Chapter Ten

M atthew realized he was striding down Piccadilly without any destination in mind when his driver, following along beside, called down to him.

"Shall I take the horses home, my lord?"

"Yes, I shall walk the rest of the way." Although he was presently going in the opposite direction.

After watching Griffin disappear down the road, he turned left onto Old Bond Street and kept wandering farther than he meant to go.

Yet still, his thoughts were with Lady Purity.

Infuriating woman!

Spouting off her societal rules and then so easily breaking them as soon as he kissed her. Not only did she relax her morals, her entire body had softened against him. He, too, had felt molten desire. It was the oddest thing!

Not that desire was a strange phenomenon when he was kissing a lovely female, but the overwhelming intensity of it most assuredly was. He had been rendered helpless and even docile. If she'd put her finger to his chin, she could have led him anywhere.

"Pah!" And he'd sworn the truth on his father's soul. How belittling! As if he had to prove himself and his honor to Lady Purity Diamond. He was bending over backward to live up to expectations and got nothing for it but a scolding.

And a kiss that had swept him into a private world where only the two of them existed. Miraculous! If he'd had any doubt he was pursuing the correct woman, it had vanished when their lips touched again.

"Dolls!" he exclaimed, seeing a display of toys.

Coming out of his musings, he realized he'd reached the ever-intriguing Pantheon Bazaar on Oxford Street. Moreover, he had decided to purchase a doll for Diana, after seeing her curl up with a cushion in her small arms, and had nearly forgotten.

These were all porcelain with pale hair and blue eyes. The eyes were right, but he wanted the beauty of a dark-haired doll as rare as his Diamond.

"Her age, my lord?" asked the clerk when Matthew went in and inquired about the display.

"She's in her early twenties," he answered, still glancing around the shop.

"Then you want a collectible, my lord."

"A collectible?" Suddenly, Matthew laughed. "You wish to know the age of the child. Naturally. My mistake, madam. She's four, and a little rough on her toys, so not in need of a collectible."

"Then not porcelain, my lord. You can browse these fine wax-head dolls."

Matthew looked them over. "Why do they all have the same pale hair, not exactly blond yet not brown either?"

"It is mohair," the toy seller said. "Manufactured here in London and supplied to doll makers not only in Britain, my lord, but also in France and Germany."

Matthew picked one up.

"The body is cotton and sawdust," the woman continued. "Quite durable."

"They are cleverly done," he agreed, lifting up the little arm, which felt like stuffed cotton until the elbow.

"The lower part is kid leather."

Each hand had four sewn fingers. He glanced at the clerk. She smiled and shrugged.

"The children don't mind," she insisted.

Matthew wasn't sure it did the children of England any great service to let them grow up thinking some babies had eight fingers, but that was neither here nor there.

"Do you have any dark-haired dolls?"

"I shall have to look in the back. They are more costly since dark hair is actual human hair, and we only ever have one or two."

She disappeared for a few minutes while Matthew picked up another doll and then another. He gave a furtive glance into the bazaar's main thoroughfare, dreading the notion of any of his friends seeing him examining the wee outfits while wondering which one Diana might like best.

But when the toy-seller returned, he knew he'd found the one.

"Tell her nurse to bring Diana to my study," Matthew said when he returned home, more excited than he ought to be about presenting his gifts. He'd also bought a cradle and a little chair for the doll, and with embarrassment that had caused his face to turn scarlet, he had picked out a change of clothes, too.

"I shall be drummed out of Boodle's," he muttered to himself, but he was joyful all the same.

"Never mind," he said, changing his mind. "I shall go to the nursery."

He hardly ever went up to that floor, as his butler's expression showed.

"Don't worry, Mr. Jacobs," Matthew assured him. "Chaos shall not descend upon us."

Taking the stairs two at a time, Matthew found the nursery door open, the curtains pulled to let in the light, and a tidy room with a little girl sitting on a sofa. Diana was singing to herself despite how Mrs. Caldwell sat nearby reading her a book.

"Daddy," Diana yelled, jumping down and almost knocking everything out of his arms. Quickly, he set the packages down and lifted her to his hip.

"How is my little bug today?"

"Good."

"Has she been good?" he asked Mrs. Caldwell, whose face reminded him of freshly baked bread, although he couldn't say why. Something about her puffy cheeks, he supposed. In any case, he'd been lucky to find her on short notice.

"Miss Diana is always good, aren't you, poppet?"

"Do you mind when she sings while you read?" he asked.

"Not at all," the nurse said. "She's smart as a whip. She knows the story even if she's doing something else. When I ask her about it, I know she's been listening."

He smiled down at the wriggling creature in his arms, looking up at him with soft brown eyes.

"Is it your birthday?" he wondered.

"I don't think so," Diana said.

"Is it Christmas?"

"No," she said more assuredly.

" Hm. Shall I return what I've bought you then?" he teased.

"No, Papa!" She pushed at him and squirmed, trying to look down at the packages now she knew they were for her.

"Very well." He set her down. "This one first," he said.

She pulled the lid off the box with her sweet pudgy fingers and then ripped at the tissue paper, making him doubly glad he hadn't bought anything porcelain or breakable. In the next instant, she gasped as she saw the doll's head. Then she drew it out more carefully.

"A baby!" she exclaimed. "A pretty baby!"

Dark-haired and blue-eyed, the doll came wearing a light-blue cotton dress and matching hat, but Matthew bent down and handed Diana the next bundle of tissue paper.

She dropped the baby on her lap to rip it open. A pink dress appeared, not the usual color for a girl, but he thought it lovely anyway, having seen the like on Purity.

"Ooh," Diana cooed and hugged the dress to her as firmly as she'd hugged the doll. It was so easy to make a little girl happy. He needed to learn to do better with an adult female.

The next box was explored in short order, and he helped Diana lift out the painted wooden cradle. She clapped her hands with glee.

"Set it there," she ordered. "Please," she added, the l coming out more like a w, which he adored.

When they had the doll's bed in the place she wished, Diana laid her in.

"Time to go night-night, Clara," Diana said, having quickly chosen a name.

They opened the last box, and he drew out the little, upholstered chair.

Again, she clapped her hands and yanked the doll out of her slumber to settle her in the chair.

"A short nap," he quipped to Mrs. Caldwell.

"I brush her hair," Diana declared, jumping up to grab her own brush off the dresser before returning to start tearing at the doll's soft, dark hair.

"Easy, poppet," said the nursemaid.

Matthew smiled, glad Diana was happy, but the doll was going to be bald by bedtime, so he needn't have worried much over the hair color.

"I shall see you later," he said, but the little girl didn't even look up, happily scalping her baby.

"I will be your mama," she was telling the doll. "I don't have one, Clara, but now you do."

His heart lurched. He should have bought her a doll three months ago and probably a lot more.

"Mrs. Caldwell. Please tell me if I am remiss in providing anything Diana needs. And not merely needs but wants," he added.

"She's a very happy child," the nanny said. "You've done very well, my lord, if I may say."

Mrs. Caldwell had never asked but seemed to believe him a widower or a man who'd taken in an abandoned babe.

"If you think of anything," he persisted, bending down to drop a kiss on Diana's tawny-haired head before he went to the door.

"She likes to draw, always using a stick in the dirt outside."

He was surprised. The daughter of a baron was drawing in the dirt.

"I shall procure her a slate and a supply of chalk at once," he promised. "And paper, too, with some pencils. Might as well be more permanent than a slate."

"That would be perfect, my lord. I will use the slate to go over her letters with her."

He departed the happy scene. Matthew had taken on the little girl's care without much thought or planning. Luckily, Mrs. Caldwell would sort things out and make sure Diana didn't end up a wildling, not knowing how to read or write.

But the little girl's comment about a mother nagged at him. His usual thoughts would be solely for a wife to fulfill his own needs and desires and to satisfy his longing for pleasures of the female form. Yet Diana made him also wish for a woman who could make her a good mother, one who would guide her and hopefully love her even after having children of her own.

He avidly hoped Purity would be that woman.

Purity was unable to stop thinking about Foxford's visit. She wanted to apologize for believing the worst. On the other hand, he had displayed further bad behavior by kissing her.

But it was the very best of bad behavior. She smiled to herself.

In truth, she could heat herself up from tip to toe by simply recollecting it, especially his hands upon her body.

Given Foxford's reputation, no one could blame her for imagining him having a dalliance with one or both of those unfortunate women. Privately, while she thought them dreadfully vulgar, she knew she was being uncharitable. After all, it was unlikely they relished their low state and tawdry profession but had been driven to it by desperate circumstances.

On the other hand, she experienced the thinnest slice of envy at how easily they were able to interact with Foxford in public, even touch him, laugh, and press up against him. If he had been willing, they would have experienced all the mysteries still awaiting her on her wedding night.

She shook her head, wondering how her thoughts had strayed so far, especially when the only man she could picture in the marital bed was the Fox.

Because she insulted him, Purity knew she ought to find a way to apologize. While it wasn't entirely out of the question for her to pay him a visit if her mother was with her, a more appropriate response would be a note. Yet she wished that didn't seem inadequate.

She tapped her chin. Another possibility would be to host a small dinner party and invite Foxford, although having a gathering at her parents' home might lend his invitation too much import. Tongues would wag.

She paced the garden.

Unless other eligible men were invited, along with other single young ladies.

While she had been introduced at court, enjoying the pageantry of meeting the Queen, her parents hadn't provided a coming out party at their home. Purity had specifically requested they did not, loathing the spectacle of an assembly to spotlight herself. Despite her skill upon the piano, she thought it pretentious to invite a bevy of gentlemen and force them to listen.

She shuddered, imagining their eyes studying every inch of her upon meeting, watching how she ate, hanging on her every word, judging her piano recital.

Egad! Why did ladies put themselves through such an ordeal?

Nevertheless, a party of eligible single people, all with one goal in mind — to enjoy an evening with good company and mild flirtation — would be acceptable. She could stomach that. It would be like one of the Fenwicks' parties except without anyone being sent into the hallway.

Warming to the idea, Purity went in search of her father. Fortunately, he was home and in his study. Knowing she could have simply asked her mother, who loved a party and would instantly agree, Purity wished to give the earl the respect he deserved as head of the household.

Tapping upon the door, she heard scrambling noises and a thump. Finally, her father said, "Enter."

Both her parents were in the room. Her father was behind his desk, tugging at his cravat as if it were too tight, and her mother was in the opposite corner, smoothing her hair.

With a breathless appearance as if distraught, Lady Diamond gave her a salutatory wave.

"Is anything amiss?" Purity asked, hoping they hadn't received dire news in a letter from Adam.

"Not at all," her mother said.

"The idea!" her father chimed in.

"What idea?" Purity asked, wondering why they were behaving so strangely.

"Your mother and I were discussing..." he trailed off.

"Getting a dog," Lady Diamond finished after a pause.

Purity frowned. "We have dogs," she said, a pack of them at their country house in Derbyshire.

"Not hunting dogs," her mother said. "A companion dog. A small one, suitable for London, such as the Queen has."

Mention of a dog made Purity think of foxes, which in turn made her think of Foxford, which reminded her why she'd gone to find her father. However, she had to be polite.

"What did you decide?"

"About what?" her father asked, looking at the state of his desk.

Purity noticed it was messier than usual and stepped forward to retrieve some papers that had spilled to the floor.

"About the dog," she said, handing her father the loose sheets. Her parents were usually sharp as tacks.

"We'll be discussing it more later," her father said, grinning at Lady Diamond.

If Purity didn't know better, she would say her mother blushed. What on earth?

"Did you wish to speak with me?" the earl asked, finally bringing his full attention to his second eldest daughter.

"I was wondering about a party."

"Let's have one," her mother said at once, making her father smile fondly at his wife.

"I haven't even told you why or what for," Purity protested.

"Who needs a reason?" the countess asked. "It's the social season, and there are plenty of people looking for a place to be festive. Shall we, Diamond?"

"Whatever you want, my love," he returned. "You ladies figure it all out in that magnificent way you have, send me the bills, and tell me when to show up."