The Sensible Courtship

by Megan Daniel

  “It is so dreadfully hot in here, is it not, Caspar?” she said with a flutter of her lashes and with a brave disregard for the truth.

  “What?” he said, pulling himself from his reverie. “Oh. Oh, yes, Francesca. Hot.”

  “Could we not just stroll out onto the terrace for a moment? I feel I shall faint if I do not get some fresh air.” She steered him through a nearby French door and outside, trying to suppress a shiver as a blast of cold air hit her.

  Devlin watched her leave the room. He was not smiling.

  “Ah, that is better,” said Francesca leaning on a low marble wall overlooking the White Garden. Before Caspar knew what was happening or how, he was behind her with his arms lightly encircling her. She leaned back against his chest, chatting inconsequentially. He had no idea what she said. He was conscious only of her closeness, her warmth, and the heat rising in his own head.

  And then somehow he was kissing her. Once she had brought on his embrace, Francesca stood very still, waiting for something. Something that never came. There was no flood of warmth coursing through her, no tingle at the back of her neck, no trembling in her limbs except for that caused by the chill autumn air. Only one man had ever brought on such feeling in her. Now there was nothing at all. She had been silly to expect that there would be.

  When the embrace was broken, a blushing, stammering Caspar spoke. “I am sorry, my lady. I don’t...”

  “Let us return to finish our dance, shall we?” she said. And that is what they did.

  A thoughtful, vaguely depressed Lady Francesca and a frustrated, vaguely relieved Lord Devlin made their separate ways upstairs a short while later.

  14

  The steps of the quadrille are complex and require a certain amount of practice and a degree of expertise to perform with grace and without stepping on the toes of the other dancers. This foursome was learning, but none were yet perfect in the art. They began to confuse their partners.

  Devlin, true to his word, convinced Mrs. Pennington to agree that Priscilla need no longer ride in the hunt. He, therefore, enjoyed a happy morning’s sport.

  Francesca was also set free from her vigilant attention to her swain. Caspar had not been able to forgo a chance to collect some cuttings from the Duchess’s greenhouses. Francesca was left to enjoy the morning in the company of her coconspirator.

  In fact, she enjoyed it very much. She could no longer deny, even to herself, how much she truly liked him and how strongly he stirred her emotions. But Francesca was a very self-protective animal, and she had grown a rather sturdy shell over the years. The acknowledgment of her reactions to Lord Devlin served only to strengthen her resolve to marry someone else, and that quickly. She would remove herself from temptation. She wanted no emotional strings binding her and limiting her freedom of movement.

  As the group rode back to the house after a good day’s hunt—Francesca by the merest chance riding beside Devlin—they happened to observe Priscilla, sketchbook in hand, coming from the direction of the rose garden. She was not alone. Mr. Maltby was beside her, talking animatedly, no doubt on some botanical marvel. They seemed perfectly at ease in each other’s company.

  “That will never do,” Francesca muttered as she espied the pair.

  “No, indeed,” replied Devlin. And they both turned to intercept the oblivious couple.

  “Mr. Maltby,” said Francesca, sliding from her horse to land at his feet. “How pleasant to run into you here.”

  “My lady,” he stammered as a blush spread up from his collar. He had not forgotten the scene of the previous evening. He could not imagine how he could have so far forgotten himself as to actually kiss her.

  “Miss Pennington,” his lordship greeted. “I am glad to see you taking advantage of the sunshine.”

  “My lord,” she whispered, all sign of her recent animation gone.

  “You have been sketching, I see,” said Devlin. “May I be allowed to see your work?”

  “Oh, no, my lord! That is, I do not... I mean, I am not...”

  “Please,” he said, taking the book gently from her nerveless fingers. He flipped it casually open, preparing in his mind the platitudes he would utter. But his expression soon changed to one of earnestness. He said not a word as he looked at one drawing after another. “Good God!” he said at last Priscilla blushed.

  Francesca came to look over his shoulder, then stared at Priscilla in surprised admiration. “Why, Pris! They are superb!”

  “Yes,” said Caspar. “Miss Pennington has a gift She is quite the finest botanical artist that I have ever come across. Notice the detailing of the anther, here, and the clarity and depth of the calyx and corolla. Extraordinary!”

  “Talented as well as charming, my dear,” said Devlin. “ ’Twill be a lucky man who wins you.”

  Paris took the sketchbook from him and closed it, rooted to the ground with embarrassment. Francesca took pity on her. “I wish you will come back to the house with me, Pris. I particularly wanted your opinion on a piece of fringe I have been knotting.”

  A grateful Priscilla walked off beside her, steering well clear of the very large horse that trailed behind them.

  At dinner that night each of the four seemed to see the inevitable. They knew that tonight was to be the night. Cesca could feel Caspar’s eyes on her all through dinner, a thoughtful, speculative look replacing his more usual abstracted mien. She could easily get him to offer tonight. After last evening, he would feel it his duty, the silly noddy. One did not go about kissing young ladies to whom one was not affianced. Her knowledge gave her little pleasure. In fact, she felt the headache coming on.

  Priscilla scarce took her eyes from Lord Devlin. She had come to a decision. Now she was trying to see the positive side of it. She had suffered another of her Mama’s dreadful monologues that afternoon on the desirability of having a baron for a husband. The tone and vehemence, if not the words, had turned the trick. The girl was willing to do almost anything to get away from her mother and her constant scolds. She could become mistress of her own fate, at least to a limited extent, by marrying. The fact that the means of her freedom coincided with her Mama’s loudly stated wishes offered a bonus of sorts. She would marry Lord Devlin.

  Two of the four involved in this tangle were being intently observed from yet another quarter. Roxanna Gordon missed little in their expressions, but misread much of what she saw there. She noted the glances they occasionally shot each other and read restrained passion into what was really absolute sympathy. The small nod they exchanged as the ladies rose to leave the room she read as a signal, a secret agreement, perhaps to meet later in the evening. It was as well that Jerry had other plans for Lady Francesca tonight.

  When the gentlemen reentered the drawing room, Francesca was desultorily fingering the keys on the pianoforte. She saw Caspar hesitate, then start in her direction. Oh, how her head ached! She simply could not deal with him and his proposals just yet. She crossed quickly to where the Duchess was pouring out the tea.

  “Let me help you, Sarah,” she said, taking the pot from her friend. “You must be fatigued to death.”

  “Pooh! I have never felt better. And I hope I do not look half so fatigued as yourself, Cesca. Why, you are positively white, my love. Do sit down.”

  “It is nothing. I just have the headache a little. Nothing that a cup of your excellent tea will not put to rights.”

  Roxanna, overhearing this conversation, rejoiced inwardly. Things were falling out better than she had dared to hope. She picked up her reticule, opened it quickly to remove a small white-wrapped parcel, and snapped it shut again. She went to the tea cart. “You do look pale, Francesca,” she said. “Sit here, and let me pour.”

  Gratefully, Francesca did as she was bid. It was but a moment till Roxanna had poured her a cup of tea, carefully added sugar, and stirred it very well. She handed it to Francesca with a sympathetic smile.

  Soon Francesca was sipping at the scalding brew, burning her tongue, and not mi
nding in the least, so comforting was the taste of the favorite English cure-all. She did not even notice that the sweet, pungent tea had an odd, slightly bitter aftertaste. She drained her cup. Roxanna smiled and moved away.

  Lord Devlin soon found the Widow at his side. She attacked him with her eyes and her smile and all her other powers of seduction. Strangely enough, he made no attempt to leave her. He knew he should go and speak to

  Pris, knew he should make his offer. And he knew she would accept. He chastised himself for acting like a green schoolboy. He ordered himself to go to her. But he remained with Roxanna, returning her flirtation to an unusual degree.

  To her surprised delight, he paid her extravagant compliments, told her vaguely risqu6 jokes at which she laughed delightedly, all the while scolding him for a naughty boy. She was much pleased with the evening.

  Francesca felt her headache growing worse, as though a clamp was being tightened over her temples. Her eyelids began to sting as well, and she had the most unaccountable desire to let them sink over her eyes, giving way to sleep. Perhaps another cup of tea would help, she thought.

  Caspar, unable to approach Francesca while she was surrounded by Sarah and a few others, moved to a seat beside Priscilla. Mrs. Pennington scowled. The seat had been purposely left vacant for quite another gentleman, but she couldn’t very well ask him outright to move away. The two young people spoke of flowers and ferns and such fascinating things.

  Francesca drank her tea; it did not help. She was sleepier than she could ever remember being before. It would not do to topple over snoring in the drawing room. She excused herself as best she could and dragged herself up the stairs. She donned a nightdress, dismissed her maid, and crawled under the inviting bedclothes. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.

  Some hours later, Devlin, slightly befuddled from too much brandy, was surprised to discover that he, Mr. Dalton, and Roxanna were the only guests remaining downstairs. Mr. Dalton rose to go, giving Devlin a very “man-of-the-world” wink. Devlin, well aware of the danger looming just ahead, quickly did the same. Roxanna could only follow.

  At the top of the stairs, the two gentlemen turned to the left “Devlin,” said Roxanna in an apologetic voice. “So stupid of me, unbelievable really, but I have forgotten my candle. Would you be so kind as to see me to my door? I should hate to trip over a suit of armor or some such thing and rouse the whole household.” With a shrug, he followed her.

  At her door, out of the hearing of Dalton, she was yet more direct in her attack. “The Duke’s brandy is excellent, is it not?” He had good reason to know the answer. He nodded. “Would you care for just one more glass of it? I have had the forethought to order a bottle sent to my room.” Her voice dropped even more. “Widowhood can be so lonely, you see. It helps me to sleep when I cannot bear to be alone.”

  A more direct invitation could scarce be imagined. Devlin was not so drunk that he could not see the abyss that loomed before him. He stepped deftly, or at least effectively, aside. “I thank you, ma’am, but I have had more than enough to send me to sleep for many hours. I trust you will have no trouble doing the same.”

  An angry glare followed him as he wove down the hall. Roxanna Gordon had met with very few rebuffs in her life. She did riot suffer them lightly. After a moment, her door slammed shut with a vehemence unseemly for the hour.

  Devlin gained his room and slumped into a chair before the fire, brooding awhile on his uncharacteristic lack of resolve with Priscilla. Damme! Why could he not simply ask the girl and get it over with? He had thought the brandy, of which he had admittedly had a good deal, might do the trick. Instead, it had only seemed to make matters worse. Obviously he needed a dose of something stronger than mere spirits.

  The thought turned him suddenly sober. He knew just what he needed. He needed Francesca. He had, almost unconsciously, come to depend on her badgering, her advice, her mere presence, to give him courage. It was as

  though he was performing some elaborate dance strictly for her benefit, wanting only her admiration.

  And tonight she had not been there to watch the performance. She had looked distinctly unwell just after dinner, pale and tired, and when she had gone early to bed, all the flavor had gone out of the evening for him. It struck him suddenly and strongly that he was dangerously near to being in love with Lady Francesca Waringham.

  Once such a radical thought had been admitted to his conscious mind, he could not let it go. He sat there examining it from all sides, extracting its juices, as it were, like a cow chewing its cud.

  In love with Francesca. What did that mean to him? He was certain she would never marry him, even if that was what he wanted, which of course it was not She had been quite specific about her requirements in a husband, just as he had been about a wife. He was the antithesis of everything she wanted.

  But he knew, deep in some unexplored comer of his soul, that he would never be completely happy again without her near. He had reason to suspect that beneath that icy exterior she had developed over the past few years lay a warm, eager, even passionate woman. She was the only woman he had ever wanted to possess so completely that it frightened him.

  A thought squeezed into his mind, and he smiled for the first time since coming upstairs. Caspar Maltby would never be man enough for such a woman. And it would not take Francesca very long after her marriage to discover the fact. There would be an empty part of her life that needed filling, as there had always been in Devlin’s. He would be there to fill it.

  Suddenly he felt an overpowering need to see her, to hear her voice, to have her boost his courage once more in her own inimitable way. But it was now after midnight, and she had been in bed for hours. It would just have to wait till morning.

  Perhaps it was the brandy so copiously imbibed that made him raise and leave the room, almost against his conscious will, made him walk softly down the hall, made him try the knob on Francesca’s door. It was unlocked. He would not wake her, he told himself. He just wanted to look at her.

  The room felt unusually cold, and he could feel a sharp breeze hit his cheek as he entered. The fire had died; the room was in darkness. But a full moon gave it a silvery glow.

  He realized that the large double windows stood wide open, their curtains fluttering and billowing into the room from the autumn wind. Odd, he thought. They must have blown open.

  The draperies were pulled close around the bed—he would not have guessed that she would care for such stuffiness—and he gently pulled back one edge to see that she was all right. Within their dark confines he could make out nothing. He pulled the draperies farther back until a shaft of moonlight fell across the pillow.

  The bed was empty. The clothes were rumpled, and there was a depression in the pillow where her head had lain. He reached down and touched it; it was warm with the warmth of her.

  But where was Francesca? She had come upstairs early and had missed the late supper that had been served in the drawing room. She might have awoken hungry and made her way to the kitchen for something to eat. Or perhaps she had not been able to sleep at all and thought a good book would take her mind off her headache and make her sleepy. She might now be in the library making her choice.

  Or perhaps, to complete her victory over Caspar Maltby, she had gone to him. Perhaps she was even now in his room, in his arms, even in his bed.

  Devlin shivered convulsively and went to the window, slamming it shut with a resounding bang. He stood looking out over the velvety lawns and the glassy surface of the lake, glowing and shimmering in the moonlight. He did not even see them.

  You are a fool, Richard Devlin, he chastised himself. She did not want you five years ago; she does not want you now. Caspar and her children will be enough for her.

  But, his unruly mind continued questioning, will Priscilla Pennington ever be enough for you?

  He walked, less softly this time, back to his room and threw himself into the chair by the now dying fire. He picked up a decanter
of brandy and poured himself a tumbler full. He downed it practically in one gulp. Another just like it followed.

  The sound of the slammed window was heard by more than one pair of ears in the neighboring bedchambers. Only one, however, was curious enough, or suspicious enough, to investigate it. Roxanna had just snuffed her candle and eased open her door when Devlin emerged from Francesca’s room. Triumph and worry mingled in her mind. She had been right! They had signaled each other about a meeting tonight. What must he now be thinking to find her gone? If the search for her was started too soon, all her plans, and even Roxanna herself, could be ruined.

  But Lord Devlin, she was happy to see, did not look like a worried man. He looked angry. He was muttering as he made his way down the hall; she could not make out his words. He returned to his own room, and the door closed firmly behind him.

  She must know more, or she could never sleep this night. She walked silently down the hall, her slippers making no sound on the thick carpet, her red silk negligee billowing behind her. She stopped before his room and listened. There came none of the sounds of a man preparing to take up the search, a man readying himself for a gallant rescue mission. All she heard was the soft chink of a decanter hitting the rim of a glass.

  She smiled. Bending her knees, she tried to see through the keyhole. She could make out the bed, empty, and a table set not far from the fire. On the table stood a cut- glass decanter filled with a liquid whose rich amber color proclaimed it to be some of the Duke’s famous brandy. That was all that came within her field of vision.