by Megan Daniel
I really must speak to Dev, Francesca told herself.
A loud and lively luncheon gave them no chance for discussion. Devlin, totally unaware of the situation, was attentive to Pris, carving her thin slices of ham and chicken, bringing her wine, and making her altogether miserable.
But as the meal finally ended and each of the company began drifting off to his own early-afternoon pursuits, Francesca looked pointedly at Devlin and said with great deliberation, “I think I shall repair to the library. I’ve some letters to write.”
He could not mistake the summons in her voice. He very shortly followed her thither. When he reached the library, she was pacing back and forth before the fire, thinking furiously. She was also smiling. He sank into a comfortable leather-covered Chesterfield chair and waited for her to speak.
“Well, Dev,” she said, facing him squarely and flashing a rueful smile. “We have well and truly made a mess of things.”
20
A bright warm autumn sun, defying the attempt of the new winter to assert itself, poured out of the sky that afternoon, working its magic on the snow and quickly clearing the roads with its warmth. Trunks were packed up again and stood ready for departures.
Lady Francesca and Lord Devlin were closeted together in the library for the better part of an hour. They were planning how best to untangle the Gordian knot they had managed to tie themselves into.
Neither of them was possessed of the smallest streak of cruelty, and despite Lady Francesca’s elaborate theories on the innate selfishness of mankind, she could not think of forcing anyone to throw away his own happiness so that she might have a try at some of her own.
As soon as she explained to Devlin the scene she had observed that morning, he agreed, and not too reluctantly at that, that they must immediately put an end to their two engagements. But how best to get the thing done? Devlin could not cry off. It just was not done.
There was only one way to set about the task, and they spent some time sorting out the details.
They had no opportunity, however, to implement those plans until after dinner. It had been a meal rippling with constraint from certain sections of the table. The Duke had spent a good part of the afternoon worrying that Devlin and Caspar would insist that he make the announcements this evening. Sarah had been flailing about in her mind for some word that would convince Francesca of her folly and make her change her mind. She cast her friend a good many covert glances and wondered how she could possibly appear to be in such high spirits. She could, not be truly happy about this whole thing.
Francesca was indeed in high spirits. In fact, she was almost giddy with relief. She and Devlin both laughed a good deal throughout the meal, both of them unsuccessfully trying to prod a smile from their fiancйes. Priscilla and Caspar, however, both swallowed their meals in almost total silence.
The meal concluded, the ladies adjourned, and the gentlemen had their smoke. They did not seem inclined to dawdle over their port, and when they arose to leave the dining room, Caspar was surprised to find Lord Devlin beside him, chatting affably and steering him purposefully toward the library.
When the pair of them entered that room, Caspar was surprised, astounded even, to find his betrothed awaiting them, together with his love. It was not at all a comfortable position to find himself in. Priscilla did not look particularly at ease either.
“Sit down, Caspar,” said Francesca pleasantly, taking on the role of hostess. “Have a glass of brandy.” She handed it to him, and though he did not care overmuch for brandy, he took it. He even drank some of it.
“Perhaps you had best have some as well, Priscilla,” said Devlin, placing a glass in her cold white hand. Her eyes were like saucers as she looked from one gentleman to the other. Was Lord Devlin able to see into her mind? she wondered. Had he somehow divined the fact that she was in love with another man? And was he now about to call poor Caspar out? She didn’t think she could bear to sit here any longer. But she would have to bear it. She had to know.
“I’m certain you are both wondering why we have brought you here,” said Devlin. “Francesca?”
She looked down at Caspar with a kind smile. “Caspar, you have been a perfect gentleman to me, honorable and kind. I have been flattered and very pleased to be betrothed to you.” Well, surely one small lie was acceptable in the circumstances, she told herself. “Now, I am sure you will be pleased to know that I am bringing our engagement to an end. I am not a cruel person and have no intention of asking you to sacrifice your own happiness for me. I will not hold you when your heart has so obviously been bestowed elsewhere.”
“But, Francesca, I didn’t—” he began.
“Please,” said Devlin. “Let us complete the whole of it.” He turned to Priscilla, her eyes now even wider than ever, if that were possible. The still-evident confusion within them was now lightened by the tiniest ray of hope. “Priscilla, obviously I, as a man of honor, cannot cry off from our engagement. I have no intention of doing so. But you can, and I pray you will. I stand ready to accept your decision to end our betrothal.”
The seated pair were now given a chance to speak. They did not take the opportunity, however, at least not for a rather protracted period of time. They simply did not know what to say. Caspar drank his brandy—or gulped it rather. Francesca calmly poured him another. Priscilla nearly dropped her glass but slowly and carefully set it on the table with trembling fingers before the damage could be done.
Caspar found his voice first, even though he scarcely recognized it when he did. It had become a kind of croak. “I am sorry, Lady Francesca, that you find you cannot like being affianced to me,” he managed to get out.
“Stuff!” replied Francesca, smiling and airily waving a hand at his nonsense. “You know very well, Caspar, that you have been regretting your rashness practically since the moment you offered for me.”
“My lady!” he protested.
She cut him off. “Just as I am certain that Priscilla has been regretting her acceptance of Lord Devlin. Now, Pris, do you not think it is time to explain to his lordship that you cannot marry him? It is hardly fair to leave the poor man dangling, you know.”
It was only too clear that Priscilla truly wished to do as she was told—it was in her nature, after all—but one quite formidable obstacle stopped her. “Mama,” she said softly, the tears beginning to well up in her eyes.
“Ah, yes, Mama,” said Devlin. “You will leave Mama to us, if you please. I am sure that Francesca and I can deal with her between us.”
“You don’t know Mama.”
Francesca thought she heard Devlin mutter “Thank God,” which she disregarded. “I know her better than you suppose, Pris,” she said. “You must not think she is unkind. She would not wish to see you unhappy.”
“But she does wish to see me married,” said Priscilla.
“It is only natural that she should. And so you shall be,” said Francesca.
“And you might just keep in mind, my dear,” added Devlin, “that a viscount outranks a mere baron.”
“A viscount?” said Priscilla, puzzled.
Devlin and Francesca looked at Caspar. “A viscount,” he said softly, thoughtfully. “A viscount,” he repeated, louder. Suddenly his face lit up with understanding and pleasure. “By Jove! So it does! Miss Pennington, a viscount beats a mere baron all to flinders!” It was the first time in his life he was truly grateful for his impending title.
Francesca could not help smiling at his boyish enthusiasm, so blatantly absent from his offer to her. Why, the man was positively glowing!
Priscilla, as usual, was speechless. But she was smiling, a language easily understood by everyone in the room. And soon she too was glowing. With an exasperated laugh, Devlin took her hand. “Really, Pris, we must do the thing properly, you know. Now, repeat after me. I am thankful for the honor you do me, but I will not marry you, my lord.”
She beamed up at him. “Oh, I am truly thankful, but I will not marry you, my lord
.”
“Well, thank God for that!” he exclaimed. Then he took the hand he still held in his, brought her to her feet, and led her to Caspar, who had also risen. Then, very much like a father—horrid image, that, but accurate—he bestowed the small white hand on Mr. Maltby, who did not seem the least bit loath to take it.
“Well, at last!” said Francesca, applauding. “I think we can leave them to get on with the business now, Dev.”
As they left the room, being careful to close the door after them, they heard the first words of what would undoubtedly be a very interesting and very silly conversation.
“Miss Pennington,” said Caspar. “Priscilla ...”
“Yes, Caspar?” she replied.
As the door closed behind them, Devlin and Francesca each became suddenly and ferociously aware of the other. It was too silly after all they’d been through together, but they felt acutely uncomfortable in each other’s presence just now. They didn’t seem to have a word to say between them, so they said nothing.
A few eyebrows inched up a notch or two as they entered the drawing room together, most especially those of Mrs. Pennington, who sent hers flying nearly into her turban. Devlin grimaced, but Francesca gave him a little push in the woman’s direction.
He bent over her hand and cleared his throat. “Might I speak to you, ma’ma, in the morning room?” he said, much as he had said once before. As he led her from the room, Francesca gave him a sympathetic look that said dearly, “Call me if you need me.”
Her assistance was not required. Mrs. Pennington was
not stupid. She was quickly brought to see the advantages of having a soon-to-be viscount for a son-in- law. Truth to tell, Mr. Maltby was much more to her taste than his lordship had been. More down-to-earth, so to speak. And she did like a nice garden. And then, Somersetshire was so much prettier than Kent.
She scurried off to the library to congratulate her daughter on the perceptiveness of her choice.
It was a lucky thing that the woman proved so amenable. Had Devlin needed Francesca’s help, he would have had a deal of trouble finding her. She had persuaded herself into the headache and sought the solace of her bedchamber. In truth, she could not bear the idea of finding herself alone with Dev. She knew very well he would have no trouble with the Pennington woman, but he might well seek her out after the deed was done. So, with an uncharacteristic lack of bottom, she turned tail and ran.
When Devlin returned to the drawing room, his eyes immediately sought out Francesca. Without her there, the evening soon became intolerable. He tried flirting with Jane Magness and Julia Dalton, to their surprised delight, but his heart wasn’t in it. He took himself early to bed.
The great house bustled next morning; one would have thought the very foundations of the venerable old house would tremble with the activity. Though most of the snow had melted, there were still bound to be bad patches on the roads. The guests were eager to get away as early as possible and make their way as far south as they could before nightfall.
All, that is, except Francesca. And Devlin. Rose had packed the last trunk and strapped the last portmanteau preparatory to their departure, but Francesca still lingered over coffee in the breakfast room. Most of the good-byes had been completed and the guests waved off, and still she did not send for her carriage. She should go.
She told herself she would do so as soon as she had had a last private cup of coffee with Sarah.
Isaac had Lord Devlin’s curricle harnessed and ready, the trunks strapped on behind, but no word came from the house to have it brought around. Devlin wandered rather aimlessly through the rooms and corridors of the house, scowling fiercely and conspicuously avoiding the breakfast room.
Sarah, absolutely delighted by the events of the preceding evening, quickly saw that there was yet more to do before things would be set completely aright. And it must be done at once. No time like the present, as the old saw went.
“You know, my love,” she said to Francesca casually as she sipped at her coffee, “one of the oddest things about being with child. I seem so much more affected by the cold these days. Is it not strange?”
“I am sure it is normal, darling. You must not let it worry you. You need only put on a shawl.”
“Yes, I know. But I am the silliest thing. I have left my warmest shawl in the conservatory, and it is right at the other end of the house.”
“I shall get it for you, love,” said Francesca, right on cue, and rose to leave the room.
“Oh, but Cesca . . .” Sarah began a feeble complaint. But not too loudly.
“I shan’t be a moment,” said Francesca, and off she went.
No sooner was she out the door than Sarah sprang to her feet and scurried after her. Listening a moment at the door until Francesca’s footsteps had died away, she came into the hall and began peeking quickly into one room after the other. Her luck hit on only the third chamber she tried.
“Ah, Lord Devlin. Here you are,” she said brightly to his scowling face. “George has been looking for you everywhere.”
“Has he?”
“Yes, I believe he was last headed for the conservatory.”
“The conservatory?” said Devlin, thinking it decidely odd.
“Oh, yes. Do go and find the poor dear before he covers the whole estate.”
Devlin couldn’t think why the Duke could be wanting him, and more especially why he would think to look for him in such an unlikely place. But he nodded his agreement and headed off after George, as he thought.
One can readily imagine the dismay/delight with which the would-be lovers found not that which they had sought in the conservatory, but each other.
“My lord,” Francesca greeted him, then turned to look out the window.
“My lady,” he replied, and came to stand beside her. They gazed silently out on the world. The bright sun bounced off the remaining patches of snow to bathe the room with light, almost as though it were summer. One of the windows was open—the chill air had warmed considerably—to admit a soft breeze that ruffled Francesca’s hair and the muslin of her gown.
They stood there a long while, neither speaking, neither looking at the other, neither daring to. Finally he slid his eyes down to look at her, glowing there in the sunlight. God, but she was beautiful!
“Well, Cesca,” he said when he felt he could trust his voice, “we have certainly made a hash of things, haven’t we?”
“We certainly have. I have been feeling uncommonly stupid all morning.”
“Thank God we were able to untangle the knot in time. They really are very much better suited to each other than they ever would have been to us.”
“Oh, yes, certainly.” They fell silent again.
Finally Devlin said, “What do we do now? Try again?”
“Oh, Lord, I don’t know if I can stand to go through all that again. I am far too old for such antics, I think.”
This brought about his first grin. “Yes, you are positively ancient.”
She ignored the remark. “And besides, I have lost much of my confidence in my own judgment.” She was genuinely upset, he could see. “Oh, Dev! The hurt we might have caused!”
He placed an arm lightly about her shoulder to comfort her. “But it is over now. And it has all turned out for the best, you know.” Almost unconsciously she laid her head against the comforting solidity of his shoulder, so conveniently near. Almost unconsciously he began stroking her hair.
From a small tender embrace to a kiss of almost excruciating passion is not really such a great leap. Especially for two people so obviously meant for each other as Cesca and Dev. A small turn here, a slight movement of the arm there, and the thing is done.
Suddenly the room was filled with light and birdsong and the scent of honeysuckle. He smelled of spice; she tasted of strawberries. Five years of living fell away in a moment, and they were once more back in a gazebo in a garden on a lazy summer day.
The kiss went on and on. Francesca wondered if sh
e would die of it. Perhaps she already had. Surely she was now in heaven. His hands moved down her arms and over her body, burning her skin through the thin muslin of her gown, then moved around her again to hold her close, so close, as though he would never let her go again. Please don’t let me go, her mind shouted at him.
His brain was singing: She is here; she is mine; she will always be mine. He kissed her all the more as if he would swallow her whole.
Faintly at first, then louder, came a sound, breaking through the music of the kiss. Someone was whistling, a little off-key. It was not a hymn, not like that hapless curate so long ago, but it did jolt them back to reality. They broke apart and stared at each other.
In a moment, George Albert John, fifth Duke of
Hockleigh, appeared around the comer and whistled himself across the lawn and out of sight. They still stared at each other. Then Devlin grabbed her by the shoulders, almost painfully hard, as though to shake her. He said in a fierce hoarse voice, “You are not running away from me this time, Cesca! You’re not!” He looked angry. And afraid.
But this time there was no answering fear in Francesca’s eyes. They shone with a very different kind of light. She smiled, a slow happy smile of the purest joy. “No, Dev, I’m not.”
He seemed not to have heard her. “You are going to stay right here, and you are going to marry me!”
“Yes, Dev. I am.”
“And there will be no nonsense about being my slave or apron strings or any of that. You will be my wife, and I will be your husband, and that will be that.”
“Yes, Dev, it will.”
Her words finally appeared to penetrate his fevered brain. He stared at her in wonder, in awe. He clasped her to him and gave her another kiss that threatened to take the solid ground out from under the both of them. “Oh, Cesca, Cesca,” he finally let loose of her long enough to say. “How have I lived these five years without you?”