingly observant—a shining beacon of intellect compared to other gentlemen of his set. And yet, he had pockets to let. The poor boy didn’t have two pennies to rub together—which, unfortunately, meant that she was in similarly dire straits.

And what are you hunting for tonight, dear sister? His voice came from behind her, startling her out of her thoughts as she stood, glass of ratafia in hand, at the edge of a crowded ballroom.

She turned, schooling her features into the expression of bland innocence that she knew men found so appealing—which would not fool her brother for a moment.

Sure enough, he arched an eyebrow at her in amusement. He refrained from comment only because next to him stood Jeremy Overington, the Marquess of Willingham, one of his best friends. And, oh. If only a handful of men could be said to be enticing fools, Willingham was one of them. Tall, golden-haired, and possessing shoulders that were just the right width to be attractive without making him appear unfashionably brawny, Willingham made female heads turn in every room he entered. Aside from his objective aesthetic appeal, there was something about him—a certain knowing gleam in his eye, a heaviness to his gaze—that set Diana’s heart beating just a touch more rapidly than it should have done whenever she was in his presence.

This was inconvenient, because despite his aforementioned positive attributes, he was also overly fond of drink and women and, most disqualifying of all, deeply in debt. Useless in regard to her current objective, in other words. It was therefore maddening that her traitorous heart sped up each time he came within fifty feet of her.

Lord Willingham, she said coolly, pleased to hear that her voice sounded bored rather than breathless. Would you be so kind as to remove my irritating brother… elsewhere?

Angry I’ve caught you out? Penvale asked genially, never one to be put off by a barb from her. You needn’t pretend for Jeremy’s sake; I’ve told him you’ve been calculating marriage the way some men consider an investment scheme.

And aren’t they more or less the same thing at heart? Diana asked sweetly.

Lord Willingham let out a surprised laugh, which relieved her—he had been watching her in a way that made her feel quite unsettled, and she was pleased to have broken his calm.

Too true, Miss Bourne, Willingham said. Why don’t you tell me all about your hunt whilst dancing this waltz with me?

Diana consulted the dance card attached to her wrist. I’ve promised this waltz to Lord Snidewhistle.

Willingham leaned in close. Snidewhistle is up to his ears in gambling debts; it’s not widely known yet, but it will be soon.

This was, in fact, rather disappointing—despite his unfortunate name, Snidewhistle had been one of the younger gentlemen on her list of potential husbands, and one of the few with whom the idea of sharing a bed had not been entirely repellent.

In fact, Willingham continued, I saw him at the hazard tables not five minutes ago, and he was so deeply immersed in his game that I doubt he remembers what day it is, much less that he is engaged to waltz with so charming a lady as yourself. These words were laced with the slightest trace of sarcasm.

Diana scowled at him. I will dance with you, she said, lifting her nose into the air, but only because I cannot stand to be a wallflower.

Her brother snorted.

I don’t think you’ve much to worry about there, he said.

And he was, in some sense, correct. Diana had attracted her fair share of male attention in the weeks since her debut—unsurprisingly, given her honey-colored hair, hazel eyes, and a bosom that one Almack’s patroness deemed rather vulgar. However, she also had a decided lack of fortune—indeed, her pin money amounted to a sum that would have made a lesser lady weep—and, as a result, she found herself with a decided lack of decent proposals.

And with a fair number of indecent ones.

Come, Miss Bourne, Willingham said, taking her arm without so much as a by-your-leave and leading her onto the dance floor as the opening notes of a waltz drifted through the room.

I suppose you expect me to thank you for the tip about Snidewhistle, Diana said as they took their positions, her hand on his shoulder, his hand at her waist.

Willingham flashed her a grin. Thump, thump, went her heart. I would never be so foolish as to expect the Honorable Diana Bourne to thank me for anything, he said, pivoting her slowly about the room as the waltz began. Though, of course, if you wanted to consider yourself in my debt, I shouldn’t object.…

I promise you, sir, that I shall ensure to never do anything that would find me in your debt. I cannot think of a less trustworthy gentleman to hold such power over me.

Come now, I’m not so bad, Willingham said lightly—but something about his voice made her glance up sharply into his eyes. Had she wounded him? Surely not. In her entire acquaintance with Lord Willingham—dating back to the years that her brother had brought him home with him from Eton to their aunt and uncle’s house during school holidays—she had not once seen him so much as wince from one of her hits. Surely this one hadn’t landed?

Aren’t you? she asked, watching him closely. His hand was firm on her waist, his motions smooth and effortless. The man was an exemplary dancer—no doubt because he had honed his skill in his pursuit of every ineligible woman in London, but impressive nonetheless.

He seemed to realize that she was baiting him—the slight tightness around his mouth that she had noticed a few moments prior had vanished, to be replaced by one of his more usual facial expressions: the alluring, slightly cheeky smile of a devil-may-care rogue, intent on charming the skirts off of every lady with the misfortune to cross his path.

I’m not, he said easily. In fact, I think you should set your sights on me as your next target.

Diana stumbled, missing a step; Lord Willingham steered her back into the rhythm of the waltz, hiding her error, while she continued to stare at him, mouth agape.

You cannot be serious, she managed after a few moments’ silence.

Why shouldn’t I be? His tone was casual, unconcerned; if he hadn’t been waltzing, she was certain he would have shrugged. You seem to be quite eager for a husband. I am, in fact, excellent husband material.

By what qualifications, precisely, are you excellent husband material? Diana didn’t allow him a chance to respond before continuing. You drink too much, and you seem intent on weaseling your way into the bed of every widow you encounter.

I do say, Willingham sputtered, and Diana awarded herself a mental point for managing to embarrass him before she’d even completed her thought.

You don’t take anything seriously, and, worst of all, you’ve no fortune. She pronounced the latter as though it were a death sentence—which, as far as marriage prospects went, it was. She had spent a childhood acutely aware that she was a burden on her aunt and uncle, understanding the expense her presence incurred. She was determined that once she married, she would never have to obsess over something so vulgar, so endlessly tiresome as money ever again.

Willingham watched her with a steady gaze as she spoke, his face never changing expression on the surface, and yet she could somehow sense the feeling building beneath his calm demeanor. I see, he said, and there was a clipped tone to his voice that was somehow gratifying—if she was going to verbally wound a man, she’d like evidence of the effort. And I suppose that you have received so many offers this Season that you are in a position to be so choosy?

Diana didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. I have indeed received quite a few offers, she hedged, which wasn’t untrue.

Willingham’s gaze sharpened, and a furrow appeared between his eyebrows. Have men been propositioning you? His grip on her waist tightened, and some primitive part of her thrilled at the touch. If they have, I will call them out.

Diana rolled her eyes. I think, given the number of married ladies’ beds you frequent, you’re in enough danger of winding up in a duel without deciding you need to challenge any man who is a threat to my virtue, she informed him. I can take care of myself, and I certainly don’t need you barging in like a knight in shining armor, no doubt mucking it all up.

"So you have been propositioned," he said darkly.

What do I have to tell you that will convince you that your concern is entirely unwanted? she asked through gritted teeth, managing with great effort to keep a ballroom-appropriate smile upon her face. Judging by the skeptical look Willingham gave her, it likely made her appear slightly deranged.

Let me be sure I have this correctly, he said, ignoring her question entirely, as most men tended to do. It was astonishing that nearly all of them considered themselves to be the more intelligent sex, considering that they seemed to lack rudimentary listening skills, but one had to manage with the poor fools as best one could.

Willingham continued. You are possibly being subjected to indecent proposals on the part of lecherous gentlemen, you’ve no marriage prospects in sight, but you still refuse to consider me a candidate for the position of your husband?

Up until this moment, Diana had been certain that he’d been jesting. She could not think of a single gentleman of her acquaintance less likely to wish to settle into matrimony than the Marquess of Willingham. Had he not been rumored, just last week, to have been discovered in the Countess of Covendale’s bedchamber? Discovered by the earl himself, no less? This hardly seemed like the behavior of a man desperate to settle down to a life of quiet domesticity.

And, furthermore, he wasn’t the sort of man she wanted to marry. She wanted someone dull, someone safe. Someone wealthy.

Lord Willingham was not at all dull, nor did he feel particularly safe—especially not when he was gazing at her as though he could see right through her, as he was at this precise moment. When he looked at her this way, neither of those qualities—dullness or safety—seemed terribly desirable, while everything about Lord Willingham did.

But the third quality, wealth, was the one she refused to negotiate on, and the fact remained that the marquess was a second son who had unexpectedly inherited his title upon the death of his brother—and who was currently scrambling to pay the death duties from the depleted Willingham coffers. He would never suit.

And for that reason, she had to make him stop—stop gazing at her with his peculiar intensity, as though he saw right through her carefully built shell, right to the heart of her. To her heart.

That was, quite simply, unacceptable. She had decided long ago that she wouldn’t let anything so foolish as her heart have any part in deciding whom she married.

And so, to make him stop, to remove herself from that unsettling gaze at all costs, she said the first thing that sprang to mind, razor sharp, guaranteed to wound.

"Even if you weren’t in debt… She trailed off, letting his focus sharpen on her even more, granting the moment its full weight. I certainly wouldn’t consider you for a husband. I can’t think of a man who would be less devoted to his wife."

Because this was the Marquess of Willingham—rakehell, charmer, and seducer—he didn’t allow his flirtatious smile to slip for even an instant. But something in his gaze dulled and shuttered, and internally, Diana cheered.

Even as a small part of her, buried deep inside, cracked.

This, Jeremy supposed, was what you should expect when you attended a ball sober.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been at one of these affairs without the comforting warmth and distance provided by a blanket of brandy, fogging his senses, making him genial and fond of everyone he encountered. A glass of brandy or three made him more appealing to the ladies—smoothed any possible rough edge, any trace of bitterness, leaving behind only the Willingham they wanted to see: handsome, charming, and without an iota of depth. He had learned in his Oxford days not to fool himself—the ladies he lured to his bed were not interested in conversation, or feelings, or anything other than his face and physique. This was a state of affairs that was, naturally, entirely satisfactory to him—he was certainly not looking for any sort of emotional entanglement. He liked his life the way it was: simple and full of pleasure. At least, that was how it had been, prior to his brother’s death. These days, chasing that pleasure took a rather more concerted effort on his part.

So why, then, had he skipped his brandy, knowing that a certain Miss Bourne would be in attendance tonight, a lady on whom his charms seemed wasted? And what had further propelled him not just to ask her to dance, but also to half-seriously suggest matrimony while doing so? He could not think of anyone less suited to marriage than himself, no matter how appealing Miss Bourne was, with her hair gleaming by candlelight and her rather spectacular bosom evident even in the modest gown she wore. There was something about her that always had this effect on him, from the moment he had first met her, when he was a young buck at Eton and she still a skinny little hell-raiser galloping about her aunt and uncle’s estate. Even then, she had never lacked a biting retort to anything he threw at her, and it had done nothing but make him want to rile her even further. It had been maddening, then.

Now, it was still maddening, but there was an undercurrent of tension to it that he was not enough of a fool to mistake for anything other than attraction. The fact was, Diana Bourne was beautiful and intelligent, and that was a dangerous combination. And something about her still made him want to best her at any endeavor, including simple waltzing conversation. And so, listening to her coolly explain marriage as a financial transaction, he had wanted nothing more than to shock her, set her off-balance. And he had done so in the most obvious way he knew how.

He had not expected her to say yes. Had not wanted her to say yes. Marriage to Diana Bourne was something for a stronger man than himself—or so he reminded himself now, as they continued to turn about the room, sharing a silence that was growing tight as it stretched between them.

I expect you have a list of acceptable mates inside that scheming head of yours, he said, adopting the bored tone that was his lifeline and his shield in moments when he felt anything other than suave, confident, and entirely in command.

Of course, Miss Bourne said, without a trace of embarrassment, and this was yet another thing he liked about her. She was no worse, really, than the majority of the debutantes on the marriage mart this year, and yet they hid their scheming behind giggles and insipid smiles and, truly, a disturbing number of feathers. Miss Bourne stated her intentions plainly—and, mercifully, without a feather in sight.

Might I hear the list? He gave her a roguish wink. I’m certain I could help you narrow it down to an acceptable choice.

I don’t think so. Her voice was cool and distant—this was the voice that never failed to make him want to provoke her. He dampened the impulse with great difficulty. Where had that instinct gotten him not five minutes before? Offering marriage to a woman who would no doubt use this as a weapon in every argument they engaged in for the rest of their lives. It had been an amateur mistake, and one he certainly wouldn’t make again.

You see, she continued, "this isn’t a game to me, like it is to you. I have my looks and my family’s name and the bloom of novelty, and not much else. Not much to attract any man looking for an intelligent match. I need to marry this Season, and I don’t need you making a joke out of it."

I wouldn’t make a joke of it, he protested, even as he realized that that was, in fact, precisely what he had been doing. Miss Bourne did not even bother to dignify this obvious falsehood with a response.

So no, Lord Willingham, she concluded—and never had his title been pronounced more scathingly than it was in that moment—I will not share anything about my matrimonial hopes with you, and I think it best that we end this line of discussion entirely.

Jeremy was a bold man, but not recklessly so. And it would have been a reckless man indeed who forced Diana Bourne to continue a conversation she clearly wished to avoid. And, deep down, Jeremy thought it might be rather unsporting to do so—she had, of course, just rejected him, and many men in his shoes might have considered themselves to be the wounded party. But Jeremy knew better. He was, at the end of the day, a man, and she was a woman. He could end the evening with a woman of his choosing, engaging in behavior that would have ruined an unmarried woman had she attempted to follow his lead. And he might have pockets to let at the moment, but he was still a marquess, and with that came power and freedom the likes of which no woman—not even a princess—could ever hope to achieve. Miss Bourne was charting her own course in search of a mere scrap of the freedom he enjoyed every day, and he could not fault her for it.

But a small part of him wondered what he would have done if she had said yes.

And it was that thought that, at the conclusion of their waltz, sent him in search of something stronger than lemonade to dull the senses, to cast that warm, golden light upon the evening’s proceedings.

He did not see Miss Bourne again that night. One month later, her betrothal to Viscount Templeton was announced.

One

July 1817

There was no place like a ball for a good, old-fashioned wager, Diana always said.

Or, rather, she was going to begin saying now, effective this evening, in the wake of having made just such a wager.

It was July, and they were inching toward the end of the London Season, Diana’s sixth in total and her third since the death of her husband, Viscount Templeton. She was in a crowded ballroom at the home of Lord and Lady Rocheford, whose end-of-Season soiree was one of the most coveted invitations among the ton, for reasons that frankly escaped Diana at the moment, as she was sweltering in the heat of tightly pressed bodies and an incalculable number of candles burning above and around her.

Diana was, in truth, finding the entire evening rather tedious. She’d been experiencing this sensation more and more often of late, which was a bit unsettling in its novelty. She had been so eager to escape her aunt and uncle’s home when she had debuted, flinging herself into the social whirl of London the instant she had made her curtsey before the queen, not letting up in the slightest upon her marriage to Templeton. His death two and a half years later had slowed her considerably, of course, but she had been eager enough to rejoin society when her mourning period was over, once again immersing herself in the relentless cycle of balls and dinner parties, Venetian breakfasts and nights at the theater, musicales and outings to Vauxhall Gardens.

Lately, however, she had felt something… missing. She had, seemingly, everything she had once dreamed of acquiring: a wealthy, titled husband who had seen fit to conveniently expire, leaving her a wealthy, titled widow; a London town house filled with servants to attend to her every whim, and as many painting supplies as she could possibly dream of; dear friends to liven up her days; any number of handsome gentlemen to flirt with of an evening.

And yet, this evening, as she chatted idly with her friends, watching her friend Emily twirl about the dance floor in the arms of the slightly scandalous Lord Julian Belfry, she found herself feeling vaguely… dissatisfied.

Which was why it was so convenient that the Marquess of Willingham chose that moment to open his mouth—a decision that was for him, as it was for so many men, often a mistake—to offer her the following warning:

You’re making a mistake if you think to match Belfry with Lady Emily. A less likely man to marry I’ve never seen. Have you heard nothing of his reputation?

Diana turned slowly to face him, arching an eyebrow. Mmm, yes, she agreed, giving Willingham a sweet smile. But I didn’t think it was any worse than yours, my lord.

Willingham’s mouth quirked in that infuriating half smirk he favored; his was an exceptionally handsome face, all blue eyes and cheekbones and strong jaw, and that smirk somehow, unfairly, made it more attractive rather than less so. Touché. And yet I’ve no intention of marrying either, so my point remains.

So you say, Diana said with great skepticism. But need I remind you that you are a marquess? At some point, you’ll have to produce an heir.

Willingham shrugged. I’ve a cousin who I’ve no doubt would be quite pleased to inherit. He has a very fertile wife, if I recall.

Diana tossed her head impatiently. Don’t be absurd. Of course you’ll marry. She was dimly aware that their friends were beginning to take notice of this conversation; she could sense their attention focusing on her and Willingham, even as she did not look away from Willingham’s face. The friends in question were their closest ones—Diana’s friend Violet, along with her husband, Lord James Audley; Diana’s brother, Penvale; and Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell, a new friend of Violet’s and, until very recently, Willingham’s lover.

Willingham shrugged again, the gesture so irritating that Diana promptly forgot about their audience once more. If you say so, he said. I’ve yet to meet a debutante I didn’t find insufferable, so you’ll forgive me for remaining unconvinced.

You knew me when I was a debutante, Diana said through gritted teeth.

Did I? Willingham asked, his surprise so patently false that, had he been anyone else, she would have been tempted to laugh. Oh, I do believe you’re right.

She could hardly miss his rather marked failure to apologize.

Diana took a breath, attempting to calm herself. Willingham possessed the infuriating ability to rile her without even trying to, and so it was perhaps not entirely surprising that the next words out of her mouth were spoken before she had time to even properly consider them. I’ll wager you’ll be married within the year. I could find you a bride in three snaps.

Willingham laughed out loud at that. That would be money in my pocket, Lady Templeton.

Then you’ll take the wager? Diana pressed. And you’ll allow me to send a parade of marriageable misses in your direction?

Why not? Willingham asked with the misplaced confidence so typical of his sex. I somehow think I’ll be able to resist the temptation. What shall we make the bet?

Diana paused, considering; if she was going to do the thing, she might as well go all in, so to speak. One hundred pounds. She stared directly into Willingham’s eyes as she spoke, daring him to balk at such an exorbitant sum; he paused for the merest fraction of a second.

Done, he said briskly, then extended his hand. Shall we shake on it?

Considering that she had just bet the man a sum that would pay a good number of her servants’ annual salaries, it was slightly absurd that now was the moment she hesitated, but she was not used to shaking a man’s hand like an equal; she was more accustomed to men hovering over her hand in excessive displays of gallantry, attempting to catch a glimpse of her bosom. Nevertheless, she extended her hand and shook his firmly. His grip was strong and surprisingly reassuring; the latter was not generally an adjective she would have applied to anything about Willingham.

And so it was settled: Willingham would be married within a year, or Diana would pay him one hundred pounds. Diana would freely admit that agreeing to this wager had not, perhaps, been her most well-considered decision. Now that she’d challenged him before their friends, she could hardly admit that she thought the idea of Willingham marrying in the next twelve months to be unlikely in the extreme. Nevertheless, it might be good for a laugh, introducing Willingham to every unmarried lady of her acquaintance at every social event for the next year. That alone would be worth the loss of one hundred pounds.

Still, nothing terribly serious might have come of it had she not, less than an hour later, encountered Willingham’s grandmother.

The Dowager Marchioness of Willingham was something of a legend among the ton. Widowed for decades, she lived in London year-round and was admired and feared in almost equal measure. Her sharp tongue had skewered more than one reputation, and she had somehow performed the magic trick of saying whatever she liked to whomever she chose, without losing an ounce of her social power.

Naturally, Diana adored her—though she could not say she was entirely pleased to see her at the moment. Diana had just returned from a trip to the retiring room with Violet and Emily; Violet had vanished in search of her husband, and Emily had promised a dance to a blushing, stammering young buck just down from Oxford and clearly terrified to be dancing with one of the most beautiful ladies of the ton. Diana consulted her own dance card, realizing that she had promised this dance to Audley. Given the determined expression on Violet’s face when she had gone off in search of him, Diana hardly thought it likely that he would be appearing to claim this dance.

Instead, she made her way around the room, stopping to chat with several ladies of her acquaintance and to gaze flirtatiously at several gentlemen. Henry Cavendish, who was the second son of an earl and a thoroughly disreputable rake, had caught her eye and just begun to make his way through the crowd toward her, a promising smile playing at the corners of his mouth, when she felt her elbow seized in a strong grip.

Lady Templeton, I’d advise you to reconsider that one.

Diana turned, recognizing the voice even before she caught sight of its owner. Lady Willingham, she said, giving a curtsey. I cannot imagine what you possibly mean.

Jeremy’s grandmother was dressed in a demure evening gown of lilac silk, her diminutive figure held in rigidly proper posture. Her white hair was swept smoothly back in an elegant coiffure, a few curls framing her face, and she was in possession of a fan that Diana personally felt to be doing more work to allow its owner to gossip freely than as a cooling instrument.

Don’t play coy with me, my dear girl, the dowager marchioness said severely. Young Cavendish is trouble, mark my words—his father must have counted his blessings many a time that that idiot was born the younger twin by a few minutes. Always felt twins a bit unnatural, she added, shaking her head in disapproval at the very notion. Too many babies at once, if you ask me.

It is a pity our heavenly father did not think to consult you before coming up with such an arrangement, Diana agreed.

That’s quite enough of that, now, the dowager marchioness said, frowning. You’re as bad as my grandson.

Did mine ears detect the sound of my name? came Willingham’s voice from somewhere to Diana’s left. Stifling an internal groan, she turned, watching as he sauntered toward them, placing a kiss on his grandmother’s cheek that one could only accurately describe as smug. About to describe my many charms? he asked sunnily, a brief nod of his head his only acknowledgment of Diana’s presence.

It would make for a rather short conversation, Diana said sweetly.

Lady Templeton likes to flatter me, Willingham confided to his grandmother in conspiratorial tones.

Over before it even had a chance to begin, Diana continued, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

If you’re finding it so difficult to describe my many charming qualities, I wonder that you were so confident that I’d be married this time next year.

Like a hunting dog detecting a scent, the dowager marchioness’s attention—which had wandered slightly toward a number of couples in close proximity to them—snapped onto her grandson, razor-sharp.

I beg your pardon? she asked in tones of barely concealed glee.

Er, Willingham said, clearly intelligent enough—just—to sense danger.

I wagered Lord Willingham that he’d be married within a year, Diana explained cheerfully. It was worth every penny she stood to lose, just to