“She didn’t seem megrimish to me,” said Boothe meditatively. “Matter of fact, she struck me as being a dashed nice girl. Pretty, too.”
“Very pretty,” de Villars agreed. “And a perfect lady, Boothe.”
His eyes held a warning. Meeting them, Boothe stiffened and retaliated, “Just as my sister is a perfect lady, I’d remind you!”
“Never doubted it,” said de Villars, his cynical grin dawning. “Of course, your sister is a widow, my dear Boothe.”
“Be damned if that makes her fair game! Apologies, Fitz. My sister did not become Haymarket ware on the day her husband was killed! And furthermore, de Villars, if you imply I ain’t fit to call on your cousin, you’ll answer to me for’t!”
Glendenning groaned and bowed his forehead against Fortescue’s shoulder.
Mr. Melton smiled slightly and shook his head in disbelief.
The surgeon, looking from sardonic boredom to flaming wrath, said with dry disgust, “I take leave to tell you, Mr. Boothe, that you will engage in no more duels for some time to come. Unless I mistake it, your wrist is badly sprained.”
Boothe, who had suspected something of the sort, peered at the swelling wrist in dismay. “Is it, begad?” he muttered. “Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch!”
CHAPTER
10
How Nature could have been so perverse to make this a beautiful morning was beyond understanding. The clear skies, the birds that sang with determined enthusiasm, the sun that shone with such beneficent warmth, all seemed to mock Rebecca’s crushing anxieties. Wringing her hands, she turned from the parlour window to pace for the hundredth time across the snug room, then jumped, her heart leaping into her throat as the clock began to chime. Ten. It seemed an age since she had glanced at it, but only five minutes had passed. The duel was long over, of course. It would take some time for Snow to get back into Town, despite the fact that he always drove at so headlong a pace. Still, it was fully five hours since the sun had risen. Five endless hours. So—why were they not back? Snow knew how worried she had been, and, despite his carefree and rather selfish nature, he was not unkind and would have come at once. Unless …
She halted, closing her eyes. Dear God—do not let him be hurt. Do not let him be killed. Do not let Treve— Her eyes opened wide. Treve? Mr. de Villars, she corrected primly. That either of them should be slain was—
In her absorption she had not heard the carriage stop outside and was startled when the door was flung open. Whirling about, she uttered a sob of joy and relief. Snowden stood on the threshold, as handsome and devil-may-care as ever, and apparently unhurt. He staggered as Rebecca fairly hurled herself upon his chest and said an indignant, “No, really, Becky! I’d the very devil of a time to tie this cravat! Gad, what a pother you women make about these things!” But for all his grumbling, the signs of strain in his sister’s face were so evident that he gave her a hug and dropped a kiss on her brow.
“You are all right?” She ran her hands over his chest and arms as though to reassure herself there was no concealed wound.
“Lord, yes.” He readjusted the velvet sleeve anxiously, and added with a twinkle, “Cannot say as much for de Villars, however.” Glancing up, he gave a shocked gasp, grabbed Rebecca’s swaying figure, and guided her to the sofa. Rushing to pull the bellrope, he then returned and flapped his coat skirt at his sister’s white face.
She put up a staying hand and said faintly, “Only tell me—is Mr. de Villars … killed?”
“For mercy’s sake! Never fear, love. Had I a killing on my hands I’d be galloping for Dover and the first departing packet!”
Mrs. Falk came in. She gave a cry of thanks to see Boothe, peered into Rebecca’s wan face, and hurried away to bring the brandy Boothe requested.
“If ever I saw such a birdwitted start,” he grumbled, sitting beside Rebecca and chafing her hand. “Why must you fret yourself into such a state?”
Despite the fear that was causing her to feel drained of strength, she managed to say, “Tell me what happened. How badly is de Villars wounded?”
“Not near bad enough! I tell you, Becky, I’ll have at him again as soon as my arm—” He bit his lip. “Well, er—that is to say—”
“Your arm?” she cried in new anxiety. “Snow! Were you—”
“Come down from the boughs! A sprain, merely.” With a reminiscent grin curving his shapely mouth, he said, “De Villars, blast his miserable existence, is a curst fine swordsman, I give him that.”
“Yet you mean to meet him again! Why?”
Mrs. Falk returning at this moment, Boothe followed her to the sideboard and poured his sister a glass of brandy. “Come along now—sip away! That’s a good girl. She’ll be all right now, thank you, Falk.” He patted the housekeeper’s bony shoulder, assured her he was unhurt, and ushered her to the door. “Now,” he said, turning back into the room, “where was I? Oh, yes. De Villars. Well, I’ll tell you, Becky, that damnable rogue is—”
What the damnable rogue was, Rebecca was not destined to discover. Again there was a scratching at the door, followed by the entrance of Lord Fortescue, who trod into the room, bowed shyly to Rebecca, and gestured to Boothe. “A word, Snow,” he entreated, with a hideous grimace intended to warn his friend subtly of the need for secrecy. “Pardon, Mrs. Becky, but—must speak with y’r brother, by y’r leave.”
“Of course,” said Rebecca, variously irked by the interruption and sorry that poor Forty appeared to have such a bad stiff neck.
The two young men adjourned to the top of the steps. Snowden inclined his head and listened to his lordship’s rapidly conveyed message. He started, scowled, and spun about. “Well, I must be off!” he declared breezily. “Now, you pay heed, Becky. No more farradiddles! You should get back to our poor aunt at once. A fine state she will be in.” He grinned. “Likely renovating her blacks this very minute!” And he strode to the door.
Indignation restoring her spirits, Rebecca sprang to her feet. “Snowden! Wait! You cannot just rush off like this! I must know—”
“Later, dear chit.” He blew her a kiss, bundling his lordship unceremoniously from the room even as that worthy strove to make his bow to Rebecca. “I shall come up to see you so soon as I can. Promise you. Be good, now!” And he was gone.
“Well!” gasped Rebecca. “If that is not the outside of—” Running to the hall, she called to them in vain. The door of Fortescue’s smart town carriage was swung shut; the groom snatched at the side rail and swung up behind, and the vehicle rolled swiftly away.
* * *
Rebecca followed the lackey along the wide hall of the quiet house on Berkeley Street, her heart beating very fast. Convinced that Snowden’s abrupt departure was in some way connected with his duel, she had swiftly bridged the gap between that fact and the likelihood that de Villars was either dead or dying. Distraught, she had ordered Snowden’s carriage and required that the coachman drive to the Boudreaux residence, but when they arrived, the porter had said that Miss Boudreaux was gone to her cousin’s house. It sounded very ominous, and Rebecca had trembled all the way here. It was not, of course, that she cared for The Wretched Rake, but, if he had fallen while trying to keep his word to her … if she was responsible … “Oh, dear, oh, dear!” she thought miserably, “I should not have placed him under such a crippling restraint!” Yet, had she not done so, dear Snow might even now be dead! She shuddered and was glad she’d insisted the coachman return to the stable at once. Poor Snow might need the carriage was he fleeing the country.
The lackey bowed her into a room and stepped aside. Entering, Rebecca did not hear the door close behind her, for she stood frozen with horror. She was in a large, richly appointed chamber, the window curtains drawn so that the light was dim. She was able, however, to distinguish Trevelyan de Villars, and her apprehensions had been well founded, for he lay on a sofa, one hand pressed to his chest. His head, propped with cushions, was turned towards her, a faint, sad smile on his pale face. “How v
ery … good of you … to come,” he murmured, the words barely distinguishable. His right hand, trailing onto the carpet, rose weakly, but fell back.
A great surge of remorse seared Rebecca. With a muffled sob, she sped to kneel beside him and, her eyes blurred with tears, faltered, “Oh! I am … so sorry! Is it—is it very b-bad?”
“I expect … I may fool ’em all, and—and live,” he said in that same thread of a voice, but on the last word his face twisted; he coughed and jerked his head away.
“Oh … my!” wailed Rebecca. And seeing how that one limp, long-fingered hand stirred feebly on the carpet, she took it up and clasped it to her bosom. “But—how dr-dreadful that they have left you alone … like this! You should have been carried at once to your bed. I will summon—”
“No!” He clung desperately to her hand. “Don’t leave me! I do not want to … to die … all alone.”
Shattered, she held his hand higher, under her chin. She had a vague sense that there was some resistance to this movement, but perhaps it was only that his arm was so helpless and thus, heavy. And all that really mattered was that he lay here—expiring. “It is my fault!” she gulped. “All my fault!”
“No, no.” The pale lips again quivered to the gallant smile that was tearing her heart to shreds. “I could ask no more of life than … than to have been of service to you, my lovely … lovely one.”
“Do not!” She wept. “Oh, how can they treat you so? I must go and get—”
“My cousin is gone … for new bandages and—a draught. The—the surgeon is on his way. ’Tis just—” The fine grey eyes flickered and closed. “They dared not carry me—upstairs,” he whispered.
How splendidly he was behaving. How chivalrous to have risked his life only to keep his promise to her. The long, curling lashes fluttered, the clear eyes peered up at her. Why had she never noticed how tender they could be? Why had she never remarked how sweet was his smile?
He sighed weakly. “I cannot seem to—to see you…”
Was this the dimming touch of approaching death? Appalled, she leaned nearer. “I am here, Treve. You’re going to be well again, never…” But the unsteady words faded to a whimper of fear as his eyes closed wearily, and his hand became a dead weight in hers. “Oh, pray do not die! Treve, Treve! Pray do not,” she sobbed.
He looked up, as though reclaimed by her sorrow. “Would you,” he breathed, “kiss me—just once, before…”
She bent above him, taking care to avoid the hand pressed over his heart. His kiss was so weak; no more than a faint stirring of the lips, but that her embrace had much restored him was immediately obvious. The hand she still held, tightened, his other arm slipped about her, and he raised himself a little, to kiss her again. Harder. His hold on her became crushing. A thrilling tide swept her up, and she was floating far from dull reality. She could scarcely breathe, yet the touch of his mouth was an ecstasy that must not cease.… In all her life she had known no kiss like this one; never had she been so ruthlessly held. Never had a man’s mouth sent such a flame burning through—
“Treve…? Wherever have you got to?”
Letitia’s voice.
Spinning through a golden glow, Rebecca heard the call as from very far away. But it snapped her back to reality.
De Villars was sitting up, his arms tight-locked about her as he kissed her throat, murmuring endearments. She lay limply in his arms, breathless, her ribs feeling as though one or two might still be intact. And his caressing hand had slipped under the lace at her bosom …
Fury boiled through her. “Villain!” she shrilled, springing back and beating at him with clenched fists. “Oh—you wicked, odious, shameless—”
“Ow!” De Villars laughed, raising a protecting hand. “Now, sweeting”—he caught a flying fist—“admit you liked it. Only—”
“Monstrous trickster!” she shrieked, fighting him wildly. “I did not—”
“Kiss me back? But you did, love. No, do not struggle so.”
“I thought you were—were dying! And I wish you were! Oh, how I wish it! Of all the loathsome—”
“Treve!” Letitia came in and cried a shocked, “Are you run mad?”
De Villars relinquished his grip on Rebecca’s wrists, ducked the flying swipe she aimed at him, and sprang agilely to his feet. “Now do not rail at me, Letty. Only see how I am restored. I was lying in here, trying to rest when Mrs. Parrish invaded my privacy and—”
“Lecher!” Rebecca hissed through clenched teeth. “The lackey showed me in here—at your command, I do not doubt!”
“Besides which,” said Letitia, coming to slip a supportive arm around Rebecca’s waist, “you was laid down in the red saloon, Treve!”
“Of course he was! He learned I had come and acted out this whole horrid death scene purely to lure me into his wicked embraces!”
Letitia shook her head at her cousin reproachfully. “Oh, Treve. How could you?”
Perching on the end of the sofa, he replied with a shocking lack of contrition, “With the greatest pleasure, m’dear.”
* * *
Miss Boudreaux insisted that Rebecca be carried home in her own carriage. It was a luxurious vehicle and accomplished the short journey in smooth, well-sprung comfort, but Rebecca had no wish to be delivered to her house in a coach with the Boudreaux crest on the door, and so required to be set down at the top of John Street. She walked along slowly through the bright afternoon, pondering the situation. She had gone into a small ante-room with Letitia, and while the carriage was being readied, had talked at some length with her new friend. Letitia had done all she might to apologize for her cousin’s outrageous behavior and, in also expressing her anxieties for Boothe, had blushingly confessed her regard for him. The two girls had embraced, Rebecca assuring Letitia that she could only be delighted were there to be a happy resolution to her affections. She had tried to conceal how little hope she felt there was of this, but the tender episode had done much to calm her own fury.
Now she thought of Snowden and his sudden exit. Whatever his reason, it could have nothing to do with picking another quarrel with de Villars. A second duel between the two men must be averted at all costs, but the immediacy of such a meeting was obviated by the fact that Snow would be unable to hold a sword for some time to come. Rebecca scowled at a blithely hopping sparrow. How selfish men were! One might suppose that having been spared today, Snow would be sufficiently grateful to refrain from subjecting her to such misery again. Or Letitia. He did not know the depth of Letitia’s tendre for him, of course. But he had seemed most decidedly interested in her last evening.… Even so, being a typical, contrary male, he would very likely wind up in the toils of some flamboyant creature like The Monahan.…
Despite herself, her thoughts slipped back to de Villars. From what Letitia had told her, it was apparent that he had taken some desperate chances during the duel. And had received precious little thanks for it. Her features, which had softened to a faintly remorseful look, became indignant again. She must be all about in her head! The Brute had been exceeding well paid! Only think how he had acted out his revolting drama! A gleam came into her eyes at the memory of the touching way he had allowed his hand to lie so limply on the carpet during the moments of his “expiring nobility.” Faith, but it was a winsome villain; and a strong one! Her ribs still ached! And the kisses he had so basely tricked … a sudden confusion warmed her cheeks, and she looked down, her heartbeat becoming oddly erratic. Mr. Trevelyan de Villars was a cynic, an unprincipled rogue, a dangerous fighting man, and perhaps even a libertine. But it began to be apparent that the lady taken under his protection would be wooed by an accomplished lover.…
She took a deep breath and pulled her scattered wits back into order. She simply must not allow these vacillations! Sir Peter Ward was neither cynic nor rogue; she had never heard of him engaging in such savage behaviour as duelling, and he was as far from being a rake or a libertine as one could imagine. And he was rich. She shut out a vague di
squiet. It was very well that Snowden had told her to return to Bedfordshire. It would not do to let the grass grow under one’s feet!
* * *
In the garden of the house on Berkeley Street, Letitia Boudreaux was also engaged in meditation. She wandered slowly across the lawn, reflecting that her prayers had been answered: Snowden Boothe was practically unhurt after an encounter that might very easily have left him crippled or slain. And yet, the future looked grim. He had gone gaily off somewhere, apparently without having given her another thought. Only—last night the look in his blue eyes had been unmistakable. She was sure that he had become a little interested in her. She had even dared to hope that he might eventually grow fond of her, despite her infuriating height. She sighed. But—of what use? His sister loathed Treve. And Boothe had sworn to fight again. Even was the duel averted the next time, animosity between the two families must mar any chance for a happy marriage, for who could be happily wed if cut off from all the relations who were so dearly beloved? No, it was hopeless, unless … She checked and stood motionless, gazing blankly at the kitchen cat who lolled against a tree while cleaning one upflung back leg. The cat abandoned its pursuits if not its position. Two yellow eyes contemplated the girl watchfully and, no caresses being offered, the elevated limb was stretched a shade higher and the ablutions resumed.
“Hmmn…” said Letitia, and went thoughtfully into the house.
She found de Villars standing at the window of the drawing room, looking into the street. Considering his tall, athletic figure dispassionately, she thought that although he was not handsome there was a magnetism about him that was undeniable. Had it not been for that wretched Constance Rogers, he would be wed these many years, and likely as sunny-natured as before he met the chit. She had done more than ruin him, for she had blighted that once delightful personality. And yet—perhaps it was purely wishful thinking, but of late it had seemed that his cynicism was a little less marked.
The Wagered Widow Page 19
