Deverell's Obsession: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  It made sense, of course. A lure to whoever was out there causing havoc, perhaps the one who attacked her. She tried not to feel like bait, but knew in many ways she was. And it was indeed the best way to clear up all the confusion and guesswork that currently swirled around her.

  She had immediately understood the significance of his suggestion. It took care of any issue concerning the proprieties and advanced their quest for answers. By revealing her presence, those who had attacked her would know she had survived, and was now in London. She was, in many ways, bait. But that was not a major consideration, since it was a logical move.

  The true difficulty was in gauging how Dev felt about the engagement. His manner was warm, funny and teasing on a level that was often close to inappropriate. She loved it. But how much was play and how much was from his heart? She had yet to make an accurate assessment.

  She realized that the same could be said for herself. She was hesitant to make an accurate assessment of her own feelings.

  Being engaged to him gave her a trembling sensation around her heart and an urgent sense of need in other parts of her body. She refused to admit that some tender emotion might be the cause. No, it was simple desire. They wanted each other. Once they’d satisfied that urge, it would probably fade away.

  Maybe. She sighed. Damn it, it’s confusing.

  Hence the urge to remove more than a few curls and throw them out the window.

  She sighed and returned to her previous occupation, which was surveying the three gowns provided for her by the astounding team of Mary and Eileen. They must have recruited more than a few helpers, because each gown was unique, perfect for her, and in a style which was just a shade ahead of current.

  Or so Julia had informed her before she left.

  “You cannot do better, not even on Bond Street.” Julia had nodded with approval. “They made the gown I wore to my first ball. It helped. It really did.”

  Léonie understood. The value of being sure one looked one’s best could not be overestimated.

  And tonight she needed to look her best.

  She had none of Julia’s trepidation about such events, of course. Her upbringing had schooled her well in every possible social situation. She could dine with royalty, flirt with roués, or dine in their kitchens.

  She could dance almost every dance that might be played this evening, and could converse comfortably in both French and Russian, while making herself understood in Italian. She even had a smattering of Spanish, thanks to a friend she’d made in Vienna. Her maid’s family had fled the violence to end up in Austria, and the young girl had been happy to teach Léonie some of the basics as they spent time preparing for the next grand occasion.

  No, it wasn’t the fact that this was her first ball in London, it was the matter of her attending as Dev’s acknowledged fiancée.

  She had seen the correct notice in the paper announcing the betrothal of Mr. Delaney Deverell of London and Lower Deeving to Mademoiselle Léonie Girard, daughter of Colonel Anatole Girard, noted diplomat, late in the service of Lord Castlereagh.

  It had given her an odd feeling around her heart to see the words in black and white. Not to mention knowing that those same words graced the breakfast tables of so many prominent families. More than a few of them had daughters and cherished hopes in Dev’s direction. He was so charming and handsome, how could they not?

  And yet here she was, a nobody arrived less than a week ago in England, and already engaged to one of the most eligible bachelors.

  She sighed. It was quite likely that the job of disposing of her would be completed by the many disappointed young ladies of Almack’s.

  Well at least she would meet her end looking as fine as fivepence. The three gowns were all lovely, but her eyes kept drifting back to the blue one. Although to call it blue was doing it a great disservice.

  Certainly the undergrown was blue. The same shade as the sky on a fresh morning in Vienna. Pure and clean and clear. The silk was overlaid with lace, and where Mary and Eileen had found this particular fabric, Léonie couldn’t begin to guess.

  Created in a blend of blue and silver thread, there were flowers worked throughout, and in the center of each flower—a tiny sapphire blue bead. There were crystals sewn here and there into a petal or two, not a lot but enough to make the entire creation shimmer like dew on a field of bluebells.

  The style was simple—something Léonie loved—and striking at the same time. The high waist was implied rather than gathered, delineated by a small ribbon beneath the bodice. The square neckline would frame her décolletage to its best advantage and the sleeves were puffed and frilled in silk ruffles with matching ribbons.

  Simple, yes. But once having seen the gown, nobody would be able to forget it. And if she had to be center stage this evening, the cynosure of all eyes when she entered the ballroom on Dev’s arm…well, then, this was the dress she would wear.

  “Have you decided?”

  The man himself walked into the room and came to stand by her side.

  “The blue, I think. Although it’s not an easy choice.”

  “Hmm.” He stroked his chin. “With your eyes, I would have chosen the green. But…” he glanced from the gowns to her and back again, “I think you’re right. The blue is going to bring out new colors.”

  “So it will be acceptable? I do not believe I have met Lord Gallunder or his lady, so I am uncertain as to their style or position here in London.”

  “The Gallunders are stalwart members of the Ton, with lineage that they take pride in tracing back to a Henry. I’m not sure which one, but I expect it was one of the famous ones. The third, maybe. Or the fourth.”

  “A Tudor perhaps?”

  Dev rolled his eyes. “My knowledge gets a bit rusty if you go back further than the eighth, to be honest. And the only Henrys I know are from Shakespearean performances, which—since they’re histories—I find incredibly dull.”

  Léonie chuckled. “Not a fan of the bard, I see.” She pulled a reticule with silver beads from a drawer and lay it next to the blue dress. She nodded. Yes, that would do quite well.

  “He did have an admirable way with words, I’ll admit.” He picked up a fan and ran his fingers over the silk. “O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.” He put the pretty thing down again. “I always rather liked that phrase.”

  “Most people will prefer ‘to be or not to be’…” She looked at him as she put the other dresses to one side.

  “Trite, my dear. Everyone knows that one. I deplore conformity. Give me something unique.”

  She sighed. I wish I could. He came up behind her as she idly ran a ribbon through her fingers.

  “That’s pink. It won’t do at all.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t turn. He was too close and she could feel his heat. Especially when his hands landed on her waist.

  They burned.

  “Léonie.” The force of his fingers made her move, and he pulled her around to face him. “We should talk about this.”

  She was distracted by the feel of his hands, the strength of them as they curved around her body. Her thin gown was no protection against the warmth or the shiver of something sizzling that came from his touch.

  She gulped. “Talk about what, Dev?” She looked up into his face. And realized she’d made a mistake.

  “This.”

  He lowered his face to hers and before she could catch her breath, he kissed her.

  *~~*~~*

  He didn’t know what possessed him. He’d made a plan. The engagement had been a sound strategic move, and included time to persuade Léonie that they should make it genuine.

  He was going to gently woo her, court her, and encourage her to think of him as a trustworthy friend. Then he would move to the stage of light flirtation and perhaps from there to the point where she would be ready to accept him as her husband.

  They had something between them, a look or a smile, or a saucy comment—enough to make them both laugh and turn the a
ir into something that tingled and buzzed with a great deal more than just pleasant companionship. He knew that, of course. But he’d hoped to build on it, take his time, and eventually claim what he knew was destined to be his.

  But she’d turned into his arms and looked at him, her eyes mysterious and beautiful, her lips parted and ripe for the taking.

  So he took.

  He touched her reverently at first, then more firmly, letting his fingers tighten around her slender body as he drew her against his chest. His mouth caressed hers, and the wonder of it, the softness of it, the sensations shook him to his toes.

  He hungered and couldn’t help parting his lips; devouring her would be so easy at this moment.

  To his surprise, she parted hers and her tongue slid forward to find his, and begin a sensual duel that brought a moan to his throat. The kiss turned hot in the blink of an eye, overflowing with needs and desires and a yearning to be closer, closer to this woman who clung to him and met his every caress with one of her own.

  He lost track of time as her heart beat fast against his, her breasts pressed to his silk waistcoat. She made a sound, a tiny whimper, and clutched at his shoulders, letting a hand slide around his neck as she rose on tiptoe to reach even more of him.

  Dev’s control failed. He picked her up, both hands around her waist, and walked her to the loveseat that occupied one corner of the room. He sat and pulled her onto his lap where she landed with a whoof.

  “Sorry.”

  He wasn’t, of course, because now he had her closer than close, sprawled across him, her skirts a tumble of fabric and lace.

  She wasn’t sorry either, it seemed, because she shifted a little, settling herself into his embrace, and then reached for him once more.

  “Dev.” His name was a caress as she whispered it. “Dev, touch me?”

  Her eyes were green fire and her cheeks glowed. She looked beautiful, desirable and eager—a palette of emotions that caught at his heart. She was opening to him in more ways than he could have expected in so short a time, and he couldn’t have been happier.

  So he obeyed.

  He touched her by claiming her lips, drifting his down over her neck and to the soft skin of her décolletage as it peeped above the lace of her bodice.

  She sighed with pleasure at his touch, murmuring words in French and Russian that he knew were encouraging. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his head back to hers, seeking his kiss once again, sucking at his tongue and giving him back breath for breath.

  That breath hitched as he found her leg and ran his hand above her knee to the bare skin of her thigh.

  She froze, her eyes closed, poised as if waiting for more.

  And a knock at the door sent them both slithering onto the floor.

  “Bloody hell.” Léonie cursed beneath her breath. “Come in.”

  Dev was standing, barely, helping her up.

  “Good gracious, are you all right, my dear?” Aunt Bertrand hurried over. “Is is your head?”

  “No, no, I’m quite well. I simply tripped over the carpet as I was tidying the dresses.”

  Dev marveled at her composure. Less than sixty seconds before he’d had his hand up her skirts and now she was as calm as ever, with only a slight tinge of color in her cheeks to show for their passionate moments.

  “Hmm.” Aunt Bertrande frowned at the perfectly flat floral design beneath her feet. “I must be careful then.” She shrugged. “Did you pick a gown?”

  “I did.” Léonie gestured to it. “I decided on the blue, and Dev concurs.”

  Bertie nodded. “Excellent choice.”

  Dev cleared his throat. “I agree, but I sense more fashion discussion on the way, so I’ll leave you two to it.”

  And with that he marched to the door and whisked himself out, hoping like hell that his aunt hadn’t noticed the raging erection distorting the front of his breeches.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Mr. Delaney Deverell, Lady Bertrande Dubois-Deverell, Miss Léonie Girard.”

  Dev could have sworn he heard neck bones snapping as heads turned at the butler’s ringing announcement. But he ignored it, as he always did, and escorted the ladies down the small flight of stairs to greet their host and hostess.

  Next to him, Aunt Bertie was in great form, at least what he could see behind the acres of pastel peach silk. Her hair was concealed this evening by a turban in a deeper peach, sporting a rather ostentatious diamond pin in the shape of a peacock. Not altogether inappropriate, but she had the dynamic personality to carry it off and already she was being warmly welcomed by Lord Gallunder.

  She was also being very closely observed by Lady Gallunder, whose eyes were a perfect match for her hawk-like nose.

  Dev restrained a shiver and led Léonie forward.

  “Good evening, Lord Gallunder, my Lady.” He bowed. “It’s my honor to present Miss Léonie Girard, visiting London under the auspices of my aunt.”

  “Dev, lad.” Gallunder shook his hand. “And Miss Girard.” He smiled. “I believe I’ve heard of your father, but I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him.”

  Léonie curtseyed, including Lady Gallunder as she dipped into an elegant and gracious salute. “You are very kind.” She rose, straight and without any effort at all, it seemed. “I have heard mention of your enviable talents, my Lord. Your wisdom was much praised in Vienna. It is an honor to meet you and Lady Gallunder, and I thank you for allowing me to attend this delightful evening.”

  Even her Ladyship was pleased to smile at Léonie’s words. “How charming. Glad you’re here, dear.” She turned to Dev. “Take care of her, now. Make sure she meets the right people.”

  “Of course, my Lady.” He bowed and they were through the line and into the ballroom. Although Dev couldn’t but hold his breath for a few seconds, just in case his hostess revealed her true nature and descended on him, talons unsheathed.

  “Goodness, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Lady Gallunder.” The soft whisper came from his left side.

  “She liked you,” he returned. “Me, I’m not so sure. Which isn’t fair when you consider I’ve known her and his Lordship for years.”

  Léonie’s cool smile met his gaze. “Whoever said society was fair?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Dev, darling…”

  He winced. There was only one woman with that voice. It was rich, sensual and promised all kinds of wicked delights. He was one of the few who had managed to resist the call of this particular siren, for no other reason than because he really didn’t care for her at all. She was trouble wrapped in extravagant gowns.

  “Good evening, Amelia.”

  She was in front of them, a tall goddess in blood red silk, wearing a ruby the size of a guinea around her neck.

  “Trying for subtle this evening, are we?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  To give her credit, she laughed, a sound that made men turn for a moment and stare wistfully at her. “Dev, you are a constant joy to me. One of the few real men I actually like. Oh don’t protest,” she waved one hand in a graceful gesture, “I know you can’t stand me. Which is why I shall always seek you out. Just to aggravate you.” She smiled again. “Now do introduce me to this charming new bud on the Ton rosebush.”

  “You must be Lady Amelia DeVere.” Léonie dipped into another perfect curtsey, just a shade less deep than the one she’d given Lady Gallunder. God, thought Dev, the girl was perfect in any situation.

  “I had the pleasure of meeting your late husband in Paris. My sympathies on your loss.”

  Amelia blinked, and Dev bit back a chuckle. She was not in the least bit used to being greeted in such a formal and polite style. Most women either cut her dead or gushed about her gowns while keeping an eye on the men they were with.

  “Er, thank you.” Amelia stared at Léonie. “It was some time ago now. We move on from such things.”

  “Of course.” Léonie nodded. “Resuming your maiden name is a wise decis
ion. The DeVeres have a sterling reputation abroad. I’m sure, should you ever wish to travel, that would open many doors for you. Especially now that there’s a DeVere at the French court aiding in reconstruction. But of course you’re aware of that.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Dev would have bet many guineas that this was the first Amelia had heard of any relatives in France. He awarded another point to Léonie in this duel of politeness.

  She turned to him and laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. “Dev, I do believe there is a gentleman over there attempting to attract our attention.” She turned back to Amelia. “Please forgive us, Lady DeVere. There are many here that I must meet this evening, and I would not want us to impede your pleasure in this lovely ball. Perhaps you will share a dance with Dev later?”

  Amelia nodded, then caught herself. “Perhaps.” She glanced at Dev. “But don’t hold your breath, darling. You know how these things are.”

  “I do indeed.” He bowed and turned Léonie away, heading toward whoever it was Léonie said she’d seen. “That was really quite astounding, my dear.”

  She turned her green eyes to him, distracting him for a few seconds. “It was? Why?”

  He dragged his thoughts from the inappropriate paths down which they were about to wander. “Because Amelia usually chews up and spits out other women, especially young and beautiful ones like you who might be considered competition.”

  Léonie thought about it, then shrugged. “Women like her are everywhere, especially in the European social circles. Rich, bored and wandering from love affair to love affair without enjoying any of them.” She looked up at him. “A question, if I may.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  Once again Léonie’s composure caught Dev by surprise. It was a natural question asked in a natural way, but it was unexpected to say the least. He took a breath. “No, I didn’t. I don’t like her. I make it a habit to never sleep with anyone I don’t like.”