The Gypsy Duchess

by Nadine Miller

  “Frustration has that effect,” the marquess said dryly. “My sweet Elizabeth has even begun to get on my nerves these past few days.”

  He made a vague dismissive gesture. “I will say no more. I have said too much already. But I beg you, your grace, do not judge Devon by one foolish mistake made in the heat of passion. Pride is a poor bedfellow and the winter nights can be very cold in Cornwall.” With a slight bow, he turned and strode toward the French windows leading to the ballroom.

  Moira stared after him, totally nonplussed. How unlike the gentlemanly marquess to walk off and leave her unattended.

  “Quoting my friend and champion,” a familiar voice said, “do not judge him too harshly. He was aware of my presence and knew I would provide you escort back to the ballroom.”

  Moira whirled about as Devon emerged from the shadows. “Have you added eavesdropping to your other transgressions, my Lord St. Gwyre?”

  “Hang for a penny, hang for a pound. It’s all the same rope.” He moved closer and Moira instinctively backed up until her hips were pressed against the low stone wall surrounding the terrace.

  He scowled. “Hell and damnation, madam, don’t look at me as if you expected me to ravish you. I am not some beast unable to control my passions. I am merely, as Stamden tried in his obtuse way to tell you, that most foolish of creatures…a man in love.”

  “Don’t say that. Are you so lost to honor you can break your promise without a single qualm?” Moira pressed her hands over her ears. “It will do you no good because I will not listen and I will not be your mistress.”

  Devon struggled to control his urge to take her in his arms and assure her of his honorable intentions. Never had she looked as fragile and vulnerable as she did at this moment; never had he felt such an overwhelming desire to care for and protect any other woman.

  Gently, he pried her hands away from ears. “I do not want you for my mistress, Moira,” he said softly. “I thought I did, but I know now that what I feel for you has never been anything as shallow as mere lust. Propriety forbids my courting you while you still wear widow’s weeds for another man, but court you I will when the time is right.”

  “No!” she gasped, her eyes luminous with tears. “You must be made to consider such a fool’s errand. We do not suit at all.”

  “Such a big ‘no,’ my love. The bard might claim you protest too much.” He drew both her hands to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “And as for our not suiting, I mean to change your mind about that.”

  He studied her troubled face through narrowed eyes. “If it is your background that is worrying you, let me assure you that you are attaching too much importance to it,” he said, conveniently forgetting how important that very subject had appeared to him less than a fortnight before. “Some of the best families in Cornwall have a smuggler or two in their background. Mine will survive the shock.”

  Moira turned her head away. Devon felt certain she wanted to hide her tears. “Nothing you can say or do will ever make me change my mind. We can never marry. If you persist in this madness, you will only hurt us both.”

  Devon heard the determination in her voice and felt a sudden frisson of fear slither through him. For the first time, he faced the fact that his arrogant judgment of her might have set her so against him, he could lose her forever.

  But she wanted him, even as he wanted her. The longing was there in her eyes every time she looked at him. Not even stubborn pride could prevail against such longing, as well he knew.

  Letting loose her hands, he slid his own up her arms and drew her to him until her head rested on his should. She didn’t resist, but stood trembling in his arms, her face buried in the folds of his cravat.

  “Please, Devon,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “let us return to the party and pretend these last few minutes never happened. We can only cause each other more pain than we already have by prolonging this misery.”

  “We will return because we must; it is time for the vicar to make his announcement,” he said, burying his face for one moment in the silken glory of her ebony hair. “But never think this is the end of it. You are my fate, Moira, as I am yours. I believe that deep in some secret part of my heart I have always known that. Why it has taken my head so long to catch up with my heart, I cannot imagine.”

  He slipped a finger beneath her chin, raised her head, and studied her pale countenance. Her eyes had darkened to deep, fathomless pools and for one brief moonlit moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in their violet depths. An omen, he decided and claimed her lips in a gentle kiss that conveyed all the aching tenderness he felt for this beautiful, spirited woman.

  He was not a patient man, but he would wait until he sensed the time was right to further press his suit. If he had learned anything during his years with Wellington, it was that a strategic retreat was often as integral to the final victory as a full-out charge.

  Concealing his frustration behind a forced smile, he offered her his arm and led her back to the ballroom just in time to hear the vicar announce that his eldest daughter was about to become the Marchioness of Stamden.

  Devon found himself wanting to laugh at the stunned silence that followed the announcement and the pandemonium that broke loose later. Elizabeth had always been well liked throughout her father’s parish, chiefly because she had a pleasant nature and a face too plain to be a threat to any of the reigning belles. Now suddenly she was the cynosure of all eyes, most of them green with envy over the title and fortune that would soon be hers. He doubted anyone in the room, besides Moira and himself, would believe the alliance between Elizabeth and her marquess was a true love match.

  Over the heads of the well-wishers pressing around him, Devon met Peter’s gaze. He could see his self-conscious friend was nearly at his wit’s end. “I’d best propose the toast before Peter takes it in his head to bolt,” he said, and catching Moira’s hand in his, wound his way through the crowd to where Stamden stood beside his bride-to-be.

  Partridge and his crew of liveried footmen had already passed among the guests with trays laden with glasses of champagne. Devon took the glass Partridge presented him and prepared to raise his toast. But before the first word could leave his mouth, a commotion off to one side drew his gaze to the door of the ballroom where a late-arriving guest stood chatting with those around her.

  With a groan, Devon recognized the head of titian hair, though it did seem a great deal more vividly titian than the last time he’d seen it. “Darling,” she said, crossing toward him with one hand outstretched, the other clasping the arm of a handsome young dandy with black curls, heavily oiled and arranged à la Brutus. He was dressed all in black, but in the first stare of fashion, with a greatcoat sporting at least six shoulder capes. Her “flatteringly attentive viscount,” Devon assumed.

  “Hello, Mother,” he said weakly as she threw herself into his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Moira’s face. It was paper-white and her eyes were wide with what could only be described as horror. He saw Stamden give Elizabeth a quick telling look, then with a grim expression, step up behind Moira, whisper something in her ear, and place his arm about her shoulders.

  Baffled, Devon studied his mother more closely. Granted, she was dressed and bejeweled in a fashion more befitting a member of the London demimonde than the Dowager Countess of Langley, but he saw nothing about her to strike terror in the heart of a strong, independent woman like Moira.

  The dowager countess uncoiled herself from around Devon’s neck. “I have someone I want you to meet, my sweet,” she said, favoring him with a coy smile. “But you must promise to be on your very best behavior because he is my dearest friend in all the world.”

  She drew her young companion forward. “Phillip, darling, this is my son, Devon St. Gwyre, Earl of Langley. And this handsome fellow”—she slipped her hand through the arm of the black-haired dandy—“is my very own Phillip.”

  “Handley,” the dandy said with a superciliou
s smirk that made Devon’s blood run cold. “Phillip Handley, Viscount Quentin at your service, my lord.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Quentin! The blackguard who twice had sent hired thugs to kidnap Charles—and who had done God only knew what else to bring such a look of abject terror to Moira’s lovely face.

  Devon ignored the viscount’s proffered hand. He would as soon offer his hand to an Indian cobra as touch the degenerate creature standing before him. If it were not for the fact that he would ruin Elizabeth’s betrothal party, he would take the bastard by the seat of his fashionable breeches and toss him out the door—and from the look on Stamden’s face, he would help him do it.

  “Devon! How could you be so rude to my beloved friend! What in the world is wrong with you?” Two spots of angry color bloomed in the dowager countess’s cheeks. “I demand an explanation for you incorrigible behavior.”

  “And you shall have it, Mother, just as soon as I am free to give it,” Devon said, keenly aware of the avid curiosity with which his guests were viewing the unfolding drama, which thankfully was out of earshot for all except the little knot of people surrounding him. “But right at the moment I am occupied with proposing a betrothal toast to the Marquess of Stamden and Miss Elizabeth Kincaid.”

  “The marquess and—a common village vicar’s daughter?” the countess stammered, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What sort of insanity is this? Good heavens! Never say you are condoning such heresy, Devon.”

  “Not condoning, madam. Celebrating,” Devon said through gritted teeth, watching the color fade from Elizabeth’s taut face. “We shall, however, understand if you wish to retire immediately. Travel is so fatiguing.”

  He signaled a nearby footman. “Would you please escort the dowager countess to her usual chamber and request the housekeeper to have a chamber readied for the viscount. Also, alert Cook that an early breakfast will be required; the viscount will be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  A spark of anger flared in Quentin’s cold eyes. “But not until we have had our little talk, my lord,” he said. “I have traveled too far to be disappointed in that.” He offered his arm to the countess. “Come, my dearest, we should take the earl’s advice and rest from our strenuous journey. There is much to be settled tomorrow.”

  Tears welled in the countess’s eyes. “It’s no use, Phillip. I can see Devon won’t listen to a word you have to say. He has always been the most difficult of sons.” She sniffed. “In truth, he grows more like his father every day.”

  The viscount patted her hand with tender solicitude. “Hush, sweeting. Do not fuss,” he purred, the expression on his handsome, sallow features redolent of a giant feline viewing a hapless mouse trapped beneath its paw. “Your son will listen to me once he realizes what it is I propose. I guarantee it.” The malice in his voice was unmistakable to all but the foolish woman clinging to his arm, and Devon saw a shudder pass through Moira’s slender body.

  He sought her eyes with his in an effort to assure her of his support. A mistake, he realized a moment later, when a knowing look crossed Quentin’s face.

  The viscount’s laugh was low and menacing and his insolent gaze slid from Devon to Moira…and lingered. But his remarks were directed to the countess. “In truth, dear madam,” he said softly, “I find myself looking forward with great anticipation to my discussion with your son, the earl. There is always room for agreement between men of the world who share a common interest.”

  Devon couldn’t remember a single word of the toast he’d proposed once his impossible mother and her latest cicisbeo had retired, hopefully to their respective chambers. The words had tripped off his tongue without any apparent volition on his part.

  Nor was he certain what he’d said or done the rest of the nightmarish evening, for while the outer man managed to carry on the duties of host, the inner man seethed with an all-consuming rage so white-hot, it burned away every other thought in his brain. But one. Somehow he had to find a way to protect Moira and Charles, as well as his foolish mother, from the clutches of the greedy, lecherous viscount.

  Even now, twelve hours later, as he waited for Quentin to arrive for the scheduled discussion, he found his hatred for the man accelerating by the minute. The very idea of meeting with the man galled him. But it was something he must do to set in motion the plan he had devised to safely remove the blackguard from Langley Hall, and to render him incapable of harming any of the people residing under the protection of the Earl of Langley.

  Normally he would hold such a discussion in his comfortable, oak-paneled library. He had eschewed that option in this case; he had no desire to be reminded of the grasping viscount every time he walked into his favorite room. Instead, he had chosen this small, rather dingy anteroom adjoining the butler’s pantry, chiefly because he would never have to enter it again.

  A discreet rap on the door and Partridge announced in his usual brisk tones, “The Viscount Quentin to see you, my lord.”

  The viscount was once again dressed in severe black, except for a silver-gray waistcoat, the pockets of which were draped with at least a dozen ornate fobs and seals. His morning coat was in the first stare of fashion and bore the stamp of Weston’s superb tailoring. His trousers were so tight, they showed every muscle in his long legs, which had the slightly bowed look of an avid horseman.

  At first glance, Devon thought the fellow must be sickening with something, so pale was his sharp, fine-boned face. But a second look revealed that, in truth, he owed his unusual pallor to the fine rice powder many of London’s dandies had recently begun using to emulate Lord Byron’s naturally pallid countenance.

  “Good morning, my lord,” the viscount said, raising his quizzing glass to his eye with a hand, the back of which was white leaded, the palm pinkened with cochineal. He was every inch the Byronic fop, even to the languid expression perfected by the poetic peer.

  Devon didn’t bother to return his greeting. Nor did he offer him one of the two Hepplewhite chairs which, aside from a small tambour writing table, were the only pieces of furniture in the room. “This discussion was your idea, Quentin. I’ll let you introduce the topic,” he said curtly.

  The viscount surveyed the small, sparsely furnished room and his narrowed eyes told Devon he recognized the implied insult in both their meeting place and his host’s lack of cordiality. An angry flush colored his whitened cheeks, but he shrugged noncommittally. “As you wish, my lord. I have the honor of requesting the hand of the Dowager Countess of Langley in marriage,” he intoned in a voice heavy with boredom. “The lady has already demonstrated her eagerness to be mine in the most convincing of ways, but she tells me I must gain your permission as head of the family before we can set the wedding date.”

  Devon clasped his hands behind his back to keep from planting the insolent coxcomb a facer. The thought of those painted hands pawing his mother made him feel like casting up his accounts; the thought of their touching Moira made him want to commit murder. But instinct warned him that any show of emotion would be taken as a sign of weakness by Quentin.

  “On the contrary,” Devon said in a flat voice, “my mother is of age—well past it, in fact. She may marry anyone she wants, although I would hope, for her sake, her choice is deep of pocket. She is a notorious spendthrift and my late father lacked the foresight to provide her with an income of her own.”

  The viscount examined his beautifully polished fingernails with what appeared to be consummate interest. “And, of course, you as the holder of the family purse strings would cut her off without a penny if she married someone of whom you did not approve.”

  “I would indeed.”

  Quentin’s smile came close to being a sneer. “Oh, I think not, my lord. You do not strike me as a man who would let his mother live in penury. Nor would you, I think, blithely turn her over to a man whose reputation you found so fascinating you arranged to have him investigated by Bow Street.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “If you have any doubt that t
he rather colorful tidbits the runner unearthed in a certain East End brothel are true, let me assure you they are. Let me also assure you that the dowager countess is so besotted with me, I have but to say the word and she will pack her bags for Gretna Green, and nothing you can say will dissuade her.”

  Devon glanced toward the window where, at his insistence, his mother had concealed herself behind the heavy drape, hating what the callous viscount had already revealed about her—hating even worse what he, himself, was about to do to the little pride she had left.

  He had no choice. She had flatly refused to believe the ugly truths he’d told her about her young lover’s perversions, and the lives of innocent people were at stake here. “It would seem I face something of a problem,” he said conversationally. “But something tells me you are just the man to offer a practical solution.”

  The viscount’s smile was positively beatific. “I do enjoy dealing with a reasonable man. It precludes the useless waste of time one is forced to endure when dealing with those who lack the sophistication of our social class.”

  “We men of the world are nothing if not reasonable,” Devon agreed dryly. “But tell me, what do you suggest to save my mother from her latest folly?”

  “A trade, my lord. A simple trade. I have something you want—namely your vain and foolish mother. You have something I want: the guardianship of the Duke of Sheffield and control of his fortune, which—but for the whimsy of an eccentric old man—would even now be rightfully mine. What care you for the boy’s fortune when you already possess one of your own twice again as large?”

  “A point well taken,” Devon said in a deceptively quiet voice. “And what of the duke’s stepmother? Where does she fit in this trade you’re proposing?”

  “Ah, the beautiful Moira!” Quentin’s mouth thinned in anger. “I have a score to settle with that knife-wielding whore and a scar beneath my ribs to remind me of it. Once I’ve settled it, she is yours for the taking.”