St. Alaban led Josie from the floor to where the Chevalier de Galin stood beside Mrs. Pandora Grenfell.
And whose eyes could hold more pride than those of the handsome Chevalier as his lovely niece was restored to him? Whose head could tilt more gracefully as he bent to murmur something in her ear than that of the beautiful Mademoiselle Josephine?
The gentlemen were crowding around her, clamouring for her dance card, and she was lost to sight.
Leith gave Devenish a little push. “Go on, you fiddlefoot!”
But Devenish, his jaw setting, did not move.
The music struck up, then faded. The crush around the Chevalier and his niece fell back.
Josie stepped onto the dance floor. The eager young gentlemen who rushed to solicit her hand, sighed and retreated. All alone, she walked with pretty grace across that wide, empty floor, her great skirts swaying provocatively, her fan gently fluttering, her eyes fixed upon the man who stood so straight, so still, at the edge of the dance floor, the rest of the Nine scattered about nearby.
A complete silence had fallen. Halting before him, Josie said softly, “Hello, Dev,” and extended her gloved hand.
He bowed over it. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, his heart thundering.
She was very aware of the emptiness in the eyes that were an even deeper blue than she had remembered. She said with a flicker of dimples, “And what do you think of your wandering ward?”
“That she is—the loveliest thing I ever saw.”
The fan swept up to hide the dimples, but her eyes laughed at him, the flecks in them purest amber. “The other gentlemen seem to agree,” she said.
A little pulse was beating below his temple. “Of course.”
“And…” she pursued, “are you proud of me, Mr. Devenish?”
He searched her face. “Very, very proud. Only—”
Her brows lifted. He saw a poise that was new, and he thought, ‘She is all grown-up.’ “Only,” he said, “I had hoped—you would wear a gold locket.”
“Oh.” She touched the sparkling diamonds that rested above the curve of her beautiful breasts. “But Uncle Émile gave me these, you see.”
“Yes. I see.”
She allowed the loop of the fan to slip down her wrist. Her face was grave suddenly as she held up that hand.
On the palm of the white glove lay a thing that glittered with the brilliance of diamonds and the deeper gleam of a fine emerald.
For an instant, Devenish felt dizzied, and afraid to look up at her.
She said, her voice very soft, “I have worn the locket every day, my dearest darling, but I didn’t wear it tonight because—you would have known at once, and—I wanted to … to let you know that … I am not—quite on the shelf, or so … plain that no one else wants me.”
He tried to speak, and his voice failed him. He reached out, and she loved him the more because when he took the ring and put it in the pocket of his elegant waistcoat, his hand trembled. His second effort was more successful, but scarcely profound. “Josie…” he croaked.
Blinking away tears, she murmured, “Oh, Dev. How terribly I have missed you. I have come home. If you—still want me…”
The music struck up. Somehow, he remembered to extend his arm, and she swayed to put her hand on it.
The crowd parted. Jeremy Bolster, his own eyes suspiciously bright, whispered, “Good show!”
With an ecstatic pride, Alain Devenish led his love away and, in a small, secluded alcove, proved how much he wanted her.
* * *
Charles Cornish leaned in the window of the bookroom and watched Mrs. Robinson adjust three volumes whose spines dared to project a fraction of an inch beyond those of their companions, run a finger along the gleaming shelf in search of nonexistent dust, and peer suspiciously at the unmarred surface of a glass door. He sniffed disparagingly. “Cor, but you’re in a proper state. Anyone’d think as the guv’nor and ’is missus was comin’ up the drive this very minute.”
“I hope not,” she said with a glum shake of the head. “I want everything to be as nice as possible.”
He stared at her, baffled, then glanced to the window and the light dawned. “Oh, y’mean on account o’ the drizzle? Never fear, mate, that wouldn’t bother Sir Guv, nor his lady.” He winked, and grinned his broad, gappy grin.
“I’d hoped it would be a lovely summer’s day,” sighed the housekeeper, and added heavily, “But I wasn’t thinking about the weather, so much as what … what might lie ahead.”
Exasperated, he groaned, “If that ain’t just like a woman! Arter all they been through, ’ere they is, comin’ back ter wedded bliss at last, and wotcha go and do? Moan and groan and carry on like a perishin’ funeral!”
“Don’t say that! Oh, never say it!” Mrs. Robinson wrung at her apron and turned to face him.
There was real worry in her eyes, and he said curiously, “Something’s addling yer brainbox, Mrs. R. Spit it out, mate. If you’re frettin’ bout Sir Guv’s leg—”
She bit her lip. “I’m worrying about that evil, evil man. I know his kind and they don’t never forget when they think they’ve been hardly done by. They brood, and plot, and—and, oh, Charlie, our dear Mr. Dev has had so much misery—I do so pray they’ll have a bit of happiness, poor things!” She pressed a hand to her mouth and regarded him tearfully.
“Wot—you mean that there nasty little Fontaine fella?” He gave a derisive snort. “He’s took his nobby knees orf somewhere, ain’t he? Fergit the perisher!”
“It don’t do to forget a snake, Charlie. You can’t never tell when they’ll strike again. He’s a murdering, cruel, vindictive man, and when he comes back, he’s sure to—”
Cornish, who had turned and was directing a slyly amused gaze at the rainy gardens, murmured, “But s’posing ’e don’t come back ’tall? Or ’e might come ’ome a reformed man. The sea air might’ve done ’im a bit o’ good…”
Mrs. Robinson’s eyes had grown very wide during this little speech. “Charles Cornish,” she whispered with breathless incredulity, “what you been and gone and done?”
“Me?” he protested, injured. “Now, wot could the likes of a poor perishin’ footman do agin the likes o’ a rich lordship? Lookit all them animals out there. Where they orf to, I wonder?”
Not about to be diverted, the housekeeper crossed to peer up at him. “You said ‘sea air,’” she pointed out. “How d’you know he went to sea? No one’s seen the horrid gent since he dishonoured himself at that duel.”
“Stands to reason,” he replied with bland innocence. “Man with all that pride goes and disgraces hisself. Everybody sneerin’. ’E can’t stand it. You mark me words, Mrs. R. ’E’s em-barked, ’e ’as. On a long sea voyage.” Mischief sparkled in his eyes. “With luck, he’ll get right seasick.” He chuckled softly. “Take ’im dahn a peg or two, I ’spect. Might even make a man of ’im. Perisher oughta thank me, if—Whoops!” He leered at her conspiratorially.
Mrs. Robinson took a deep breath. “You wicked devil,” she accused with a brilliant smile. “Oh—you conniver, you!”
He winked. “Look ’ere, Mrs. R. I—”
“Not another word!” She threw up one hand. “I don’t want to know nothing about the wicked business.” But in an abrupt departure from so pious an attitude, she asked, “You’re quite sure, Charlie? The Viscount won’t come back—not for a good long time, anyway?”
“A very good long time,” declared Cornish, much amused. “You c’n take me perishin’ word fer it, Mrs. R.”
* * *
The two riders disdained the drivepath, and went side by side across the meadows. Devenish, eyeing his bride’s bewitching profile and wishing the June afternoon had been a little more cooperative, sighed. Her bright gaze turned to him, and he said ruefully, “I’d so wanted you to see it at its best.”
Josephine de Galin Devenish reached out, and he kissed the gloved fingers, damp or not.
“Just a little drizzle, my darling,�
�� she said. “And so very gently English.”
They started up the last hill, the treetops blowing softly, the misted air lending a blurred mystery to the hills and the emerald valleys.
“Dev,” Josie went on, her eyes dreaming, “it was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it? And Uncle Émile and my grandmama so happy.”
“And my bride the loveliest that ever was or ever will be,” he declared.
“And my husband looking at me in such a naughty way at the altar that I fairly blushed,” she scolded, the dimples peeping.
“Very fairly. And soon to be kissed by every rascally fellow in sight, and a few I’d not thought to see there, I can tell you! Gad, Elf, what a surprise to see old Diccon in all his regalia. I’ll swear he looked positively handsome with all those medals, even with his left sleeve pinned up, poor fellow.”
“Yes. And, bless him, so happy with his lady. And how very kind of the King to come!”
He chuckled. “And to leave some food for our other ravenous guests! Now, madam wife, enough of this chit-chat. You will please to keep your eyes on me.”
Wondering, she watched as he swung lightly from the saddle and reached to lift her down.
“Look,” he said, turning her about, but keeping his arms around her.
“Oh … Dev…!”
He had rebuilt Devencourt, but had moved the connecting wing to the rear, rather than the front of the mansion. The drive-path now curved around the centre lawns between the east and west wings. A fine fountain lifted delicate sprays and was edged by bright flower beds. All signs of the fire were gone. Devencourt was bright with fresh paint, and shone like a new house. Astonished, Josie gasped, “How very lovely you have made it! But—surely, it must have been terribly costly?”
“Uncle Émile’s wedding gift. And the fountain is from Guy and Faith, bless them. My Elf—are you sure you wish to honeymoon here?”
She leaned in his arms, smiling down at the great house. “Very sure.”
“And,” he said, kissing her ear, “now that you have seen so many glamorous places, you will not be bored to spend much of the year here? We will go to Paris once a year, and we can take a house in Town for the Season, but—”
“Not next Season, I think,” she said demurely.
He turned perfectly white. “J-Josie…? You cannot mean—”
“Of course not, foolish child,” she said with her rippling laugh. “We were only married three days ago! But … in the natural order of—of things…”
He held her tighter and she drew back to look up at him wonderingly. “Dev? You do want children? I always thought—”
“I—I did. But … sweetheart, only to think that this precious woman’s body—this miracle that can give me children…”
His voice failed. She pulled down his head and kissed his chin and the side of his mouth until he claimed a sweeter kiss. And sighfully, snuggling closer, she murmured, “Then why did you tremble so?”
“Because I have waited so very long, my lovely wife. And—I love and—and need you, so very much. If—if anything should happen…”
She pulled away, and seeing the fear in his eyes, touched his cheek and said, “My own, we live in a modern age. This is the nineteenth century, and the days when every lady wrote her Last Will and Testament before going into confinement are done with, thank heaven! Besides, I am as strong as any horse, and you—”
“Have the Rat Paws,” he inserted, grinning rather lopsidedly, “as witness—” he pointed.
The staff of Devencourt, eager to welcome the newlyweds, were as yet unaware of their imminent return. There were those, however, who knew of it, and accordingly, a small cavalcade had set out. Coming up the hill trotted a plump pink pig. Behind her was a white cat, his plume of a tail waving in the air, and, following, a ginger cat, with tail just as high, if not as bushy. Bringing up the rear, a black and white kitten—no longer a small round ball, but full of energy as it bounced along, very much a part of the committee to welcome the master and Milady Elf.
Josie laughed. “How very dear they are.” She tucked her head under his chin, and he swiftly removed her dainty hat before the feather drove him berserk. “Oh, Dev, darling Dev, if only you knew how I have dreamed of giving you fine sons, and dainty, fair little girls, with your blue eyes. You will be so good with them—such a wonderful father. And I shall—”
“Shall be more loved than ever,” he interrupted again, and kissed the top of her head. “However fat.”
“Fat!” She leaned back in his arms to frown up at him.
“Well, after that lot, it would be quite understandable if—”
“Wretch!” she laughed, tugging his hair. “Come down here—and be still!”
And with the drizzle falling soft and all unheeded about them, and the horses starting to graze, Alain Jonas Devenish took his bride’s advice and took also a firmer grip on the happiness that had come to him at last.
About the Author
Patricia Veryan was born in England and moved to the United States following World War II. The author of several critically acclaimed Georgian and Regency series, including the Sanguinet Saga, she now lives in Kirkland, Washington. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Patricia Veryan:
THE LORD AND THE GYPSY
LOVE’S DUET
MISTRESS OF WILLOWVALE
SOME BRIEF FOLLY
NANETTE
FEATHER CASTLES
MARRIED PAST REDEMPTION
THE NOBLEST FRAILTY
THE WAGERED WIDOW
SANGUINET’S CROWN
PRACTICE TO DECEIVE
JOURNEY TO ENCHANTMENT
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Also by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
GIVE ALL TO LOVE. Copyright © 1987 by Patricia Veryan.
All rights reserved.
For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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eISBN 9781250101273
First eBook edition: September 2015
Give All to Love Page 37