The Sensible Courtship

by Megan Daniel

  It sounded as though he cried out a name, but she could not be sure.

  She did not dare to stop till she had run nearly half a mile—in what direction, she had no idea. She stumbled and fell, splashing in a puddle of mud. She stayed there a - moment trying to catch her breath, listening. She could hear no sounds of pursuit. She could hear no sound at all except a lone bird chattering far over her head.

  She crawled to a tree, leaning against it for support. And then she wept.

  16

  A glow of dawn fell on Lord Devlin’s sleeping face and teased him awake. He was in his own room, seated in an uncomfortable position in the chair before the dead fire. He was wearing no coat, no waistcoat, no cravat, but was otherwise fully clothed. What the devil was he doing here in this chair? he wondered as he struggled toward wakefulness. He gave a stretch and tried to think. Most of the previous evening was a blank.

  The attempt at thought made him dizzy. He had the devil’s own head this morning! The backs of his eyelids felt like inverted hedgehogs, and his mouth felt as though he had been chewing cotton wool. Moreover, his dreams had not been calculated to put him in an optimistic frame of mind. In short, Lord Devlin woke in a foul humor.

  Where the deuce was Isaac, his servant? He needed a shave. He needed some coffee. He arose slowly, his muscles stiff from sleeping in such an unaccustomed position, and reached for the bell pull. His eye chanced to fall on the mantel clock. It was just gone six. No one in the house would be stirring yet except the lowliest of the lowly servants. Isaac would quite properly not expect him to be up for another two hours at the least.

  Perhaps a walk in the morning air would help to clear his head and return some semblance of normality to his thinking processes. In any case, he could not stand to remain in this room a moment longer, alone with his thick head and his black thoughts.

  He shrugged himself into a comfortable and well- worn buckskin jacket, disregarding the need for a cravat or even a Belcher handkerchief, and left the room.

  The cold air hit him full in the face with a jolt as he unlatched the heavy front door and stepped out onto the terrace. He breathed deeply several times. Better already. Hands thrust into his pockets and head down, he strode off, neither knowing nor caring where he was headed, just needing to move.

  His head began to clear perceptibly as his blood began circulating faster. Bits and pieces of his previous evening’s activities began to come to mind. He remembered going to Francesca’s room to talk. And he remembered finding it empty. He scowled at the recollection. Yes, that was when he had decided to get thoroughly and disgustingly drunk. Judging by the head he had this morning, he had succeeded.

  But that had not been all, had it? He struggled with memory. Then it came to him. Ah, yes. The Widow. He had gone to see Roxanna.

  She had not been surprised to see him, he was sure. Her room had been bathed in the softest of candlelight. She had been wearing something red, he recalled, something wispy and soft and transparent that almost wasn’t there at all.

  And pretty quickly it wasn’t there. It had gone the way of his coat and his neckcloth. She was really a very beautiful and desirable woman.

  Why, then, had he awakened in his own room, fully dressed? He could distinctly remember holding her, kissing her. But he could not remember wanting her, not like he wanted Francesca. In fact, he now remembered clearly that he had not wanted her. He had been vaguely repelled, not really by her so much as by himself. He had apologized as gently as he could manage in so undignified a position—though not gently enough, if her stormy face had been a true gauge—and returned to his own room with his brandy. He had locked the door behind him.

  Not a very edifying recollection, that. It would be uncomfortable having to face the woman over the breakfast table this morning. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He had suffered worse consequences from his own folly before this. And probably would again.

  There was no one about on the grounds so early, not even a gardener. He cut across the velvety lawns. His boots were soon damp with dew, blades of fresh-cut grass clinging to their surface. He wandered at will, thinking, eventually heading toward the stables and beyond, without a soul to interrupt his black thoughts. He did pass within five feet of a young stableboy as he neared the tack room. The boy tugged at his forelock in greeting and would have spoken. But the black, closed look on his lordship’s face brought him up short with his mouth hanging open. Devlin walked on without noticing him.

  Having brought Roxanna to mind, and having called up that sordid little scene in her bedchamber, he promptly dismissed her from further thought. There was room in his mind for only one woman, one person. Francesca. She had so firmly embedded herself in his soul that he thought he should never be rid of her.

  He set himself the task of bringing Priscilla’s image before his mind’s eye. He tried to see her pretty blue eyes to hear her soft, not unmusical voice. But he could not seem to hold the image. He concentrated harder. Her hair? Brown. Yes, it was a sort of brown. Not curly, not straight. Just . . . well, sort of brown hair. Her face was round, but sort of oblong as well. Well, not too square at any rate. And pink. Well, a sort of pink. More of a red, actually, from her perpetual blush in his company.

  Now, what had she been wearing last evening? He had complimented her on it at dinner, he was sure, so he ought to remember. A sort of yellow, fluffy thing. Or was it pink? Well, definitely fluffy, frilly, overwhelming. Not at all like Francesca’s gown. That had been a smooth almond green, with darker highlights shimmering within it, a soft straight fall of silk crepe de Chine from a high waist. Deep brown velvet ribbons had trimmed the neck and hem, and there had been brown silk roses at her waist, just to one side. She had looked wonderful. She always looked wonderful.

  Perhaps Francesca would be willing to assist Priscilla in choosing a new wardrobe, he thought. Her taste was so exquisite. In return, he could teach Caspar to ... to what? The thought stopped him cold. He could teach Caspar Maltby nothing that would please Francesca. He had nothing she wanted or needed in a husband. She had made that quite clear. Caspar did.

  He was well beyond the stables and park now, following a footpath that skirted a field of hay already baled for the winter. “Miss Pennington. Priscilla. Lady Devlin.” He said the words aloud and stopped to give them a chance to sink in.

  A wood edged the far side of the field. He was staring at it, not seeing it. Lady Devlin. He gave an involuntary sigh.

  Something moving near the edge of the wood drew his attention, and he focused on in Standing there, across the field about fifty yards from where he stood, he saw Francesca. “Damme!” he exclaimed aloud, ordering his brain to behave and to cease conjuring up fantastical images. He defiantly turned his face away from the vision and began walking.

  He went no more than a dozen steps, however, when his eyes turned back against his wall to the wood. She was still there, stumbling out from under the trees. As he stared at her, she cried out in a high, nearly hysterical voice

  “Devlin!” she cried. “Thank God! Thank God.”

  The vision was real. Francesca was here! He hurdled over the low wall separating him from the field and began running toward her. It was hardly more than a moment until he reached her. She was on the verge of collapse, and he scooped her up into his arms.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Francesca sobbed with relief. Everything was all right now. Now that Devlin was here. He was so confused by seeing her here, and by the feeling of holding her in his arms, that he could put no words together. He murmured soothing sounds and stroked her hair until she could quiet her sobs.

  When she finally looked up at him and gave him a watery smile, he really saw her for the first time. Good God! She looked horrid! No, that was not precisely true. Francesca could never look horrid. But she did look as though she had been through an ordeal, and a distinctly unpleasant one at that.

  Her hair flowed about her in swirls and tangles, with leaves and bits of twig stuck to it. Her fa
ce and hands were badly scratched from her headlong rush through the trees. She was dressed only in a nightdress, half tom away and covered in mud. Her bare feet were blue with cold, cut and bleeding.

  “What has happened to you?” he asked, wild anger rising inside him at whoever or whatever could bring her to this. “Cesca! Tell me!”

  She could manage a tiny smile now that he was here, now that she was safe. “It’s quite simple, really,” she said in a small voice. “I was kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped? Who the devil . . . ?” She let his explosion wear itself out, then told him, in a surprisingly rational voice, the entire story of her night’s adventures.

  “Where is the blackguard?” he stormed. “I will kill him! How dare he touch you?” He rose as though he would go at once in search of the miscreant. There was murder in his face.

  “Devlin,” said Francesca, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice now that her story was out, “I am

  freezing. My feet are bleeding, and my head hurts abominably. I should really like very much to go home.”

  This caused him to stop his ranting; a contrite smile warmed his face. She really had been through a good deal. “Poor sweet,” he said, smoothing back her tangled hair. He removed his leather jacket and laid it gently over her shoulders. He tenderly touched a vicious scratch on her temple and kissed the fingertips of her hand with its cracked and broken nails. “My poor love,” he murmured.

  Somehow, in the next moment, he was kissing her. Quite thoroughly kissing her. And she was allowing it. His unshaved face scratched against the softness of hers. She hardly seemed to feel its roughness. As her hands slid up around his neck, the jacket fell away from her shoulders. It hit the carpet of dead leaves with a rustle that neither heard. His hands moved down to encircle her waist, then up again until they rested just under her breasts. She was sure he could feel the pounding of her heart; it felt like a rapidly recurring earthquake within her. Her knees felt weak, and she held on to him all the tighter for support.

  He wanted to possess her, to meld with her and become a part of her. He knew she wanted the same. He could feel it in her.

  She kissed him back in a manner that proved the truth of his thoughts. She could feel her control slipping away. She could feel herself slipping away, slipping into him, disappearing.

  With the last vestiges of her self-control, she pulled away from him, gasping for breath. He stared at her with burning eyes, as though he would devour her with a look. She could not stand the power of that look. She broke into an embarrassed laugh and pulled out of his arms.

  “Really, Dev,” she said lightly, looking everywhere but into those burning blue eyes. “You might at least have the grace to wait until I am married.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes. You have implied often enough your hope to make a cuckold of Caspar. But as he is not yet my husband, you might at least wait before making the attempt.”

  She had intended it as a joke, an attempt to break the emotional intensity of the moment. Devlin did not laugh. “Is he going to be your husband?” he asked very quietly.

  She knew absolutely in that moment that she had not the slightest desire to marry Caspar Maltby, to let him touch her as Dev had just touched her. But what future was there for her if she did not? Devlin would never marry her. He was as good as promised to Pris. And he had made it quite clear to Francesca that he saw her in a very different role from that of wife. What had he said that evening so long ago? Gentlemen might dally with the dashers; they did not marry them. He had meant her. The memory galled her.

  “Well, of course he is going to be my husband!” she snapped. “Why else have I been working on him all this time? He would have offered for me last night if I had not gone to bed with that dreadful headache.”

  The mere mention of Caspar’s name had cooled Devlin’s ardor completely. The fire faded from his eyes. “He will have other chances,” he said offhandedly.

  “I will see that he does! Now, do you suppose we might manage to discover a way to get me home? I am not particularly comfortable.”

  He picked up the jacket and threw it over her shoulders again, less gentle this time. “What do we do about that fellow Jerry? We can’t just let him slip away.”

  “I am sure he has done so already. He is not a total fool. I have been wandering about for hours, and I’m sure I couldn’t find that cottage again in any case. And if I did, he would be long gone.” She considered this a moment, then added, “Unless I have permanently blinded him. Do you suppose I have?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Well, I don’t,” she said truthfully. “He was an unpleasant fellow, to be sure, but I don’t think any of this was his idea. I feel certain he was merely a hireling.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  She sighed. It was almost a sigh of regret. “Because I think I know who hired him. I think I even know why.”

  “Who? Who would dare?”

  For answer she showed him the yellow plume, now sadly mangled, very muddy, and barely recognizable. It had tugged at her memory when she first saw it; she had had plenty of time to think about it as she wandered through the woods. Finally she remembered where she had seen it before. Roxanna Gordon had worn a quartet of just such feathers on her riding hat the other morning. They were distinctly designed to remain in the memory. This one had done just that.

  Francesca could not at first imagine why Roxanna would be involved in such a stunt. She suffered no lack of money; Francesca was no threat to her position. In fact, she had no need of anything Francesca had. There was only one thing in the world she clearly wanted, and that was Devlin.

  Francesca was clever, and it was not long before the whole scheme came clear to her. She remembered Roxanna’s glittering eyes on her whenever she had talked to Devlin, walked with him, danced with him. Jealousy had been written all over the woman’s face. Francesca had to laugh at the irony of it all. Roxanna obviously thought that Francesca was after Devlin. She saw her as a real obstacle to her own plans for the man. And so she had gotten her out of the way. Very neat.

  As Francesca shared her conclusions with Devlin, he saw the truth of them at once. They were confirmed by Roxanna’s behavior of the night before, though he did not share the story of the scene with Francesca. He exploded. He stamped about, oaths and promises of vengeance filling the air. When the diatribe finally began to run down, he slumped and added, “It’s my fault.”

  “How nonsensical,” she said. “How could it possibly be considered your fault?”

  “If I’d had the bottom to offer for Priscilla the other night when I intended to, that woman would have had no reason to have you carried off.”

  “That is perfectly true. And then she would have had Pris kidnapped instead. I hope I am not vain, Dev, but I do think that Pris would not have handled Jerry half so well as I did.”

  “God no,” he readily agreed.

  “And then we really would have been in the suds. But now, since I am so neatly escaped, we have the means to remove Roxanna entirely from the scene. And you can offer for Pris this very day with no danger.”

  All her life Francesca had had a habit of retreating into briskness and matter-of-factness when what she really wanted most in the world was to be held and comforted like a child and have all decisions removed from her head. She had done just that now. Devlin reacted accordingly.

  “I will do so, I assure you,” he said coolly. “Without delay. And now, shall we return to the house?” he asked, holding his arm out to her as though he had just asked her to dance. “I am anxious to send for the constable.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort!” she snapped. “I have no intention of exposing Roxanna’s behavior to the world. I could not do so without exposing the whole. Whatever the circumstances, I did spend the night in that cottage with that man, and if you care nothing about my reputation, I assure you that I do. If Caspar hears of this, I may as well whistle him down the wind, along with a
ny other gentlemen who might be inclined to offer for me.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, what do you propose? We cannot simply pretend it never happened.”

  “Yes we can. And we shall. To everyone except

  Roxanna. I am certain that between the two of us we can convince her that her presence at Hockleish is de trop. In fact, I rather think we can scare her sufficiently to keep her from coming to London for a very long time. I believe she has some relations in France. Perhaps it is time she paid them a long visit. Now, if you will just settle down and act sensibly, no one will guess that anything untoward has happened.” A breeze came up, and she shivered.

  “Well, we cannot stand about here. You are blue with cold. Come on.”

  She glared at him, hands on hips. “I never took you for an idiot, Richard Devlin! Look at me. It would be rather obvious to anyone seeing me that I did not spend the night peacefully in my bed. It must be after eight. Do you propose we simply saunter up to the front door and bid the company a good morning?”

  “Oh.” he muttered.

  “Quite,” she agreed. “But I have a plan whereby no one will be the wiser. Only listen.” She proceeded to give him exact instructions to convey to her maid, the only other person to be made privy to the whole. Francesca would trust Rose with her life, and rightly so. She added an instruction or two for Devlin himself, who wondered how she could be so calm and sensible after what she had been through in the past few hours.

  “I do hope I can get my feet into a pair of boots,” she said, looking down at her bloody toes. “You might just bring along a roll of lint so I can bandage them.” She looked up and smiled at him, her first smile for a while. “And you might manage a shave for yourself. You look perfectly horrid. Whatever have you been doing all night?” He did not deign to answer.