Rosa's parents' home. Diana had been nervous about this, for Coniston Hall was a farmhouse. It was a large farmhouse belonging to a prosperous gentleman farmer, but still, it lacked spacious rooms intended for entertaining, especially rooms intended for entertaining the nobility.
She'd offered Arradale, of course, but everyone had refused. The general opinion, in typical northern fashion, was that the grand Malloren family must take them as they were.
And the grand Malloren family had. The wedding finery had been nicely judged for the occasion, and they mixed comfortably with all. They were even joining in the country dancing in the cleared and decorated barn, cheerfully welcoming any and all partners. She herself had partnered the vicar, Squire Hobwick, Rosa's brother-in-law Harold Davenport, and her own estate manager, all the while itched by a wish that the marquess would appear and ask for a dance.
She still felt him as a dark threat, but also as a teasing, tantalizing promise.
"If you ever change your mind, my lady..."
For a mercy, he did not appear, and when she returned to the bustling house seeking refreshment, she saw him sitting with some local gentlemen in the paneled parlor. She felt an absurd urge to rescue him, to drag him out to the more youthful amusements. He was not a staid older man.
She pushed the notion away - she must stop thinking of him all the time! - and joined the ladies on the other side of the parlor where a maid was serving gingered lemon water.
Held in ice from the Arradale icehouse, the drink was deliciously cool. Diana sipped and tried to fix herself on the talk around her, but it was mostly of husbands and children, and her mind and eyes kept drifting toward Lord Rothgar.
He was making no attempt to be one of the locals. Of course. He would never attempt anything so foolish any more than she would. Apart from that distancing aura which always surrounded him, everyone here knew his rank and powers. He was not trumpeting his rank either, however.
He'd chosen clothing of a lighter shade - a suit of buff-colored cloth which nicely suggested country pursuits while the cut and elegant braiding rang of fashionable London. The ruffles at throat and wrist were moderate and of fine linen rather than lace, but that in itself set him apart. The local men, dressed in their best, were more ostentatious but not at all more fine.
Most of the men wore powdered wigs, but then most of them kept to the old fashion of shaven head and wig all the time. It was easier than wearing their own hair long, and hid the thinning hair of passing years. Lord Rothgar, in fact all the Malloren men, kept their own hair, and for this occasion they had all chosen to do without a wig or powder.
A pleasantly informal touch, and yet again it set them apart. Of course, they were fortunate to all have excellent heads of hair.
Strong, she thought, considering the marquess's dark hair, waving back from his high brow to be tied neatly with a black bow at his nape. Loose it might spring beneath the fingers...
She turned back to demand another glass of the icy cold drink, and even pressed it for a moment against her cheek trying to block him from her mind. After a moment or two, however, she couldn't help but glance back. The honest truth was that assessing the eminent marquess as to his points was far too much fun to forgo.
Strong lines to his face, too, though with an elegance of bone that took any heaviness from it. Long straight nose and a fine arch over the eye emphasized by dark, well-shaped brows.
Eyes set a little deep, which perhaps gave them that sense of power. Dark lashes, too, of course, which also drew attention to the eyes. A mouth that could look cold, but bracketed by creases that deepened with his occasional restrained but strangely alluring smiles.
The conversation among the men suddenly settled to an argument between two others and he glanced around. Hastily, Diana looked back at the ladies, feeling her face heat. Had she been quick enough, or did he know she'd been staring at him? Someone did. Rosa, who'd joined the group without her being aware of it, gave her a thoughtful look.
Plague take the man. And plague take her for sliding into such folly. It was the wedding. Weddings were not good for the nerves of a woman resolved on lifelong