Devall's Angel

by Allison Lane

  He drank off half the wine, forcing himself to compare the new patterns with those of five minutes earlier. White dots interspersed with the garnet…

  Your kindness … you are not cruel…

  Her voice again broke through, dragging his mind back to what he did not want to consider. Had she repeated those words elsewhere? Both of those comments had tumbled from other lips in the past week. Even the tabbies were parroting his kindness and lack of cruelty. Wrongly, of course.

  Cruelty had long been part of his life. He had spent twenty years as its victim before deliberately employing it against those who enjoyed it. Neither Cloverdale nor Coldstream had died easily. Could he change? If he encountered another evil man, could he refrain from exacting retribution?

  He doubted it. The law was impotent against so many who deserved punishment. He lacked the patience to endure the slow tedium required to effect reform. Sooner or later, something would happen that would demand action, and he would succumb to temptation…

  Unless Angela was at his side. Courting renewed ostracism would hurt her. And that was something he could never do.

  But there was no chance of her being at his side. Even his rehabilitated reputation was sordid. She deserved more, starting with a husband she loved. He could never qualify. Had anyone ever loved him? His mother had died when he was five. He had seen so little of her, he’d hardly noticed. His father had cared for no one. Penelope cared only for how she could use him. Constance? The same. Even Lydia had seen him as just another cousin. And an ugly one at that.

  Resign myself to life as a spinster … practice biting my tongue and being invisible … years before we can return to town…

  Damn the insidious memories! Downing the remainder of the wine, he refilled the glass and drained that as well. Why did she believe that she was condemned to live alone? She was beautiful, intelligent, passionate, caring…

  Tears sprang to his eyes. His arms ached to hold her again. He could still feel her body trustingly curled in his lap as he carried her home from Kensington. The heat of her lips seared his brain, the memory of the moist softness behind them driving him to distraction. Angela! How could he live without her? But how could he condemn her to the hell he had built for himself?

  He spent the remainder of the night emptying glass after glass of wine in a futile attempt to forget. It is time to rejoin the world … the world … the world…

  * * * *

  “Lord Blackthorn begs a moment of your time, my lord, though he realizes how busy you are.”

  Hart sighed. “Show him into the study, Willowby.”

  Why would the Black Marquess turn up here? Though they had met on several occasions, their paths had not crossed in many years, and they had never been more than nodding acquaintances. Sylvia had explained the part he’d played in Angela’s accident, but that would hardly have a bearing on this visit.

  Devall followed a stiff butler along a twisting course that presumably led to a study. What was he doing here? And at such a time. Lady Sylvia’s wedding was scheduled for the next morning. Preparations were noticeably frenzied, and the house was crawling with guests. Undoubtedly they were at sixes and sevens with last-minute crises and jangled nerves. His own business could have waited until it was over.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Hartleigh,” Devall said in apology when the door closed behind the butler.

  “Blackthorn.” Hart offered wine. “What can I do for you?”

  “You have the question reversed. I hope that I can do something for you. Lady Sylvia mentioned that you run an orphanage.”

  Hart’s eyes darkened, but he contented himself with nodding.

  “The information slipped out when she overheard me ask Miss Warren how Mickey was doing. I was curious, though I had respected her refusal to describe the place.”

  Hart smiled. “Ah. You must be the one who directed Angie’s attention to the rascal.”

  It was Devall’s turn to nod.

  “He has completely recovered from his injuries and has decided that civilized living has its merits. He is one of the brightest lads I have ever encountered. His thirst for knowledge is prodigious, and he should make a real success of life.”

  “Thank you. He has three friends who will be delighted with the news.”

  Hart raised a brow.

  “I discovered Mickey while pursuing one of my own interests,” Devall admitted. “He was caring for three ill and starving veterans when he was injured. They have been anxious about him.”

  “There appears to be more to you than rumor reports.”

  “Like you, I prefer to keep my interests out of the public eye. But that brings me to the reason for my call. One of my veterans has need of a job. His injuries prevent him from attempting anything strenuous, but he is gentle, loves children, and has a knack for building rapport with even the most withdrawn individuals. Could you use such a man at your orphanage?”

  “Probably. What chores can he manage?”

  Thus began a discussion that expanded into the broader topic of England’s unfortunates and how to assist them. A rap on the window interrupted them. Hart grinned.

  “For shame, Andrew. You are not supposed to be here today. You know it is bad luck to see your bride before the wedding.”

  “Why do you think I came around here instead of using the front door?”

  “Wouldn’t you be better off resting up for tomorrow’s exertions,” asked Hart with a leer.

  “Not you, too! You don’t know what you missed by skipping a big wedding!”

  Hart laughed.

  “Blackthorn.” Surprise filled Andrew’s voice as he noted Devall’s presence.

  “Forley. I must leave,” he added to Hart.

  “Not on my account,” protested Andrew. “I will only be a moment.” He stared speculatively before returning his gaze to Hart. “A small problem has arisen that I hope you can help with – at least until I get back. Mrs. Giddings will not be able to chaperon Angela after all. Her nephew suffered a near-fatal accident last week and now views the world in a new light. He is no longer bent on perpetuating his grandfather’s heartless decrees and wishes to welcome his aunt back into the family and provide her a home.”

  “Permanently?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Not so small a problem,” mused Hart. “Angie can stay here until your return, of course. But what will she do then?”

  “I don’t know.” Andrew surreptitiously turned his eyes to Blackthorn, lifting his mouth in a mischievous smile at what he read on the man’s face. “She is adamant about not remaining at the Court, and you can hardly blame her. It must be tough to run the place for years, then watch someone else take over. But she cannot move to the dower house without a chaperon. Where will we find someone else who won’t drive her to distraction with giddy chatter, or condemn her for being a bluestocking?”

  Hart stared, surprised at this recital, for it contained nothing he didn’t already know, and Andrew had never been one to waste words. But Forley’s second covert glance at Blackthorn snapped Hart’s social mask back in place. His mind raced.

  “I will see if I can discover anyone,” he said. “Surely somewhere in England is a woman capable of being a comfortable companion.”

  “Thanks, Hart.”

  “Not at all. Now get out of here before you bring the wrath of God down on both our heads. Or the wrath of Cassie, which would be worse.”

  Andrew grinned and slipped away.

  Blackthorn made final arrangements for his protégé, then stood to leave, again apologizing for disturbing him at such a time.

  “Things have been rather hectic,” Hart admitted, still mulling the suspicions Andrew had raised. Blackthorn’s eyes were quite revealing, and it would seem that Andrew both knew and approved. He dropped his own gaze to the letter opener in his hand. “But your visit has reminded me of my negligence. I have not informed Miss Warren of Mickey’s progress. She has been too busy to ask, but I am sure she would be
interested. Perhaps you could stop at the Court and ease her mind.”

  “That would be agreeable. I had wondered if I should inquire after her recovery while I was in the area.”

  “She would appreciate your concern. Her mother’s defection left her with too much to do, and Mrs. Giddings’s departure is sure to make it worse.”

  * * * *

  Angela had again taken refuge in the folly, hoping to snatch a moment of peace. Fate was not treating her kindly these days. All her plans were falling in ruins. Not that she wasn’t thrilled for Edna, who deserved to take her place in genteel society rather than assuming a role as a paid companion. Edna had kept in touch with friends who would welcome her back. But now Angela faced finding a new companion, and she knew of no other candidates.

  The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her melancholy reflections. Glancing over her shoulder, she gasped.

  “Whatever are you doing here, Devall?” she exclaimed, unaware of how her eyes had lit at the sight of him.

  “I had some business with Lord Hartleigh and took the opportunity to see how you were faring. He mentioned that he had neglected to inform you of Mickey’s progress.”

  “How is he?” She already knew the answer, for Cassie had given her a full report.

  “Quite well. He’s proving to be a feisty little devil. It sounds as though he will soon be running the place.”

  She laughed.

  “And you, Angela?”

  “Much better, thank you. I’ve been too busy to think about the attack.”

  “You look tired,” he murmured, joining her on her bench. “Your brother must be too preoccupied to see that you get proper rest.”

  “He is so anxious to have it over and done with that he’s not much good for anything.” She shook her head in mock despair, then hurriedly changed the subject to distract her attention from his eyes. They were softer than she had ever seen them, closer to smoke than to ice. “I hear you are accepted without reservation by even the highest sticklers.”

  “Yes, and now I am expected to do the pretty with nauseating regularity. I am not sure you and Jack did me any favors by urging reform. Every matchmaking mama in town has me in her sights.”

  “It will give you a new challenge. Life would be unimaginably dull otherwise. Besides, the Season is nearly over. You can retire to Wyndhaven and remain as reclusive as you wish. Even matchmaking mamas can hardly follow you there.”

  “Don’t count on it. The Earl of Wrexham had three very suspicious accidents on his doorstep before he married, but nary a one since.”

  She raised a brow, though now that he mentioned it, she had heard the tale before. Wrexham was Hart’s closest friend.

  “And what about next Season and the one after that?” he asked. “I’d best get shackled at once and save myself the trouble.”

  “What a ridiculous reason to settle down!” She glared at him. “I never thought you stupid, but I begin to wonder.”

  He ran long fingers through his black hair. “Damn, I’m making a mull of this, aren’t I? And behaving with as much gaucherie as the greenest schoolboy. That is not at all what I meant to say. You have done more than force me back into the world, my dear. You have given me a glimpse of heaven. Now I can no longer tolerate living in hell. This last fortnight has been shatteringly lonely, for I cannot enjoy a day that offers no hope of seeing you. I love you, Angela. Somehow you have crept past all my defenses and taken possession of my heart.”

  “Devall?” Her hand crept up to brush back the lock of hair that had again fallen across his brow.

  In one smooth motion he pulled her to her feet and into his arms, crushing her against his body as he desperately sought her mouth, parting her lips so his tongue could ravish her sweet depths.

  Passion exploded, chasing away his darkness and strengthening the hope that had burgeoned from the moment she had welcomed him. Her hands slid into his hair, drawing him closer.

  “Angela.” He sighed, pressing kisses across her face and down her throat.

  “Devall.” She nibbled on his ear, shooting new heat deep into his groin. “May I please shorten that? If you are to cease living in hell, I cannot continue calling you after Satan.”

  “Anything, my love. You will marry me, then?”

  “Have you truly forsworn visiting retribution on deserving villains?” She pulled back to scan his face, her own serious. “There can be no more duels, Dev. No more deaths. I cannot live with the fear of losing you, my dearest love.”

  He tightened his arms. “You can save me from myself. I could never expose you to contempt. From now on I will fight my battles in Parliament and the courts. It will be slow, but with your help, I can control my frustration.”

  “Good.” She sighed in relief, pulling his lips down for another searing kiss, her palms sliding beneath his jacket to learn the muscular breadth of his shoulders. There was much to be said for loose-fitting coats. This one slid easily to the floor.

  “Put me out of my misery, love,” he pleaded hoarsely. “Will you marry me or not? One of his hands still held her close, her body fitted snugly against his. The other teased one breast to a rigid peak, leaving her gasping in awe and need.

  “Yes.”

  The smile that lit his face was like nothing she had seen before, as though heaven had parted, its holy light quenching the hellfire that had burned so long in his soul. Handsome? Undoubtedly. Few would have recognized the Black Marquess in that moment of revelation. He sealed their bargain with another passionate embrace, pulling away only when his control began to slip.

  Settling onto the bench with Angela in his lap, he gently stroked her until her breathing slowed. His smile changed to one of mischief as he retrieved his coat.

  “You once mentioned that you must marry before your brother, so that you will not be a burden on him,” he reminded her, pulling a special license from his pocket.

  “So I did.”

  “Tomorrow morning? Privately, before your brother leaves for his own?”

  “Done. It might even distract him from his nerves.”

  He laughed, and for the first time, his voice carried no hint of pain or loneliness. He was free. “My angel.” His lips again covered hers.

  His waistcoat and cravat joined his jacket on the floor.

  Copyright © 1998 by Susan Ann Pace

  Originally published by Signet Regency (0451195863)

  Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.