by Megan Daniel
Francesca was not so fully focused on poor Priscilla’s sufferings and bright prospects for the future that she had no attention left to notice that Devlin danced very well, at least in the waltz, even if the intricacies of the quadrille were as yet beyond him. She also managed to wonder if he would waltz with her before the evening was out. She surprised herself by realizing that she very much hoped that he would. Well, of course, she did love to dance, and such an accomplished partner always made it doubly enjoyable. They would make a pretty sight, too. There could surely be no other reason she so eagerly awaited his approach.
It came, alas, just as she was about to take the floor with Sir Algernon for the supper dance. “Come waltz with me, Francesca,” said Devlin coolly. “I wish to speak with you.” He reached to remove her hand from Sir Algernon’s arm.
But the young baronet was not so easily routed. “Ho! Don’t you think it, Dev. Be off with you,” he commanded. “Cesca’s engaged to me for supper.” He kept firm possession of her long-fingered hand.
Devlin looked at her with a question in his eye. “I’m afraid, Devlin, that I am engaged to Algy,” she said prettily. “Perhaps after supper?” she added hopefully if a little brazenly.
“No. Now,” he answered flatly. “I am engaged to Diana for this dance, so we may very easily switch.”
“See here, Dev!” sputtered Sir Algernon. “I don’t wish to switch. Don’t know how they do these things in America, old boy, but—”
“Oh, give over, Algy!” said Devlin. “You know very well you would much prefer to dance with your own wife, but are only afraid of being thought so unfashionable as to enjoy her company.”
“Devlin,” said Francesca, “I really cannot—”
“And you know, Algy,” Devlin continued as though she had not spoken, “if one of us doesn’t show up soon, Diana’s like to go eat with that Storeton fellow. Been dangling after her all evening. I can see him heading her way right now.”
“Storeton! That commoner?” exclaimed Algernon, totally forgetting that fashion required a man look with equanimity on his wife’s cicisbei. “Well, he’ll catch cold at that! I shall see to it! Where is Diana?”
“Just there, under that parrot,” he pointed out casually.
Sir Algernon belatedly remembered his obligation to his partner, “I say, Cesca, old girl. Don’t mind, do you? Dev’ll take good care of you.”
“Oh, go on, Algy,” she replied, laughing in exasperation. “Go dance with your Diana. No one shall laugh at you, you know.” And Sir Algernon took himself off after his beloved wife.
“Good,” said Devlin matter-of-factly as they watched him go. “They are beginning the waltz.” And he reached for her hand again.
She lifted a brow at him and withheld the sought-for hand. Her mind was poised between vexation at his impertinence and admiration for the masterly way in which he had handled Sir Algernon. “I have not as yet agreed to dance with you. Are you always so high-handed, my lord?”
“When it is necessary, yes, but only to my good friends. And besides, no offense to you, but he really does prefer to dance -with Diana, you know. I suppose they are In Love.”
“I suppose so, poor things,” she answered brightly, and finally allowed herself to be led to the floor, where she was swept into a moving embrace that left her almost breathless.
Now, Lady Francesca considered herself quite a sophisticated young lady, perhaps even a bit jaded. She had danced with princes and prime ministers, and turned off importunate suitors by the score. But never in her five years on the town had she ever experienced a dance quite like this one.
She was at a loss to explain it. He danced well, of course, but she had had better partners. He held her close, but not so close as some had done. The mass of twirling couples around them, the gay laughter, the tinkle of the music, all faded away till there seemed to be nothing in the room but a pair of blue eyes smiling down at her and a strong and very masculine hand around her waist, its heat easily permeating the thin silk of her gown and warming her right through as they spun around the large room.
Oblivious as they were, for the moment, of their surroundings, they were very well observed indeed by the other guests in the room. Roxanna Gordon, in the arms of Lord Poole, eyed them with distinct displeasure. Devlin had certainly not looked at her in such a way when they had danced. And she had very definite plans for his lordship, plans that had no room for a rival. She could not bring herself to worry overmuch about poor little Priscilla Pennington, even after he had partnered her three times, but she would not put up with Lady Francesca Waringham as a rival. She would put a spike in that wheel soon enough!
Mrs. Pennington also observed the waltzing pair with some concern. He could not, of course, be expected to stand up with Priscilla again; she had been just the tiniest bit remiss in her duty to have allowed the girl to stand up with him that third time. But she could wish that Lady Francesca were not quite so lovely. If she meant to set her cap at Devlin—and from the besotted smile on her face, it looked very much as though she did—then Priscilla would stand no chance at all. Now, if it had been her elder daughter, Liza, she would not have worried. But Priscilla was such a disappointment, nothing at all like her lovely, vivacious sister.
Still, his lordship had shown a marked degree of attention to the girl, for whatever reason, and Mrs. Pennington was never one to look a gift horse, or rich baron, in the mouth. And she was determined to get Priscilla off
her hands this year. She would just have a look through the girl’s wardrobe in the morning. Perhaps something a little more daring...
Lady Braethon watched Francesca and Devlin with a raised eyebrow. Miss Jane Magness eyed them with chagrin. And the Duchess of Hockleigh smiled after them with satisfaction.
Francesca, blissfully unaware of all the intense attention focused upon her, was yet very much aware of herself and her partner. The prolonged silence between them finally became too much for her. She thrashed about in her mind for something to say. “Well, my lord . . .” she began brightly, not entirely sure what she would say next.
“Devlin,” he corrected gently, gratified at her flustered reaction.
“Very well. Devlin. How does your courtship progress?” It was with a mixture of disappointment and relief that she saw his dreamy expression fade, to be replaced by a tiny frown just between his brows. The moment of intimacy had been broken. “I saw you chattering away to her,” she continued. “Whatever did you find to say?”
“I’m not sure I can recall the questions I asked. I can tell you her answers, however. They consisted of a series of ‘Yes, my lords’ and ‘No, my lords,’ with an occasional ‘Thank you, my lord,’ thrown in for good measure.”
“But, how perfect! Did I not tell you Priscilla was precisely the wife for you?”
“She does seem a very biddable and malleable girl. I think it would take little more than simple kindness to win her. By her reaction to my compliments, I would judge she hears few of them.”
“There you are, then,” she replied. “You need only get on with it.”
“You know, I had not thought of marrying just yet, even though the idea has been in my mind now and then. But you, with your inimitable good sense”—and
here he grinned at her—“have jolted me awake and shown me my true needs. I am inclined to think you have chosen well for me. Miss Pennington is precisely the sort of wife I have long had in mind. And now that I am reminded what English Society is like, I shouldn’t like to go up to London in the spring still a single man. I should have no peace at all!”
“Rather, you would be eaten alive,” she said dryly and with quite a bit of truth. “But as a married man, you shall have every opportunity for romantic dalliance, with no danger of being netted.”
“Precisely,” he said with a smile. “It is one of the few advantages of being an already landed fish, you know.”
“Well, I am gratified that you approve my taste in wives, sir. And me with so little experienc
e!” Her bantering tone successfully masked the emotion rippling through her, an emotion suspiciously like disappointment “But why tell me about it, sir? Tell Pris. I shouldn’t think it would take more than a word and the deed is done.”
“The thing is, she’s skittish as a colt. I don’t wish to scare her off before she’s had a chance to learn what a capital fellow I am. I’ve never tried to woo a miss just out of the schoolroom before,” he went on, pushing aside a flash of memory of another young miss and how badly he had mismanaged his handling of her. “I am certain to need advice, and as I would prefer not to broadcast my intentions too widely just yet, the advice will have to come from you.”
“It seems to me that you have already announced yourself pretty plainly by dancing with her so often.”
“What?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. Then a light of understanding crossed his face. “Oh, Lord! I had completely forgotten that particular iron rule. In America they are not quite so niffy, you see. No wonder she was silent as a turtle all through that last dance, and would not even deign to look at me.”
“Well, it does seem that you have some lost ground to make up already. Obviously you shall need help if you are not to botch the whole thing hopelessly. Very well, I shall be pleased to undertake your instruction in how to woo a lady.”
“A girl,” he corrected. “I am quite adept at the wooing of ladies.”
That smile that made her tingle was back in the deep blue eyes, and she could barely get out an answer. “I am sure that you are,” she whispered. His hand tightened around her waist. They spun off to finish the dance in silence, wonderful, warm, delicious silence.
When the music ended, they adjourned to the supper room, speaking in commonplaces until they were seated at a small table in the comer. Two plates before them were heaped with cold mousse of salmon, savory pat6, plover’s eggs, raspberry cream, and lemon ice. A bottle of champagne was chilling in a silver bucket beside them.
“With a slightly devilish grin, Lord Devlin took up the conversation once more. “Well, you seem to have neatly packaged my future for me, Francesca,” he said lightly. “Now, what of yourself?”
“Me, sir? I am not sure I understand what you mean,” she said, but with a look that said she understood only too well.
“Why, your future, of course. Your marriage. What sort of a mate shall we pick out for you? There are plenty here to chose from.”
“But I don’t... That is, I haven’t...”
“Let’s have no rubbish about your not meaning to marry. That is all very well when one is eighteen or so, and none knows better than I what a fine thing it is to sow one’s wild oats before one settles down to respectability.” He looked at her with a teasing grin, wondering if she had sown many herself.
Her face scowled at him, but her eyes laughed. “You can undoubtedly feed the whole world by now with your abundantly growing oat fields,” she retorted.
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed with a laugh. “And from what I understand, you have had a wild lark or two of your own before now. But a steady diet of anything does begin to pall after a while, you know. Surely you have noticed how oats alone, be they never so wild, begin to stick in the throat after a while without a bit of good common home-brewed to wash them down.”
She choked on a swallow of the French champagne as an involuntary giggle broke out. Before she could answer, he went on, “Whom have you chosen, then, as your good home-brewed? I can see only two possible types for the likes of you. There is good dark stout, strong enough to give even an experienced tippler a kick in the pants...”
“As well as a ghastly head the following morning! No, thank you, my lord.”
“Well, then, it shall have to be some bland lager, more water than malt, easily swallowed and just as easily forgotten once the oats are thoroughly washed down. I had a mare once who was quite partial to lager. Seemed to thrive on it. Don’t see why you shouldn’t do the same.”
“This is a ridiculous conversation, Devlin,” she said, a testy edge to her voice. “Stout and lager and drunken horses!”
“Oh, yes, she was a quite ridiculous horse. But she did take one for a marvelous ride.” She could not ignore the twinkle in his eye, but she tried to make him think she could. She did not answer. “I had to give her the lager. She wouldn’t breed without it, you see. And she was such a splendid specimen. It would have been a terrible waste not to pass on some of her spirit.”
This time he waited for a response, grinning all the while, and she was forced to speak. “Do we still talk of horses, my lord? I am not one, you know.”
A quite obvious truth,” he replied. Admiration was evident in his tone, and as he gazed at her the lightness left his voice. “Though I am sure that that golden hair, when released from its pins, must be a quite glorious mane,” he finished, almost, but not quite, to himself. It was all he could do to restrain himself from reaching up and pulling out those pins to prove his point.
A tremor ran up Francesca’s spine at the softly murmured words and set her neck tingling. She felt her face grow hot, and prayed that the soft glow of the candlelight suffusing the room and the kind shadows would hide her blush.
She turned abruptly to look around the room and saw Miss Pennington sitting with a young local gentleman, a Mr. Rathnor. They both looked acutely uncomfortable, as neither of them could think of a thing to say to the other. “Let us hope that you have better luck with Miss Pennington than with your mare, sir. She scarce strikes me as the lager type.”
“Oh, no. Plain milk, I fancy, will do for her. Or perhaps a glass of ratafia now and then should she prove reluctant.”
“I am certain she will not,” Francesca replied without thinking. What woman would prove reluctant, after all? Except perhaps herself.
Devlin let her comment pass as though unnoticed, which it most definitely was not. “But we digress, you know, and I shan’t let you change the subject. We were talking of your own plans.”
“You were. I have no plans.”
“Have you really no thought of marriage? It would be a great pity, you know. I saw you in the garden this afternoon with Lady Aurelm’s children. You have a sort of magic with them. You can enter into their world with a naturalness that is a joy to watch. You were obviously meant to have a dozen of your own.”
He was not teasing her now, she could see. His sincerity deserved a like response, and she answered him honestly. “I do find children a particular joy and have longed for some of my own. I did think I might make a fine aunt, but as I have no brothers or sisters, that seems out of the question. I admit that the notion of motherhood has been in my mind of late. I suppose it is being around Gussie’s children, who are all dears. And of course there is Sarah. She is so full of the joy of the child she will soon have.” It briefly crossed Francesca’s mind that she had never found herself talking so freely with anyone before, not even Sarah. She wondered how it had come about. She could not explain it, but it seemed perfectly natural that she should be speaking so to Devlin. She gave a sigh. “I suppose the time is not far off when I shall have to begin looking around me for a mate.”
“Of course, strictly speaking, a husband is not a prerequisite for having a family,” he said. “Only look at the Duke of Clarence’s Mrs. Jordan and her ten little FitzClarences!”
“I prefer not to,” she said dryly.
“They are a motley lot, aren’t they, or so I’m told.”
“And besides, it would not do for me. I thought it might, you know. Even Mrs. Wollstonecraft gave birth to her daughter before she married Mr. Godwin, and I cannot find it in my heart to condemn her. But I have discovered I care too much for the good opinion of Society to follow her example. Is it not horridly missish of me?”
“I hadn’t thought you would care so much for that.”
“Yes, I surprised myself. It is quite lowering, I assure you,” she said, and dropped her head in mock chagrin. “But too true!”
“Well, then, a husband it must be, and the soone
r the better. Now, whom can we find to fill the post?” He let his eyes wander about the room.
“Oh, but I haven’t yet decided to—” she blurted out, but he would not let her finish.
“Enough! Fair is fair, you know. You have saddled me with Miss Pris, and I have no intention of going through such an ordeal as a courtship quite alone. You must and shall join me in my agony.”
“I imagine courting Pris will be a bit of a trial. She is so painfully shy.”
“Exactly. Now, who is it to be?”
“I am sure there is no one here who—” she began.
“Now, there is young Hollys. He is enough of a nonentity to at least apply for the post.”
“Hollys! Benjamin Hollys? That silly boy?”
“True, he is very young. A scarce licked cub, in fact. And while he may do very well at present, one can never be entirely certain of very young gentlemen. He might grow up to have a mind of his own, and then where would you be?”