The Gypsy Duchess

by Nadine Miller

  Devon nearly laughed out loud at the thought of the fiery beauty sticking her knife in Quentin rather than submit to his sexual advances. The cad was lucky she had only carved a slice from his miserable hide; he felt certain she could have finished him off if she’d wanted to. For the first time, he found himself feeling kindly disposed toward her roguish father. If nothing else, Blackjack had taught his daughter to defend herself against any predators that stalked her.

  He watched with disgust as Quentin withdrew a jeweled snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and inhaled daintily first through one nostril, then the other. “So is it a trade then, my lord?” he asked, closing the box and returning it to his pocket.

  Devon cocked his head thoughtfully. “What think you, Mother? Is the bargain the viscount offers a good one?” he asked and watched Quentin gape in astonishment as the Dowager Countess of Langley stepped from behind the drapery.

  The second Sunday in March dawned like the proverbial lamb, with wooly white clouds gamboling across the azure Cornish sky to herd together along the coastal horizon. It was scarcely nine o’clock, but already the sun had a warmth to it that the February sun had never quite attained.

  Moira sat on her favorite rock at the water’s edge, her arms resting on her up-drawn knees, soaking the welcome heat into her tired body and watching the sun dance across the water beyond the breakers in thousands of pinpoints of light. “Diamonds of the gods,” her grandmother had called this phenomenon of nature that sometimes occurred on a particularly sunny day—a name she’d learned from the seafaring Basque gypsies when Deditas de Oro and his band of gitanos had sought refuge with them after their flight from Spain.

  By rights, as well she knew, Moira should be sitting in a pew in the village church listening to the reading of Elizabeth’s marriage banns. She had begged off, pleading headache, and as soon as Elizabeth had left for the church in the company of the marquess, she had left Charles and Alfie in John Butler’s care and escaped to her beloved beach.

  Weary beyond belief, she rested her head on her arms, closed her eyes against the brilliant light display, and slipped into a drowsy kind of limbo—too keyed up to fall asleep, too exhausted to stay awake. She had not slept a wink after returning to White Oaks from the betrothal party the previous evening. Her mind had been too busy with speculation about what the arrival of Viscount Quentin at Langley Manor portended.

  Not that she expected him to present any immediate physical danger to either Charles or herself. It was not his way to personally carry out his nefarious schemes; the sniveling coward hired thugs and cutthroats to do his dirty work—and for the sake of appearances, he would make certain he was well away from the scene of the crime when they carried out his orders.

  But she knew how his evil brain worked. First he would try his luck using his relationship with the vain and foolish dowager countess to force Devon to relinquish his guardianship of Charles so he could claim it for himself. She could almost predict his very words, “A trade, my lord. A young boy’s fortune for an old woman’s reputation.”

  Would Devon’s loyalty to his mother make him consider the offer? She couldn’t believe he’d relinquish control of Charles to such a monster, but neither could she believe he’d condone an alliance between the viscount and his mother—and blood was indeed thicker than water.

  She shuddered, despite the warmth of the sun. Even now the fateful talk between the two men must be going on. But whatever the outcome, she had already made herself a solemn vow that Quentin would never gain control of Charles, nor would he live to draw another breath if he ever again put his hands on her.

  She smiled to herself, remembering the chest containing the priceless Sheffield jewelry she had secreted away, along with a healthy hoard of pound notes, in case she ever found it necessary to remove Charles from England to keep him safe. Thank God for the peace treaty signed with the Americans in December, for there she would take him. Crude as life in the former colonies might be, the citizens of that infant country were free of the kind of tyranny her frail little stepson would suffer under Quentin.

  She would take young Alfie with them. The lad would fare far better in the Americas with her than alone on the streets of London. She might even take John Butler; he appeared to be an adventurous soul and his loyalty to the duke was unexceptionable.

  So, that was that then. She was prepared in case the worst should happen. There was nothing more she could do. With a sigh, she relaxed for the first time since she had spied the viscount enter the Langley Hall ballroom.

  Devon skirted the bluff where he usually rode and edged his horse down the steep trail that led directly to the beach. When he’d called at White Oaks, John Butler had told him that Moira had gone riding. Somehow he knew that with all she had on her mind, she would seek the peace and solitude of the shore. He could use a little peace himself after the morning he had just put in.

  He had watched his mother step from her hiding place behind the drape and with a regal aplomb that would have made the Empress Catherine green with envy, give the stunned viscount the cut direct and stalk from the salon through the door which had miraculously opened as she approached. Partridge had apparently had his ear glued to the keyhole as usual.

  The situation had grown uglier by the minute after that. Once the viscount had realized the game was up, he abandoned all pretense of amiability. “I’ll make you rue this day, my lord, if it’s the last thing I ever do,” he’d snarled. “The Sheffield fortune is rightfully mine, and the title as well. Even the brat is mine, as his mother would attest if the sickly twit hadn’t died of the childbed fever. Think you that doddering old fool, the duke, could have gotten a woman with child?”

  “Enough!” Devon had cried, though instinct told him there was probably truth in the viscount’s claim he had fathered Charles. The physical resemblance between the two was too striking to miss.

  “Peddle your filth elsewhere, for I have no interest in it or in continuing this conversation longer,” he declared. “Except to say one thing. If you or your hired thugs ever come near the duke or his stepmother again, I will kill you without a shred of remorse.”

  He shivered. Even now, the chilling memory of his last view of the viscount’s hate-twisted face lingered like a dark shadow over the sunlit beach on which he rode. In truth, once Quentin had let his guard down, he’d seemed more like some evil spirit from the underworld than the stylish dandy who had pranced into the salon just moments before.

  His mind still in turmoil, Devon guided his horse along the water’s edge, anxiously searching for Moira. For some inexplicable reason, he had a sudden need to know she was safe. She was nowhere in sight. Yet, every instinct told him she was near.

  Just as he reached the edge of the cove where a rocky ledge jutted into the sea, he spotted her roan mare nibbling on a patch of grass at the base of the cliff. His heart leaped into his throat. Had she been thrown? Was she lying broken and bleeding somewhere on the rock-strewn beach? Frantically he urged his horse toward the mare, and to his relief, found it loosely tethered to a small scrub bush. Moira must be close by.

  It took him a while to find her. With her head of black hair resting on her black-clad knees, she looked so much a part of the mammoth boulder on which she sat, she literally disappeared from view.

  Devon tethered his horse beside the mare and climbed up beside her on the slab of rock. She was asleep and dreaming and from the small unhappy sounds escaping her lips, he deduced it was not a pleasant dream.

  His fingers itched to remove the pins from her glossy black hair and let it cascade down her back as it had the day he’d watched her ride across this very beach. With any other woman, he might have done so, but he had a feeling if he suddenly woke Moira from a sound sleep, he’d find a knife between his ribs.

  “Wake up, my love,” he said softly, and watched her slowly turn her head toward him. Her eyes were open but slightly out of focus.

  “Devon? I’ve been waiting for you,” she said gravely, a
s if they’d made plans to meet on this lonely beach.

  He laughed. “Are you already so sure of me, sweet dreamer, that you can predict when I will come to you?”

  “I was not dreaming.” She straightened up and stretched like a small, sleek, black cat.

  “Another of your visions then, such as Stamden told me you had that day in Green Park?” he teased. “For you were obviously picturing something in your mind.”

  “Yes. Another of my visions,” she said, searching his face with an odd expression he could not quite delineate. “But tell me, what has transpired with the viscount?”

  “He’s done. I accorded him the discussion he demanded, then dispatched him in my carriage to the nearest inn where he could catch a stage to London.”

  “A public conveyance?” She laughed humorlessly. “He won’t like that. It’s beneath the dignity of a peer of the realm.”

  “Just one of the many disappointments your reprehensible cousin-in-law suffered this morning, I fear.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Has seen the error of her ways. Though sadly, I was forced to cause her a great deal of humiliation in the process.” Devon frowned. “Actually, I was rather proud of her. She gave the blackguard a set-down he’ll not soon forget.”

  He didn’t feel it necessary to mention that later he’d found himself uncharacteristically assuring her he loved her dearly when she declared herself a ridiculous old woman whom no one in the world cared a fig about. “I think I can safely say neither Charles nor you will be bothered with the viscount for some time to come,” he said somewhat complacently.

  Moira looked frankly skeptical. “And why is that? Did you threaten him with pistols at dawn?”

  “Something like that and I gathered, from his reaction, he believed me.”

  “I’m certain he did,” Moira said, her face taut with worry. “He is an abject coward. Now he will have to hire someone to ambush you before he makes another attempt on the duke.”

  Devon nodded, absentmindedly toying with a lock of hair the wind had worked loose from her severe chignon. “You know the blackguard well. But I shall not be easy to ambush here in Cornwall. Many of my tenants are my former comrades-in-arms from the Peninsula, and I’ve put the word out to notify me immediately if any strangers are seen in the area.”

  “He will wait until you are in London. There are men aplenty there who would murder their own mothers for the price of a pint of ale.” Moira hesitated, wondering if she dare tell him the frightening picture that had flashed through her mind the minute she’d closed her eyes. She doubted he would believe her if she did. What gaujo would give credence to the “sight” given a gypsy seeress?

  “But I have no plans to return to London,” Devon said. “All my interests are here in Cornwall.” Tenderly, he brushed the stray tendril of hair off her cheek, and the touch of his fingers made her heart flutter in her breast like a frantic, captured bird.

  “Your plans will change,” she said. Somehow, she must warn him of the danger that awaited him. If he thought her mad, so be it. “In my ‘vision,’ as you termed it. I saw a man beckoning to you. A man whose request you could not refuse.”

  Laughter glinted in Devon’s eyes “A man? Never, madam.” His fingers slid to her nape, and he gently kneaded her taut muscles. “Are you forgetting I am a confirmed rake? There is no man on earth who could lure me away from a beautiful woman.”

  “This one can.” She swallowed hard. His strong fingers sent waves of sensation spiraling downward from the base of her skull to the tips of her toes. She forced herself to ignore the sweet torture sufficiently to continue with what she must tell him. “I do not know his name but I can describe him,” she said. “He is very tall with dark hair and eyes so astute they seem to pierce one’s very soul…and he has a nose like the beak of an eagle.”

  Devon’s fingers ceased their stroking. “The Iron Duke,” he said, a startled look crossing his handsome face. “And did your vision tell you why Wellington beckoned me?”

  Moira shook her head. “Only that the unbelievable had happened and the situation was extremely grave.”

  Devon’s fingers began their maddening massage again. “I am too practical a man to believe in visions,” he said, “but I confess this one momentarily gave me pause for thought in view of certain news I have recently received from Whitehall.”

  He shook his head, as if divesting himself of some dark thought that had crossed his mind, and instantly the wicked glint she had come to recognize all too well flashed in his eyes. “All things considered, there is nothing for it but to move up the wedding. I’ll consult with the vicar. I’m certain he will know the location of the nearest Court of Faculties and Dispensations that can issue a special license.”

  “Wait!” Moira raised her hand, shocked by the unexpected effect her warning had had on Devon. “I saw nothing about the marquess in my vision. He will think you out of your mind if you suggest he change his wedding plans.”

  “Ah, but it is not Stamden’s wedding plans I am changing—but my own. If, as you predict, I must leave you even for a short while, I want you to have the protection of my name.”

  “Now you are making fun of me,” Moira said. “Elizabeth was right. You are a terrible tease. But heed me, Devon, I am serious in this.”

  “No more serious than I, little love. Not about your ‘vision,’ for I am a firm believer there is always a logical explanation for such things. In this case, you probably have seen one of the many caricatures of Wellington in the London Times. Lord knows, most of the recent ones have been demonic enough to give one nightmares.”

  He gave her a devastating smile that literally curled her toes. “But I am deadly serious when I say I mean to have you as my wife and the sooner the better.”

  Moira’s heart leapt in her breast. For one second, she let herself imagine being married to Devon—sleeping in his arms each night, bearing his children, watching his golden hair turned to silver. Longing welled within her, so profound and so painful it threatened to rip her apart. She was tempted. God help her, she was tempted. But reason prevailed. “I cannot marry you, Devon. I told you that once. You should have believed me.”

  “There is only one valid reason why you cannot marry me, little love, and that is because you do not love me,” Devon said, and with a movement so swift and fluid it took her completely unawares, he grasped Moira’s arms in his strong fingers, laid her on her back, and straddled her thighs with his own. Startled, she stared up at him, wondering why she felt perfectly safe even though he had temporarily rendered her helpless, while she had experienced absolute terror when the viscount had merely waylaid her in a dimly lighted hallway.

  Her captor grinned down at her. “Tell me”—he kissed the end of her nose—“you do not”—“he kissed her eyelids—“love me”—he claimed her lips in a deeply passionate kiss—“if you can.”

  Moira’s senses reeled from the wondrous weight of his body on hers, from his musky, masculine scent in her nostrils, from the hot, sweet taste of his marauding mouth. She knew she should lie to him—claim she felt nothing for him. Somehow she couldn’t. There was already such a monstrous lie between them.

  “You know I cannot tell you that, you scoundrel,” she said. She fought back the tears welling in her eyes. “But how I feel is of no consequence. For reasons that are my own, I can never marry you—nor indeed any man.”

  Devon stared at her, his eyes blank with shock and disbelief. “Devil take it, I do believe you mean what you say.”

  “I always mean what I say,” Moira declared. “Now get off me, you great oaf. This rock is cruel hard on my backside.”

  Devon rolled away from her stifling the groan the ache in his groin elicited, and took a deep, calming breath. “Your reason, madam? I am entitled to that much consideration now that I have made you an honorable offer.”

  “My reason is my own and shall remain so” she said, reaching to pull her skirt down from where it had worked up her legs du
ring their kiss.

  Devon eyed the knife strapped to her right calf and smiled despite his acute discomfort. Things could be worse, he decided with his usual optimism. At least the stubborn little minx hadn’t sunk her dirk into him like she had that wretch Quentin.

  Surely that alone boded well for the eventual success of this bizarre courtship of his.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The latest puzzling rejection of his suit by Moira wiped everything else from Devon’s mind, including his confrontation with the viscount. With Stamden off courting and his mother still too distraught to leave her chamber, he had plenty of time to ruminate about his problem.

  He ate a solitary dinner, made a brief visit to the darkened room where the dowager countess lay with cologne-soaked compresses on her aching head, then retired to his library. He had just poured himself a brandy when Partridge announced the return of the marquess and a few minutes later Stamden joined him for a companionable drink.

  For some time they sat in silence—Stamden deep in his own thoughts, Devon pondering his problem with Moira. He toyed with the idea of asking his old friend’s advice on how to proceed with the perverse woman, but he’d always felt a deep disgust for men who asked advice of him, so he remained silent.

  Stamden was the first to break the silence. “Partridge tells me the viscount is gone.”

  “And good riddance,” Devon said, then brought him up to date on the discussion with and dispatching of the viscount, eliminating only the damning information about Charles’s parentage.

  But again and again his thoughts returned to Moira. What in God’s name could be her reason for holding out against him? Her heart was in her eyes every time she looked at him, her body trembled with passion at his touch, and even when his frustration had driven him to pin her beneath him on the rock this morning, she’d shown no fear of him. If a woman loved a man, wanted man, and trusted a man, why would she refuse to marry him?