by Joan Smith
“Have you come for a respite from discussing cattle, Lord Devane?” Mary asked. “There is no stopping Ronald once he mounts his hobbyhorse.”
“I hope we did not bore you at dinner. Your husband is so knowledgeable that I forgot my manners and harped on the subject. He is selling me a brood cow at an excellent price.”
“Oh! Is it cattle buying that keeps you in the neighborhood?” she asked innocently.
Devane gave her a knowing grin. “Not entirely, Mrs. Travers.”
Francesca blushed like a blue cow and said, “Lord Devane is always looking for an excuse to leave London. I seem to recall your eagerness to attend country house parties in the past, Devane.”
“And your eagerness to avoid them, ma’am.” He added, to Mary, “You are the only hostess who has succeeded in luring your friend from London.”
“How long will you be at the Swan?” Mary asked him, and felt so uncommonly bold that she added a pretext for the question. “The reason I inquire is that I plan to have a dinner party in Fran’s honor. If you will still be here in a few days’ time, I hope you will attend.”
“I will be delighted to come, Mrs. Travers. I am in no hurry to rush away from such warm hospitality.”
Mary gave her friend a conspiratorial smile and rose. “I must see what is keeping the tea tray.”
“Well, do you think I have passed muster with your friends?” Devane said frankly.
“You are an unqualified success. Why you put yourself to so much bother, I cannot imagine.”
“Bother be damned. Manners are free. The cow is costing me a fortune.”
Her lips moved unsteadily. “I hope it is a good cow.”
“I consider it a wise investment. I must have some excuse for hanging on so long. You have noticed questions are beginning to arise—one might almost say expectations.”
“Of what?” she asked, and immediately regretted the question. His kindling look was answer enough.
“This is a conversation that could be carried on more efficaciously in private. Will you drive out with me tomorrow?” She bit her lip and tried to think of a way of avoiding another meeting. “I must warn you,” Devane continued, “I can be a perfect burr. I have every intention of sticking until I get you alone, if I have to buy every cow in Travers’s pasture.”
“Very well, but—” She could hardly go on to refuse an offer that had not been made. “But I do not plan to return to London,” she finished lamely.
His eyes made a leisurely examination of her hair and face. He noticed the dangling velvet ribbons caressing her jaw. Another innovation in her toilette. Her heightened color revealed her excitement. “You have given up on the dairy-maid look, but I think that ribbon might catch on with the ton. Don’t you miss the delights of society?”
“I have no objection to the society I find here.”
“I shall grab that unwitting compliment and thank you, Francesca.”
Ronald advanced toward them. “Do you want to have a look at Bessie’s record now, milord? I told you I would show you the records of that milcher you’re buying. You won’t regret the purchase.”
“Excellent.” He rose at once and made his bow to Francesca, who had to smile to see the elegant Lord Devane following meekly to the library to pore over records that she was sure would bore him to distraction.
The tea was cold by the time Devane was allowed to return. Mary offered to call for a fresh pot, but he refused like a gentleman and took his leave.
Before departing, he went to Francesca. “Will two o’clock be convenient tomorrow?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
As soon as he was out the door, the ladies had to hear what this was all about. “We are going for a drive. That’s all,” Francesca explained.
“You’ll come back engaged! I know it!” Mary crowed.
Mrs. Denver smiled, and even Selby didn’t frown. It was for Ronald Travers to make the final statement. “He seems like a gentleman of good, sound sense. A lady could do worse, taking into account the title and estates. A good deal worse.”
Alone in her bed that night, Francesca took herself severely to account. Have I no common sense? Did I learn nothing from my first marriage? Devane was a womanizer. She could not marry him—yet every fiber of her wanted to hear an offer. Perhaps it was not going to be an offer after all. He had asked if they were friends.... But his glowing eyes surely held more than friendship.
She would tell him point-blank she was not interested in the sort of marriage that meant a month’s honeymoon followed by a string of mistresses. London, and the Season, were out. Devane would never consent to such an arrangement. She would miss the Season herself....
She hardly knew how she got in the next morning. She had some vague impression of helping Mary write cards for her dinner party and discussing a menu that included much beef and cream desserts, all from the Traverses own farm. But all the time her mind was on Devane and the drive. It seemed an eternity before two o’clock finally came, and the knock at the door announced his punctual arrival.
He was met by all the party except Ronald, who was busy with his work. Francesca was annoyed that the household gave the call the solemnity of a formal visit by sitting in state in the saloon, waiting. The conversation, however, was brief and unexceptionable. The weather and the best roads for a spin were mentioned by Mr. Selby. Mrs. Denver reminded Francesca to take a warm pelisse, as she would be in an open carriage, and Mary invited Devane back for tea after their drive.
While this was going forth, Francesca surreptitiously examined her caller. A blue worsted jacket, straw-colored trousers, and shining Hessians had replaced his clothes of the previous evening without diminishing Devane’s elegance a whit. She rather regretted her determination to be a country girl. She wore a sprigged muslin and plain blue pelisse. Her chapeau was a simple round bonnet enlivened with a wreath of colored flowers.
“We shan’t be late,” Francesca said to her hostess as they left.
The sun shone in a brilliant blue sky. Rooks soared idly amid the spreading elms, and somewhere a thrush sang. “It’s a lovely day,” Francesca said as Devane handed her up into the curricle.
He made a playful bow, then hopped up beside her. “I ordered it especially for you. How many mindless dandies have told you that, I wonder. You see the sort of trip it is going to be. Platitudes and politeness, until I have convinced you you aren’t really a country wench, despite that hideous round bonnet. I was mistaken about the country style catching on. A lady needs the face of an angel to wear such a quiz of a bonnet. You just barely get away with it, Frankie.”
“Is this your idea of platitudes and politeness, Devane?”
“I changed my mind.” He gave the team the signal, and they were off. “It was that invitation to tea that did it. It shortens our outing, I had planned to drive to Dorking for tea. A private parlor seemed a good spot for a proposal,” he finished with no change in tone.
Francesca sat like a nun, deaf in one ear, but her heart was racing. “Dorking is said to be in the fairest part of Surrey. We have time to go there, I think—but not for tea.”
“Actually, I’m not sure that a private parlor is the best spot for a proposal,” he continued as calmly as though discussing the weather. “There is something to be said for the open air. Trees, birds, flowers—all that. We’ll keep an eye out for a private spot, a little away from the road, but not too close to a cow pasture.”
“We could drive to Reigate.”
“I noticed an apple orchard as I drove along. Does it belong to Travers, do you know?” He lifted his eyes from the road then and glanced at her, chewing back a smile. That prim face, he fancied, was the expression she wore in church.
“Or Redhill—it is said to have excellent shops. But I don’t suppose you are interested in shopping.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have the ring with me.” He did not add it had been received only that morning, thanks to a dart to London by his groom.
; Even this telling speech was ignored, though it cost Francesca a supreme effort. “Oh, I know! Let us go to the Recreation Grounds, north of High Street. There are vaults and caverns. They have something to do with the Magna Charta, I believe.”
“Very romantic, Frankie, scrambling around in a sand pit. The tale of their being associated with the barons who forged the Magna Charta is apocryphal.”
“St. Mary Magdalen church, then. Lord Howard, who conquered the Spanish Armada, is buried below the chancel.”
“I have already been to that church, looking for you.”
“At St. Mary Magdalen church?” she asked in confusion.
“Looking for the Traverses, actually, in the parish record, Mr. Irwin knew only their last name and the general area where they live. I have been combing the countryside, looking for them. What do you think took me so long to come to you?”
She treated this question as rhetorical and said, “We could go to Reigate Priory. It was once the seat of Lord Howard—the one who defeated the Armada.”
“Good God, is that a suitable spot for a proposal? You are confusing love and war.”
She gave up ignoring his talk of marriage and turned on him in vexation. “There is no confusion, sir. Love leads to marriage, which leads to war between the man and wife. I have had enough of marital warfare. I am not interested in it.”
They had not gone half a mile yet. No romantic spot had appeared on the horizon. Perforce, Devane continued the drive. “As we are not married yet, could we not call a truce while we discuss this like adults?”
“There is nothing to discuss. Pray, take me back to the Elms.”
“Mrs. Travers will hardly have tea prepared so soon. It is the nadir of bad taste to inconvenience one’s hostess. But I shall not importune you again on that subject you dislike.”
For two minutes they continued in silence. Then Devane said, “I think, in your marriage, it was choosing the wrong partner that gave you such a disgust of the institution.”
She tossed her shoulders. “We were not going to discuss that subject.”
“We were not going to discuss our marriage. I am discussing yours.”
“Men are all alike—and so are marriages.”
“Your friend Mary would stare to hear you say so. I cannot picture Ronald Travers causing his wife a moment’s grief of the sort you suffered.”
She snorted. How dare he suggest she would ever marry a man like Ronald Travers? “What has that to do with you and me?” she asked, sparks shooting from her eyes.
“Very little, I hope, but it might suggest to a rational lady that all men are not alike.”
“That is true, but it does not suggest to me that you have a single thing in common with Ronald. You are more like David.”
“I thought as much! Now we are coming to the crux of the problem,” he said, nodding to himself. “It is clearly not the careless disposition of diamonds we are discussing. I grant you that Lord Devane, bachelor, had something in common with your husband; viz., an interest in women. Lord Devane, husband, however, would be a different article altogether.”
Francesca relented to the extent of granting him a small, distrustful peep. Encouraged, he pulled into the closest roadway, which chanced to be a graveled walk leading to a gate in the pasture fence. Mr. Travers owned the fields on either side of the road, and when his herd had grazed one side, he would open the gate and lead them across to graze the other. Other than a dusty tree drooping over the road, nature had endowed the spot with no particular aids to romance.
Francesca said coolly, “Different for how long? A month? Two? How long would it be before you returned to your old ways?”
Devane dropped the reins and gazed at her. “I cannot read the future any more than you can, Francesca. It is my intention to be a faithful husband. If you feel fidelity more likely in the country than in London, then I am willing to give it a try.”
She looked suspicious but saw by his face that he was serious. “Would you really give up the Season for me?”
“Truth to tell, I share your concerns to some extent. You have many friends—let us be blunt—many beaux in London.”
“But I would never continue with them after I was married!” she exclaimed, shocked and angry at such an imputation.
“Then why should you imagine I would?” he asked simply. “I am not a boy. I’ve done the town for fifteen years, looking for a lady who could fill my life as I hope to fill hers. If I wanted only a titular Lady Devane to give me a son and heir, I could have married eons ago. To speak quite frankly, and risk offending you, even now I could choose a wife less likely to cause me trouble and grief.”
Reading between the lines, Francesca knew that he could also marry one much higher in society, better dowered, unwidowed, and of unsullied reputation. Many a noble lady was on the catch for Devane. “Then why on earth are you offering for me?” she asked angrily.
“Ah, did I fail to mention it? How grossly remiss of me. I am asking you because I happen to love you, and beneath that prickly exterior, I suspect you care for me.”
“But you could do much better for yourself, Devane.”
“I could marry some duke’s daughter whom I do not love, but I could not be faithful to her. As the French duke pointed out, where there is marriage without love, there will be love without marriage. Is that what you are recommending, Francesca?”
“No indeed! You must know that is exactly what I am against.”
“Then it comes down to one important question, doesn’t it? Do you love me?”
It all sounded so simple when Devane said it. He could marry anyone he wanted, and he wanted to marry her. Why should he do so unless he loved her? And if he loved her, why would he want anyone else? “Yes, but—but David loved me, too, and he was not faithful for very long.” Her lip trembled, and a worried frown pleated her brow.
An angry scowl pulled his brows together “Let us not begin this way, Fran. I’m not David. Don’t punish me for his sins. You married a scoundrel and a rake. I am neither one. I am a bachelor who wants to settle down with the woman he loves. Will you have me, or not?”
The moment she half anticipated and half dreaded had arrived, and she was by no means sure what she should do. Devane seemed sincere. He had nothing to gain by marrying her, unless it was her companionship. If she said no, she knew she wouldn’t see him again. He was too proud to grovel. And if she never saw him again, she would be miserable. The very thought of the future without him was intolerable.
“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “I’ll marry you, Devane.” She was within a heartbeat of saying more. But if you ever deceive me, I’ll— The words remained unsaid. It was unfair to burden him with David’s legacy. It was a new beginning with a new faith and trust.
And besides, how could she speak when his lips were bruising hers in a heady kiss? His arms crushed her painfully against his chest, as if he’d never let her go. The old fears were dissipated in new love and joy. David had never kissed her so fiercely. Perhaps this passion was what he had been seeking with those other women.... She threw caution to the winds and threw her arms around his neck. She’d love him so much he’d never give a thought to any other woman. She’d be wife and mistress, if that was what it took.
When he stopped kissing her, his eyes looked wild and dark. A wan smile played on his reddened lips. “Lord Camden was a fool,” he said. “And that is the last time you’ll hear his name on my lips.”
“So was I. I didn’t love him as I should have, but I don’t mean to give you any excuse to stray, sir.”
“Let us go and see that church before we do something we shouldn’t.”
Francesca withdrew her arms from his neck and smiled pertly. “The church of Mary Magdalen. That seems a proper destination for such a fallen woman as I.”
“I meant see the vicar, and discover the closest bishop, so that we may arrange a special license. Because if we have to wait much longer, Frankie ...”
She peeped at hi
m from under the small brim of her round bonnet. “One would think to hear us that we were no better than we should be.”
“Oh, we are much better. We just happen to be madly in love.”
Copyright © 1992 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (ISBN 978-0449218457)
Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.