by Jo Beverley
“Now,” said Amy, “will someone please explain what you’re up to. This is madness. Where are you all to stay?”
“Owen’s hired a house,” declared Jasper. “Montague Street. Very handsome.”
“But you can’t stay there with him,” Amy said blankly.
“Can,” said Staverley. “Though we’re in a hotel for tonight. Your sister and me, we’re to be married. Tomorrow. Special license. Wanted to do it back home but she wouldn’t hear of it without her favorite sister, so here we are. Honeymoon in London. Bound to be plenty of excitement for the younger ones with the victory celebrations.” By the end of this speech, his frown had lifted a little and he merely looked flustered. He took Beryl’s hand and they smiled at each other. For the first time, Amy noticed the handsome diamond on her sister’s hand.
Amy was speechless. She heard Sir Cedric and Nell say all that was proper and tried to summon the right words herself, but Beryl was sacrificing herself because Amy had failed.
“Amy, dear, aren’t you happy for me?”
Beryl had come to sit beside her. “Are you happy?” Amy asked.
Beryl smiled. “Of course I am, dearest. You don’t mind, do you? I know you didn’t take a great liking to Owen, but I’m sure you’ll come to see his qualities as I do.”
“Well, he’s rich,” said Amy.
“Amy, dear,” said Beryl with a slight frown, “you know I would never marry for money alone. Owen and I are very fond of each other. Very fond.” Beryl looked over at monkeyish Owen Staverley with warm devotion. He caught her eye and looked away, reddening. Hunger.
Amy became aware her mouth was hanging open and closed it.
“You mustn’t mind his manner,” Beryl said quietly. “He’s just shy, you see, and hides it with a frown. He feels ill at ease until he knows people well. But he’s the soul of generosity. He’s settled a handsome amount on Jassy and put money into the estate, so by the time Jasper achieves his majority the estate should be debt free.”
“He must have put in a great deal of money,” said Amy, startled.
“Yes, but he said it was made easier because someone had recently done something with the debts. I don’t understand it, but you may. They’ve been bought up, I think, and the interest reduced to a mere nothing. Perhaps it was something Uncle Cuthbert arranged.”
Amy looked over at Sir Cedric, who was clearly attending to this conversation. He looked rueful and winked.
Her stunned amazement was beginning to fade, and facts were beginning to settle and sort in her mind. There was a chance that it was all going to be all right. Could she dare believe it?
More arrivals. Amy looked up to see Harry, Randal, and Sophie at the door. Numbly awaiting what was to come next, Amy made a fresh round of introductions. Nell ordered more cups and tea.
Randal and Sophie sat. Harry remained standing.
“I have come,” he said loudly, “to ask Miss de Lacy to marry me.”
“You can’t,” said Amy pleasantly. “She’s going to marry Mr. Staverley.”
Harry looked startled, but then laughed. “I have come to ask Miss Amethyst de Lacy to marry me. Will you, Amy?”
Amy considered him. “I would have thought after last time that you’d have realized I don’t much care for such blunt proposals.”
“After last time,” he said bluntly, “and all that’s gone in between, I’m not sure it’s worth making a long speech of it.”
He seemed quite unconscious of their fascinated audience. Not so Amy, particularly if he intended a review of their encounters. She stood. “Perhaps we can continue this discussion in private.”
He stopped her before she reached the door and wrapped an imprisoning arm around her. “Oh no, I may need witnesses.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” But Amy relaxed against his body and laid her head on his shoulder.
He leaned close to her ear, which was enough in itself to make her begin to lose her hold on her senses. “That note should have given you a hint,” he whispered. “I’ll stop at nothing, wench. It’s up my sleeve.”
“What is?” she murmured, fighting giggles. Everyone was staring at them as if they’d gone mad.
“Your shift,” he whispered, warm and soft against her ear. “Shall I pull it out and wave it before the company, or do you surrender gracefully?”
Amy was very tempted to call his bluff. When had she become such a wicked, reckless woman? But she surrendered, if not very gracefully. “I’ll probably accept you,” she said clearly, “if you mange to make a handsome proposal.”
He looked startled, then blindingly happy. She realized that he knew nothing of what had transpired today but had truly come to force her hand by any means possible.
He went dramatically to one knee. “My dearest Amethyst, precious jewel of my heart, I can imagine no joy in life if you are not by my side. In my eyes you are perfect. I adore you. Give me the right to love and cherish you forever.”
He was acting the fool, but his eyes told her every exaggerated word was true.
Amy gave her hand and drew him to his feet, fighting tears. “I think you should know I would have married Sir Cedric if he’d asked me. He’s going to marry Nell instead.”
“Congratulations, sir,” said Harry to the banker. “No you wouldn’t,” he said to Amy. “Why do you think I came armed?”
“You really would?” she asked.
“I really would. That’s why I brought Randal. He’d force us to the altar if no one else did.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about,” said Randal. “But I would point out that you haven’t answered, Amy, and the tea tray is behind you.”
Amy and Harry stepped out of the doorway to allow the maid to bring in the tea.
“Well?” said Harry.
“I’m scared,” said Amy.
“What on earth of? Of me?”
“No, no, never of you. I’m scared this will all be a dream.”
He gathered her into his arms, despite the crowded room. “I’ll make it a dream that will last your whole life long. Say yes, darling.”
“Yes, darling.”
As Harry kissed Amy, Beryl beamed at her betrothed and said, “Do you know, Owen, dear, you are joining the most fortunate family in the world.”
DEIRDREAND DON JUAN
1
THE NEWS OF HIS WIFE’S DEATH caught the Earl of Everdon in his mistress’s bed. He knew most of the world would consider this unremarkable for a man generally known as Don Juan, but he could only see it as a social solecism. Even as he read the disturbing letter, he directed a few choice epithets toward his thick-skulled secretary. What had possessed young Morrow to send it here?
After all, he’d not clapped eyes on his wife for close to ten years, so this travel-stained record of Genie’s demise could surely have waited until he returned home.
Noblesse obliged, however, and he detached himself from Barbara Vayne’s demanding fingers, swung out of bed, and began to pull on his clothes.
He was a tall, handsome man of thirty, who had inherited a distinctly Latin cast to his features from his Spanish mother. His skin had a yearlong darkness unusual in England; his eyes were a deep velvet brown under smooth, heavy lids; his brows and lashes were richly dark. His hair, however, had been touched by his English heritage, and showed sherry gold lights in the afternoon sun. This merely served to emphasize the darker cast of his skin.
“Don, what’s the matter?” his abandoned lover demanded plaintively, pouting her lush lips.
He fastened his pantaloons. “A family crisis.”
Barbara threw off the covers and arched. “Something more important than this?”
He tried never to be unkind to a woman, so he paid her the homage of a hot, regretful look, but didn’t halt his dressing. His mind was on other things.
There were disturbing aspects to this situation.
Ten years of freedom were over.
He had married Iphegenia Bran
don when only twenty, and just down from Cambridge. In retrospect, it had not been wise, and the subsequent disasters had been excruciatingly embarrassing, but he had grown accustomed. In time, he had even discovered that there were advantages to being an abandoned husband.
For the past ten years the Matchmaking Mamas had regretfully ignored him. He had been able to behave with remarkable rashness without any possibility of being forced to the altar. His only brother’s death the year before had caused him to investigate the possibility of divorce, but he had intended to select a bride with great care well before he was known to be available.
Now, however, he was fair prey in the matrimonial hunt. Absurd though it was, once this news broke, even someone like Barbara—the wanton widow of a highly disreputable infantry captain—might think she had a chance of getting Lord Everdon to the altar.
He didn’t neglect the courtesy of a heated farewell kiss, but he first imprisoned Barbara’s hands above her head, just to be sure he escaped her bedroom safely.
Then Mark Juan Carlos Renfrew, Earl of Everdon and lord of a score of minor properties, walked through the streets of Mayfair feeling vulnerable for the first time in his adult life.
During the walk his wariness turned to irritation, and the irritation found a focus. When he arrived at his Marlborough Square mansion, he stalked into his secretary’s study and tossed the letter on David Morrow’s desk. “Preaching, I’ll abide, but not outright malice. You are dismissed.”
The young man was already on his feet. Now he wavered, sheet white. “I’m what…?”
“You heard me. I will give you an adequate reference as to the conscientiousness of your work.”
“But…but why, my lord?”
Everdon was arrested. Young Morrow was nothing if not honest, and his bewilderment rang true. “Why did you send that letter over to Barbara’s house?”
“But…but your wife, my lord. She’s dead!”
“Six months ago, according to that Greek priest.”
“But even so…you would want to know…You wouldn’t want, at such a moment…” The young man flushed red with embarrassment.
Everdon swore with exasperation. “David, my beloved Genie ran off with an Italian diplomat nearly ten years ago, within six months of our ill-judged and juvenile marriage. She has since worked her way through the best—or worst—part of the European nobility. Why the devil should I care that she’s finally met her end?”
But Everdon did care, and knew his untypical foul mood was a direct consequence of that distant death.
Young Morrow’s lips quivered slightly, but he stiffened his spine. “I am sorry for so misjudging the situation, my lord. I will just collect my possessions—”
“Stubble it,” said Everdon curtly, fairness reasserting itself. As the fourth son of an impoverished family, David Morrow had his way to make in the world, and he was an excellent employee. It wasn’t the lad’s fault that he was as prissy as a cloistered nun. It amused Everdon to surround himself with righteousness.
“I apologize for misjudging you.” Everdon smiled, deliberately using his charm to soothe. “Sit down and get on with your work, David. But if you’re researching that matter of the relief of debtors for me, remember my interest as always is pragmatic, not moral or sanctimonious. Give me facts and figures, not sermons.”
The secretary sat with a thump, relief flooding his round face. “Thank you, my lord. Of course, my lord…”
Everdon waved away gratitude. “As you see, I am decidedly out of curl.”
“Er…because of your wife, my lord?”
Everdon’s smile became twisted. “You could put it that way. I’m out of curl because I’m going to have to choose my next wife in a devil of a hurry.”
Upon leaving his secretary, Everdon went straight to his mother’s suite.
Lucetta, Dowager Countess of Everdon, was a handsome woman whose strong-boned face clearly showed her Spanish heritage. Though she was fifty, her black hair held no touch of gray, and her fine dark eyes could still flash with emotion. She was, however, afflicted with a hip disease that made even walking painful, and she largely kept to her rooms, receiving guests and engaging in her passion—embroidery. Everdon kissed her cheek, then surveyed her latest piece, an exquisite working of purple pansies on gossamer silk.
“That is very beautiful, Mother, but I can hardly see it as a chairback.” He spoke Spanish, as he always did when alone with his mother.
She chuckled. “Assuredly not, my dear. In truth, I am not sure what I shall do with it. Lady Deirdre has infected me with this notion of needlework for its own sake. I suppose if nothing else occurs, it will make a panel for a gown.”
He shook his head. “The lady does not exist who is worthy of such ornamentation.”
“What nonsense you speak, Marco. It is just embroidery. Poor women do work as fine for pennies to ornament our society blossoms.”
“I disagree.” He studied the work in her frame. “That is a special piece. It’s the difference between a portrait by Lawrence, and one by an itinerant artist. Lady Deirdre has a case to make. When it is finished, I shall have that work framed.”
Lucetta studied her son, her only child now his younger brother was dead, killed at Vittoria. She sensed an unusual uneasiness in him. “What brings you here today, Marco?”
He glanced up, and his long-lashed dark eyes reminded her poignantly of her brother at the same age, and in a scrape. She knew she really shouldn’t blame Marco for his philandering when he had inherited her family’s devastating charms, but she did. Or at least, she worried.
He evaded her question. “Do I need an excuse to visit you, Madrecita?”
“Of course not, but it is rare to see you in the afternoon. There are so many competing attractions.”
A faint color rose in his cheeks. Beneath the olive skin many would not have noticed it, but she was accustomed to reading such things. “Well?” she demanded.
He looked down at a glossy boot. “Genie’s dead.”
Lucetta’s needle paused for a moment. “At last,” she said.
“Mother!”
She continued setting stitches. “Am I supposed to feign grief? I am not sorry. I am not surprised. I can even guess the cause of her death.”
“Mother, really…”
“You English are so mealymouthed. She was a wretched young woman, and doubtless died miserably of the pox. Her suffering may save her immortal soul.”
“Hardly the sentiment of a good English Protestant,” he pointed out.
“I became a Protestant for your father. I reverted to the true faith when he died, as you know.” She fixed him with a direct look. “This is good. Now you can marry again.”
“That is my duty,” he said bleakly.
Lucetta’s face softened. “Not all women are as Iphegenia was, dearest one. And you are much wiser now.” She sighed. “I have blamed myself most deeply.”
He moved restlessly to a window overlooking the extensive gardens of his mansion. “It wasn’t your fault, love. I was mad for her.”
“But you were young, Marco. Not yet twenty. It was my duty as your mother to be wise for you.”
Lucetta abandoned her work before she made a botch of it. It was time for truth. “I saw your grandfather and uncles in you, you see. Women came to them so easily, they could not resist. It caused great problems. Genie was so beautiful, so passionate. When you loved her, I thought she might satisfy you and keep you safe.”
He turned to face her. “And instead, I failed to satisfy her.”
“No man could satisfy her. She proved that over and again.”
He said nothing—he never had on this subject—but she read old anguish in his face. “Do you still feel tenderly toward her, Marco?”
He turned again, hiding from her. “Feel for her? I can hardly remember her. I remember how I felt…” His voice turned brisk. “Never fear. I know I must marry. With Richard gone, and Cousin Ian ailing, I have no choice. I can hardly leave the
earldom to Kevin, fond though I am of him. I must get an heir. It is merely a matter of finding the right woman.”
“That should not be difficult. You will be the prize of the Marriage Mart.” Lucetta saw him wince and struggled to keep a straight face. As she took up her needle again, she thought that the next weeks could be amusing. She was determined, however, that this time her son would make a good marriage. He probably wouldn’t believe it, but he was capable of making the right woman a wonderful husband.
“I suppose I shall have to see what is still available this late in the Season,” he said. “At least I’m not looking for a Belle or an heiress. Just someone quiet, plain, and content to stay at home.”
Lucetta’s needle froze. “Quiet? Plain? That is hardly to your taste.”
“It is in wives,” he said crisply. “I am hoping you have a candidate in mind.”
“I will have nothing to do with such foolishness,” she stated. “You will join the social whirl and find someone who appeals to you.”
“I am recently bereaved,” he said piously.
His mother spat a Spanish opinion of that excuse. “Six months bereaved.”
Everdon leaned against a wall, arms folded. “Very well, the truth. It’s too dangerous out there. I intend to be in control of this selection.”
“Foolish boy. Are you afraid of the Matchmaking Mamas?”
His grin was disarming. “Terrified. I’ve worn the armor of my marriage for so long, I feel naked without it.” He put on a most beguiling smile. “If you love me, mama mia, you will find me a safe candidate. You can’t persuade me you don’t know every one of this year’s crop.”
Lucetta placed a careful stitch. “Maud Tiverton, then.”
“Maud Tiverton! She looks like a cross between Torquemada and a pug.”
Lucetta smiled sweetly at him. “At least you could be sure no man would steal her from under your nose.”
This time anyone would have seen the color in his cheeks. He made no defense or denial.