by Megan Daniel
“I am pleased to see you joining the hunt today. I was afraid perhaps you did not care for it.” She looked up once, but could not bring herself to speak to him, to admit the truth of his statement, so she looked down again. “If we have the same luck as yesterday, you shall have some famous sport. A bruising ride that was!” He had turned away to look at the overcast sky and so did not see the convulsive shiver of fear that ran through her. “We missed you yesterday.” Well, surely one little white lie in a courtship was permissible. He had, in fact, not even noticed her absence yesterday. But a question or two in a few ears at breakfast had offered up the information. He might as well use what he could.
“Thank you, my lord,” was the only answer he got.
“How pleased I am that you like to hunt, Miss Pennington. It is one of my favorite pastimes, you know. I should hate to think that we could not share it.” Her eyes flew up to meet his at this alarming remark. It was the first time that he had ever really seen them, and he noticed that they were really very pretty eyes, of a deep, almost aquamarine blue. Though he did not read dismay in their depths, he did see surprise, and it occurred to him that perhaps he was moving a little too quickly for his quarry. She was like a young doe, easily scared off. He changed tack, and spent the rest of the trot in endeavoring to elicit more of her monosyllabic opinions on the weather, the crowd, and the beauty of the countryside.
Mrs. Pennington, riding along in a carriage close by, was nearly beside herself with satisfaction at the sight of Lord Devlin and her daughter. What a stroke of luck that Pris should have caught his attention. She couldn’t understand it in the least—Pris, though a sweet little mouse, had not Liza’s style and looks—but she was not one to let such an opportunity slip through her fingers. If she could get Pris off her hands before the year was out, she need never spend another tedious season in London. And then, Devlin did seem such a nice young man.
While Priscilla rode along in agony, not even seeing the lovely countryside on which she was expected to comment, Mr. Maltby was examining it in detail. On his right grew a particularly fine specimen of Trifolium in- camatum—he would return later to collect a sample of it—and off to his left was a field of late-blooming heather of a particularly intense shade of purple. He would very much like to analyze the soil hereabouts. He guessed it would be found to be very high in chalk content, and rich in the minerals lacking near his estate in Somersetshire. And only look at that Crataegus oxyacantha over there—
“Good morning, Mr. Maltby,” came a feminine voice beside him, pulling him from his botanic reverie. “Is it not a fine morning for hunting?” asked Francesca.
“Good morning, Lady Francesca,” he answered civilly, thankful to have remembered her name without thought. But then, she was not a young lady easily forgotten, even by such as Mr. Maltby. “It is a fine morning. That is a very . . . fetching habit, my lady,” he added, remembering his manners. He was, in fact, somewhat dazzled by her appearance.
“I thank you, sir,” she answered prettily, favoring him with a smile that made him feel slightly giddy. She did present quite a picture. She had taken extreme pains with her appearance this morning, and all for Mr. Maltby’s sake, as she told herself. Having made the momentous decision, in the dark of the night, to marry the man, she might as well get on with it. She had donned her most dashing habit of a deep wine-red velvet in the Polish style with braidings and froggings in black and gold. Beautiful gold morocco boots rested lightly in her stirrup. Her masses of hair were pulled back into a low, elegant chignon, and a pert little shako was tilted over her right eye, its gold-tipped black feather curling onto her cheek in a beguiling manner. He caught himself wanting to reach up and brush it away from her cheek. Francesca was very well pleased by his reaction.
“Impressed” was not precisely the right word for what Mr. Maltby was feeling. The man was experiencing a sensation remarkably akin to those he experienced when gazing on a perfectly formed orchid. It was something like wonder that so exotic and perfect a specimen could exist, at least in England. Of course, orchids did not speak and ask questions and demand answers of one. He struggled to pay attention to this talking specimen and to make the appropriate responses, and before long they found themselves arrived at the covert. He was saved from further need to talk by the business of the hunt. A business Francesca took very seriously indeed.
They drew a blank in the first covert, and everyone trotted another hundred yards or so to the next. This time Francesca found Devlin beside her as they rode. With a quizzical smile he raked her from head to toe with his eyes before pronouncing, “Very fetching.”
The words, though identical to those Mr. Maltby had
used, had an entirely different effect on her. She grew warm, a rush of blood coursing through her. She felt as though she were naked before him, instead of covered from her throat to her toes. As a defense against the strong sensations running through her, she lapsed into brittle civility. “So glad you approve, my lord,” she said coldly.
“Oh, I most assuredly do approve, my lady,” he answered smoothly. “Though I am not so certain Mr. Maltby would do so. Not quite in his style, I should imagine.”
“Mr. Maltby was very flattering in his compliments, sir. “Unlike you!” she said hotly. He always seemed able to set up her hackles.
“Did you not find my compliment flattering? I am sorry for it. It was sincerely meant.” Some of the teasing had left his voice, for he was sorry to have set her off. He was beginning to wonder if he had lost his touch with the ladies. “You look devastatingly pretty, as you very well know.”
“Thank you, my lord,” was her curt reply. They arrived at the covert, and she rode ahead to watch the dogs at work.
The fox was quickly found this time, and off they all rode at the gallop. But it was a sad run. Less than a quarter of an hour after the View, the fox found an unstopped hole and went to ground. There had barely been time for the blood to begin pumping and the mind to start racing when it was over.
There was much shuffling about at the burrow, the dogs growling and scratching at the ground. Shovels were brought to dig out the fox, who was so recalcitrant as to not wish to be killed just yet. But the burrow was a deep and complex one. Before long it was obvious that the fellow was lying low well beyond their reach or had broken out the other end and was well away.
There was some discussion of trying another covert in the hopes of finding another fox. But the heart seemed to
have gone out of the chase for this day. A mostly desultory group headed home.
The disappointment was not universal, however. Priscilla had never been more relieved. She knew it was only a short reprieve, like a condemned man being rescued from the hangman’s noose temporarily, only to be returned to a cell overlooking the gallows. Mama would certainly send her out again with the very next hunt. But at least for today the ordeal was over. And perhaps she could manage to slip away for an hour now with her sketchbook. She needed some peace in which to compose herself and sort out the horrifying suspicions Lord Devlin had brought to her mind.
Mr. Maltby was also not terribly upset with his morning’s sport. A good fifteen minutes’ gallop was just what he liked. He never had cared for the notion of killing the fox. He was just as pleased that the clever fellow had got away. And now there would be time to return to the woods for those soil samples and specimens he wanted.
Francesca and Devlin turned back toward the castle disgusted. What a wasted morning it had been! So great was their disappointment that they had no thought of the progress they might have each made in their courtships. They caught sight of each other. So obvious was their vexation, so perfect a mirror did they make for each other, that they had to laugh in spite of themselves. They were soon in charity with each other once more.
Without a word, with nothing more than a lifted brow and a look of challenge, they agreed to a race. They dug in their heels, and the two horses took off in unison. A few minutes later they were pounding up the l
ong gravel drive and drawing rein before the wide stairs, still in perfect step. Calling a draw, they entered the house laughing and chatting comfortably. The day’s sport had not been a total loss after all.
9
If the morning had proved less than perfect, the evening held more promise. For tonight the dual wooing was to begin in earnest. The Duchess had been more than a little surprised when Francesca came to her bedchamber that afternoon and requested that she be seated beside Mr. Maltby at dinner.
Sarah had, on her lordship’s orders, been resting on a chaise, a book in her hand and a light shawl draped prettily over her shoulders. She smiled a warm greeting to Francesca but looked puzzled when the request was put to her.
“But whatever for, darling?” she asked. “I am sure Caspar is well enough, but you will find him a dull companion, I fear. He can speak of nothing but his flowers and his grasses and shrubs. You know you don’t care a fig for any of them, Cesca.”
“Why, Sarah!” exclaimed Francesca, throwing up her hands in mock surprise. “However can you say so? I find I am developing an enormous interest in chrysanthemums. Or is it dahlias? Oh, dear, I must just go into the library and check before dinner.”
“Cesca, I know that look of mischief. I’ve helped plant it there too many times. What are you up to?”
“Up to?” replied Francesca with a great air of innocence. But something behind her playfulness made Sarah grow serious.
“Tell me, dearest. Something is wrong, I fear.”
Francesca’s facade dropped abruptly and she grew very matter-of-fact, with a note of defensiveness in her voice. She sat abruptly on the end of the chaise and faced her friend. “Oh, very well, Sarah. You know how you are always after me to marry and begin my family. Well, I have finally decided that you are right. And I have been persuaded that I could do no better than to marry Mr. Maltby.”
“Marry Caspar Maltby!” Sarah burst out in giggles, but one look at Francesca’s stonily determined face and she grew quickly sober again. “Cesca, you cannot be serious! You can do very much better than Caspar, and well you know it! Whoever put such an absurd notion into your head?”
“Oh, what does it matter?” she said in vexed tones. She should have known that Sarah would take the whole thing badly. “And I know I could do better by worldly criteria. But I will not be ruled by a husband! Or go through the rest of my life declaring what ‘George says’!” A shadow passed Sarah’s face, and Francesca was immediately contrite. “Oh, darling, forgive me. I know that being married to George makes you ecstatically happy. And for that reason it makes me happy too. But I am made of rather different stuff. I should simply suffocate in a marriage such as yours. Caspar will suit me very well, you know. He is perfectly willing to be agreeable and so totally absorbed in his own life he will not bother about mine. More importantly, he is absolutely incapable of ruling anyone.”
“But you do not love him!” cried Sarah with real anguish in her voice. She rose, wringing her hands, and began to pace the room, trailing the skirts of her pretty muslin wrapper behind her.
Francesca reached up and stopped her, took her tenderly by the shoulders, and settled her gently back onto the chaise. “Of course I do not love him. But you know, dearest, it is highly unlikely that I shall ever ‘fall in love’ as you did. I never have before.” She dared not think how close she had once come to doing just that. “And,” she went on resolutely, “if I should ever do so, I would certainly not marry the fellow and give him such unequaled power over me. There can be few chains more binding than emotional ones. I will not be so bound. Mr. Maltby will have a certain amount of power, of course—the laws of our illustrious land will give it to him—but it is in the highest degree unlikely that he will ever think to exercise any of it. I will be well contented with him and the children he will give me.”
She had said the words to herself so many times in the past eighteen hours that she now nearly believed them. The doubts hovering about the comers of her consciousness, she refused to heed.
Sarah could not like the idea—she cared too much for Francesca to see her throw herself away in such a cavalier manner—but she was at last persuaded that her friend was perfectly determined. She agreed to help in any way she could. Francesca left a rather disheartened Duchess, who stared out her windows with a thoughtful frown replacing her usually sunny smile.
So it was that Mr. Maltby found himself once again the object of Lady Francesca’s large amber eyes and dizzying smile at dinner. He discovered himself going on at some length about a hybridization of an apple and a pear that he had been working on for some time, and was flattered by her close attention, intelligent questions, and obvious admiration for anyone so clever as to actually invent a new fruit.
In fact, the man became unwontedly loquacious, then extraordinarily thirsty, and then, after rather more of the Duke’s excellent wine than he was used to drinking, he became very much aware of the whiteness of Lady Francesca’s shoulders, the swell of her bosom, the delicacy of her waist. Of a sudden he became rather less loquacious. Lady Francesca smiled all the brighter.
Lord Devlin had also had the forethought to see that the place cards were rearranged to put him next to Miss Pennington. Unfortunately, Mrs. Gordon had had the same idea. His lordship found himself between one young woman who would hardly speak and another who would hardly stop.
“Such a pity we had so little sport today, is it not, my lord?” began Roxanna Gordon.
Devlin, pleased at the relative innocuousness of this conversational sally, replied easily enough. “Yes. But we can hope for better next time. My horses have arrived, I have been informed, and I should like to show them off.”
“What? Not your wild horses!” She fingered a large ruby dangling provocatively from her throat and drawing attention to a dashing expanse of creamy bosom. She let her eyes grow very wide. “La! How I wish to see them! You must know that I adore everything wild and untamed. So much more thrilling. And I’ll wager yours are stallions,” she finished with an arch smile and a playful pat on his hand. Such a pity that one could not use a fan at the table.
He drew his hand away quickly to call for more wine, then devoted himself a moment to the tiny roasted larks and savory wild rice on his plate. He was certain he could feel the silent and probably shocked Miss Pennington watching him from the comer of her eye. “One is a stallion,” he admitted finally, “spirited but scarcely untamed. The other two are a gelding and a mare, both quite well-mannered.” He turned to Priscilla, anxious to make up any ground that Roxanna might have lost him. “I feel certain you would like the mare, Miss Pennington. She is velvet-mouthed and playful and would give you a superb ride.” He had been so caught up in his own disappointment in this morning’s hunt that he had not even noticed whether or not Priscilla could actually ride. But then, it never really occurred to him that there was anyone who could not ride. He had been raised on a horse and assumed that everyone else had been too. “You are very welcome to try her out soon,” he finished in a pleading tone, almost as though he were asking a favor of her.
“Oh, no, my lord,” she exclaimed. “That is, I . . . Thank you sir, but I...”
“It is not the least trouble, I assure you. I would like to think there was some way in which I could serve you.” He had lowered his voice and turned his shoulder so that Roxanna, try though she might, could not catch his words. The softness gave them an intimacy which frightened Priscilla. She wanted to cry out that he could serve her very well by ceasing to single her out in such a way. But all she mumbled was, “Th-th-thank you, my lord.”
“I wish you would call me Devlin, Miss Pennington. It is so much more... friendly.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t,” she began, then looked up. She was alarmed by what she saw. His smile might have been pleasant to anyone else, but it made her feel like a small furry mouse being watched by a circling hawk. She wanted nothing more than to scurry away and burrow into a hole.
“Please,” he said gently. His s
mile grew more kindly, but she did not see it now. She had looked down again and was staring hard at the veal birds in oyster sauce congealing on her plate.
“Very well, my lord ... D-Devlin.”
Just then, Roxanna was successful in claiming his attention once again, and Priscilla was allowed to finish her dinner in peace, nibbling desultorily on a stalk of iced asparagus and nodding occasionally at the inept conversational sallies of Mr. Benjamin Hollys on her other side.
Francesca had not become so engrossed in Mr. Maltby’s hybridizations or in her own dinner that she had no chance to watch Devlin’s progress in his suit. They were seated directly opposite to each other—instead of beside each other, as Sarah had intended—without so much as an epergne to interrupt the view. She really must speak to him, Francesca decided. His approach was all wrong. At the rate he was going, he was apt to scare Priscilla off before morning.
Devlin, too, had been observant during the meal and decided that Lady Francesca could do with some kindly advice. She was throwing herself at poor Caspar as though she were Roxanna Gordon, for God’s sake! The man was dazzled for the moment, it seemed, but when he woke up, and that would surely be soon enough, he was like to be disgusted by such behavior. Gentlemen might dally with die dashers, but they did not marry them.
And so, as the ladies rose to leave the table, Francesca and Devlin chanced to catch each other’s eyes. Each wondered why on earth the other was scowling so.
As the ladies entered the drawing room to amuse themselves as best they could until the gentlemen condescended to join them once more, Francesca caught an unhappy, worried look from Sarah. A twinge of guilt tweaked her conscience—she hated to be worrying Sarah at such a delicate time—but she believed herself to be doing the right thing. She would see that Mr. Maltby had no cause to repent his marriage to her. She would make him a very good wife.