Harwell asked, leaning forward.
Diana lowered her head and stared at the table, but not before she summoned a couple of tears to her eyes. "No," she whispered almost inaudibly. "I did but wish to show Lucien the pain he has inflicted on me."
She should have been an actress, Lucien reflected bitterly, for had he not known better, he could almost have believed her himself. But he knew better. He knew if he told the whole truth, the lie that wounded his vanity still, every man in the room must surely feel the revulsion he felt. But for all that he wanted rid of her, he could not bring himself to touch upon that. Two years had not dimmed the bitterness he still felt toward her and Mad Jack. No, he would not tell them that Bell Townsend had been a godsend.
"Her motives are also immaterial," he stated abruptly.
The bishop had hoped to avoid a hearing of record, but he could see that the earl had not the least intention of being amenable to saving anyone's face, not even his own. Succumbing to a certain curiosity, he turned to the young countess.
"Perhaps you can explain yourself to your husband, Lady Longford. Perhaps that would alter—"
"Think you I have not tried?" she cried, dabbing at her welling eyes. "He is but determined to be rid of me!"
"Here now, Diana—" Her father patted her shoulder. "Most irregular," Mr. Tate protested. "My lord bishop—"
"If it will end the matter, I am prepared to listen now," Lucien said. Taking out his watch, he flicked open the case and checked the time. "But whatever is said, I'd see it said quickly. I am promised to Leighton for the holidays, and I mean to leave within the hour." He favored his wife with a sardonic smile. "You behold me all ears, my dear."
She did not look at him. Instead, she focused on the bishop and the local vicar, who was regarding her kindly. "I did not mean to do it—it—it just happened. Lucien was gone so much, and—and I believed he did not care for me—" Her shoulders shook slightly, and she stopped, looking up through wet lashes. "Lord Townsend seemed so kind—so attentive—and Lucien was never there." Turning finally to Lucien, she cried, "You know it's true! You never cared for me, did you?"
"No," he admitted baldly. "But I paid your bills."
"That was not enough! You found me a crushing bore! And Bell—" Her voice dropped. "Bell did not."
Seizing the advantage her tears gave him, Tate rose again. "My lord bishop, Lady Longford is desirous of a reconciliation. Is that not true, my lady?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Very affecting, my dear," Lucien murmured, "but I am not thrice the fool."
"Surely there must have been some measure of affection when you wed her," the parish vicar reminded him.
"No."
"Then why in heaven's name did you offer for her?" the bishop demanded.
"Folly."
It was no use, and they all knew it. Finally, the Fen-tons' solicitor sighed. "Very well, my lord. If we concede that a reconciliation cannot be effected, my client is prepared to return discreetly to her family. She will, however, require a suitable allowance."
"Not a legal separation, of course," Lord Fenton hastily inserted. "Appearances—"
"Appearances be damned," Lucien interrupted coldly. "I shall be satisfied with nothing less than a divorce."
"It will be disastrous for both of you!" Fenton shouted at him. "Speak of folly, will you? This is utter folly!"
The bishop pursed his lips in disapproval, then addressed Lucien heavily, "I beg you will think on this, my lord. There will be unfortunate consequences—it's possible that neither of you will be received in society after the scandal."
"Possible!" Fenton snorted. "It's certain!"
"Perhaps Lord Longford has not considered—" Lady Fenton ventured timidly.
"It's ruination!" her husband insisted. "Ruination!"
Lucien rose and reached for his beaver hat. Turning to face the censure of the others, he shrugged. "It is a risk I am prepared to take. Good day, Diana. Lady Fenton." He bowed slightly toward the
Diana lowered her head and stared at the table, but not before she summoned a couple of tears to her eyes. "No," she whispered almost inaudibly. "I did but wish to show Lucien the pain he has inflicted on me."
She should have been an actress, Lucien reflected bitterly, for had he not known better, he could almost have believed her himself. But he knew better. He knew if he told the whole truth, the lie that wounded his vanity still, every man in the room must surely feel the revulsion he felt. But for all that he wanted rid of her, he could not bring himself to touch upon that. Two years had not dimmed the bitterness he still felt toward her and Mad Jack. No, he would not tell them that Bell Townsend had been a godsend.
"Her motives are also immaterial," he stated abruptly.
The bishop had hoped to avoid a hearing of record, but he could see that the earl had not the least intention of being amenable to saving anyone's face, not even his own. Succumbing to a certain curiosity, he turned to the young countess.
"Perhaps you can explain yourself to your husband, Lady Longford. Perhaps that would alter—"
"Think you I have not tried?" she cried, dabbing at her welling eyes. "He is but determined to be rid of me!"
"Here now, Diana—" Her father patted her shoulder. "Most irregular," Mr. Tate protested. "My lord bishop—"
"If it will end the matter, I am prepared to listen now," Lucien said. Taking out his watch, he flicked open the case and checked the time. "But whatever is said, I'd see it said quickly. I am promised to Leighton for the holidays, and I mean to leave within the hour." He favored his wife with a sardonic smile. "You behold me all ears, my dear."
She did not look at him. Instead, she focused on the bishop and the local vicar, who was regarding her kindly. "I did not mean to do it—it—it just happened. Lucien was gone so much, and—and I believed he did not care for me—" Her shoulders shook slightly, and she stopped, looking up through wet lashes. "Lord Townsend seemed so kind—so attentive—and Lucien was never there." Turning finally to Lucien, she cried, "You know it's true! You never cared for me, did you?"
"No," he admitted baldly. "But I paid your bills."
"That was not enough! You found me a crushing bore! And Bell—" Her voice dropped. "Bell did not."
Seizing the advantage her tears gave him, Tate rose again. "My lord bishop, Lady Longford is desirous of a reconciliation. Is that not true, my lady?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Very affecting, my dear," Lucien murmured, "but I am not thrice the fool."
"Surely there must have been some measure of affection when you wed her," the parish vicar reminded him.
"No."
"Then why in heaven's name did you offer for her?" the bishop demanded.
"Folly."
It was no use, and they all knew it. Finally, the Fen-tons' solicitor sighed. "Very well, my lord. If we concede that a reconciliation cannot be effected, my client is prepared to return discreetly to her family. She will, however, require a suitable allowance."
"Not a legal separation, of course," Lord Fenton hastily inserted. "Appearances—"
"Appearances be damned," Lucien interrupted coldly. "I shall be satisfied with nothing less than a divorce."
"It will be disastrous for both of you!" Fenton shouted at him. "Speak of folly, will you? This is utter folly!"
The bishop pursed his lips in disapproval, then addressed Lucien heavily, "I beg you will think on this, my lord. There will be unfortunate consequences—it's possible that neither of you will be received in society after the scandal."
"Possible!" Fenton snorted. "It's certain!"
"Perhaps Lord Longford has not considered—" Lady Fenton ventured timidly.
"It's ruination!" her husband insisted. "Ruination!"
Lucien rose and reached for his beaver hat. Turning to face the censure of the others, he shrugged. "It is a risk I am prepared to take. Good day, Diana. Lady Fenton." He bowed slightly toward the
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