The Devil May Care

by Emma V. Leech

  “Oh, your Grace,” Mrs Goodly said, her eyes full of tears. “May God bless you for a saint! You've saved her life, truly you have.”

  Beau gave a snort and shook his head. “Not a saint, Mrs Goodly. On that point I can be perfectly certain.”

  “Stop it!” Milly cried, snatching her hand from Beau's and sitting upright, staring at them both in horror. “You are out of your minds, both of you. My Lord! You will take me back to my cousin. Now. This instant!”

  “Milly!” Mrs Goodly exclaimed. “Don't be a fool! He's going to marry you! You'd be a duchess - you'll never have to worry again.”

  Milly glared at them, and Beau recognised the flash of steel in her eyes that he'd seen once before. “Well I won't marry him!”

  “Why?” Mrs Goodly demanded, looking at her friend as though she'd truly lost her mind.

  “Because he's only doing it because he feels sorry for me!” she exclaimed in frustration, her eyes glinting in the dim moonlight that illuminated the carriage. “Beau,” she exclaimed, reaching out and taking his hand. “Dearest Beau, you have no idea how touched I am that ... that you would sacrifice yourself in such a fashion, but you must see it is beyond foolish!”

  Beau sighed and held her hand to his lips, kissing the cold fingers. “I see nothing of the sort,” he said quietly. “And I'm afraid it will be you who makes the sacrifice if you decide to accept my offer.”

  Milly blinked at him as he released her hand. “What do you mean?”

  Beau paused for a moment, wondering how best to word his proposal and Mrs Goodly suddenly rapped on the carriage roof and they swayed to a halt.

  “I'm feeling a trifle queasy,” she said, her voice firm as she gave Milly an eloquent look before she could protest. “I'm going to sit with the driver and get some air.”

  Before Milly had even a chance to say anything, she'd gone, the door closing on the silence that surrounded them.

  Beau smiled at Milly, wanting never again to see the fear that still lurked in her eyes. Moving slowly, so as not to startle her, he crossed the carriage and sat beside her, drawing her arm through his and covering her hand.

  “I want you to marry me,” he said, his voice quiet.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You don't, you know you don't. You're just being kind, we both know it and ... I can't stand it!” She began to cry and he pulled her to him, sliding his arm around her thin shoulders.

  “Listen to me, Milly,” he said, his voice firm. “I had no intention of ever marrying now that my father is dead. But I think, perhaps, with you I have found a solution that will suit us both. But don't, I beg you, go thinking I'm making some great sacrifice, for I'm not. I ... I'm proposing simply a marriage of convenience. I don't want a wife, but society won't give me a moment's peace until I do. I'll have marriageable young girls cast at me from all sides, all of them trying to snare my title. I would have married for money it's true, but now my father's gone ...” He shrugged. “Well assuming he hasn't spent the entire fortune that at all events should be dealt with.”

  “But Beau,” she sobbed. “You can't have considered ...” Her voice becoming muffled as she buried her head against his shoulder.

  “Considered what?” he asked gently, striving to gain her confidence as even in the meagre light he could see the embarrassment in her eyes.

  “Y-you'll want an heir and ... he'll be tainted by my b-bad blood.”

  Beau suppressed a curse of anger that she should think of herself so, but he needed to make his position clear from the outset. He couldn't afford for her to have any illusions about their marriage.

  “Sweet, little bird. I can assure you, my blood is far more tainted than yours, and it is for that reason, and that reason alone, that there will never be another in my line. I will be the last Duke of Ware, and the name will die with me.”

  “Beau!” she exclaimed, looking up, her face horrified. “You can't!”

  He smiled at her, tightening his hold on her for a moment. “I can, Milly, only too easily. I wanted to tell you before, to talk about it. That's why I came to see you. I wanted to talk about my father, about ...” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “He was an evil bastard. But he was just one of many in a long, unbroken line of malignancy. I won't keep the name alive after all the damage it’s done.

  That was why I wanted to talk to you about it, about it all. To try and ... make peace with it I think. But that can wait for the moment. For now all you need to understand is what I'm offering you.” He turned toward her a little more so that they were facing each other. “I'm not offering you a fairy tale, Milly. There will be no love story, no sweet romance. But I can give you a safe place to be. You need never be frightened again. You'll have my name to protect you and believe me no one will ever want to upset the Duchess of Ware. I'd kill them first.” Reaching out, he stroked her face, hoping she wasn't too hurt by his next words. “I'm not going to change my ways though, little bird. You're going to have plenty of reasons to blush for me and you'll have to endure the gossip. You know better than anyone the kind of man I am.” He watched her face, trying to gauge her reaction. “I'll be the very devil of a husband and you know it. But if you think we could go on as we have till now, but simply together, instead of apart, then I would be honoured if you would consent to marry me.”

  He looked down at her and saw her wide brown eyes fill with tears. He felt desperately sorry for her. It could hardly be the kind of romantic proposal she had dreamed of as a girl, but at least she would be safe. She need never be abused or humiliated in her own home and she would command the respect of the ton. His title would give her that at least, no matter what the gossips made of it, and there was no point in pretending there would be no gossip.

  “You have indeed run mad,” she whispered, staring up at him.

  He shrugged. “Then they can say we are both quite out of our minds,” he said, giving a devilish chuckle. “Just think what fun we could have, you and I. You have no idea how often I wished I could speak with you about some ridiculous thing someone had said or done, rather than forever having to wait days for a letter to arrive!”

  “Oh, so did I!” she exclaimed. “It was so infuriating to have to wait to see what you would say next when I'd given you a set down,” she said, driven to laughter despite her unsteady emotions.

  “There you see,” he said, his voice approving. “You could give me all the set downs your heart could desire and see the moment they hit home.”

  She was quiet and he wondered if he had pushed too hard.

  “I-I would never scold you, Beau,” she murmured.

  “Oh ho! What a plumper,” he said, laughing and forcing her to laugh again in response. She gave him a half-hearted tap on the arm.

  “Oh, I don't mean when I'm teasing you,” she said, looking up at him. “I do enjoy teasing you,” she admitted, and he was pleased to see a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. “But ... if ... if I agree to this I promise you. I will never intrude. I shall never ask where you are going or try and... interfere. But I will try very hard to make things ... comfortable for you and ... and not to make you ashamed of me.”

  “I could never, never be ashamed of you, Milly. Please don't ever think it.”

  She gave a little huff of indignation. “Oh, please. I have no use for Spanish coin and empty flattery and you know it. I'm hardly going to bring you the pride you would have felt if you'd entered a ballroom with Lady Dalton hanging on your arm, now am I?” she demanded, her voice surprisingly fierce. “If I am to do this I will have you be honest with me, Beau. We will be friends and ... and partners perhaps, but not man and wife. I am not a lover to be flattered. I'll have the truth with no bark on it or I cannot agree to this ridiculous proposal of yours.”

  He smiled at her, finding himself rather pleased by her forthright nature. “I promise you, hand on my heart, I will never flatter you or try to make love to you. I will tell you nothing but the truth, and perhaps you will not turn heads like Lady Dal
ton, but if you think that means I should be ashamed of you then I'm afraid that I have given you a very poor notion of my character. You must think me very shallow.”

  “Oh, no!” she cried, looking utterly mortified. “I never meant that, you must know I did not! Only ... only you are so very handsome and used to being around such beautiful women. You know very well people will stare at me and wonder what on earth has possessed you! But they can never know how ... how truly honourable you are. Not as I do.”

  “Gammon,” he said, laughing at her. “Honourable? You do remember who you are speaking to?” he said and then continued before she could interrupt and contradict him. “But does this mean you accept me? Will we be married?”

  She swallowed and bit her lip before taking a breath and nodding. “Yes, Beau,” she said, her voice quiet. “If you are absolutely sure, then ... yes, please. I will marry you.”

  Chapter 6

  “Wherein our heroine is found living in a strange place, somewhere between heaven and hell.”

  Milly woke the next morning in the respectable splendour of Grillon's hotel and wondered if perhaps his grace had recovered his senses and was heartily regretting his rash words. She recalled with a blush and a smile the way he had set the hotel on its ears last night. Arriving at such a late hour, with a shabby young woman in tow with not a single band box or valise to her name caused a considerable stir.

  Expecting the establishment to take her in was almost more than the manager could accept. The poor man had opened his mouth to protest, uttering the words 'respectable establishment', when she had been gratified to witness Beau’s icy demeanour once again.

  His grace informed the man with all the dignity that his weighty title could bring to bear that the hotel had the honour of the patronage of none other than the future duchess of Ware. He further informed him that if her grace found anything in the slightest to complain about it was likely that the hotel would not survive the week. From that moment on the staff had fallen over themselves to please her in such an alarming manner that she had almost been thrown into hysterics. Indeed her future husband gave her such an amused wink of encouragement that it was all she could do to keep a straight face.

  Now, though, alone with her thoughts and settled comfortably against a mountain of snowy white linens, she wondered if she really knew what she was doing. She had fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love with Beau, all of those years ago when she'd seen him as a child. The moment he'd taken off the mask to unveil the man who had so devastatingly beaten Lord Reece, she'd seen the face of a golden Adonis, and she'd been totally smitten.

  She had worshipped him from afar from that day to this. And since she had come to be able to call him her friend, her admiration of his kindness had only added to her feelings for him. And now she was to be his wife. It should have been a dream. But it wasn't a dream and Milly was no fool. If she was to survive the future her heart would have to be tucked very securely away so that he could never have cause to suspect her. For kind-hearted as he was, he would feel guilty if he believed his affairs hurt her in any way. He might even try to make amends if he realised that she was in love with him, to try and be a proper husband to her, and that would never do. If that happened he would grow to feel trapped and resentful and their easy friendship would be at an end.

  One thing was clear to her; she would guard that friendship above anything else. She valued that more than any silly romantic daydream that he might one day look up and realise he loved her. Milly had lived too long in a cruel world to place any such hopes on such precarious things as dreams. Her dreams hadn't saved her from the dark cellar her cousin locked her in for days at a time with no food and little water. They hadn't softened the blows when he'd lost his temper and struck her, or raged at her that she was stupid and filthy and worthless.

  But Beau didn't think she was any of those things. He liked her well enough to rescue her from her cousin. He even liked her sharp tongue and encouraged her to say all the dreadful things that her cousin would have beaten her for. But she was under no illusion that this beautiful new life she was being offered held no perils. To be so close to Beau every day, to see him and share her life with him, but never be able to share what was in her heart - that was an exquisite torture all of its own.

  ***

  Beau had risen early that morning, much to the astonishment of his household. He had come home from France to find Purefoy and Rexom allied in the sole purpose of defending his lordship's home and chattels from debt collectors and bailiffs, despite his departing instructions to the contrary.

  Receiving the news of Beau’s inheritance of dukedom with obvious glee, the household had been one of giddy happiness ever since. Nonetheless he stood before them now after having spent an uncomfortable hour conferring with the Bishop on the acquisition of a special licence. This piece of paper now sat snugly in his jacket pocket and all that was left was to inform his staff.

  Beau cleared his throat, feeling unaccountably nervous as Mrs Buss, Mr Purefoy and Rexom looked expectantly at him.

  “I'm getting married,” he said in a rush, not knowing how else he could break the news.

  “Oh!” wailed Mrs Buss in alarm. “Not a foreigner,” she exclaimed, eyes wide. “You didn't bring someone home with you from France? For I tell you now, Sir, I'd do just about anything for you, but cook frog's legs I will not!”

  Beau tutted and shook his head. “Now, now, Bustle, none of that. You said yourself that Lady Falmouth was the loveliest young woman and just as she ought to be, so don't go bleating about foreigners!”

  Mrs Buss buttoned her lip, chastened, but relaxed visibly when Beau admitted that his betrothed was not in fact French. He wondered what else he could say about Milly. It would be clear to them all soon enough that it wasn't a love match and he hadn't chosen her for her social position or fortune.

  “I think you'll like Millicent very much,” he said, smiling at her. “I know I do. I believe that she will fit very well into our household but ...” He paused and decided he should be forthright about her circumstances. He trusted these people above all others and they should know that Milly needed careful handling. “She suffers from the same malady that afflicted Edward,” he said, addressing Rexom and Bustle as Purefoy had come to him after his twin had died.

  “Oh, Sir,” Mrs Buss murmured, pity shining in her eyes.

  Beau cleared his throat. “Yes, well. I needn't tell you that she needs a peaceful environment. She ... She has been living in ... well, frankly she's been living in a hellish place up until now and I won't allow it to continue. Therefore Millicent Sparrow is to become the next Duchess of Ware and I expect you all to do everything in your power to make her comfortable.” He smiled then, reaching over to pat Mrs Buss' plump shoulder as she was looking a little offended. “I know I needn't say it, Bustle, but the thing is that she's not been brought up to expect such a position in life and I think she's going to need your help. Please be kind to her and make her feel at home. She ... is my dear friend and I want her to be happy.”

  “You may rely on us, your Grace,” Rexom said and Beau let go a little of the tension that had been making his shoulders tight all morning.

  “Thank you, Rexom. I knew that I could,” he said, adding, “She will bring her companion, a Mrs Goodly, with her. I believe the lady also acts as Miss Sparrow's dresser. I hope of course that you will make her just as welcome as your new mistress.”

  This was greeted with murmurs of agreement, though he knew they must be apprehensive of such a change in the household, and he watched as the three filed out to go about their day. Mrs Buss, however, hesitated in the doorway.

  “Go on, Bustle,” he said, smiling at her. “Say what's on your mind.”

  His housekeeper looked back at him, concern in her eyes. “I know you'd intended to marry Lady Dalton, Sir, and ... and I know it wasn't a love match but ... but I'd always hoped ...”

  “Bustle, you're a romantic,” he exclaimed, making her huff and shak
e her head at him.

  “Nothing of the sort,” she replied, smoothing down her white, starched apron with dignity. “But that's not to say that ... Oh, Sir, I did hope to see you happy one day.”

  “Goodness,” he replied, one eyebrow raised at her. “Am I such a miserable fellow to live with? I had no idea.”

  Knowing well enough when she was being teased, Mrs Buss narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, no, Sir, and well you know that's not my meaning.”

  Beau walked over and kissed her cheek. “I know and I thank you for it, dear Bustle. But I think you'll find Milly and I will deal famously together. Now run along for I mean to bring my bride home tonight and I know you've got a deal to do. For starters you'll want to feed her up.”

  “Skinny little dab is she?” Mrs Buss asked, frowning.

  “All skin and bone,” Beau agreed. “I strongly suspect that the cousin she has been living with has been starving her.” He knew that this was something that would bring all of Bustle's maternal instincts rushing to the surface.

  “Well the poor little mite!” she exclaimed, her eyes alight with outrage. “Well don't you fret your head none, Sir. I'll make sure she's in the pink before you can say Jack Robinson.

  “Bustle, you are an angel, but then I never doubted it for a moment.”

  Mrs Buss huffed and left the room muttering about his Grace's devilish tongue, but the glow in her cheeks betrayed her pleasure at the compliment.

  Satisfied that his staff would make all the arrangements for the household, Beau went to collect his bride.

  ***

  Milly stood before the elegant modiste, Madame Devy, with a mixture of embarrassment, awe and relief. The lady, who was perhaps in her late forties and towered over Milly by a good foot was vastly intimidating. The idea of having to marry Beau and meet his household wearing her frayed and faded gown was so horrifying, however, that she was willing to endure the ordeal without a murmur. But having to face this daunting woman of fashion wearing it was nonetheless mortifying. She felt every bit the shabby brown bird her name implied and like she'd strayed into the gilded environment of birds of paradise. Not that Madame Devy catered for the fast set. Indeed, Beau had chosen well.