“Of course there are—”
“Warefield?”
Lord Avery rode toward them, a smile on his doughy face. Unwilling to have poor, dull-witted Peter face to face with Maddie at her most spirited, he wheeled Aristotle around. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
“‘Don’t go anywhere,’” Maddie mimicked imperiously. “As if a lady would wait about for further insults.” Immediately she turned her mare to look for Rafael. She spied him after a moment, surrounded by at least a dozen ladies in carriages, and hesitated. “I don’t think so,” she said to herself, nervous at the crowd, and headed instead for the nearly deserted Ladies’ Mile.
Admittedly, their last exchange had been somewhat amusing, but sometimes she absolutely hated Quin Bancroft. He always believed he knew what was best for her, whether she agreed or not. And unbearably self-righteous, he never had anything pleasant, or comforting, or sweet, or romantic to say to her.
Maddie blinked and drew Honey up short. Romantic? Where in the world had that come from? Even if she did like him, even if she happened to be desperately fond of him, he would never consider marriage with someone like her. A ruined chit—that was what he’d called her—and that was precisely what she was. But Quin….
Despite all her efforts, and even though he was stupidly stubborn and probably took in stray cats and dogs just because he felt sorry for them, all of her dreams and imaginings seemed to center around him. Not even attractive, easygoing, unattached Rafael stirred her pulse and made her heart pound like Quin did.
Maddie looked down at her hands. It was completely absurd, for her to fall for the Marquis of Warefield simply because he happened to be the first young, handsome gentleman of her own social status who’d been kind to her, both before and after he’d discovered her identity. And when they kissed, the attraction was certainly mutual. But then again, perhaps he was only being polite. If he was one thing, Quinlan Ulysses Bancroft was unfailingly polite.
She sent the chestnut along the quiet track, enjoying the sensation of actually being alone for once. It had been a long time since she’d been able to do much of anything without Quin barking at her heels.
“My…my God!”
Maddie yanked hard on the reins, dragging the mare to a halt. All the blood drained from her face, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She knew that voice—and she’d hoped never to hear it again. Her eyes closed. She couldn’t even look.
“Maddie? Maddie Willits? Is it you?”
At the sound of a horse approaching, Maddie took an uneven breath and opened her eyes again. “Charles,” she faltered.
Charles Dunfrey looked the same as she remembered—tall, dark-haired, and exceedingly handsome. His brown eyes gazed at her in obvious astonishment, his square, chiseled jaw hanging open. “It is you. I can hardly believe it!”
Neither could she. “Ex…excuse me,” she managed, and yanked the chestnut’s reins around with shaking fingers.
“Don’t go. Please. Please.”
Hesitating, Maddie turned to look at him again, at his hopeful, earnest expression, and tried to ignore the tide of emotions tumbling her about. He had turned her away five years ago. He hadn’t even wanted to hear her explain. She should be angry—not ill and lightheaded with nervousness. “What do you want, Mr. Dunfrey?”
“I thought I’d never see you again.” Charles guided his mount a few slow steps closer, as though he were afraid she might bolt.
“That was what you intended, I believe,” she said stiffly, groping for anger, indignation, bitterness—anything to bolster her flagging courage.
He shook his head. “No. I was angry—furious. But when you…left, I….” Charles looked down, then met her gaze again. “I had a lot of time to think about things, Maddie.”
“So did I.”
“I….” he began again, then trailed off. “Good Lord, I’m just so surprised to see you, I don’t know what to say. Please, tell me you’re not still angry. Might…might I call on you tomorrow? Are you staying with your parents?”
“No. They…I’m staying at Bancroft House, as a guest of the Duchess of Highbarrow. My parents don’t know I’m here.”
“At Bancroft House?” He reached out as though he wanted to touch her hand where she tightly clutched the reins. At the last moment he stopped himself. “Might I call on you there?”
Again she hesitated, completely unnerved. “Yes. Yes, if you wish.”
“Thank you.” With a last glance at her, he turned and rode away.
Maddie couldn’t stop shaking. She’d dreaded that meeting for so long, and it had been nothing at all like she had imagined. Nothing.
“What in damnation did he want?”
Quin looked like a knight ready to charge into battle for his distressed damsel. His green eyes glinting and narrowed, he glared at Charles Dunfrey’s retreating back.
Maddie shook herself. “Nothing.”
Quin looked sideways at her, his jaw tight and angry. “‘Nothing?’” he repeated. “You spent a long time discussing nothing, then.”
“I think he wanted to apologize.”
“Apo—” He snapped his mouth shut and looked after Charles again. “And you let him just apologize? After what he did to you? To your reputation?”
A small thrill ran down her spine. He was jealous—over her. “It would make things much easier for me—don’t you think?—if Charles and I were to reconcile?”
“Yes…I suppose it would,” he agreed, with supreme reluctance.
She nodded. “He’s going to call on me tomorrow, at Bancroft House.”
He glanced at her again, then away, and she could fairly hear his teeth grinding. “Fine. Splendid.” Quin wrenched Aristotle around. “Let’s go. Where’s my damned brother?”
Quin knew his mood had deepened beyond foul when, less than five minutes after their return from Hyde Park, both Maddie and Rafe deserted him to find the duchess and challenge her to a game of piquet.
Damn Charles Dunfrey, anyway. And damn Maddie, for of course being right about a reconciliation between them. He could toil all summer in an attempt to repair the damage to her reputation, yet Dunfrey could smile at her once in public and do the same.
There was no use denying it any longer, though the very idea made him want to smash some very expensive breakables. He didn’t just want Maddie to be restored to society; he wanted to be the one to do it. He wanted her to be grateful to him. He wanted her to need him—and to love him as much as he did her.
His heart pounding, Quin leaned back against the wall and stared at the closed door to the drawing room where they sat. Where she sat.
Sweet Lucifer, he loved her. Of all the idiotic things he’d ever thought or done in his entire life, this was the worst. Even if she hadn’t been rained, Madeleine Willits was no one with whom he could consider anything more serious than an affair. And at the moment, he would have been happy—ecstatic—to have that.
He could hear the three of them in the drawing room, laughing and chatting while they played cards. Even the duchess had warmed to Maddie. Yesterday she’d accompanied Miss Willits to Lady Ashton’s, practically daring His Grace to comment. And she’d convinced the duke to delay sending word to Malcolm that they were returning his disgraceful companion to Langley posthaste.
“What are you moping about now?”
Quin jumped, straightening. “I’m not moping,” he said stiffly, as the duke emerged from his office, a fistful of papers in one hand. “I’m deciding.”
“Deciding what?” His Grace asked skeptically.
Whether to tell Maddie how I feel about her. “Whether I should plan for a summer wedding or an autumn one,” he said instead, remembering Eloise and their twenty-three-year agreement with a kind of detached horror. He looked at his father, seeing the swiftly masked surprise on his stern face.
The duke regarded him levelly. “Why not tomorrow, if you’re suddenly so eager?”
“Fine by me,” Quin snapped, furious and
unsettled and trapped. “I’ll send a note over to Eloise.”
“Don’t try to bluff me, Quinlan,” Lord Highbarrow warned.
“I’m not,” he said shortly, and turned on his heel. “You’d best send a messenger to King George and tell him we’ll be needing Westminster Abbey in the morn ing,” he continued over his shoulder. “I don’t imagine that will be a problem.”
“So you intend to have the entire peerage thinking you’ve got Eloise with child and I forced a quick marriage? I should say not!” the duke roared, his expression darkening. “You haven’t been that much a fool, have you?”
Quin faced his father again. “I thought I was rutting with Miss Willits,” he snarled, white-faced. “Make up your mind, Your Grace.”
“Don’t you dare speak that way to me, boy, or I’ll see you as well liked in London as that red-haired whore!”
That was enough of that. “You will not speak about Maddie in that manner, you pomp—”
“I’m not the one—”
The drawing room door opened. “Lewis,” the duchess interrupted in a low voice. No doubt the three of them had heard the entire exchange from the drawing room. Quin winced.
“Victoria, stay out—”
“Please,” she interrupted. “Lady Finch and Lady DeReese will arrive here any moment. Calm down.”
“Calm down? You tell me what to do, wife? Bah! I’m going to White’s!” His Grace stalked down the hallway. “You’ll wed Eloise this summer, Quinlan, or when it comes time for a new Duke of Highbarrow, it won’t be you! Is that clear?”
Quin didn’t answer; he wasn’t expected to. His father had given a direct order, and it would be followed. End of argument, end of conversation. He met his mother’s concerned, searching gaze, then nodded stiffly at her and turned on his heel.
Aristotle looked annoyed at being taken out twice in one day. Under the circumstances, Quin had little sympathy for him. He rode over to Queen Street and asked if Eloise was in. She wasn’t, but the Stokesley butler gave him the direction of the acquaintance she’d gone to visit.
He felt ridiculous chasing Eloise about London. They’d known one another for so long that he could fairly well predict what her reaction would be if he appeared on the Countess Devane’s doorstep, looking for her. She was lovely and intelligent and had been groomed from birth to be the future Duchess of Highbarrow—just as he had been schooled to be the future duke. But he wanted to know something that had abruptly become very important for him to discover. He wanted to know what he felt when he was with her.
He knew what he felt when he and Maddie were in the same room: frustrated, antagonized, and exhilarated. In truth, whether he felt anything toward Eloise, it didn’t matter. He had always known he would marry her, and so he would. But he continued to Devane’s home anyway, climbed the shallow steps, and rapped on the door.
“Lord Warefield.” The butler bowed as Quin handed over his calling card and his request. “If you would care to wait in the foyer.”
Only a few moments later Eloise appeared from the direction of the upstairs drawing room. “Quin, is something wrong?” she asked, descending the steps toward him.
“No,” he said, taking her hand. “I just…wanted to make certain I wasn’t imposing on you the other day, when I asked you to help me with Maddie.”
She smiled warmly. “Of course not. In fact, I was just arranging for Miss Harriet DuChamps and Lady Devane to join us for luncheon tomorrow.”
“Good. I appreciate your assistance.”
“I’m happy to help.” She looked at him for a moment, her perfect brow furrowing just a little. “Was there something else?”
“No. No, of course not.” He started to turn away, then stopped again. He had to know. “Eloise, might I…make a request of you?”
“Anything, Quin.”
Quin glanced up and down the hallway, which was thankfully deserted, and cleared his throat. “Might I kiss you?”
The brief look of puzzlement passed from her face, and she smiled again. “I would like that.”
Taking a short breath, Quin stepped closer. He lowered his head as she lifted hers, and he brushed his lips against her soft mouth. For a long moment he lingered there, tasting her mouth, hearing her soft sigh.
Finally he stepped back again. “Thank you.”
“Well,” she prompted, smiling faintly, “how was it?”
He returned her smile. “Wonderful, Eloise. I just realized I had never kissed you in all this time. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He bowed and turned away.
“Quin?”
The marquis stopped. “Yes?”
“We need to decide on a date. If we delay much longer, no one will be around to celebrate with us.”
“Yes, I know. I’m…working out the schedule with His Grace. Soon, though. It will be soon.”
He made his way outside, and back to Aristotle. There he stopped, one hand on the gelding’s bridle. She’d given him the perfect opportunity to declare himself, and he had done nothing. Well, nothing except admit to himself that he really had no interest at all in his wife-to-be—and a great deal of interest in a woman who could never be his.
“Hm, and what did Lord Warefield want?” Joanna, Lady Devane, curled a strand of her blond hair around and around her finger.
Eloise smiled and resumed her seat. “To kiss me,” she murmured, and sipped her tea.
Harriet DuChamps sat forward. “To what?”
“To kiss you?” Joanna repeated skeptically. “He came all this way just for that?”
“We are to be married, you know,” Eloise pointed out. “And he does dote on me.”
“Seems to me he dotes on someone else these days,” Lady Devane suggested.
“Quin’s always been kind and generous. The poor little ruined bitch had nowhere else to go.” She set aside her tea and leaned forward. “And our task, ladies, is to find her somewhere else to go. Posthaste.”
Harriet giggled. “They drown unwanted puppies, don’t they?”
Joanna and Eloise laughed, and Eloise resumed nibbling at her teacake. “I’ll set a large punch bowl at luncheon tomorrow, just in case.”
Charles Dunfrey sighed as his coach rattled to a halt. What a blasted nuisance, having to leave London in the middle of the Season. And for a trip to Devonshire, of all places, where there would be absolutely nothing of interest to do, and no one of interest to see.
Half surprised the vehicle had made the journey intact, Dunfrey settled his hat on his head and stood as the door opened. “Good evening, Hoskins,” he said, stepping to the ground. “Would the viscount be in this evening?”
The butler stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, astonishment in every line of his thin, dignified countenance. “Mr…. Mr. Dunfrey. Yes, he…he is. This way, sir.”
Hoskins showed him into the drawing room, and in his hurry to leave and inform his employer of their visitor, slammed the door behind him. Dunfrey smiled briefly, then wandered about, looking at the old familiar porcelain miniatures and collection of crystal vases. Little had changed in five years. He turned around as the door opened again.
The tall, silver-haired gentleman standing in the doorway looked poised between shock and dismay as he looked at his houseguest. Dunfrey could little blame him. He’d never thought to set eyes on the viscount again, himself.
Dunfrey bowed. “Good evening, Lord Halverston. I apologize for not sending advance word that I was coming, but I didn’t know myself, until this morning.” He gave an apologetic, slightly embarrassed smile. “Might I trouble you for a glass of port? I’m…a little unsettled.”
The viscount nodded warily and motioned at the butler lurking in the hallway behind him. “Hoskins, port.” He stepped into the drawing room and closed the door.
For a moment Dunfrey wished he’d asked for Lady Halverston, as she would be easier to deal with, but he didn’t want either of them to go running off until he’d had a chance to explain things properly.
“Forgive my dire
ctness, Charles,” the viscount said, in his dry voice, “but what brings you to Halverston? We did not part well, last time we spoke.”
Shaking his head, Dunfrey sat at one end of the couch. “No, we did not,” he said earnestly. “And I wish to apologize for that, as well. I…well, heat of the moment, you know.”
The viscount nodded.
Dunfrey shifted, genuine nervousness augmenting his intentional appearance of agitation. If things went badly this evening, he wouldn’t be willing to wager over his ability to avoid debtors’ prison. “Well. I don’t quite know how to say this. Ah, I—this morning, I saw…I saw Madeleine.”
Lord Halverston’s face went white. “Madeleine? You saw Maddie? My daughter, Maddie?”
Dunfrey hurried to his feet and helped Viscount Halverston into a chair before his knees could buckle, while his own mood continued to lift. Given the circumstances, Robert’s continued interest in his daughter’s whereabouts could only bode well for him—he hoped. “Yes. Actually, I spoke to her.”
“Where is she?” Robert Willits asked, gripping the arms of his chair.
This would be the difficult part. He needed to make himself essential to all this. If Halverston thought himself able to go around outside assistance to get to his daughter, everything would be lost. “In London.”
“Lon—where in London?”
“My lord, she seemed none too eager to speak to me, or to speak of you, other than to say that you didn’t know she was there. Forgive my curiosity, but I…assume that you have not reconciled with her?”
“We haven’t been able to find her to do so,” Lord Halverston admitted, deep reluctance edging his voice. “Is she well?”
“She is beautiful,” he answered truthfully. “Even more so than she was at eighteen.” In fact, it had been almost disappointing to see her looking so well. She hadn’t pined over him a bit, no doubt.
“Did she say where she’s been? Is she—”
“Please, my lord.” Dunfrey offered Robert another embarrassed smile. “I spoke to her only briefly. I…didn’t want to press her tolerance. I have a great deal to make amends for, where she is concerned.”
By Love Undone Page 20
