Miss Devon's Choice: A Sweet Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 5)

by Sally Britton

  “We are both well, Father. Thank you for asking.”

  “And you, my lord? Are you and your grandfather well?” There seemed to be something more to the question, another layer of inquiry, but Christian couldn’t be certain what it pertained to.

  “I am, and my grandfather’s latest correspondence indicates he is, too.” Christian could feel the tension in the room as if it were a tangible thing, wrapped around each of them. “And yourself, Mr. Devon?”

  “Fine, fine.” Devon waved his hand dismissively. “Are you enjoying your time at the earl’s house? His house-parties are always diverting.”

  Christian saw Rebecca strangling her reticule again. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with her, there was little he could do by way of offering her comfort.

  Despite the strange change in their relationship over the past several days, he needed to reassure her, do something to let her know she was safe. Christian reached for her hands, taking one of them up in his own and giving it a gentle squeeze.

  Mr. Devon took notice, and smirked.

  Ignoring the man’s expression, Christian tried to pick up the thread of conversation again.

  “I have enjoyed my time there immensely, mostly due to your daughter. Miss Devon is a very pleasant companion.” Her fingers laced with his and he saw the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips. “She will be performing this evening at a concert held by her ladyship. I hope you will be in attendance, sir. I have heard Miss Devon play. Her talent is lovely.” He directed the last sentence to her, tilting his head in her direction.

  It was a show of their alliance, to Rebecca and her father. Christian didn’t understand the situation between child and parent but acting as a buffer for Rebecca came easily.

  “I have received an invitation, and I returned my acceptance today.” Mr. Devon spoke each word in clipped syllables, never once glancing in Rebecca’s direction.

  The sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the room was the only thing that filled the silence for several drawn-out seconds. Had a room ever felt so cold on an August afternoon?

  The door to the study opened and, with a light step, Horace Devon entered the room. He came in with an energy and buoyancy befitting a boy of fourteen, and his grin would’ve been contagious in nearly any other setting.

  “I apologize, I’m late,” he said, bowing to all when he reached their sitting area. “I am only just returned from a rescue mission.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Mr. Devon asked, hardly appearing impressed by his son’s pronouncement.

  “It’s true, Father.” Harry sat in the only unoccupied chair and steepled his hands before him. His brown-green eyes sparkled warmly, a contrast to his father’s cooler gaze. “I was out walking to the old blackberry bush near the road, to see if there were any likely berries for tarts, when I heard the strangest noises coming from across the lane. It sounded like some poor creature had either broken its heart or was being tortured.”

  Mr. Devon sighed and Christian realized the man meant to interrupt his son, perhaps call his story to a halt, but Rebecca’s posture had relaxed as her brother spoke.

  “What was it?” Christian asked, more eagerly than was necessary perhaps. But Harry winked, so quickly Christian nearly missed it.

  “It was a combination of sounds, I’m afraid. There was a kitten caught up a tree and one of the vicar’s daughters sitting below it. One was yowling and the other sobbing. I’ll leave you to guess which did which. Before I could offer assistance, however, someone else started shouting rather angrily. Another of the vicar’s daughters was in the tree, with the cat, similarly stuck and displeased with the situation.”

  “Oh my,” Rebecca said, raising her free hand to cover her lips, though she looked as though she wished to laugh. “And did you play the hero, Harry?”

  “After being rebuked by the girl in the tree for laughing, I did.” Harry dusted off his sleeves, entirely too pleased with himself. Christian had to clear is throat to keep from chuckling.

  “Then we will excuse your tardiness,” he said, nodding deeply to the young man. “A hero must be given all due indulgence.”

  Harry grinned, and then a maid entered with the tea tray. Rebecca took the responsibility of pouring and serving everyone, and Mr. Devon turned the talk to his son’s studies for a time. Perhaps he was attempting to quell the young man’s good humor by bringing up scholarly pursuits, but Harry’s smile remained.

  Christian wondered how the boy had come by such a gift, able to bring comfort to his sister, cheer to the room, all with good manners.

  “It’s the Greek that I’ve enjoyed the most,” Harry said when his father inquired which of his studies was of greatest interest to him. “All the old stories and artifacts are interesting, and one has to wonder where the Greeks found the imagination to come up with an entire Parthenon of gods and goddesses. They found someone to pray to for everything—whether it was the fire going out or a war with a neighboring city.”

  Rebecca had relaxed considerably after her brother’s arrival, though Christian caught her darting furtive looks in her father’s direction from time to time.

  “I think people like to think they are being heard for specific needs. And the Greek gods were so fickle. If you prayed to Zeus for help with keeping warm he very well might strike you with a lightning bolt to put you on fire,” Christian said, attempting levity. Rebecca’s amused smile was his reward.

  “True.” Harry sighed dramatically and put his empty plate down on the tray.

  Rebecca’s eyes lit up. She simultaneously grabbed Christian’s arm and leaned toward her brother. “Harry,” she said, voice eager, “is there a goddess of hearth and home?”

  Christian’s eyes widened, realization striking him the moment her words were spoken. “Of course. The earl’s clue. There is a goddess—a lesser one. I’m afraid I don’t remember—” Christian spoke with a measure of excitement. “It isn’t Hera or Demeter. Who—”

  “Hestia!” Harry shouted, catching Christian and Rebecca’s eagerness.

  “Horace,” his father rebuked, glaring at his son.

  “My apologies for shouting, Father. But it’s Hestia. She’s the goddess that fits that description.” Harry stood, and Christian and Rebecca with him. “I have a book on the gods and goddesses, and how they’re depicted in artwork and antiquities. It’s in my room. Let’s fetch it—”

  Rebecca started to stand, but then Mr. Devon was on his feet as well.

  “Why don’t you take Lord Easton to find the book, Horace? I would like to have a private word with Rebecca.”

  Christian’s heart dropped as he saw Rebecca’s reaction to the request. Her cheeks lost color again, her hands gripped the skirts of her gown. “Yes, Father. Of course.”

  While his mind had started scrambling to find a way to stay with Rebecca, to not leave her alone when she was so obviously uncomfortable, it halted with her words. He could not contradict a lady, after all.

  “I will return in a moment,” he said, bowing to her.

  Rebecca’s forced smile didn’t reassure him. Christian withdrew, reluctant, and followed Harry from the room. The moment the door shut behind them, Harry started shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, Christian. I meant for all of us to go. It would’ve been wiser for me to retrieve it on my own.”

  Christian’s alarm grew. “She is safe with your father, isn’t she?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the hall. If he thought Rebecca might come to physical harm—

  “Safe enough. Let’s hurry, though.” Harry turned and went off at a speed that Christian would be forced to call a sprint. He hurried after the boy, catching up in a few long strides.

  They were such a strange family. Each of the daughters were different in temperament, the brother’s personality matched none of them, and yet all seemed to hold the father in contempt.

  It didn’t take long to reach Harry’s room, and he found the book on Greek gods easily. When they entered the hall, before Harry could b
egin sprinting back, Christian put his hand on the boy’s arm.

  “Is Rebecca’s room nearby?” he asked.

  Harry gave him an odd look. “Yes. There, just across the hall.” He pointed to a door that looked like all the others in the wing. “Why?”

  Christian went to it and opened the door without hesitation. As he suspected, she had a small shelf on one wall. He went directly to it and looked through the books. Most of them were old, several were secondhand, and no two seemed to be from the same bookseller, as none had matching covers. But in one corner was a stack of five books tied together by an old red ribbon. They had dust atop them, but the pages were uncut. The books were new, leather bound, and never read.

  Although he couldn’t have hoped for it to be that easy, Christian counted his blessings and took the books from the shelves. “Can you see to it those go in the gig? Under the seat.”

  Harry’s expression remained puzzled, but he nodded. “Of course. Why don’t I see to that and you go rescue my sister?”

  Christian didn’t move as swiftly on the return as he had with Harry. It seemed improper, actually, without the younger man rushing ahead of him. He arrived back at the study door, knowing they’d only been gone a few minutes. He put his hand to the handle but froze, hearing voices inside.

  Rebecca’s words were soft, barely discernible, but when her father spoke, his voice carried through to the hall. “—ashamed of your behavior. What are you attempting? Are you hoping to drive him further away?”

  He heard her soft murmurs, which sounded greatly as though she sought to reassure her father.

  “I have worked tirelessly to arrange a proper match—and you know what will happen should it fail to go forward. I promise, Rebecca, your ruin will be complete and I will make certain to send you far, far from the sight of your sisters—”

  Christian stepped backward, his heart racing and his thoughts reeling. What had he just heard? Rebecca, beautiful and vivacious, had been threatened into marrying him? At worst, he’d thought her to be a fortune hunter. A social climber. But this—!

  No wonder she is so desperate to fall in love with me. This marriage is the last thing she could want.

  Though he had not known her a fortnight, Christian knew well how important Rebecca’s sisters were to her. He knew how much she longed for freedom to make her own choices. Her father would destroy her if he took those things away.

  His soul grew cold. What manner of father would ever treat a child with such harshness?

  “A father loves his child, Christian. No matter what.”

  Those words had been said by his own father, when Christian, young and uncertain, had come to him seeking comfort. “How could anyone love me when I’m so ugly?” he’d said, tears running down his face.

  He couldn’t have been very old. Six or seven. The scars were still new.

  “Christian, these marks you bear, they are marks of a life your mother fought for, sacrificed for. They are testament to your strength and to her love. I could never call them ugly, nor could anyone who loves you.” Then his father had gathered Christian up in his arms and held him, singing a lullaby Christian’s mother had sung, in soft Italian.

  Why the memory came to him now, Christian didn’t know. But it lit a fire within him. Christian lifted his head and flung the door to the study open, keeping his expression calm. After all, an Englishman ought not to lose his temper.

  He strode into the room, straight to Rebecca’s side. She was standing where he’d left her, pale and trembling. Christian ignored her father, taking up her hands and raising them to his lips. “Rebecca, carina, come. Here is the book. Let us go.” He kept her hand and turned, shielding her from her father’s eyes with his body.

  Mr. Devon stared at him, his eyes blazing and his jaw taut.

  “Sir, you will have to excuse us. My Rebecca must rest before her performance tonight. But perhaps we will not see you there after all. I know how busy you must be.” Christian could hear his accent slip, hear the roll to his R’s and the lilt in his voice, but he didn’t care. It was taking enough of his concentration to veil his command as a suggestion without taking the gentleman to task.

  “Good day, Mr. Devon. It may be our next meeting will be at the wedding.” Christian executed the shallowest of bows, then sailed from the room, keeping Rebecca at his side and himself between her and her father.

  “Christian,” she whispered when they were to the stairs. “What have you done?”

  He glanced down at her, his blood still running hot. “Your father—lui è una persona terribile. I am sorry if I distressed you, cuore mio. But I couldn’t allow him to treat you in such a manner.”

  She fell silent until they stepped out the front door. Harry was standing there with their gig, stroking the horse’s neck. He didn’t seem surprised to see them.

  “I ordered your gig. The maid should be here shortly.”

  Christian nodded his thanks and gave Rebecca his hand to assist her into the vehicle.

  She hesitated, looked between them both, then her eyes settled on Christian. “How much did you hear?” There was a note of pleading in her voice, a look of sorrow in her eyes.

  Though what he’d heard angered him, it had also torn away a piece of his heart. How could he help but sorrow for what she had been put through? He understood, clearer than before, why she wished to love him. She must’ve expected the very worst sort of misery in a marriage arranged by a man like her father.

  “I heard enough to know I do not wish you to be left alone with him again.” Christian tossed the book he still held onto the seat, then put his hands on her waist and lifted her into the gig. “You are mine, Rebecca. Mine to care for and defend. It is only a matter of weeks until the Church of England recognizes my rights officially. No one will hurt you, or threaten you, ever again.”

  He moved to climb up beside her, but Harry stopped him. “Lord Easton.”

  Christian faced the boy, who wore an expression more solemn than Christian had seen on his face yet. The young man stuck out his hand, respect in his eyes. “I could not hope for a better man for Rebecca. It might not count for anything, but I give you my blessing to marry her.”

  Christian smiled tightly. He shook Harry’s hand firmly. “It counts a great deal, Harry.”

  Rebecca said nothing when he settled in the seat beside her. He was ready to leave, without the maid, when she came running up behind them, panting and holding her bonnet to her head. Harry was gentleman enough to help her up, then Christian flicked the reins.

  They didn’t speak on the way back. Christian was too lost in thought. But Rebecca kept her hand tucked through the crook of his arm. For that, he was grateful. Marrying her, seeing to her needs, would be his greatest honor.

  The surety of that knowledge filled him with a confidence he’d never experienced before.

  Christian would spend his life doing all he could to ensure she didn’t regret their arrangement. He could not end it and leave her subject to her father’s displeasure.

  As her husband, he would allow her to have what her father and aunt had withheld. Freedom. And perhaps, someday, she would love him in truth, not in a desperate bid to find happiness where she expected none.

  After all, despite his early misgivings, he was coming to care for her deeply.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  By the time they’d returned from her father’s house, Rebecca had exhausted herself with anxiety and shame. Whatever Christian had heard, it inspired him to act against her father. His compassion was something of a relief, though bitter-sweet.

  He obviously intended to wed her, but because he wanted to rescue her. The nobleness of the gesture fell short of her desire.

  I will be safe. I will stay in England, near my sisters, near Harry. That must be enough.

  When Christian suggested she take a nap, expressing genuine concern for her well-being, she agreed, promising to help him search out a depiction of Hestia when she woke. But sleep came, and it took
her completely, until Hettie came to prepare for dinner.

  The meal was light, and early, to make more time for the concert. Though Christian escorted her into the dining room, and from there to the music room, they didn’t have the ability to have a private word. They were talked at from every side by the members of the house party, and he was all solicitude.

  Virginia insisted they stand in the reception line with her and the earl for a time.

  “Rebecca is family, and Lord Easton will soon be as well,” she told them, her bearing regal, her word the law. “We must introduce your intended to the neighborhood, darling. And look how lovely you are this evening.”

  Lovely wasn’t quite the word Rebecca wanted to use to describe the odd shade of pink she wore, but she supposed it was less offensive to the eye—and her sensibilities—than many of her gowns. Christian stood beside her and half a step behind, as though he meant to be her shadow or guard rather than her betrothed.

  She’d never felt so safe, so protected, as when he’d taken her from her father’s home. With his silent strength at her back, her heart soared within her breast.

  If only his attentiveness would lead to something more.

  When there was a lull in the arrival of guests, Rebecca glanced back at him. “Are you sure you do not wish to play for us tonight, my lord? Your talent is too great for you to sit silent.”

  Virginia heard and turned. “Really? You play, Lord Easton? Oh, I would simply love to have you perform for us this evening.”

  Lucas chuckled. “Another talent, Easton? You are showing the rest of us up.”

  Rebecca waited for Christian’s response, and darted a glance over her shoulder to see his expression. But it wasn’t as gentle as it had been.

  “I do not play for others,” he said, his voice tight and his eyes darkening. “I told you this, carina.” Though he used the familiar endearment, his tone was one of reproof, and twin spots of red had appeared high on his cheeks.

  Rebecca turned forward hastily. “I am sorry, my lord. I didn’t realize—”