The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 1

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  She nodded and hefted the basket more firmly in her left hand. "Very well. Thank you for being so considerate. But if you have other matters to attend to, I can make my own way home, Mr. Deveril. I shouldn't like to take you out of your way."

  He shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you out here by yourself on an arctic evening such as this. Go on to the Millers and get warm. I shall come fetch you in half an hour."

  Pamela stared after Jonathan's tall, muscular figure as he strode toward the village school.

  She watched him wistfully until he became a mere speck in the distance. He was truly kind, not dour and severe like many clergymen. He was very witty in company, and had put on and played in a performance of She Stoops to Conquer in the neighboring village only last year.

  But there was something in his eyes which seemed so... Sad, world-weary, hard. He could sometimes be very distant when they were in company together, as if he were thinking of something else or were somewhere else entirely.

  She shook her head as she walked on to the Millers' cottage. Now she was being fanciful. As if you could tell anything from a person's eyes. It was their deportment and words that were everything.

  And he was a busy man, with his head full of important matters. She wouldn't be at all surprised if his energy, drive and devotion to his work earned him a bishopric one day. He was, she had to admit, quite remarkable.

  But too strict for her, she added hastily, with a blush, fearing she had dwelt too long on the vicar's handsome face and steel-gray eyes which seemed to pierce into her very soul. Oh, he was certainly clever enough, an excellent and passionate speaker, but he could be so, well, preachy.

  That was excusable, given his chosen profession. But every time she was with him, his mere presence made her feel painfully conscious of her own sins and frivolity. Oh, if only she were a better person, or he a worse one....

  She giggled at the thought of her vicar acting sparkish with her, and put it out of her mind. He was not beau material, it was as simple as that. And time was pressing. Her feet had taken her to the Millers' door, and here she was standing like a ninny pining away for Mr. Deveril of all people.

  She had to pull herself together and hurry. She would drop off the basket, then quickly head home to complete her many chores. There was a ball to prepare for that evening. Then there was a sewing circle tomorrow afternoon, and a card party the next night, and she simply had to look her best.

  She entered the small, ramshackle cottage, and greeted care-worn Mrs. Miller. They discussed the snowy weather for a moment with some spirit. Once Pamela was seated, she began to run through her list of gowns in her mind as she listened to poor Mrs. Miller chatter to a seemingly sympathetic audience about the state of her husband's health.

  Pamela tried not to nod off as the woman told her details of each of her spouse's maladies. She barely managed to stifle a yawn, and told herself she needed to curtail a few of her late nights. But it was awfully fun to be so popular and sought after.

  She started as she opened her eyes and realized she had been dozing. Mrs. Miller, kind soul that she was, had either not noticed, or not taken offense.

  But a pair of steely-gray eyes observed her with a less than cordial expression. Jonathan Deveril had come to fetch her, and found her asleep. How mortifying.

  She began to bridle with indignation. Who was he to judge? Why should she care what he thought of her anyway? A mere country parson... The very idea.

  She rose up to her full height, though he dwarfed her, even stooped as he was under the low beams of the cottage ceiling.

  "Are you ready, Miss Ashton?" he asked frostily.

  "I am indeed, Mr. Deveril," she returned.

  Mrs. Miller would not let them go, however, without expressing her thanks once more for all their kindness.

  "So pleasant to see you again, Mrs. Miller. The children will be home from school shortly," the vicar said.

  "I'll come to visit again soon," Pamela promised.

  That earned her a withering glance from Jonathan.

  She stalked past him, wondering why she felt so ruffled.

  Because you feel guilty, came the candid reply. It was rude of you to fall asleep, and a waste of time for you to do nothing but attend endless rounds of parties.

  She told herself she had to make hay while the sun shone. She was not going to be young and carefree forever. She had to do the best she could in the Marriage Mart.

  Just because Jonathan Deveril took such a dim view of wedlock did not mean everyone ought to follow his example. She was determined to marry, and marry well.

  Maybe she should take more of an interest in her gowns, and take further dancing lessons after all...

  Chapter Two

  The walk back to Pamela's home was accomplished in relative silence. Jonathan seemed preoccupied, and whilst not exactly rude, was certainly not as warm and friendly as he had been on their way to the Millers' house. She tried to make excuses for her having fallen asleep without actually coming out directly and admitting her fault.

  He did not respond to her overtures, and at length Pamela gave up with a sigh. Let him be surly if he chose. It was of no consequence to her what he thought. She only hoped he would not read her out from the pulpit on Sunday.

  For his own part, Jonathan could not believe how the sight of her slumbering had moved him. A welter of emotions, ranging from tender regard to rampaging lust, had flooded through him so suddenly he had had to cling to the doorframe for support. He had hardly been able to form a coherent thought since. The hammering of his heart and pulsing of his loins threatened to drown out all other sensations, even reason itself.

  He had thought he knew all about love through his past devotion for a most delicate and lovely woman. He had also enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh before he had seen the Light. He had not been proud of his few lapses, and had always resolved to do better.

  Now he felt as though he had scarcely any control over his limbs. He had been with skilled older women of the world, yet never had any of them unmanned him like the chaste blonde who tripped along the path trying to keep up with his long-legged stride as he hurried to get her home before he did something unpardonable right there in the snow lane.

  The poor girl. If only she knew.

  He tried not to stare at her elegant booted feet, neat turn of ankle, pendulant sway of her narrow yet flared hips under her thick dark gown.

  Her perfume hammered into him despite being out in the open, filling his senses. He breathed in her own most womanly scent, clean and fresh, with a hint of musky, vibrant arousal. His good brisk walk through the freezing countryside to subdue his own animal needs was now completely for naught.

  Jonathan wondered if Pamela sensed his overwhelming desire. He was sure it was written all over his face. She kept peeping up at him, desperate for any sign of approval or regard.

  He almost reached out several times to reassure her, but knew he dare not. Not when he felt so frazzled by her presence that the least indication of receptiveness to him as a man instead of just a friend would produce the good Lord only knew what response.

  His loins sizzled so hotly that he stumbled and almost fell. He twisted away in desperate alarm when she tried to help him right himself. "I'm fine, really. Just watch your own step."

  She thought he would offer her his arm, but he actually stopped short and indicated that she should go on ahead of him with the lantern he'd had the foresight to borrow from the school. The winter days would be short for some time to come, but tonight seemed especially gloomy.

  Was it because of the louring clouds threatening snow? Or what Pamela had first said to him? About him having a wife and family? Not being content with his circumstances?

  But he was a man of God now. Fornication was a sin. If he was not married, he would simply have to burn. And since marriage was impossible without breaking faith with everything he had ever held to be sacred and true, he had no other choice but to endure the scourge of unfulf
illed passion for as long as the Lord saw fit. His will be done, on Earth, as in Heaven. He had agreed to it one day exactly two years ago. His bargain with God was far more important than any unruly stirrings of his male member.

  "I said, can you see all right?"

  "Yes, indeed, Miss Ashton. I'm following your lead."

  "You may take my arm if you wish."

  "If I fell, I wouldn't wish to drag you down with me." He was painfully conscious of the double meaning of the words. Never a truer word had he spoken.

  Thus he crunched along behind her silently, accompanying her as far as the red-brick gatehouse which graced the sweeping gravel drive leading up to her fine seventeenth-century manor house.

  She continued on, but Jonathan halted abruptly. He knew what would most likely happen if he walked her to the front door. He would kiss her, and bring ruination upon himself and possibly even both of them in one disastrous instant.

  "You'll be safe enough here. I'll bid you good evening, Miss Ashton." He bowed curtly.

  She turned to stare at him in surprise. "Surely you'll come up to the house for tea?"

  He quashed his desires ruthlessly. "No, thank you, Miss Ashton. I promised my sister Sarah I would be back shortly. We're redecorating our drawing room. She needs my assistance in rearranging everything to her satisfaction."

  "I see. Well, another time, Mr. Deveril." She struggled with the inexplicable surge of disappointment which coursed through her veins. She was about to turn away when he offered to shake hands.

  She blinked in surprise, and complied.

  He bowed over her hand slightly, squeezed it with a warm, compelling pressure, and began to stride away.

  She watched his retreating back in the murky gloom. "Wait, Jonathan!"

  He swung around at once. If he was surprised to hear her utter his given name, he gave no sign. "What, what is it, Pamela?" he asked, sounding almost alarmed, taking three steps back toward her.

  "The lantern. You must take it."

  He halted. "No, really. I can see well enough."

  "But I'm only a minute away from home, and all of the light and warmth I could wish for. You've come out of your way for me. Please, don't make me worry whether you've got home safely or not. It would be all too easy to turn your ankle. Goodness knows what would happen to you left out in this storm."

  She had approached him as she spoke, so that once again she was only an arm's length away.

  "You needn't worry. The good Lord always provides."

  "True, but I'm sure He is entitled to be rather vexed with people who take foolish risks on the basis of that assumption."

  Jonathan grinned then, showing even white teeth.

  Pamela stared at him as he smiled. He was good-humored enough, but truly smiled only rarely. She found herself gaping at him like a floundering fish. She held out the lantern, and he nodded.

  He reached out to take it, careful not to touch her. "You're right. I'll stand on the drive until you get safely to the door. Don't run, but do hurry. I wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

  "Thank you. Do please be vigilant going home."

  "I shall." He gave her one last longing look.

  Something dark sparked in her deep blue eyes as she reluctantly parted from him at last. "Good night, Mr. Deveril."

  "Good night, Miss Ashton," he said, giving her a formal bow.

  She hurried up the drive, and ventured a look back. He waved the lantern by way of farewell.

  She arrived at the door safely a moment later. When she turned around again for one last look, Jonathan had vanished amid the swirl of snowflakes.

  She hoped once again that he would reach home safely before the storm worsened, then wondered at herself for this excessive concern for his welfare. She shook her head as if bestirring herself from a daze, and walked around the side of the house along the paved terrace.

  Entering her house by the glass-paneled door from the garden, she removed her sopping boots in the small chamber fitted with clothes racks and shoe-cleaning paraphernalia. She put on her house slippers, then shook out her snow-covered cloak and bonnet.

  She smoothed her blonde hair and navy woolen gown, and went into the drawing room to stand in front of the fire to dry her hem.

  A portly woman in her mid-forties with salt and pepper hair looked up as she entered. "Ah, there you are, dear," her Aunt Susan said. "We were starting to worry."

  "I went for a walk to the village. I met Mr. Deveril along the way, visited the Millers, and he accompanied me home."

  "Well where is he, then?" she asked expectantly, fluffing her curls in a gesture which would have been construed as flirtatious in a much younger woman.

  "He went back to the vicarage. Sarah is waiting for him."

  "Oh, how sorry I am to have missed him," she said, evidently crestfallen.

  Pamela smiled. "I'm glad you like him so well, Aunt, for he has offered to escort us to Bath. Invited us to stay at his friend's townhouse. Thomas Eltham, and his wife Charlotte, nee Castlemaine."

  Her aunt's mouth flew open. "Bless my soul! Eltham you say? He's the Duke of Ellesmere, my dear!"

  Pamela joined her aunt upon the ice-blue silk sofa patterned with garlands. "Yes, indeed."

  "That was how Mr. Deveril came by his parish. They are friends of long standing, going back many years. I do remember Charlotte. Lovely raven hair and blue eyes. Such a fine couple, even if their marriage did surprise many with its abruptness. But there was no seven-month child in the end, so all must have been well." Her faded blue eyes sparkled shrewdly.

  Her aunt smoothed down her gown thoughtfully with one hand. "My, the Duke of Ellesmere. This most certainly puts an entirely different complexion on our trip to Bath. My gowns..."

  Pamela accepted a cup of tea and listened patiently to her aunt's discourse on the number of alterations which would have to be made to render her wardrobe sufficiently grand enough to befit the company they would now be keeping. She endured with a fixed smile the catalog of slippers, stockings, reticules, fans, turbans, and feathers.

  She said nothing of her own clothes, but her aunt suddenly remarked, "Who knows, you could be married before you ever even get to London!"

  Pamela felt her heart batter against her ribs in alarm. "Now, Aunt, I don't see any point in being hasty. Far better for me to look around than to grab at the first opportunity."

  Her aunt shrugged and gave her a calculating glance. "I don't know, my girl. In my day you were lucky to get any offer, let alone expect more than one."

  Pamela bit her lower lip and struggled to keep her temper. "I don't mean I expect to get more than one. I simply want to meet many different people without committing myself. It's too soon after Papa's death. I know I've been surrounded by beaux ever since Charlotte got out of the Marriage Mart, but I don't wish to tie myself to anyone hastily. For one thing, I'm still guardian to little Bertie. Whoever I marry can't live too far away from here. I shall be needed."

  Her aunt shook her head. "La! Where do you get such notions? Once you marry, you'll be part of your husband's family. You must be loyal to them, not worry about your step-brother."

  Pamela set down her cup and took up some darning from the rattan workbasket next to the sofa. "I should think I would do my duty to both families."

  Her aunt sniffed. "It will very much depend upon which family you marry into. Some are jealous of rank and privilege, while others are happy enough to be intimate with your relatives. None of the young men hereabouts have seemed inclined to sue for your hand. I think they must believe you too grand for them."

  She suppressed a small smile. "Not quite all of them. Mr. Prine has been most importunate."

  "That little flea?" Aunt Susan gasped. "He wouldn't dare!"

  "Oh, but he did. However, he won't be coming near me again, I'm sure."

  Her aunt made a moue of distaste. "I hope you didn't do anything too rude or foolish."

  "Not at all. In fact, it was Mr. Deveril." She smiled at the recollect
ion of him coming to her rescue like a knight in shining armor. "He threatened to read him out from the pulpit if he didn't mend his ways."

  Her aunt laughed heartily at this choice piece of news. "How wonderful. Clever man. Such a dear boy. Pity he's only a clergyman. Ah well, it can't be helped. Being a younger son is a burden, but someone has to bear it."

  Pamela put down her completed stocking and picked up the newspaper. She had just begun scanning the Court Circular, so did not pay full attention to her aunt. But she wondered why this struck her as odd. Had Jonathan ever mentioned an elder brother? She would have to ask him the next time she saw him. Or when they were in Bath.