The Sensible Courtship

by Megan Daniel

  Having finished the litany of her needs, she settled herself against a large oak tree out of the wind to wait for him, wrapping his leather jacket closely about her. “And do hurry, Dev,” she called after him. “If Rose finds my room empty, she is like to rouse the entire household to look for me.”

  And so it happened that just as the guests were sitting down to their breakfast, Lady Francesca and Lord Devlin drove up the wide drive together in his curricle, for all the world as though they had been out for an early-morning pleasure drive. She was perfectly outfitted in a toilinette morning-dress topped with a warm pelisse of slate grey edged in marten. Her golden hair was neatly tucked up under a close-fitting fur toque in the Russian style, and her feet were shod in half-boots of black jean. A delicate application of rouge and rice powder hid most of the scratches on her face, and a fierce clenching of her teeth covered the pain in her feet.

  When he lifted her down from the carriage before the house, she winced, and she leaned heavily on his arm as they came up the steps. But when the front door was opened to them, she was smiling.

  “Cesca!” cried Sarah in greeting. “How pleased I am to see you up and about. Your headache is quite gone?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Francesca lightly. “I awoke feeling quite the thing. And Lord Devlin was kind enough to take me out for a drive in the fresh air. Is it not a beautiful morning?”

  “Yes, but so chilly. Come and warm yourself with a cup of tea.” They made their way to the breakfast room, Francesca trying hard not to hobble and thankful for the continued support of Devlin’s strong arm.

  Chatter was floating about the room as they entered to the usual chorus of “good mornings.” But one person at the table grew deadly silent at sight of them. Roxanna Gordon dropped her fork with a loud clatter and went dead white. She was seated near the door, and they had to pass her as they made their way to their own seats.

  Devlin retrieved her fork from the floor and set it with deliberation beside her plate, meeting her wide eyes with his own hard, narrow ones. In a voice dripping with menace, but so quiet only she could hear, he said, “Quite, Mrs. Gordon.”

  The gentlemen had made plans to go out shooting that morning as a change of pace from the hunt, so Francesca was free to retire to her room shortly after breakfast on the pretext of having some letters to write. She collapsed onto the bed as soon as her maid managed to pry off her boots. In minutes—nay seconds—she was fast asleep.

  Devlin, before taking a gun out to join the others, invited Roxanna for a stroll in the shrubbery. The invitation was polite, almost casual, but his steely grip on her elbow gave her no chance to refuse. She went.

  17

  The afternoon turned grey, the gentlemen returned from their shooting thoroughly chilled, and the entire group retreated to the Green Salon for tea. Francesca’s nap had helped her to recover from her ordeal to appear very like herself. She was a bit pale and quieter than usual, but no one noticed anything much amiss.

  One of several topics of conversation was the suddenness of Roxanna Gordon’s departure that morning. A letter had come, they had been told. Something about a sick relation in Devonshire.

  “It must be someone she cares a great deal about,” speculated Lady Aurelm. “I have never known Roxanna to take less than two full days to pack. I doubt she took two hours today.”

  “She will have a long trip,” said Lady Poole, not overly concerned.

  “It is a shame that she will miss the fancy-dress ball tomorrow,” said Lady Jersey with a wry smile. “You know Roxanna is always at her most vivid when she is masked.”

  “What are you wearing to the ball, Sally?” The conversation thus neatly turned, no one thought to mention Roxanna Gordon again.

  Devlin watched Francesca from the comer of his eye. A little stiffness remained from her unorthodox morning, but she really was carrying the thing off rather well. He marveled at it; he would have bungled it for sure on his own. He saw red at the thought of that blackguard so much as touching her, and the thought of both the scoundrels getting off scot-free enraged him. But her solution had obviously been the correct one.

  She felt his gaze on her. She turned her most brilliant smile on Caspar, and he promptly came and sat beside her. Devlin frowned, rose, and went to join Priscilla on the other side of the room. “Would you care to come for a stroll with me in the gallery, Priscilla?” he asked very pointedly and loud enough for the entire company to hear. He looked to see if Francesca was watching him. She was, but she looked quickly away, fluttering her eyes mightily at Caspar. Devlin took Pris’s hand. “As you are an artist, I would like to hear your comments on one or two of the paintings.”

  Priscilla’s eyes grew wide. She looked at her mother beside her, who beamed her acquiescence and gave her daughter a little push. With the look of one on her way to the guillotine, Priscilla took his arm and the two of them left the room together. Every eye in the group followed them out.

  Francesca felt herself grow cold and rigid. “Mr. Maltby,” she said suddenly, her voice louder and harsher than she had intended. “Caspar,” she modified, “I have discovered the most fascinating tract on soil supplementation in the library. But it is so extremely advanced. Would you come and explain it to me, please?” She rose, and he could do nothing but follow. With a hand placed lightly on his arm, she led him magisterially from the room, all the time gritting her teeth against the pain that still throbbed in her poor feet.

  As Devlin and Priscilla entered the Long Gallery, it oc- cured to him that he might have chosen a more intimate setting for a marriage proposal. The Gallery, with its rows of Hockleigh ancestors scowling down from the walls, was more than a little intimidating in its vastness. It was too big, too dark, even a bit forbidding.

  Odd that Devlin had not found it the least bit moribund that first afternoon at Hockleigh when he had encountered Lady Francesca here. Then it had been full of sunlight and promise.

  He commented idly on one or two of the portraits whose eyes seemed to follow their progress down the long room, their footsteps on the hardwood floor echoing off the walls.

  He could never say afterward just what his first words had been. He took Priscilla’s elbow and steered her toward a sofa halfway down the room, near the fire.

  Neither did Priscilla have any idea what he was saying or what she answered, if anything. She was trembling and was thankful when she was allowed to sink onto the sofa. The smooth satin of its upholstery was cold to the touch, and she shivered.

  She did not know where to look. And so, as usual, she looked at the floor. But even this reliable support seemed to be in danger of sliding out from under her, leaving her suspended over the abyss of her future. The moment she had dreaded had come. She had known it would, had even persuaded herself that it was for the best, but she had nevertheless prayed that it would not.

  “And so you see, my dear,” Devlin was saying as he sat beside her, holding her hand, “I find myself in need of a wife. And while it is true that we have not known each other long, I have come to greatly admire you in these past days.”

  He really was doing the thing rather well, he reflected, for one so lacking in experience at proposals of marriage. The nervous tension so obvious in the girl had brought out his innate kindness and made the whole thing much easier. He did just wonder why this well-rehearsed little scene that was going so well was not making him feel happier. He was, after all, about to be granted a long- held desire.

  “Yes, my lord,” whispered Priscilla when he had finished his speech.

  “I cannot hear you,” he said gently, lifting her chin so he could see her face.

  She swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said, “I will be happy to marry you, Lord Devlin.” There! It was done, she told herself. And she need never worry about it again.

  “I am pleased,” he said. He knew he should kiss her. No doubt she was expecting it. She was. after all, sitting there with her eyes closed and her face up to his. But he had not the slightest
desire to do his duty at that moment. He would do much more than kiss her in due course, of course. It was the prime reason for marrying her, naturally. But he knew it would mean nothing to him. No woman would ever again mean anything to him in that way. Not unless he could have Francesca.

  He patted the hand he still held in his. “Shall we rejoin the others?” he asked.

  Pris opened her eyes in surprise. Obviously he was not going to kiss her. She didn’t know if she was disappointed or relieved. They rose and left the room. Neither spoke.

  Things were progressing along somewhat similar lines in the library. Francesca had chosen her territory a bit better than had Devlin. It was a very cozy, very comfortable room. The settee before the fire was inviting.

  “I am honored, Caspar,” said Francesca. “I should be very pleased to be your wife.”

  He blinked and looked down at the hand he was holding. Lady Francesca’s hand. He had just asked Lady Francesca Waringham to be his wife. She had accepted. He was not at all certain how it happened. He had quite thought he was explaining the difference between genus Amaryllidaceae and genus Asclepiadaceae. And he was not at all certain how he felt about the whole thing.

  Francesca knew very well how she felt about it She felt perfectly horrid. She knew she was using this very nice, very simple man for her own ends. She felt guilty. She felt also that she had just said good-bye forever to something beautiful, something few people ever have even a taste of in this life, something she would never have again.

  She knew now that whatever she felt for Devlin—and she would no longer deny that she did feel something, and it was called love—she would remain faithful to Caspar Maltby. She had forced him into this proposal. She owed him at least that much.

  “I think we should announce it at the ball tomorrow, do not you?” she said, pulling herself from her black thoughts and forcing a smile onto her face.

  “What? Tomorrow? Oh . . . oh, yes. All right,” replied Caspar.

  There didn’t seem to be anything more to say at the moment, so they returned to the Green Salon and the others.

  The fact that Lord Devlin was still holding Priscilla’s hand when the pair of them rejoined the others was not lost on the girl’s mother. She let out a squeak of pleasure and bounced in her chair. But she could hardly come right out and ask, in front of the entire company, whether or not her daughter was at last betrothed.

  Devlin was conscious of his duty to his future mother-in-law, however unpleasant that duty was likely to be. He must speak to her. Strictly speaking, in the absence of Mr. Pennington, he should have applied to her for permission to make his offer before speaking to Pris. The unlikelihood that the woman would refuse to allow the marriage, however, was so great as to be ludicrous. It was just a matter now of informing her that her dearest wish was about to come true.

  He led Priscilla to a chair beside her mother, then bent to the older woman. “Mrs. Pennington,” he said gravely. “I wonder if I might have a word with you in the morning room?”

  Pleasure flooded the woman’s face. It was true! It was all too obviously true! She managed to control her joy long enough to say, “But of course, my lord.” And with an almost regal and very self-satisfied smile to the others, she allowed herself to be led from the room.

  The scrutiny of the company now turned on Priscilla. She could not bear their speculative glances. Turning to her hostess, she said, “The sun has come out, Your Grace. If you have no objection, I think I shall take my sketchbook into the garden.” Sarah nodded, and Pris skittered from the room.

  Before anyone could even speculate on what might have happened, Francesca and Caspar reentered the room arm in arm. They were not smiling. In fact, Caspar looked a little dazed.

  Sarah was the first to speak. “Is it not incredible, Cesca?” she whispered as her friend sat beside her. “I do think Devlin has actually offered for Pris. I cannot for the life of me think why.” Although privy to Francesca’s own absurd matrimonial plans, the Duchess had had no idea what Devlin was up to.

  “Because he wants to marry her, I would imagine,” Francesca replied sullenly. “Why else does a gentleman offer for a lady?”

  “I suppose,” said Sarah in a doubtful voice. She gave Francesca a penetrating look, a sad look. “Well, they will most likely wish to announce it tomorrow evening if it is true. Perhaps I should have more flowers brought up.”

  The word “flowers” brought Caspar back to attention. “I should be very happy to go and choose some for you, Your Grace.”

  Sarah looked at his glum face, then at Francesca’s. “Why, thank you Mr. Maltby,” she said finally. “Come, I will show you what I have in mind.” And she led him off.

  Both Caspar Maltby and Priscilla Pennington, having bowed to their duty as they saw it, had accepted the inevitable. Caspar did not really suppose his marriage would change his life overmuch, although Lady Francesca was not quite what he had had in mind when he left home. Pris had decided that marrying Lord Devlin was at least preferable to remaining at home for the rest of her life under the domination of her Mama. At least now there would be no more harp lessons, no more ill-chosen gowns. She would have more time for her art, her only joy. She would make it fill her days.

  Priscilla had a great ability, developed from necessity over a long period of time, to block all her unhappiness from her mind as soon as she picked up a sketchpad and pencils. Sketching had become her haven, and she turned to it now, setting down in perfect detail on overblown Persian rose in the hothouse. It was there that Caspar came across her as he searched out the most perfect specimens for Sarah’s ballroom.

  Despite their whirling heads and confused moods, they fell into easy conversation about the flowers and the drawings. It was odd that Pris never felt shy or awkward or tongue-tied with him. He complimented her again on her drawing. He made a small suggestion about some feature of the rose, which she implemented at once, to the improvement of the piece.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Maltby. I cannot think why I did not see it myself. It makes a very great difference.”

  “You would have seen it soon enough, I am sure. You have a remarkable eye for such work, Miss Pennington.” She flushed with pleasure. Her drawing was the one thing at which she excelled and in which she felt any confidence at all. “It gives me much joy.”

  Suddenly Caspar had a thought. “You know, I have for the past several years been compiling a collection of the wildflowers native to the south part of the country. I hope to publish a volume on them soon. I have long sought a competent illustrator to work on the collection with me. Do you suppose you might be interested?”

  “Oh, how wonderful! I . . .” She cut herself off. How could she possibly accept such an offer, much as she would like to? She would soon be a married woman, living in ... She realized that she did not even know where

  Lord Devlin lived, where she would live. “I don’t know if -that would be possible,” she said quietly, much of her earlier animation gone, but she did not look away from — him.

  What very beautiful eyes she has, thought Caspar, and he added in unwonted poetical strain: like the first, freshest cornflowers of the year. The object of his poetry caught his eyes and held them in a more compelling yet far more comfortable manner than Francesca’s had ever done. He smiled at her. “I do hope you will consider it, Miss Pennington.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maltby.” After a moment she picked up her sketchpad to go. “Mama will be wanting me,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  He watched her go, noticing how small and round and soft she was. Not like Francesca. Not at all like Francesca.

  18

  The morning of the final hunt was almost as grand an occasion as the opening meet. Once again the farmers and serving maids and anyone else who could manage it came from miles around, bundled up in the clothing that would take them into the winter. The grass glistened with the first frost of the year, little more than a light dusting of white but portending an early cold spell.

 
; A bonfire structure some ten feet high was set upon the lawn; it would be lit after the hunters returned. A feast would be awaiting them as well. Already a large pig was slowly roasting in a pit dug beside the lawn. The scent of it perfumed the morning air.

  And tonight, while the locals danced to a fiddle and flute on the lawns, the gentry would have a fancy-dress ball.

  Sarah had agonized over every detail of the entertainment and had, with Francesca’s helpful advice, planned a day to be long remembered, a fitting end to such a brilliant hunt.

  While the hunters plied themselves with great helpings of food, then went off eagerly to join the mounted throngs, upstairs maids and valets were hard at work. Not only must fancy costumes be put into perfect order for this evening’s romp, but there were trunks and valises, portmanteaux and bandboxes by the score to be packed. Tomorrow all the guests would bid their adieux and begin the long trip south.

  Francesca was not eager for the journey. It would be an uncomfortable one, long and cold, with nothing but her maid and her own dark thoughts to keep her company. Or worse, Caspar would offer to accompany her south. She was loath to say her good-byes to Sarah; the next time she saw her, Sarah would be a mother. And try though she might to push the idea aside, she could not deny that she would miss Richard Devlin, miss him quite dreadfully. She would miss their little strategy meetings, their easy badinage, the promise that every moment with him seemed to hold. The next time she saw him, she would be married. So would he. To someone else.