Devil's Match

by Anita Mills

  “Done.”

  She allowed him to lead her out as the first few bars of a waltz began. It seemed as though the crowd parted to make room for them until she found herself clasped lightly in his arms. At first, she was acutely conscious of the stares around her and then the music took over and she no longer had to count out her steps in her mind. His hand was warm on hers and the fresh clean scent of the Hungary water he’d used for shaving wafted between them. There was a strong masculinity about the arm that encircled her waist and held her to him. Uncharacteristically, she found herself wanting to lean on him, to rest her head on his broad shoulder. When she looked up, she found him studying her with those strange, beautiful eyes. And then the dream crashed down into reality.

  “You know, Miss Ashley,” he murmured above her ear, “you deserve better than you have. A female like you ought to have pretty things—fancy dresses, jewels, pin money …”

  “Oh?” She stiffened slightly and tried to prepare herself for what was coming.

  He failed to note the edge that had crept into her voice as he plunged ahead. “I mean, just think on it—look at this gown you are wearing …”

  Her color heightened ominously as she managed through clenched teeth, “Really? And what, pray tell, is wrong with my gown?”

  “Well, I’m scarce an authority on female apparel, Miss Ashley, but even I can tell you have altered it several times. Once it had a much fuller skirt, as was the fashion some twenty years ago. Then there is the waist —I can see that it has been raised in the French fashion. And you’ve removed a flounce to make sleeves—”

  “I am well aware of what I’ve done to it,” she gritted out.

  “But ’tis unnecessary economy, Miss Ashley. If you would but listen to what I would say—”

  “And I suppose you are wishful of giving me these things I have been lacking?” she ventured with sudden deceptive sweetness.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” he admitted.

  To his utter surprise, she pushed him away angrily and stalked off, leaving him to stand like the veriest fool amid the whirling figures of the other dancers. Mercifully, the music ended swiftly. Threading his way across the floor after her, he caught up. “You did not hear me out,” he told her as he spun her around by the shoulder.

  “I didn’t have to, Lord Westover,” she answered coldly, “for while I may be poor, I am not so sunk in depravity that … that … Oh, how dare you think such a thing!” Shaking off his hand, she plunged headlong into the crowd.

  “What the devil are you talking about?” he called after her. “Wait!”

  “I say, Patrick—is that your Miss Ashley?” Bertie Bascombe stepped in front of him. “Passably pretty girl, but I think m’mother had a dress something like that when I was in short coats. You’ll have to—”

  “Oh, there you are, Patrick.” Juliana pushed past Bertie to confront her cousin. “Whatever can you have been thinking of?” she demanded. “Mama saw you with Caro out on the floor and she’s mad as fire. I hope Caro’s accepted you, because I don’t think I can help her now. And Papa’s going to York tomorrow, so he won’t be able to do anything either.”

  By then Patrick realized that Caroline Ashley was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, he snapped, “Cut line, Ju! I tried to make friends with the girl, but you didn’t tell me she was given to queer starts! I’d have done better if I’d tried to abduct her!”

  “Caro? Patrick, whatever can you have said to her?” Juliana wanted to know. “She’s the most even-tempered creature I know. But Mama—”

  “Hang Aunt Lenore! Ju, don’t go acting me a Cheltenham tragedy just because I danced with your Miss Ashley. If my aunt was watching so closely, she’d know I was left standing on the floor. Females! All I said to the girl was that she needed some pretty clothes and things, I swear.” He caught Juliana’s stunned look and suddenly it came home to him what he’d done. “Oh, lud!” he groaned. “I made a mull of it, Ju.”

  “Pat, let’s leave,” Bertie insisted, “ ’cause I see your Aunt Lenore coming this way and it don’t bode well for Miss Canfield, I can tell.”

  “No, I’ve got to try to find Miss Ashley … got to explain—”

  “Patrick, I’ll try to talk to her,” Juliana offered quickly. “Mr. Bascombe’s right—you’d best go. I’ll send you a note round in the morning, I promise.”

  4

  “Tell me, Caro, what did you really think of him?” Juliana asked casually over her morning chocolate.

  “Who?”

  “Oh, you know very well who! Patrick!”

  “I’m surprised you can ask after that scene with your mama last night,” Caroline responded dryly. “Really, Ju, but it was poor of you not to have warned me that Westover and Patrick Danvers are one and the same. My credit has been quite destroyed, my reputation probably damaged beyond repair, and my employment nearly ended—and you would know what I think of him?”

  “But did you not think him quite the handsomest man you have ever seen?” Juliana pursued slyly. “I mean, did you not like him?”

  “Oh, it was a very near thing, I admit it, and I was almost deceived into thinking him kind even, but then I discovered what he was about. And that was before your mama read that peal over me. Had it not been for your father, I should have been turned off without character in the middle of the night. No, Ju—what you and your cousin did was not handsome at all.”

  “Still, he did single you out to waltz.”

  “Most probably because I was the only female green enough to go,” Caroline noted severely. “Had I had a father or brother to protect me—or someone to warn me even—he’d not have been so bold. Devil Danvers they call him! Ju, how could you have let me be so foolish?”

  “Patrick’s not what you hear of him, Caro—I promise he is not. He’s good and kind and honorable—I know he is.”

  “Then you are besotted! Cousin or no, you would forget he’s a rake and a murderer and a gamester! And he had the effrontery to offer me carte blanche!”

  “But you mistook the matter, Caro. He—”

  “I assure you that I did not. I know I should not be speaking to you of such things, Ju, but he did. Now, if you are wishful of my company, you will not speak of him again to me.”

  “Poor Caro,” Juliana sympathized. “Mama can be such a trial when she wants to be, I know, but you should not let her poison your mind against Patrick before you get to know him.”

  “I have no intention of getting to know him. Indeed, I—”

  “Miss Ashley?” Juliana’s maid stuck her head around a silken screen. “Thomas said I was to tell you that you have a caller in the library, miss.”

  “There must be a mistake. Lady Canfield does not allow—”

  “No mistakin’ the matter, miss—Thomas said I was to tell you.”

  “But who … ?”

  “As to that, Thomas didn’t say. He just told me that it was about a book.”

  “A book? Caro, you haven’t ordered another book, have you?” Juliana demanded. “You know ’tis folly to buy more when you need so many other things. Besides, we can borrow on our subscription to Hookham’s Lending Library.”

  “No,” Caroline mused thoughtfully, “I have ordered nothing. Besides, the delivery of a book would not require a morning call. Well, I daresay I shall just have to find out for myself,” she decided. “I doubt I shall be gone above a trice, my dear, but you’d best be getting ready for your fitting at Madame Cecile’s while I am belowstairs.”

  Her curiosity whetted, Caro went down. It was inconceivable that anyone should be calling on her, particularly since Lady Canfield had judiciously put it about that her daughter’s companion was a distant poor relation with no expectations. That, coupled with her scanty wardrobe, had assured that Caro Ashley would attract no more than a passing glance of sympathy from anyone.

  She paused to smooth the skirt of her favorite dress, a blue muslin given her by Miss Richards, before
opening the door to Sir Max’s library. The room was quite dim, made so by a combination of dark wood, closed draperies, and the overall dreariness of a rainy day. Thomas, the footman, pulled the heavy window hangings open before making a discreet exit. In a corner, Caroline’s visitor appeared absorbed in a study of Maximillian Canfield’s bookshelves. For a moment, Caro thought her eyes were deceiving her as they traveled over his tall frame to the unmistakable deep rich red of his hair. For a fleeting moment she was torn between the impulse to run and a desire to deliver a stinging rebuke. Apparently her thoughts were mirrored on her face, for when he turned around, his first words were, “Don’t go—please.” Then, with a rueful smile, he extended a well-worn book toward her. “My copy of the sonnets—’tis in sadder condition than your Pride and Prejudice, I fear.”

  “You!” she choked.

  “Alas, yes. Miss Ashley, I’ve come to offer my apologies for the misunderstanding last night. I collect that—”

  “Lord Westover”—she rounded on him—”if Lady Canfield had the slightest notion that you were here to call on me, I should be discharged on the instant. As it is, I have endured not only the insult you offered me but also the worst reading of my character in my entire life! Now, if you will excuse me—”

  “No. I have something to say that might improve your situation.”

  “At the risk of plain speaking, sir, if you do not leave before Lady Lenore finds you are here, I will not have a situation.”

  “Miss Ashley, you mistook my meaning last night,” Patrick tried to explain as he moved closer. “ ’Twas not my intent to offend you, I assure you.”

  “Please—just leave.”

  “Do you think I cannot tell a devilish straitlaced female when I see one?” he asked.

  “And I do not care what you can tell, my lord. I think it outside of enough that neither you nor Juliana felt it necessary to tell me just who you were before I’d made a fool of myself in front of my employer and half the ton. Now Lady Lenore tells me my reputation is quite ruined and I am unfit to accompany Juliana publicly.” Her eyes flashed indignantly as she bit off each word. “In short, for whatever amusement it has afforded you, you have nigh ruined me.” Her piece said, she turned to go.

  “That being the case, Miss Ashley,” he answered as he stepped in front of her to block her path, “I must ask you to hear me out. ’Twas my intention to make you an honorable offer of marriage.” Speechless, she could only stare while he hastened to explain, “I find myself in need of a wife, Miss Ashley, and I think you meet my requirements.”

  “Your requirements,” Caroline echoed faintly. “And what, pray, are they?”

  “Well, you do not appear to suffer from an excess of sensibility, you seem to be an intelligent female, and your situation here cannot be a pleasant one.” He paused while she digested his words, and then he added gently, “I think I can offer you a better life than you have here, Miss Ashley. Wed with me and you will have pretty gowns, jewelry, a home to manage—the things a female wants.”

  “You jest, of course.”

  “I assure you I do not, Miss Ashley. I have one week less than a year in which to marry and produce an heir.” His hazel eyes were sober as they met hers. “I can make you a very rich woman.”

  “No.”

  “I pray you will consider before you answer,” he pressed her. “You would not find me an uncomfortable husband, my dear.”

  “This must be a jest—you cannot possibly want to marry me—you do not even know me.”

  “Of course I don’t want to marry you—I don’t want to marry anyone, to be perfectly candid. But I am reconciled to the necessity of it, and I’m not repining, Miss Ashley. You’ve a trim enough figure, and with the help of a good modiste and a dresser, you’ll be a credit to me, I am sure. And—your pardon for plain speaking, my dear—once the heir is assured, you’ll not find me a demanding husband.”

  “You are serious,” she decided finally.

  He nodded. “I knew you were a reasonable female from the first. I suggest you say nothing to anyone other than Juliana until you are removed from this house. Aunt Lenore can make one deuced uncomfortable when she wants to, and there’s no need for you to endure her tongue. I’ll return with a special license this afternoon, and we can be at Westover by nightfall.” Reaching to lift her chin with his hand, he bent closer until his face was only a few inches from hers. “I believe ’tis customary to seal the bargain with a kiss, Miss Ashley.”

  “Bargain?” Her color heightened dangerously and she jerked away. “Of all the conceited … the arrogant .. the audacious things I have ever heard in my life! I take leave to tell you, sir, that I decline what I can only deem a preposterous offer!”

  “You are being hasty, Miss Ashley. You’ve not considered—”

  “Hasty! Hasty?” she flashed indignantly. “You’ve barely met me, and—”

  Stung, he snapped, “And I’ve made you an honorable offer of marriage, Miss Ashley! I regret that it seems precipitate, but I’ve not the time or the inclination for a lengthy courtship. I thought, given your circumstances and everything, that you would be grateful to—”

  “You thought … you thought that I should be grateful to ally myself with … with a hardened gamester, a … a …”

  “Murderer?” he supplied grimly. “No, I thought you sensible enough to recognize the advantages of the match, if you want the truth. After all, you can scarce expect me to dangle after you. It’s not like you are likely to receive another offer, but if you—”

  “No. I have not the least intention of selling my person for dresses and pin money—and so I shall tell Juliana when I go upstairs. Again, if you will excuse me …” Finding him in her way, she collected herself enough to order, “Pray step aside, sir.”

  Patrick was unprepared for the rush of emotion he felt as he took in her flushed cheeks and the fire in her dark eyes. The girl had spirit and it showed from the straightness of her carriage to the jut of her chin. His own eyes warmed as they traveled over her. “You would not find it an unpleasant experience, I think,” he murmured.

  To her utter horror, he grasped her shoulders, and before she realized his intent, he bent his head to hers. Her eyes widened and then shut tightly as he kissed her thoroughly. It was her first real kiss, and it send oddly disjointed thoughts through her mind. She was acutely aware of the softness of his breath against her face, the feel of his lips on hers, and the strength of his arms as they enveloped her. Resolutely she stiffened and pushed him away.

  He released her abruptly and stepped back. “Your pardon, Miss Ashley—I shouldn’t have done that.” He watched her touch her lips with her fingers. The color had drained from her face.

  “I should think it all of a piece,” she choked when she found her voice finally. “ ’Tis expected of Devil Danvers!” Brushing past him, she did not pause until she reached the door. “Good day, Lord Westover,” she muttered through clenched teeth before she disappeared into the hall.

  He started to go after her and then thought better of it—he knew nothing he could say would redeem her opinion of him. With a sigh, he tucked his dog-eared volume of Shakespeare into his coat and left. Outside, Albert Bascombe waited for him.

  “I say …” Bertie goggled as Patrick swung into the carriage seat across from him. One look at his friend’s set face was enough—while Bertie’s powers of perception were not the best, they were adequate to warn him against saying anything further. Instead, he leaned back and waited helplessly.

  “I’ve made a mull of it!” Patrick exploded finally. “I behaved like a damned fool, Bertie! I had no more address than a callow youth!”

  “Didn’t look like your sort of female anyway,” Bertie consoled. “Tell you what—we’ll look around for another one. I heard Witherspoon’s got five of ’em to fire off—and he’s not got a feather to fly with. Ten to one, you can buy one of ’em, Patrick.”

  “No—I was a damned fool to think I co
uld do it.”

  “Pat—”

  “Do you know what she called me? Devil Danvers! Bertie, it’s been three years and I’ve not lived it down yet! If a penniless female at my aunt’s mercy cannot be brought to see any advantage to me, I’m at point non plus!”

  “You sound like you wanted the chit.”

  “I could have tolerated her. She at least reads something besides the latest Crim Cons. And she can talk without simpering.”

  “Well, there’s m’sister Gussie,” Bertie mused. “Thing is, m’father’d cut up a devil of a dust and—”

  “Bertie, your sister Augusta’s not out of the schoolroom, and if I remember correctly, she doesn’t talk.”

  “Well, she reads,” Bertie defended.

  “No, there’s no help for it—I mean to forfeit.”

  “Pat, you’ve got a year,” Bertie argued. “Tell you what—we’ll put our heads together and come up with a respectable girl for you.”

  “Thank you, but I am not so thick-skinned that I relish letting another female call me Devil Danvers whilst she rejects my suit,” Patrick responded dryly. “Much as I hate to do it, when I get back from Newmarket, I’m going to find Charlie and pay. It isn’t as if I wanted a wife, anyway.”

  5

  Alarmed by Patrick’s admission that he intended to forfeit the wager with Charles Danvers, Albert Bascombe decided to take matters into his own hands. After all, had not Patrick come to his aid more than once? And did he not deserve better than the certain ridicule of his own family? With those questions firmly answered in his mind, Bertie bent his rather convoluted thought processes to the task of solving his friend’s problem.

  It stood to reason that if Patrick had offered for Miss Ashley, she must have been an unexceptional girl. And certainly Patrick’s refusal to put it to the touch again with another eligible female made Bertie think that it would have to be Caroline Ashley. Once he had arrived, after laborious deliberations at that conclusion, Bertie made up his mind to pay Patrick back for a host of kindnesses by delivering the girl. Finally, with the help of a bottle of his father’s best Madeira, he brooded over the matter until he figured out just how to do it.