The Sensible Courtship

by Megan Daniel

  “If you do not give him a disgust of me first. Whatever did you say to him? Are you so very anxious to win your paltry bet?”

  “On the contrary. I hope you will win. Married ladies are so much more interesting than single ones.” After a pause he added, “And so much more available.” She was too amazed at his audacity and at the lurch that went through her at his words to answer. “And besides,” he continued, “I rather think I shall win my prize even if I lose.”

  For a puzzled moment she tried to recall what forfeit he had named should she lose the bet. Then it came to her. He had named none in words, but his look, his manner, had quite clearly demanded her, just as they did now.

  Even more confusing was the fact that a part of her seemed quite willing that he should have her. He had reached out a tender hand to her shoulder, fingering the long golden hair that lay there so enticingly. A shock went through her at his touch; something within her seemed to melt. Her education had provided her with no compelling moral reason to resist him. She leaned toward him.

  But just as he would have kissed her, she remembered, and she knew that once she gave herself to him, she would be forever lost to herself. There would be no going back. She turned quickly away and walked to the fire. “And how goes the battle for your fair Priscilla?” she asked in a brightly brittle voice that sounded on the edge of hysteria even in her own ears.

  In turning away, she could not see the look on his face. Had she done so, she would have been very much surprised. There was neither the anger nor the disappointment that she might have reasonably thought to see there. Instead, he seemed strangely relieved, and when he looked at the hand that had touched her hair and saw that it was trembling, a bit surprised. Lord Devlin could scarce be called a novice where the wooing of women was concerned. But he had never been touched in this strange way by any other woman in the whole wide world. It made him distinctly uncomfortable. He stuck the trembling hand into his pocket with deliberation. When he spoke at last, his voice was as falsely casual as her own. “Priscilla? Oh, we progress,” he said.

  “I was afraid Pris would send you running with her harp this evening,” said Francesca, seating herself in the wing chair once more and tucking her bare feet up under her in a beguiling way. The moment of tension was broken.

  “She nearly did so, I can tell you,” he confessed as he stirred up the dying embers. “But then I saw that the poor girl was suffering as much in the playing as we were in the listening. As soon as we are betrothed, I shall promise her that she need never play again, and she may promise me that I need never listen.”

  “I begin to think you will suit even better than I at first expected.”

  “How well you understand my needs.” He intended nothing more than the words meant, but as soon as they were out he could have bitten his tongue. “I meant only that you have chosen perfectly for me,” he hastened to add.

  “Well, you had best take care not to send her running, then. You were looking at her all evening like a wolf at a lamb.”

  Despite his best intentions, he could not resist such an opening. He grinned at her. “Oh, no, Francesca. It is you I look at like a wolf, though I know very well you are no lamb. It is why I have not attacked. I cannot be certain of coming out of the encounter unscathed.”

  “You wouldn’t!” she said quickly, and pulled her feet closer under her.

  “Now, Miss Pennington is most definitely a lamb, but I see myself rather more in the role of shepherd than of predator.”

  “But does not the shepherd have the best interests of his sheep at heart?”

  “On the contrary. He has his own best interests at heart. Was it not you who told me how inherently selfish we all are? The shepherd cares well for his sheep because he needs them to earn his livelihood. Luckily, that is also good for the sheep. My lamb will be content, I promise you. I shall take very good care of Miss Pennington because I need her to be my wife.”

  “I cannot think she would like to hear herself discussed so cynically.”

  “But she won’t. She will hear nothing but kindness and gentleness from me, I assure you.”

  “Then you had better start, sir. For regardless of your intentions, it is clear that at present you are dealing with a very frightened lamb. The girl is terrified of you.”

  “Nonsense. Why should she be?”

  “I have no idea. Have you been so blockheaded as to mention marriage to her already?”

  “Of course not! What sort of a noddy do you take me for?” He did not give her time to answer. “But I’ll wager her mother has,” he concluded honestly.

  “And did you not tell Pris how much she would like Kent and how sadly your house stood in need of a woman’s touch, and what was her favorite color for wall coverings?”

  “No, I did not!” he said hotly, then recalled his actual, not so very different, conversations with the girl. “Well, not in those very words,” he amended, beginning to see his mistake.

  “So I thought,” she said dryly. “I can see that you were correct when you said you knew nothing about

  winning a tender young girl. I suggest you leave her quite alone tomorrow.”

  “How will that advance my cause?”

  “It will give her a chance to calm her fears. And to view you more objectively. She has scarce had a chance to think about you; she is far too busy fearing you. Give her a little space. In the evening you may speak to her but only on the most general of subjects.”

  “You may be right,” he admitted, though reluctantly, staring thoughtfully into the fire. “I do seem to have bungled it a bit so far.”

  “So glad you admit it.”

  “Too bad you cannot do the same.”

  “/ have not bungled it!”

  “Oh, give over, Cesca.” She flushed to hear the pet name on his lips. “You’ve been moving like one of those newfangled steam engines. But you are about to run out of track. And you are like to flatten the poor fellow under such an assault.”

  “Well, it is working,” she reminded him.

  “For the moment,” he admitted. “But Caspar is no dunce. It will not take him long, certainly not long enough, to come to his senses. He is far too levelheaded to allow himself to remain bemused for long.”

  “Well, I haven’t much time, you know. Just what do you suggest?”

  “Well, you are playing for fairly high stakes, and a true gambler never shows his hand too clearly. Your clothes, for instance. That is the reason I came to your room.”

  “My clothes!” she sputtered in indignation. But he was not listening. He had crossed to the great wardrobe and thrown open the door. “You must have something ‘sweet- maidenish’ in here.” He began flipping through gown after gown, tossing one or two onto the bed and making a great to-do. “No, no, too low . . . too dashing .. . not sweet enough ...” he muttered as he rummaged.

  She ran to the wardrobe to stop him. “For God’s sake,

  Dev! Do be quiet. Lady Braethon is on the other side of that wall.”

  “I thought I recognized the snoring,” he said with a grin.

  “And Roxanna Gordon is just across the hall,” she continued to somewhat better effect.

  “Oh, Lord!”

  “Exactly.”

  “No matter,” he said softly after a moment. “We shall work quietly.” He pulled out a blue sprig muslin with long fitted sleeves. “Now, this has possibilities.”

  She looked at the dress with a frown. “I cannot think why I brought it,” she said pettishly. Actually, it was one of her favorite gowns, but she was not ready to give him an inch.

  “Of course, the neck is a bit low. Have you got a handkerchief or something you could fill it in with?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she said, snatching the dress from him and hanging it back in the wardrobe.

  “And here is another!” He pulled out a cherry striped toilinette walking dress with a high-necked rose velvet bodice. “You have been holding out on me, Cesca.”

 
“Oh, go to bed, do, Devlin. I promise you I shall look appropriately demure tomorrow.” He grinned and looked toward the big bed, then back at her, gratified by her blush. She crossed to the door, opened it, and said in a very regal whisper, “Good night, Lord Devlin.”

  He came to her and stood a moment, causing her to look up into his blue, blue eyes. “Good night, Lady Francesca,” he whispered back; then he leaned down and very lightly kissed her, a kiss like a butterfly’s wings that left her breathless.

  Gosing the door softly behind him, Francesca leaned against it a moment, thankful for its support, and willed her tumbling thoughts and pounding heart to be still.

  Devlin, tiptoeing down the hall with a warm smile on his face, was also subject to thought, so much so that he did not hear the soft click of a latch nearby.

  Roxanna Gordon stepped back into her room just in time to avoid his lordship’s notice. And she was not smiling. She had decided that she would be the next Baroness Devlin. She had thought she had only poor little Priscilla Pennington to deal with, scarce a fair opponent for her formidable powers of seduction.

  But Francesca Waringham was a bird of a very different feather. If Devlin was secretly visiting her bedchamber at night, things between them had gone entirely too far. Roxanna would have to see to doing away with such formidable competition.

  11

  Despite a very late night of intense thinking—or one might more properly say scheming—Roxanna Gordon arose early next morning. The beginning of a plan had begun taking shape in her mind, and she was anxious to begin carrying it out. She sat at a delicate Pembroke table near the window. Strongly angled shafts of sunlight filtered through the grey clouds to light her blue-black hair. Birds were chirping in a tree just outside, and the garden below glowed prettily. But all this went unremarked as her quill flew across the paper.

  For a lady of quality, Roxanna Gordon had an odd assortment of friends and acquaintances. Born into the ton, she had been married at an early age to the infamous Johnny Gordon. He was a close crony of “Cripplegate” Barrymore, the most notorious rake and debauchee in all England. Everyone had been thoroughly shocked at the marriage. Roxanna’s father, Sir Alfred Blythe, had been excoriated for selling a tender young girl off to such a skirter.

  But the condemnation was quite unfair, for Gordon had been very much Roxanna’s own choice. Her father had agreed to the marriage against his better judgment, and only then because he knew his headstrong daughter would simply run off with the fellow should he refuse the match.

  In fact, the infamous Gordon and Roxanna Blythe had suited each other to the ground. She was a lady of quality with the soul of a courtesan and found herself very well married. He had often invited her along on his riotous rounds, much to her delight. She even attended a few “meetings” of the notorious “Hellfire Club” of which her husband was a founding member. She spent lavishly of his money, with his ungrudging acquiescence, as she spent liberally of her favors, also with his complete agreement. He had, in fact, seemed quite proud of her skill with the gentlemen and occasionally arranged some of her most private parties for her.

  Despite all this sordid living, she had always been jealous of her reputation within the ton. She had managed to retain at least a facade of respectability within the upper echelons of Society. The more riotous of her adventures with her husband were limited to dark comers of the town unfrequented by the ton, and her innamorati were always from the lower orders, whom no one was likely to believe, should they decide to make public the liaisons.

  The starchier matrons around town thought her too fast by far to be totally respectable, but she was still accepted everywhere. Most of her tonnish friends had always felt a sort of pity for her, assuming as they did that she was stuck in a miserable marriage. They forgave her high spirits and open flirtations as a desperate reach for some warmth and affection.

  When John Gordon was killed in a tavern brawl, Roxanna’s grief had been genuine. She knew she would be utterly bored without him. A full year in blacks to retain her respectability had certainly not improved matters. But the years of her marriage had enlarged her circle of friends to a useful extent. Although there were no ton parties, no theatre or opera, there were men of a less nice disposition who were not loath to escort a plucky lady to cockfights and bull baitings, on outings to Bartholomew Fair and on riotous evening romps that were, truth to tell, much more to her taste than fancy

  balls and routs. She had even attended the annual Cyprian’s Ball at Covent Garden, well-masked of course, since many gentlemen of the ton always attended. After amusing herself flirting with a string of earls, viscounts, and other “respectable” gentlemen, all of them well known to her, she had allowed a visiting Austrian, due to return to his own country in the morning, to escort her home.

  She had now been out of blacks for a year, and was taking full advantage of the even greater freedom that widowhood gave her. She was more jealous than ever of her position in the ton. Even the most riotous living must begin to pall after a while. She had felt her position slipping, and she knew only one sure way to retrieve and ensure it. She needed to remarry and to marry well. Lord Devlin had all the cachet she needed. Also, he was just enough of an adventurer to appeal to her taste. He would not bore her to death as most respectable men would do. She decided to have him.

  Her marriage had left her with a useful acquaintance of scoundrels and rascals and other assorted blackguards. Many of her former friends owed her in one form or another. Now seemed a good moment to collect on one or two of those debts, and her quill scribbled her needs concisely and unhesitatingly in a firm hand.

  With no hunting that day—the horses and dogs needed a rest even if the most avid hunters did not—it looked to be a quiet day at Hocldeigh. Quiet, that is, upstairs. In the nether quarters things went on much as usual, which is to say that every servant on the estate was up to his elbows in chores.

  It had come on to rain, one of those grey, drizzly mornings, confining all those inmates with any choice in the matter to the dry, well-heated rooms. In the front parlor, the ladies chatted, read, or stitched over their morning coffee. In the billiard room, the gentlemen exchanged stories over their cue sticks of recent pugilistic battles and famous hunts, or commented on various articles in the current issues of The Gentlemen's Magazine or Gray's Sporting Journal.

  Lord Devlin had been unable to stifle a grin on first seeing Lady Francesca that morning. Despite her indignation of the night before, she had donned the cherry striped gown. With a red ribbon simply tying back her long golden waves, she looked as fresh and young as a schoolgirl. The effect, he also noted, had not been lost on Caspar, whose eyes widened in appreciation at sight of her.

  For her part, Francesca was also pleased to note that Devlin all but ignored Priscilla at breakfast, much to that maiden’s obvious relief. He merely commented on the grey weather and hoped it woud turn fine later—what did Miss Pennington think?

  Francesca, in the parlor with the other ladies, was absentminded; inactivity always made her restless. Her eyes wandered frequently to the window, streaked with rivulets of the chilly rain, while she listened halfheartedly to the conversations of the ladies around her.

  “Well, miss,” said Lady Braethon in a schoolmistress voice, claiming a more direct share of her attention, “just when do you propose to stop all this independent nonsense and settle down with a husband and babies? You are not getting any younger, my girl.”

  Francesca smiled at the impertinent question. Lady Braethon had known her and bullied her all her life. And although she had always been somewhat in awe of the old woman, she held her in considerable affection. “Quite soon perhaps,” she said serenely. “I have nearly decided to gratify your so often voiced desire. I should rather like to start a family, I think. Only look at what it is doing for Sarah. How would you like another godchild?”

  Lady Braethon’s sharp gaze grew sharper still, and gratification as well as curiosity gleamed behind her sharp black eye
s. “Good girl!” she said. “But I’ll not have just anyone siring my godchildren. Who’s it to be?”

  “As to that, I am not perfectly decided,” Francesca lied with an air of total unconcern. “I just thought to begin looking around me for a likely candidate.”

  “Humph!” grunted the old lady. “All very calculating. I thought all you modem misses were holding out for love matches.”

  “Oh, I am far too modem for that, ma’am,” she said with a teasing grin.

  “Well, you do mean to marry the fellow, I hope,” said Lady Braethon, suddenly realizing that the word “marriage” had not yet figured in the conversation. She was well aware of Francesca’s unorthodox education, and although she liked a girl with a bit of spirit, she could not wholly approve.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” she was reassured. “When I find him.”

  Francesca had thought she was speaking in a low tone, but Roxanna Gordon, desultorily pretending to read a novel on a nearby sofa, had missed not a single word of the conversation. She was not deceived by the young woman’s air of nonchalance: it was far too cool, too self-confident. Clearly things had gone much further between Francesca and Lord Devlin even than she had feared. She thought of the express letter she had sent off that very morning and willed it to sprout wings. She had immediate need of assistance in her campaign to oust Lady Francesca.

  A few of the other ladies also heard snatches of the conversation, just enough to lead them into a general discussion of matrimony. It very nearly made Francesca change her mind about the whole thing. Did she really wish to enter into an institution so fraught with trickery and deceit and the use of all sorts of low feminine wiles to get her way? But then, was she not already sunk to just that state? Was she not using those very wiles to capture Mr. Maltby? It all seemed so sordid, and she felt