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

by Sally Britton

  She collapsed onto her pillow and pulled the blankets over her head, trying unsuccessfully to block further thoughts of Christian, of his kisses, to spare her aching heart.

  The sounds of someone bustling about her room, the quiet scrape in the grate, a swish of fabric, woke Rebecca from her light doze. In and out of sleep all night, Rebecca couldn’t decide if it had been one of the longest nights of her life or one of the shortest. She pushed the light fabric surrounding her bed open, enough to peer through at Hettie, who was trying to fit a very large box onto the dressing table.

  Rebecca burst from her bed, rushing to save her mother’s books before they toppled to the ground. Hettie let out a little shriek of alarm, obviously not expecting Rebecca to leap from her bedsheets in such an unrefined manner. This also meant Hettie dropped her box, which hit the books, and knocked them directly into Rebecca’s arms.

  Maid and mistress stared at one another, and Rebecca thought her expression must mirror Hettie’s wide-eyed stare.

  “Good morning, Hettie,” she said at last.

  “Good morning, miss,” the maid responded, raising a hand to her throat. “Did you—did you sleep well?”

  Rather than answer that simple question with her unnecessarily complicated explanation, Rebecca gave her attention to the large parcel. “What is this, Hettie?”

  “I don’t know,” Hettie said, then she seemed to remember herself enough to rush to the window. She threw open the curtains. “Lord Easton’s man gave it to me this morning. He said I was to deliver it to you first thing. It must be another gift.”

  Was it Rebecca’s imagination, or had Hettie sounded a little wistful when she spoke?

  “Oh. There’s a note. It slipped out of the twine.” Hettie reached into her apron pocket and removed a piece of paper. It was still sealed, Rebecca saw, when she accepted it.

  Upon opening the note, she immediately recognized the handwriting. It was Christine’s, not Christian’s.

  Dearest Little Sister,

  Your husband-to-be has graciously offered to smuggle your dresses to you. Yes, dresses. After Mrs. Chandler had your measurements, I commissioned a second gown for you. Please don’t fret. It is an early wedding present, and you will look beautiful in it. I cannot wait to see you at the ball. Lord Easton has promised me he will see to it there are no negative consequences to you having this dress. If he manages that, I may have to like him after all.

  Your Affectionate Sister,

  Christine

  A second dress? Rebecca had ordered a simple morning gown from the seamstress. What else had been commissioned? Knowing Christine, it was likely a riding habit.

  Hettie stood by, waiting impatiently to know what was in the package. Aunt Jacqueline had declared that Rebecca could not have any dress created by the village seamstress. There stood her spy, knowing that declaration full well. The moment the packaging fell away to reveal a gown, Hettie would be on her way to inform Aunt Jacqueline.

  Unless…

  The memory of Christian speaking to Hettie in the gig, visiting Whitewood Estate, came back to Rebecca. Reminding the maid of Rebecca’s future importance had kept her quiet on their less than decorous withdrawal from that estate.

  “Hettie,” Rebecca said slowly, refolding the letter. “Before I open this, we ought to have a very serious conversation.”

  The fair-haired maid’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Yes, miss?”

  “When I am married, and I leave my aunt’s care, what will become of you?”

  Hettie’s expression shifted, the confusion falling into something that appeared to be acceptance. “I will be an upstairs maid again, miss.”

  “How would you like to be a true lady’s maid instead?” Rebecca asked, folding her arms across her middle and doing her utmost to appear aloof. “You could come with me, to my new household, and immediately have a place of respect and distinction among the servants. You would be a lady’s maid to a viscountess.”

  Hettie’s eyes took on a hopeful glow as Rebecca spoke, and her hands came up before her, clasped as though in prayer. “Oh, miss. That would be a dream come true. But—but, begging your pardon, Miss Rebecca. I’m too young and you don’t like me.”

  For a brief moment, Rebecca cringed with guilt. She hadn’t ever treated the maid with any sort of partiality. She sighed and allowed her hands to drop to her side. “It isn’t that I don’t like you, Hettie. I don’t like you running to tell tales to my aunt. I know she has told you to do so, but we have come to the point where you must decide within whose service you wish to remain. If it is my aunt’s, as an upstairs maid, so be it. If it is as my lady’s maid—because I do believe you are perfectly suited to that duty—then you need to decide now.”

  The girl’s eyes grew larger and the knuckles of her hands went white. “Now, miss?”

  “Yes, Hettie. You see, in that package is something that will make my aunt very upset with me. If you see it and run off to her, she will take it away. But if you help me, you will earn your place in my household staff.”

  Hettie’s eyes darted from Rebecca to the parcel, then back to Rebecca again. “I’d rather stay with you, miss. And I think we’d get on better, without your aunt.” She smiled, though the expression looked a little trembly, and Rebecca relaxed.

  “Good. Bring the parcel to the bed and let’s open it properly.” Rebecca turned to throw the curtains of her bed back, then worked to undo the twine when Hettie put the package on the bed-sheets. “Help me, Hettie.” Between the two of them, the twine quickly came loose and the thick brown paper holding everything together fell away.

  On top of the parcel was a beautiful muslin gown, the most angelic shade of pastel blue, with a soft, white fichu to wear during the day. A pair of matching slippers had been tucked next to the gown. There were no wide lace swaths, cascading ruffles, or complicated embroidered flowers anywhere to be seen. It was simple. Clean lines. Perfect.

  “Oh, it’s lovely, miss,” Hettie said when Rebecca lifted the gown from its wrappings. “Will you wear it today?”

  Rebecca hesitated, wondering. She was so near freedom. Dare she enjoy a small taste of it now?

  “What else is in there, miss?”

  Looking down, Rebecca saw cream-colored paper wrappings covering another soft, bulky object. She reluctantly put down her new dress to see what else her sister had commissioned for her. Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be as wonderful as her dress.

  A blaze of red and gold fully arrested her attention when the paper fell away. Hettie gasped, but Rebecca didn’t even blink as she reached her hand out to lay it upon the shining fabric. A red silk gown, elegantly embellished with gold flowers and bead-work. Rebecca carefully lifted the incredible creation, allowing the skirts to fall gently to her toes.

  “It’s Russian fire,” she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t remember telling Christine of her great disappointment the first time she wore the fabric bearing that misleading name. But she must’ve written to her, because there at last, in her hands, she held a gown more beautiful than she could imagine. A gown made of fire, meant to be worn by a woman of imagination and passion.

  Not exactly the sort of person she’d felt like in the last two days.

  “It’s perfect for a viscountess, miss,” Hettie said in reverential tones. “Oh, you’re going to look so beautiful.”

  “It is perfect, isn’t it?” Rebecca said. “But do you think it will fit? It was made with my measurements, but—”

  Hettie clapped her hands. “Try it on, Miss Devon. I’m handy with a needle. If there are any tucks to make or hems to let out, I can do it passable enough for you to wear tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Rebecca let her breath out in a whoosh of air and sat on the edge of her bed. “Aunt Jacqueline will not be pleased.”

  “But you will be,” Hettie said, her eyes glittering mischievously.

  Rebecca tilted her head to the side and regarded her maid critically for a momen
t. “I think having you on my side is going to be a lot more fun, Hettie.”

  The maid grinned. “Will you wear it?”

  Rebecca looked down at the gown and carefully smoothing a wrinkle in the skirt with her hand. “How could I not?” With a squeal of delight, Hettie set about helping Rebecca into the beautiful gown and started chattering right away.

  “I already know the perfect way to do your hair, miss. We haven’t any pretty pins to match this gown, but there are roses this exact shade in the garden. And you can wear your new bracelet. If only we had ear bobs or a necklace.” The maid sighed as she fussed with the gown. “But it’s beautiful all on its own. I think your cream-colored slippers will look well with it, and no one will be looking at your feet, anyway.”

  Amid her maid’s plans and getting the dress on and off, Rebecca could not help thinking of the rose garden, of Christian standing barefoot in the fountain, and of how easy it was to put her trust in him.

  Though her father had signed away her future to Christian’s care, it had been she that decided he must have her heart. While there were years ahead of them, years in which she must do all in her power to convince him to accept her love, it was already his.

  Hettie determined the dress didn’t need any altering, and she would set about preparing it for the evening. Dressed in the blue gown, knowing but not caring she was likely to incur her aunt’s displeasure, Rebecca left her room thinking on the red dress. She hugged her journal to her chest and hoped to find the time to record her thoughts. Once they were down on paper, she might make sense of them.

  What would Christian think when he saw the red gown? Would it please him? Would he find her beautiful? Or would he think her too bold?

  He’d called her presumptuous that day in the music room. The very thought made her smile. Since then, he’d called her much more pleasant things. His treasure, carina, beautiful. Perhaps one day he would call her beloved.

  Perhaps Austria wouldn’t count her as its guest anytime in the future.

  Her gait slowed outside the breakfast room. She intended to step in only long enough to take a breakfast roll. Virginia’s cook had learned that Rebecca favored rolls baked with cinnamon and dates, so she always had a basket on the sideboard.

  “Rebecca?” She started and turned to see Virginia coming down the hall, a bright smile on her face. “Good morning, my dear cousin.”

  “Are you to spirit me away again?” Rebecca asked, teasingly. The red gown had restored her good humor and confidence.

  “Not at all. But I do wish to make certain everything is well with you. You retired so early last night.” Virginia’s eyes widened when she drew closer, the shadows of the hall no longer concealing Rebecca. “Rebecca, your dress! That isn’t one my mother chose.”

  Rebecca’s mood lightened considerably at the compliment. She turned in a circle for her cousin. “It isn’t. I chose it.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely. The color suits you so well.” Virginia looked to the closed door. “Are you going in to breakfast?”

  “I suppose I should. Will you join me?”

  After the cousins dined and made polite conversation with others at the table, Virginia asked Rebecca to accompany her on a walk in the garden. Since their conversation had been pleasant, and had diverted Rebecca’s attention from her worry over Christian, Rebecca was happy to continue in her cousin’s company.

  After they talked of the children, and of Rebecca’s visit with her family, Virginia naturally turned the topic back to the previous evening. “You are feeling better today, aren’t you?” she asked kindly.

  “I am, and I feel I must confess to you, Virginia. I wasn’t physically unwell.” Rebecca lowered her eyes to the stone walk, but the sight of her lovely gown and blue slippers coaxed a smile from her despite her words. “I was worrying over something.”

  They walked a few steps in silence before Virginia spoke again. “I thought you ought to know, Lord Easton asked after you.”

  Rebecca’s heart tripped, though her steps remained steady. “Did he? What did you tell him?”

  “Only that you were unwell. He was rather quiet the rest of the evening. Not like when he is in your company.”

  “He is just as solemn in my company as anywhere else,” Rebecca said, her misgivings creeping back into her heart.

  Virginia stopped her with a gentle touch on Rebecca’s shoulder, then she spoke earnestly. “That isn’t true, Rebecca. I can promise you that it isn’t. I’ve been watching you both, out of concern for you and this match. At first, it seemed Lord Easton was a little standoffish. But after the day of the picnic, he’s warmed to you. His eyes seek you out whenever he enters a room, or he watches the door when he hopes you will soon arrive. There is a tenderness to his expression when he looks at you.”

  Rebecca turned her head away, her eyes taking in the flowers growing around them. They were in the rear gardens, nearest the hill leading down to the lake. The deep scent of so many flowers hung in the air around them, strong and heady. They nearly made her dizzy. Or was it the thought of Christian looking at her tenderly?

  “And I believe he cares for you a great deal,” Virginia added. “Which is why I thought I’d tell you to go down to the boathouse.”

  “What?” Rebecca brought her head around quickly at that, seeing her cousin’s secretive smile. “The boathouse?”

  “Just before breakfast, he asked Lucas if he might take a boat out upon the lake. I am certain he wished to take his exercise at the oars again. And he seemed…agitated. I thought you should know—you might want to go to him.” Virginia folded her hands before her and her expression turned hopeful. “You are both out of sorts. When that happens with Lucas and me, it means there is something we ought to discuss.”

  The path down to the lake lay just to the right of where they stood. “My slippers,” Rebecca said, already knowing the excuse was a weak one. “They’re new. And they won’t survive the grass….” Her voice trailed off, her heart already having made the decision for her. Rebecca met her cousin’s eyes again. “Do not tell Aunt.” Without another word, she thrust her journal into Virginia’s arms and whirled toward the lake path. She went down it at speed, lifting her skirts enough to protect the hems.

  I shouldn’t run. I shouldn’t. He may be in the middle of the lake and not back to the boathouse for half an hour. Or all day. Who knows?

  Despite giving herself that lecture, Rebecca didn’t slow down.

  It felt good to run. She wore no bonnet, no gloves, and she could feel the breeze twist and turn about her. Her slippers grew wet in the grass, and she knew she was ruining them, but she wanted to get to Christian. To speak to him. To thank him for making certain she received her dresses. And to find out why he was out of sorts.

  The door to the boathouse was open. She slowed when she saw it, taking deep breaths in a futile effort to calm her racing heart.

  *

  Muttering to himself in Italian, Christian sat in the boat, still docked in the boathouse. He’d removed his coat, hanging it up on a spare hook. He had discovered his oars were mismatched. He got out of the boat again, onto the boards, and started looking inside other boats and the oars that hung on pegs on the wall.

  He found oars of his preferred length and turned back to his boat, but a flash of blue caught his eye. He turned, startled, and saw Rebecca framed in the doorway, the morning light streaming in behind her, making her deep brown hair shine with rich golden highlights. She peered into the boathouse, her brows furrowed and her expression uncertain.

  “Christian?”

  He leaned the oar up against the wall and gave her a proper bow, more formal than necessary. He’d missed her since dinner the night before. She’d been avoiding him, he was certain, when she went to her room before the men joined the ladies in the parlor.

  “Good morning, Rebecca.” What was she doing down at the boathouse when most would still be at breakfast?

  “Good morning.” She took a hesitant step inside, her han
d still on the door frame. “Are you—are you well?”

  He tilted his head to one side, taking in her appearance more carefully. He’d never seen that dress upon her. It was soft in color and form, without the multitude of ruffles, frills, and laces he’d seen on her thus far. It suited her, accentuating her tall, trim frame. She’d received her parcel from her sister, then, and this was her commissioned gown.

  Her hair was mostly up, with a few waving locks escaping to brush against her cheek and the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright.

  She appeared nervous, and his stomach fluttered at the revelation.

  “I am well.” He took a step closer. “Are you?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, I am well enough. But I have been out of sorts since yesterday, and I wanted to apologize for that. I also wanted to thank you for getting Christine’s parcel to me.”

  “Ah.” He stood closer to her, nearly close enough to touch her if he but reached out a hand. “Is that where the dress came from?” She nodded, her eyes not leaving his. “It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you.” She stared at him another moment. “Aren’t you going to ask why I am out of sorts?”

  He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. How did she always manage to cheer him with nothing more than a few words? Sometimes only a look. “Why are you out of sorts?”

  Rebecca lifted one shoulder in a shrug, tucking her hands behind her. “I have been this way since I learned that you wished to end our betrothal.”

  Christian’s head snapped up, cold shock filling his veins. “How did you learn--?” He cut himself off and narrowed his eyes. “Your father found out.”

  “Your grandfather contacted him through their solicitors,” she answered calmly, watching him with large brown eyes.

  “Rebecca, I—” He couldn’t think of what to say, how to explain what had happened. He ran both hands through his hair, without regard to the mess he made.

  “Is it true?” she asked softly. “You didn’t wish to marry me?”

  “When I first met you, it was,” he answered, then hastened to reach for her, to take both her hands in his. It wouldn’t surprise him if she pulled away, or slapped him, but she allowed him to take her hands. “You terrified me,” he said, voice husky with a very real fear in the moment. He knew the sting of rejection, and he wished to spare her from that. But it was too late.