A voice spoke in the hallway, bringing Christian to an awareness of their situation. They were unchaperoned, in a closed-up room, and standing very near each other. He said nothing more, though he bowed, and quickly took his leave through the parlor door he had used to enter the music room.
Snatching up the half-written letter to his grandfather, Christian didn’t look back once, making his way as swiftly as he could to his chambers.
The only thing worse than society’s machinations and expectations, the one thing he could not allow to disturb what peace he had achieved in his life, was love. He’d forbidden himself that emotion long ago, after his exile to England and his father’s death.
Love had killed his mother, ruined his father’s happiness, and left Christian to live on without either of them to guide him. Love was a disease, destroying hearts and lives, creating nothing but chaos where there ought to be order.
An arranged marriage was supposed to protect him from that devastating sentimentality, not throw him directly into its path.
Miss Rebecca Devon had gone from a weeping soul to the most dangerous lady of his acquaintance, all with a few words spoken between them.
And I still have a fortnight in her company. Christian nearly groaned aloud, closing the door to his bedroom and resting his head against the wood.
Coming to this house party had been the biggest mistake of his life. How was he to continue on with Rebecca Devon’s proclamation hanging between them?
Chapter Nine
When Christian was born, he was the light and joy of his mother. His father had told him this, many times, perhaps in an effort to give Christian a connection with the woman he didn’t fully remember. He had often wondered during his youth how his life might’ve been different had she lived past his sixth birthday.
When he thought back on his childhood, he couldn’t remember anything from before the disease that had taken him in its grasp so firmly. The agony, the pain of the sores all across his fevered skin, was nearly as fresh as it had been more than twenty years prior. Anything that came before was eclipsed by the illness, and everything that came immediately after existed in a haze of mourning.
Somehow, with her declaration, Rebecca Devon had driven him back into memories he preferred to keep shut away in the dark corners of his mind.
Love. The emotion was dangerous enough without Rebecca telling him she actively sought to attach herself to him with it. Perhaps she would give up the absurd idea given his response to it.
He couldn’t hide from her. They were at a house party with her relatives, and his whole purpose in coming was to make certain society saw their betrothal as legitimate. After he collected himself, he would need to be part of the household again.
What peace he’d found during the morning ride had fled. He needed to ground himself again. But how? His need for solitude could not be met without insulting his hosts.
Christian used the excuse of the letter to stay in his rooms. Had his relationship with his grandfather been different, Christian may have told him of the disturbing conversation had with Miss Devon. As it was, he kept his letter short and reported only who else was in attendance at the party, but when he finished writing he knew he must venture into the common rooms of the house again. The gentlemen had discussed billiards.
He needed to distract himself from Miss Devon’s forward intentions. Billiards might be just the thing.
After he found the billiard room, where tables and comfortable chairs had been set up for the men in the party to relax, converse, and smoke pipes, he settled into a chair that afforded him a view of the baron’s sons.
“I am the better player. You know this. Why you persist in trying to beat me is ridiculous. You’ll lose all your pocket money.”
“I have trounced you in billiards five times in the past month alone. Your memory is going, old man.”
Harold and Alfred Berwyn were in the midst of what seemed to be a friendly competition, with Lord Sharpeton leaning against the wall opposite Christian, clearly amused by the brotherly bickering.
Remaining silent for the duration of their game, Christian had ample time to put himself back together. He had nearly convinced himself that he’d misunderstood Rebecca’s pronouncement. And even if he hadn’t, she was young, innocent, and inexperienced with the world. She didn’t know what she was saying.
He’d started to relax when Lord Sharpeton took the chair next to his. “Lord Easton,” he said, tipping his head.
“Lord Sharpeton.” Christian returned the greeting but said nothing more. He didn’t know much about the Marquess’s son, only that he went to a different club. He was, perhaps, the same age as Christian but his open and friendly expression suggested he came from a vastly different background.
“I wanted to congratulate you,” Sharpeton said after a moment of quiet. “Your Miss Devon is a lovely young woman. It was smart of you, to snatch her up before the season began. She’s obviously well-connected, too. Makes me reconsider the whole business of a courtship during the season.” He grinned and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair.
Uncertain as to what he’d done to encourage such familiarity, Christian answered without much warmth. “Thank you.” He had no wish to discuss his betrothed with anyone. He’d hoped to put her from his mind for a time, after all.
Sharpeton’s smile widened. “Fine place to finish courting her, too. The countryside here is spectacular. I understand you went for a ride this morning?”
“I did. I accompanied the earl.” Christian saw no harm in admitting to that.
“Excellent. You’ll have to ride out with me tomorrow, show me the grounds. But what about that lake? I want a closer look. It is full of entertaining possibilities. Perhaps we might fish. Do you enjoy fishing?”
Had Sharpeton made it his goal to get to know Christian as well?
“At times. When conditions are right.”
“Or we could take the young ladies on a picnic,” Sharpeton added, his eyebrows shooting upward as though he surprised himself by the idea. “Berwyns,” he said louder, gaining the attention of the baron’s sons. “Should we take the misses picnicking tomorrow?”
“I say, that’s an excellent idea.”
“Wonderful notion. I agree.”
Sharpeton clapped his hands before him. “Excellent. If we’re lucky, Lord and Lady Annesbury will have the treasure hunt underway, too.”
Christian winced. He’d nearly forgotten about that aspect of the party. The other single men had come up with the idea of a treasure hunt after breakfast. The baron’s sons couldn’t have been much younger than Christian and Sharpeton, but the eagerness with which they talked of treasure hunting was almost irritating. Now they were planning picnics. Had any of these men a serious thought in their heads?
He’d rather spend time with the earl and the older male members of the house party. They were likely holed up in the earl’s library or study, talking of politics or the war, something of real substance.
“I hope Lady Annesbury won’t mind if we take a hand in planning amusements. I hate sitting still for long,” Sharpeton said.
One of the baron’s sons groaned. “As do I. House parties can be so dull when there isn’t any shooting.”
“That comes next week,” the other brother said.
If the greatest trial in these men’s lives was boredom, Christian had no hope of finding much common ground with them. He could spend weeks in his own company and had, for years, lived at his grandfather’s country estate with little variation in activity.
Christian stood and bowed. “If you will excuse me, I have just thought of a matter I wish to discuss with Lord Annesbury.” No one seemed to mind his departure, as they had begun discussing guns and hounds.
It didn’t take long for Christian to locate the married men. They were all in the library, as he had guessed. Christian entered the room to see the marquess, Lord Dunhill, and Lord Berwyn seated while the earl stood before the fireplace, wearing a scowl.
They all turned to look at Christian, standing in the doorway, various expressions of irritation on their faces.
“Easton,” the earl said, the cloud over him lifting. “Come in, man. No need to linger in the doorway. We were just discussing our export laws. Not the most fascinating topic, but one I’m afraid we will run into the ground before the week is out.”
The marquess chuckled, Dunhill frowned more deeply, and Berwyn sighed.
“Perhaps a change of topic would refresh us,” the marquess said. “Come, Lord Easton. Tell us how your grandfather does. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Though that particular topic wasn’t one Christian wanted to address, he came further into the room to answer. “He is well. During the season he hasn’t had much time to attend to estate matters, so he is catching up on his work.”
“It was my understanding,” the earl drawled, lifting one golden eyebrow, “that you handled most estate matters at present.”
That was true but admitting that his grandfather reviewed every decision Christian made painted neither of them in a flattering light. “Grandfather is very particular about his holdings.” Christian shrugged and forced a tight-lipped smile.
“Never fear, lad,” Berwyn said, his expression lightening. “My father was the same. Gave me a task to do, then halfway did it himself. The old guard doesn’t like to step down before they must.” He chuckled. “Your worries will be fewer after you wed.”
“Fewer?” the marquess said, a crooked smile appearing on his face. “A wife might give a man different worries, but certainly not fewer.”
“Depends on the wife,” Dunhill quipped. All the men chuckled.
Christian was as out of his element here as he’d been in the other room. But he’d already sat, which left him committed to staying for a time. Why must everyone insist on discussing marriage and Miss Devon with him?
When he glanced at the earl, he saw that the man considered him with a very speculative expression.
“Were any of you aware that Lord Easton is a rower?”
The attention of the other men was instantly piqued. All attention turned to Christian.
“Rower?” the marquess said, sitting forward. “I tried to tell my son to take it up at university, but he was never interested. Were you part of a club at Cambridge?”
Shifting in his seat, Christian shook his head. “Oxford.”
“Good man,” Dunhill grunted.
The marquess shot a bemused look at the baron before he met Christian’s eyes again. “Was your team often successful?”
Christian felt the old pride as he considered his answer. Rowing had been something he’d been good at. Good enough that he was met with less derision when he was at the oars than at any other time during his schooling. “My team lost only once.”
During the single contest he did not participate in.
“There’s talk of forming permanent boating clubs,” the earl said, drawing Christian’s attention back to him. “Not just for the university men. I must admit, I would be interested in supporting one. The races are entertaining to watch, and it’s incredible exercise.”
“Think of the bets,” Berwyn said with a chuckle. “It wouldn’t be an exercise most men outside of university could take part in. It’s a younger man’s sport. Have you kept up with it, Lord Easton?” The amusement in the baron’s voice, and his incredulous smile, told Christian what the man expected the answer to be.
“I row as often as I can, whether by myself or with members of my old team.” Of course, it had been months since he’d seen any of those other men. It had been a challenge issued by one of them, to maintain good rowing form for at least a decade after they left Oxford.
They had never truly befriended him during their time at Oxford. It would’ve hurt their own social status, most likely. But they appreciated his abilities and respected him.
With the conversation successfully turned from marriage and wives to sport, Christian settled in. The earl had purposefully changed the topic to one that would put Christian in a good light before the other men. Christian would have to find a way to thank the earl later. Though perhaps this was just part of the man’s favor, granted for Christian’s agreement to allow Rebecca to see her sister.
He hadn’t been in the countryside for more than a day, but already he had more to sort out in his thoughts than he wished. Hopefully, Miss Devon would be restored to a more reasonable frame of mind before he spoke to her again.
*
Rebecca didn’t see Christian again until the guests gathered for dinner. She’d had the better part of the afternoon to think on his reaction to her declaration, and mentally formed several rebuttals. But the fact of the matter remained that since she did not understand his objection to the idea, she couldn’t truly plan a response until she spoke with him again.
Nor should she panic, even if she wished to, over his unsatisfying response to her plan.
She’d spent the afternoon embroidering handkerchiefs and making small talk, but her mind had been on her betrothed. She had a fortnight to fall in love, and apparently, he didn’t like the idea of her attempting such a thing.
Of course, she admitted reluctantly, it was a strange thing to tell a man. He likely thought her childish for expressing her strategy.
That didn’t mean she would give it up, though.
She had chosen to wear the least offensive of her evening gowns. Her aunt had called the color Russian flame when she spoke of commissioning the dress. Rebecca had been thrilled at the idea of wearing a daring color, perhaps a shade of red that would shimmer and set off her dark hair and eyes beautifully. But alas, Russian flame proved to be a pale, watered-down sort of beige. Whoever had named the color had absolutely no idea what they were doing.
“It is a modest choice for a young woman,” her aunt had said when Rebecca protested donning the horrid thing the first time. “You will wear it, or you will remain at home.”
Rebecca had taken to not looking down at herself in order to avoid offending her eyes with the dull color.
When I am married, she told herself, I will commission a gown of red and gold, out of a fabric that crackles when I walk, and then I will feel like I am wearing Russian fire.
Not a moment after Rebecca had that thought Christian entered the room. His eyes met hers almost immediately. He had that intense look to him again, which made her miss the softness of his expression in the music room. Her cheeks started to burn, but she refused to look away. Somehow, she must make him understand how serious she was about falling in love with him.
He gave his polite greetings to the Dunhill family. Besides herself and Aunt Jacqueline, they were the only ones who had already arrived to wait for dinner.
Aunt Jacqueline, who had been sitting quietly beside Rebecca on the settee, abruptly rose.
“Make a good impression,” she whispered, critically taking in Rebecca’s appearance. Then she walked toward the baroness, leaving Rebecca alone.
Christian did not approach her. He stayed near the door, addressing each person as they entered in low, short phrases, and the seat beside Rebecca remained empty.
Fighting down her disappointment, Rebecca turned her eyes to the portrait hanging above the mantel. It was a beautiful work, painted after Lucas and Virginia’s marriage. The two of them were in the garden, smiling out of the canvas, their affection for each other clear in every line of their posture.
I want that for myself. Rebecca straightened her posture, determination stiffening her spine. And if I can get it, I will.
After all the guests had gathered, the butler announced dinner. Christian appeared at Rebecca’s side as everyone fell into place in the procession to the dining room. Rebecca was at the end, and he with her.
“We will sit more informally tonight,” Virginia said as they entered the dining room. “Now that we are coming to know one another, I hope you will each choose dinner companions you will enjoy conversing with.”
Rebecca�
�s eyes went up at once to Christian’s. He had gone very still, had stopped approaching the table in fact. Was he horrified at the very idea of sitting down next to her?
He looked down at her, and she did not see disgust or reluctance. Instead, the look in his eyes reminded her of someone who was…lost?
“Will you sit with me, my lord?” she asked softly. Aunt Jacqueline would’ve been mortified at such a forward question, yet Rebecca knew she must ask. Something about the seating situation made him uncomfortable.
He relaxed, but only a little, and nodded. Others were still discussing where to sit and with whom, but Christian ignored everything else going on in the room and moved to pull a chair at the middle of the table out for her. She sat, and he took the chair beside her.
Did he wish to sit with her? Or had the whole idea of choosing his own dining partner left him unsettled? He was such a tall, imposing figure of a man. He bore a title and wealth. How could something so simple as sitting down at a table render him uncomfortable?
He could merely be uncomfortable with your company, you ninny. Rebecca sighed at the thought and lifted her cup to her mouth.
Christian cut a look at her. Had he heard her?
They had promised to be honest with each other. Dare she ask about his hesitancy?
No, they weren’t exactly in a private setting.
“We must discuss tomorrow’s festivities,” Virginia announced from her place at the end of the table. “I trust everyone has had ample time to refresh themselves from the journey here.”
Murmurs of agreement and gratitude arose from the guests. Rebecca folded her hands in her lap, her attention happily diverted to whatever Virginia wished to say.
“The first thing we must address is the proposed treasure hunt. I have spoken with our young ladies present and found them all to be amicable to the idea. Lady Felicity has claimed the assistance of Mr. Harold Berwyn and Miss Dunhill will work with Lord Sharpeton and Mr. Alfred Berwyn. My cousin will be paired with Lord Easton, of course.”
Lucas spoke next, after a nod from Virginia. “The rules are simple. I will give you a riddle. Nothing too complex, never fear. When you solve the riddle, you will find another, and it is the second riddle that will lead you to the treasure.”
Miss Devon's Choice: A Sweet Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 5) Page 9