“His Grace expresses his interest in your welfare and desires your immediate company in the orangery.”
Madelyn’s eyes narrowed.
Priscilla sidled up to her, whispering in her ear, “What a boon.” The baroness then smiled wickedly down at Jenny, whose pallor turned positively ashen before she shrank back. “Well, what are you waiting for, girl? Take us to him.”
“Ah…His Grace specified Miss Haywood was to come alone.”
“Alone, is it?” Priscilla turned her back to the maid momentarily to smile smugly at Madelyn. “Well, then, by all means, hurry along.” She tried scooting Madelyn out the door by tugging on her elbow.
“Why?” Madelyn asked, her limp arm held captive in her stepmother’s grasp.
“Pardon, miss?”
“Did His Grace disclose the reason for his request?”
“For your interview,” Jenny responded gently. “The master and Lady Rosalind mean to have interviews with all of his lordship’s prospective brides. You are the first.”
Madelyn pulled her arm loose. “Tell him…” She paused, tapping one finger on her chin in thought. “Tell him I’ve a headache. And I…acknowledge his concern. Perhaps we’ll speak another time.”
“Are you sure, miss?” The poor maid looked as if she was already dreading the message she’d have to relate.
“Quite.”
Madelyn waited for Jenny to leave, then tried to quietly shut the door, but Priscilla stopped her short by jamming her foot inside before it could close.
“Wait!” Priscilla called out to the maid before turning back to Madelyn. “Are you mad? You barely escape from insulting him at his dinner party by running away from an invitation, you address him improperly in front of his guests, argue with him, and now you shun his request to see you? Have you lost your mind, child?”
Madelyn thought about it for a second. “I think so.” Rubbing her temples, she moved to step around her stepmother.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Priscilla matched her stride. “You’re to march straight to His Grace and beg his forgiveness.”
“I certainly will not,” she answered incredulously.
Priscilla came to an abrupt stop, one corner of her mouth pulling into a smirk. “And what of poor Charlotte? You would have her chances of winning Lord Tristan reduced by being so closely associated with an ungrateful, rude, bluestocking such as yourself?”
Madelyn looked at Charlotte, who sat, brows furrowed, struggling to straighten out the wrinkles in the list Priscilla had so carelessly thrown to the floor.
She sighed. Charlotte had harbored a schoolgirl’s affection for Lord Tristan ever since that day the Greenes’ carriage tipped over when their horse became spooked by an irate street vendor. His lordship had freed them from the twisted vehicle and even managed to settle their horse with expert hands and a bit of whispering. That was five years ago, and the girl’s cap had been set for Lord Tristan ever since.
Charlotte was vulnerable and quiet—certainly not the sort of young lady Lord Tristan was known to consort with. He’d bring her gentle friend to tears in no time. And the coxcomb didn’t deserve her tears. But Charlotte’s mind couldn’t be swayed. She fancied herself in love with him. This was a dream come true—a chance to win the man of her dreams. Her hero.
Madelyn couldn’t force her friend to see the lecherous rake for who he truly was, but she knew she could do everything within her power to steer the wolf away. And she couldn’t very well protect Charlotte if the duke sent her packing for her blatant impertinence.
Swallowing her pride like a swig of sour milk, she glanced at a smug-looking Priscilla. “I’ll go. I’ll…behave. But I will not beg if he chooses to send me home.”
“Now, that’s a good girl,” Priscilla chirped, patting her on the hand. She leaned in, whispering, “We must get you out of this horrid brown frock you chose to wear and get you into something more…appealing. Something of mine, perhaps.”
“But everything of yours is too small,” Madelyn pointed out, following her stepmother as she waltzed toward the dressing room.
Turning, Priscilla smiled like a hungry cat. “Exactly.”
“Why did I listen to that woman and not bring my shawl?” Madelyn asked no one in particular.
She hugged her arms around herself, following Jenny to the orangery by way of a narrow brick path bordered on both sides with low hedges.
A sudden burst of wind took Madelyn by surprise. She gasped as the cold air shot straight through the thin, peach-colored jaconet dress. Jenny looked over her shoulder, giving her a sympathetic smile.
Shivering, Madelyn looked down at the dress she had unwillingly borrowed from Priscilla. She tried to quell the wicked feeling of being a juicy morsel about to wander into the woods, all to lure a wolf for her avaricious stepmother.
Indeed, it would have been fitting if she had brought a shawl, Madelyn mused. Or a cape. A nice red one, with a hood.
Her arms covered with goose pimples, they rounded a bend and finally reached the orangery, which Madelyn noted was four times as big as their home in Chelsea. They stepped inside the south facing building and were instantly enveloped with warmth and the cheery scent of orange blossoms.
“My word,” she remarked in awe as Jenny led her down a tiled path in the middle of orange and lemon trees. “It’s a veritable forest. There must be four hundred of them.”
“Three hundred and seventy-seven to be exact,” came a husky feminine voice ahead. A beautiful woman, closer to the duke’s age than Madelyn’s, stepped out from behind a silk screen and smiled warmly at Madelyn. Her hair was glossy black just like the duke, but her round, blue eyes revealed a sweet softness, unlike her eldest brother’s frosty azure.
“Lady Rosalind.” Madelyn curtsied.
“Miss Haywood,” Lady Rosalind returned. “Come quickly. Let us sit and talk by the fountain.” Dismissing Jenny, she linked her arm with Madelyn’s and walked around the silk-covered screen used to separate a seating area from the rest of the large room. On the other side sat a pair of ornate garden chairs situated next to a fountain with two opposite-facing fish at its center.
With care for her bottom, Madelyn took a seat, instantly feeling the fabric tighten around her chest. She folded her hands demurely in her lap, all the while fretting whether the seam under her bust would hold out. With her luck, her dress would bust open the very moment Mr. Devine—no, His Grace—walked into the room.
“Tea?” Lady Rosalind gestured to the tea tray set out on a nearby table.
“No, thank you,” Madelyn replied. Her throat was dry, but her stomach was doing strange flip-flops at the prospect of encountering the duke at any minute.
“I can see you’re nervous, and I don’t blame you, or any of the ladies for that matter. My oldest brother isn’t the sort of man who inspires one to feel at ease. And, naturally, as all of you are trying to impress him for Tristan’s sake, I thought, since your interview was first, I’d talk with you before my brother joins us.”
“I don’t understand,” Madelyn said, perplexed. She had harbored the thought her interview was first so she could be either properly chastised or eliminated because of that morning’s event, but Lady Rosalind seemed unaware of her recent social blunders.
“You see,” Lady Rosalind replied, looking over her shoulder as if making sure no one was near, “my brother…he can appear rather cold and…arrogant. Please, do not be led by your first impression.”
Do not, indeed. In the garden Madelyn believed Gabriel Devine to be an agreeable man equipped with a sincere concern for her welfare. The only fault in his possession at the time was that he oft stood too close—though even that wasn’t so horrible. But she’d been wrong. Now she lumped him together with all the other pompous aristocrats of her acquaintance.
“It might help you to know…” Lady Rosalind paused with apparent indecision about her thread of conversation. “Underneath that facade, I believe, a heart in need of—” She stopped,
shaking her head sadly, tenderness for her brother heavy in her gaze. “I suppose it isn’t at all fair of me to speak of his private feelings. However, I do feel pressed to explain his reserved nature in hopes to forestall any imagined slights by his lack of presence for the next two weeks. Other than this interview, one might never lay eyes on him again until the night of the ball.”
“Forgive me, my lady, but I fear your advice has come too late.” Madelyn sighed softly. Perhaps the duke would hesitate about sending her away if she explained the situation to his friendly sister first, winning her compassion. She took a deep breath and continued. “I met His Grace back in London at the dinner party.”
“Oh yes,” Lady Rosalind replied, nodding. “I remember. My brother spotted you from his study.” She leaned in, her exotic eyes showing keen interest. “He went after you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, well, basically. But I…I don’t believe I made a good first impression.”
“Pish! My brother spied you in the garden, Miss Haywood, and insisted I invite you—unaware that I already had.”
“Really?” Madelyn asked, her curiosity stirred.
Lady Rosalind nodded. “To be sure I have a mind to think—” She stopped and shook her head, “Nevertheless, I’m sure whatever you did was overlooked. You were invited beside the point.”
“I accidentally threw a lemon at him,” Madelyn blurted.
Lady Rosalind’s mouth fell open. “You didn’t!”
“Yes, knocked him square in the forehead, I’m afraid. But I didn’t know it was him and he didn’t bother to ex—”
“That’s what the mark on his forehead is from? He told me…oh dear.” The look of surprise in her eyes was quickly replaced with a flicker of anger. “He didn’t try…that is to say…there weren’t any untoward advances, were there?”
Madelyn shook her head. “It was dark. I didn’t know who it was. So you see—”
“Oh my.” And with that, Lady Rosalind leaned back in her seat, her dark head thrown back as laughter overtook her. “Y-You, goodness—” She tried to speak but fits of giggles kept bursting forth. “I can’t tell you how many times…knocked some sense into him, I hope.” Her laughter crumbled away and she wiped the tears from her eyes with the trim on her gloves. “Thank you. Oh, you are precious.”
Madelyn didn’t know what sort of reaction to expect from the duke’s sister, but hysterical laughter was definitely not one of them.
“Good afternoon, Miss Haywood.” The duke’s deep, rich voice broke in as he walked around the screen.
Lady Rosalind cleared her throat, pulling herself together with surprising quickness.
The sunlight shining through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls made the duke’s obsidian hair positively gleam. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue jacket and matching waistcoat, his snow white cravat tied in a gentle cascade. The dark, almost exotically handsome man radiated affluence, confidence, and effortless charm. He looked precisely like someone who would, by no means, ever find someone like her appealing.
Suddenly overwhelmed with a nagging inadequacy, Madelyn shifted in her ill-fitted gown. Whoever thought she’d do well as a candidate for the bride of Devine was sorely mistaken.
The duke pointed to a nearby lemon tree without removing his ice-blue gaze from her. “I trust you are unarmed?”
Madelyn nodded, ignoring his deliberate taunt.
Lady Rosalind made a choking sound at the same time. Her lips were pressed together tightly and her eyes shut as if she was severely concentrating on not laughing.
“Rosalind,” the duke said, glaring down at his sister with one dark eyebrow raised. “The event sheets.”
She cleared her throat delicately. “We discussed this earlier and decided I’m handing them out after dinner.”
“I would like them now. Would you ask Miss Sparrow to retrieve them?”
“I dismissed her, just.” Her eyes narrowed. “She must have passed you on your way in—”
“Then please, see to it yourself. I’d like to speak with Miss Haywood alone.”
Lady Rosalind’s gaze swung from her brother to Madelyn and back again. “You’d like me to leave you both alone?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Would you have me state the obvious?”
Lady Rosalind worked her jaw. “You are aware of how improper this is. You risk jeopardizing her reputation, Gabriel. We have promised the chaperones the strictest propriety.”
“Miss Haywood is certainly safe with me,” he intoned, looking down at his sister like he was ready to toss her out himself. “And no one needs to know.”
“Still—”
“Leave.”
“I think—”
“Now.”
Lady Rosalind stood, giving Madelyn an apologetic smile. “Miss Haywood, if you would, please call me Rosalind. You are simply delightful. Oh! I almost forgot. I’d like to commission your most desired services. I’d fancy you to present each female guest with her framed silhouette before the night of the ball. Your accuracy is stunning.”
Madelyn returned her smile, pleased at how friendly and pleasant the duke’s sister turned out to be—so very unlike her brothers. “Of course,” she said. “It would be my pleasure. And please, you must call me Madelyn.”
The duke’s sister nodded with a smile, giving Madelyn’s arm a little squeeze as she passed. With that, she left them alone.
The room fell silent and the insufferable man continued to stand there, staring down at her. She looked everywhere but at him. One would think a duke would be aware of how impolite it was to stare. Her nose twitched as the alluring, woodsy scent of his shaving soap wafted through the air between them.
His dark presence was nearly overwhelming in the bright atmosphere of the orangery. The air suddenly felt stuffy, her dress too tight, the room too quiet. Just when she thought she couldn’t take the silence any longer he spoke.
“There needn’t be any animosity between you and me.”
Madelyn took a breath to speak, but her mind was uncharacteristically blank. Being the sole object of his attention was unsettling. She shifted in her seat, one side of her tender bottom throbbing. Part of her wanted to crawl under her chair and cower, and another part wanted to stomp on his foot for being such a rascal. Both actions, she decided, were childish, so she sat there, clasping her hands tightly in her lap, hoping her eyes wouldn’t betray her thoughts.
“I will speak of this now and never again,” he said. “That evening in London, I was only thinking of averting your initial embarrassment. I realize now that I was only delaying it.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Come, Miss Haywood. Surely you recall. You did not know who I was. You spoke of me with such venom, such disgust. You called me…arrogant and…what was the other?”
Cork-brained. “I don’t recall,” she muttered, shrugging innocently.
“In any case,” his eyes sized her up, contradicting his next words, “the gentleman in me couldn’t bear your mortification should you realize at that moment the very man you expressed such abhorrence for was, in fact, standing before you.”
“I can assure you,” Madelyn expressed calmly, “embarrassment is something I would have preferred to suffer in front of only you instead of a score of people.”
“Your point is made.” He bowed his head slightly.
Pulling her lips together thoughtfully, she supposed that was about as close to an apology as she’d ever receive.
Flipping the tails of his coat out of the way, he occupied his sister’s empty seat. Leaning back, he entwined his long fingers like a basket across his flat stomach, his lean-muscled legs stretched out before him. He looked her square in the eye and her heart felt like it jumped to her throat. Here comes the elimination, she thought.
“I believe you,” he said.
“You believe what?”
“You do not want any part of this,”
he stated. “And I certainly did not want you to be either. But by some scrap of mercifulness on my part, here you are. Certainly not as attractive as the others and glaringly unfit, but somehow I find you deserve a chance.”
His bold snobbery almost made her laugh. “I thought—”
“You thought you were summoned here to be eliminated,” he finished for her.
“Am I, Your Grace?”
Gabriel thought the girl looked ready to scream…or cry. Either one, he didn’t like the way she so obviously felt ill at ease in his presence. Inwardly, he told himself it was a mistake, to trust this one, but in truth he did believe the chit. Certainly, he wouldn’t absolve her person of any possible future transgression, but hell, after what happened today at the pond…only an imbecile would doubt her motive. Leave it to his sister to pick the one woman who wanted nothing to do with Tristan.
He studied her until she squirmed in her seat, which he knew must be painful considering recent events. “No, you’re not eliminated.” A knowing smile played upon his lips. “You’ll not escape that easily.”
“Escape? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she answered, her coral-colored lips pursing in a charmingly thoughtful manner.
“No? You informed me in London that you do not wish to marry a Devine. Your incident this morning in the pond only proved to me how desperately you want out.”
“I will not pretend to misunderstand, but I didn’t jump into the pond in the hopes to be eliminated. I tripped. I had been stung by a bee.”
“Yes, you had said as much.”
Her suspicious gaze studied his face as she worked something over in her mind. Gabriel tried to remain cool, detached, to hide his grin, but failed miserably. “Who told you where I was stung?” she blurted out, accusation flaring in her eyes.
“The maid.”
“I asked her not to tell anyone.”
“Don’t blame the poor girl. She’s paid to listen to me, not you. I asked. I was told. Which reminds me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “Press this to your…affected area. It should take away the swelling and numb the pain.”
“A key?” She blushed prettily. “You’re jesting?”
At the Bride Hunt Ball Page 6