Devon nodded. “I cannot argue with that. Therefore, as the boy’s guardian, I suppose it behooves me to establish a congenial relationship with the woman despite my reservations.”
“I would say so,” Stamden agreed, with something that looked suspiciously like humor in his slate-gray eyes. “And the sooner the better for all concerned.”
Devon felt his pulse quicken and fire race through his veins at the very thought of what establishing that relationship with the stubborn, independent duchess could entail.
“I’ll do it,” he said at last. “I must…for young Charles’s sake.”
Moira was not easily taken aback. At an age when most little girls were learning to spin a top or dress a doll, she’d had to face the death of her beloved mother and learn to deal with being shuttled between her volatile Spanish gypsy grandfather and the care-for-nothing Irish rogue who had fathered her. Her four years under the tutelage of the wily old Duke of Sheffield had only reinforced her natural pragmatism and inured her to the kinds of situations that sent most women into fits of vapors.
Nevertheless, Ned Bridges managed to render her completely nonplussed when, upon meeting her on the first-floor landing of the manor house staircase, he launched into an impassioned declaration of undying fealty, including a vow to lay down his life for her if the need should ever arise. His surprising utterance had all the more impact since he prefaced it with, “The captain—I mean the earl—wants to see you right away, your grace. That is, if it’s convenient for you, of course.”
“Heaven help us, what have I done to get Sir Friday Face’s back up this time?” she muttered to herself, standing stock-still on the landing long after Ned had disappeared down the stairs. She pressed her hand to the spot where her heart thudded against her ribs. Could this mysterious summons have something to do with her father’s untimely arrival? Whatever it was, it must be serious if kindly Ned Bridges felt he must defend her to the death.
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders resolutely, and climbed the remainder of the stairs to rap on the earl’s door. His “come in” sounded surprisingly cheerful, which made her even more nervous.
He was out of bed, sitting on a small chaise lounge with his injured leg propped up, and wearing a jade-colored velvet banyan which turned his eyes a deep, fathomless emerald green.
“Should you be out of bed, my lord?” Moira asked, more for something to say than out of any real concern, since he had the healthy color of a man well on the mend.
“Probably not, if my batman is to be believed. But I’ve had enough of beds these past few weeks to last me a lifetime.”
He smiled. It was the first genuine smile he had ever bestowed on her. The effect was devastating. Moira could feel the warmth of it enfold her like a soft down quilt on a cold winter’s night. She shifted uneasily from one bare foot to the other. Something was wrong here; the man was being entirely too pleasant.
“Your man indicated you wished to speak to me,” she said in the same chilly tones he had been wont to use whenever he’d spoken to her. If he expected her to fall at his feet and slaver on his boots like an eager puppy at the first hint of kindness, he was in for a surprise.
His smile grew a little tenuous. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating a nearby chair. “I think we need to talk.”
Moira sat, regarding him warily. Why the sudden cordiality when he had insulted her less than an hour before? The man was entirely too capricious in his moods. She folded her hands in her lap, then remembering she had again forgotten to put her shoes on, she tucked her bare toes beneath the folds of her drab, black skirt. “Talk about what, my lord?”
“I am afraid we have made a rather unfortunate beginning to this guardianship arrangement we find ourselves sharing, ma’am,” the earl said softly.
Moira gritted her teeth. “Are you really, my lord? How odd, I could have sworn your insults were deliberate.”
“For the young duke’s sake, I think we should endeavor to establish a more friendly relationship,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her.
Now he wanted to be friends. He must be mad if he thought she believed that balderdash. This habit the English gentry had of saying one thing and meaning another was beginning to annoy her exceedingly. Her hot-tempered gypsy relatives might get a bit raucous and uncouth at times, but at least one always knew where one stood with them.
“I agree, my lord,” she said coldly. “For Charles’s sake, we should endeavor to rub along together a little more amicably, but as to becoming friends…that is highly unlikely. There are very few people I care to call friends.”
The earl squirmed noticeably and in doing so apparently aggravated his injured leg again. The color seeped from his face and for one awful moment, Moira thought he was going to faint dead away.
She leapt to her feet and bent over him. “Good heavens, now what have you done to yourself?”
The earl gazed up at her through pain-glazed eyes that held the same disturbing, out-of-focus intensity as when he’d lured her into sharing his impassioned dream during the dark hours of the night. She could feel herself being drawn in again, almost as if she had no will of her own.
Seemingly of their own volition, her fingers brushed back the strand of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “You must be more careful, my lord,” she murmured. “You will open your wound again.”
Devon stared at the woman bending over him and his breath caught in his throat. He felt her fingers feather across his forehead, inhaled the mysterious, unforgettable scent of her, and an odd sensation of weakness invaded his limbs.
He couldn’t help himself; he reached up to touch the tiny mole at the corner of her mouth with the tip of his finger—and all at once he knew as surely as he knew his own name—the kiss they had shared had not been merely a dream.
He couldn’t be that mistaken. He had held her in his arms; he had plundered her soft mouth with his lips, with his tongue—and the saucy minx had responded with a passion every bit as fiery as his own. In truth, she had taken advantage of his drugged state in the most wanton of ways.
“Moira?” he murmured, feeling his body harden despite his pain. The instant alarm mirrored in her eyes confirmed that what he suspected was true. With a triumphant cry, he grasped her slender shoulders and pulled her down to him until her soft breasts pressed against his chest; her lips hovered just inches above his own.
“What are you doing, my lord?” she panted, pushing against him with all her might. “Think of your wound.”
“Not to worry, sweet Moira.” Devon chuckled. “For it appears I am dreaming again and, as we both know, anything is possible in a dream.”
“I know nothing of the kind,” Moira snapped, heaving herself up and away from him with her last ounce of strength. Her heart pounded with such force she felt as if it must surely burst from her chest. He knew! Somehow the rakehell knew!
She gulped a breath of air into her starved lungs. “The only thing I know for certain, sir,” she declared with what dignity she could muster under the circumstances, “is that this is a most unseemly situation and you are no gentleman.”
“And you, madam, are no lady—and doesn’t that present interesting possibilities for the future!” The earl’s laugh had a wickedly suggestive sound to it that literally set Moira’s teeth on edge.
“But you were right about one thing, lovely temptress,” he added softly. “We were never destined to be merely friends.”
Chapter Seven
Moira fled the earl’s sickroom, his final taunt ringing in her ears. “Never again,” she vowed, would she be fool enough to find herself alone with the rake. He was everything he had been purported to be by the London gossips—and worse.
Then why did his touch not repel her as Viscount Quentin’s had? How could she, who had always prided herself on her strength, be so weak-willed as to long for a man who made no secret of the fact that he considered women mere playthings put on earth for his amusement?
&n
bsp; She took the precaution of informing Elizabeth that she must accompany her whenever the earl summoned her to his chamber from then on, since it would not be at all proper for her to be alone with him now that he was on the mend.
Elizabeth agreed, as Moira had known she would, but hastened to add, “Not that I would expect such an honorable man to do anything ungentlemanly.”
“Nor would I,” Moira declared tongue-in-cheek. “But still a woman in my position must observe the proprieties.”
In truth, she had as much faith that the “honorable earl” would refrain from ungentlemanly conduct as she had that one of her gypsy cousins would refrain from stealing a farmer’s chicken if he found a coop unguarded. It seemed all too evident that once Devon St. Gwyre had convinced himself the passionate kiss they’d shared had not been a dream, he had begun to think of her as his own private chicken ready for plucking.
Long after the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece in her bedchamber struck midnight, she lay staring up at canopy over her bed, reflecting on the strange turns her life had taken in the past few years.
Once, not too long ago, her only concern had been whether she would go to sleep each night with a full stomach or an empty one. But that was before she became the Duchess of Sheffield and before Devon St. Gwyre took over her dreams. Now she sometimes wondered if she would ever have a good night’s sleep again.
If it were not for Charles, she would shed her title, and the wealth and obligations that went with it, as quickly as she shed her hated gauja shoes. The shoes only pinched her feet; her life as Duchess of Sheffield pinched her soul, and unless she found a way to put her foolish longing for Devon St. Gwyre behind her, she feared her heart would suffer a mortal wound as well.
As it turned out, Moira was too caught up in the affairs of others to spend much time worrying about her own aching heart in the week that followed.
Cook was the first to mention the problem to her. “Miss Elizabeth’s mooning over that marquess fellow like she hasn’t a brain in her head,” she said out of the blue when Moira stopped in at the kitchen to discuss the week’s menus. “You’d best do something about it, your grace, afore the poor little thing gets her heart broken.”
Not an hour later, John Footman said essentially the same thing, albeit a bit more diplomatically.
“I’ll have a talk with her,” Moira promised, hoping it was merely the usual servant’s gossip. Elizabeth was much too calm and levelheaded to be swept away by passion. Wasn’t she?
The next time she was alone with her companion, she made a point of mentioning the marquess. It was obviously a subject dear to Elizabeth’s heart. “He is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met,” she said and proceeded to list the marquess’s countless virtues. “I know nothing can come of my regard for him,” she added plaintively. “A marquess cannot ally himself with a country vicar’s daughter. But even a marquess needs a friend. Especially one who has suffered as this one has. I intend to be that friend for as long as he needs me.”
Her words sounded logical; her actions during the following days were anything but. At five and twenty, Elizabeth Kincaid was suffering the pangs of first love, and the sight was a painful one to behold.
The boys’ lessons suffered. Instead of conjugating verbs and studying Greek history, they ran riot in the schoolroom while Elizabeth gazed dreamy-eyed out the window at the Marquess of Stamden conversing with the head groom in the stable yard below.
She talked about him constantly, extolling his virtues to Moira, to John Footman, and Cook and the housekeeper. She even praised him to Devon when she accompanied Moira to his chamber to ask permission to buy a pony for Alfie so the two boys could ride together.
She shamelessly hunted him out when he walked in the garden each morning, chatted like a magpie when he took tea with Moira and her in the afternoon, and ogled him with frank admiration across the dinner table.
Oddly enough, the marquess didn’t seem to mind in the least, but her infatuation with him was so obvious and so excessive, it soon became the main topic of gossip in the servants’ quarters.
Moira knew she should do something to save her naïve companion from the certain heartbreak of fixing her affections on a man who was both a battled-scarred war veteran and a jaded London sophisticate. But what? All things considered, she was the last person in the world qualified to tell another woman how to handle her life—especially a woman who was three years her senior and technically an employee.
In the end, she decided to leave it in the hands of the gods and hope for both their sakes that the earl would soon be well enough to leave for Langley Hall and take the marquess with him.
Devon freely admitted he was the last man on earth who should be telling another man how to conduct his affairs of the heart. But someone had to do something and it appeared he was that someone. Elizabeth Kincaid had been his friend since childhood, and she was making a cake of herself over Stamden—something everyone but the object of her affections found highly amusing, if Ned’s version of the White Oaks servants’ quarters’ gossip was to be believed.
He could hardly discuss it with Elizabeth, so that left Stamden. He tackled the problem one evening when the marquess arrived for their usual after-dinner chess game. “I need to speak to you,” he said feeling decidedly uncomfortable in the role of counselor.
“Of course. You know I am always at your service,” Stamden replied, setting up the chessboard on the small capstan table next to the chaise longue where Devon reclined.
Devon glanced toward the chamber door, which stood partially open wondering if he should suggest it be closed. He shrugged the idea aside. Everyone in the household knew this was the time for their nightly game. The chances of their being interrupted were slight.
“The matter is somewhat delicate. I scarcely know how to begin,” he said hesitantly. Stamden was the most private of men; Devon wasn’t certain how he would take to interference in his affairs.
Stamden’s expressive gray eyes widened in surprise. “The subject matter must indeed be a touchy one. I’ve never known you to hesitate speaking your mind about anything that concerned you.
“True, but quoting the Prince of Denmark, ‘there’s the rub,’” Devon said, casting about for a tactful way to word what he had to say. “This particular problem concerns you, not me.”
“Me?” Stamden looked surprised. “What have I done?”
“Well for one thing, when the duchess and Elizabeth visited me this morning, her grace mentioned that you have been spending a great deal of time with Elizabeth Kincaid.”
“I suppose I have.” The ivory king slipped through Stamden’s fingers and landed on its head. Stamden righted it and stared at Devon in obvious amazement. “Good Lord, don’t tell me my friendship with Miss Kincaid is the ‘delicate matter’ you’re finding so difficult to broach.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose I should apologize to her grace for taking her companion away from her duties. I forgot the lady was gainfully employed.”
“The duchess wasn’t complaining, merely stating a fact,” Devon said quickly.
“She wouldn’t. Miss Kincaid says she is a true friend as well as a considerate employer, and I find the longer I know her, the more I admire her.”
“Perhaps you and Ned should consider forming a Duchess of Sheffield Admiration Society,” Devon said sourly, placing the onyx king on his proper square. “He hasn’t stopped talking about her since the moment he discovered she was his benefactress.”
“Which is understandable since he owes her his life.” Stamden placed the ivory queen on the board. “But back to the subject at hand. I’m glad you brought it up, for I see now I have been remiss in taking up so much of Miss Kincaid’s time. It is just that it has been so long since I have had the privilege of conversing with a young woman so charming, so intelligent, so kindhearted, so…”
“Innocent,” Devon finished for him, looking everywhere except at this friend’s face. “Elizabeth is all those things. And having spent most
of her life as a country vicar’s daughter, I doubt she has ever before met anyone as worldly and sophisticated as you.”
“I don’t imagine she has.” Stamden searched Devon’s face with narrowed eyes. “Why do I have the feeling that somewhere in this inane conversation you are trying to make a point that is escaping me entirely? If you have something to say, my friend, say it.”
“All right.” Devon cleared his throat. “Elizabeth may be five and twenty, but she has had less social experience than most of the seventeen-year old chits who will make their comeout in London this spring. She is, therefore, very vulnerable and could be deeply hurt.”
“If you are implying I shall contaminate the lady with my unholy worldliness simply by carrying on a conversation with her, I take that as a personal affront. I may look like a monster; I never remember acting like one.”
“Devil take it, Peter, how could you think that I, of all people, could be implying such rot?” Devon scowled. “I feel like an absolute fool, but there is no other way to say this: Elizabeth is obviously head-over-heels infatuated with you. If your intentions toward are anything but honorable, I would hope you would do the decent thing and end the association before her affections are even more seriously engaged.”
“Her affections?” Stamden sputtered. “Is this your idea of a jest? For if it is, I must tell you I find it in exceedingly poor taste.”
“I am perfectly serious, Peter.”
“Then I suggest you have yourself fitted for spectacles posthaste. Or do you think me such an idiot I am unaware that any woman would run from me in horror should I attempt to touch her.”
Devon cringed at the look of untold pain and humiliation he saw in his friend’s bleak eyes. “Elizabeth is not just any woman,” he said with firm conviction. “She is a gentle, loving creature whose warm heart blinds her to what a more superficial female might judge unsightly.”
The Gypsy Duchess Page 9
