The Marriage Truce

by Ann Elizabeth Cree

  Without a second thought, Dev stepped forward. ‘I suggest you do as the lady asks.’

  The two froze. Blanton’s head whipped around and he stared at Dev, his eyes unfocused. Then he glared, hatred shooting across his face. ‘What do you mean by interrupting a private conversation, my lord?’

  Dev regarded him coolly. ‘If you wish to hold a private conversation, I suggest you find somewhere less public than this. Particularly during a ball.’ His eyes briefly swept over Sarah. She stared at him, her arms crossed over her breast, trying to hide the damage to her bodice. She looked dismayed, shocked and completely miserable. He fought to keep his fury at bay. ‘Although the lady does not appear to particularly enjoy your conversation.’

  Blanton took a step towards him, his chin trembling with anger. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘It should be obvious. Miss Chandler wished to go and you attempted to detain her by force,’ he said indifferently.

  Blanton tugged at his stock. ‘It was hardly by force. And she is my fiancée.’

  Sarah gasped. ‘I am not!’

  Blanton turned to her. ‘But you will have to marry me. It will hardly do to have it spread about that we were alone together and you were allowing my embrace. Your reputation will be ruined.’

  ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Such lengths are unnecessary.’ Dev folded his arms across his chest, regarding Blanton with contempt. ‘I’ve no intention of mentioning this particular conversation.’

  ‘I have no reason to trust your word.’ Blanton looked as if he held a trump card. ‘You detest the Chandlers. What better method of revenging yourself than by destroying Miss Chandler’s reputation? It would bring disgrace down upon her entire family.’

  ‘You are mistaken. I would no more enact revenge by ruining a lady’s reputation than I would force her into marriage by the same means.’ Dev took a step towards him. ‘So, unless you wish to meet me tomorrow, I suggest you keep such speculations to yourself.’

  Blanton stiffened, fury distorting his features. Dev took another step in his direction and Blanton tugged at his cravat, backing away, and then scurried off.

  Dev watched his portly figure retreat through the ballroom doors. Then he looked over at Sarah. She stood motionless as if she’d gone into shock. ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He found himself half-wanting to shake her and half-wanting to take her into his arms, and erase the misery and shame from her face. The unexpected thought made him scowl. ‘What the devil were you doing out here with Blanton?’

  ‘I…I wasn’t out here with him. That is, I was here alone and he…he followed me.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you that wandering around in dark gardens alone is not only improper, but highly dangerous? Unless, of course, you wish to encourage behaviour such as Blanton’s.’

  That seemed to jolt her out of her trance. ‘I most certainly do not! And I was not wandering around—I…I was merely standing here.’ Her voice quivered and she suddenly looked utterly defeated. ‘I…I know it was quite improper to come here, but I…I wanted to escape for a few minutes and it was nice to be alone and I did not want to go in and suddenly he…he appeared…’

  She looked away from him for a moment as if trying to collect herself. When she spoke, her voice was calm. ‘So, I suppose it was my fault. If you will excuse me, my lord, and thank you for…for rescuing me.’ She started to move past him, still clutching her bodice.

  ‘Wait.’

  She glanced up at him, a question in her dark eyes.

  He frowned. ‘How bad is the tear?’

  ‘Not very bad. A small rip in the lace, I think. Nothing that cannot be mended with a needle and thread.’

  ‘You cannot go into the ballroom with a rip in your bodice.’

  ‘I have little choice. At least everyone has gone into supper.’

  ‘We can only hope,’ he said drily. His glance fell to the small brooch she wore. ‘Your brooch. Can you use that to repair the tear?’

  She looked down also. ‘Perhaps. I…I think so.’ She fumbled with the clasp, but her fingers were trembling and he realised that, despite her collected manner, she was very badly shaken.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ He stepped forward. She went very still as his fingers brushed her breast. His fingers suddenly seemed as clumsy as hers and he was finding it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. Her scent was soft and sweet and feminine and the fact she seemed to be trying very hard not to breathe was making his own breath come far too fast.

  ‘My lord, I…I think I should go in.’ Her voice was faint.

  He scowled. ‘In a moment.’ He’d just about extricated the pin from the soft silky fabric of her dress when he heard a screech from behind them.

  And then, ‘Oh, my! Oh, my goodness!’

  He spun around, the brooch in his hand. Lady Henslowe stood behind them, a hand clasped to her breast. Even in the faint moonlight, he could see her eyes were wide with shock. And with her was Lord Henslowe, a murderous look on his normally placid face.

  ‘Damnation.’ He was beginning to think fate fully intended to make him pay for every one of his numerous sins.

  Chapter Two

  Never, even if she lived to be a hundred and one, would Sarah forget the shocked expressions on the faces of Lord and Lady Henslowe. She closed her eyes and prayed she could vanish. Or die on the spot.

  But she did not. She opened her eyes to find Lord Henslowe advancing on Huntington. He fixed him with an icy stare. ‘I trust this means there is to be a betrothal, my lord.’

  ‘Yes,’ Huntington said coolly.

  ‘No,’ Sarah replied at the same time.

  ‘But, my dear, you cannot allow such…such liberties and not marry him!’ Lady Henslowe exclaimed. ‘And, oh my! Your gown!’

  Henslowe’s gaze swung to Sarah’s torn bodice. He stared and then glowered at Huntington. ‘So this is how you repay my hospitality! By attacking my guests! It is too late to forbid the marriage between my son and your sister but, damn you, you will not set foot in this house again!’ He advanced on Huntington as if he meant to thrash him.

  Huntington seemed to be frozen to the spot. Sarah ran forward and caught Henslowe’s hand. ‘No! Stop it! He…he did nothing wrong! He is not responsible for this!’

  Henslowe shook off her hand. ‘You are defending this rogue?’ he demanded. ‘The devil! Has he seduced you already?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Sarah said.

  ‘But, my dear, how did your gown become torn? And why are you in the garden and with him?’ Lady Henslowe asked. Her gaze was fixed on Sarah’s bodice with horrid fascination.

  ‘I…I went to the garden for a few minutes…I wished to be alone and then…’

  Huntington’s cool voice cut in. ‘This is neither the time nor the place for this conversation. Miss Chandler is shaking. I suggest, Lady Henslowe, that you take her in and see she has some brandy.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Lady Henslowe bustled to Sarah’s side. ‘My dear, such a shock…you must come with me.’

  ‘I don’t want brandy,’ Sarah said.

  ‘You will remain with me, Huntington,’ Henslowe said, ignoring Sarah. ‘No use thinking you’re going to run off until this affair is settled.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ Huntington drawled. His arms were crossed and his eyes held the faintly amused indifference Sarah was so accustomed to.

  Sarah felt wretched. ‘Please, you must listen. Lord Huntington did not do this. You see, I was…’

  ‘Go in, Miss Chandler.’ Huntington’s eyes held a warning which Sarah completely planned to ignore.

  ‘No! Not until I explain the matter.’

  The indifference left Huntington’s face. If anything, he looked as if he wanted to strangle her. ‘There is, Miss Chandler, nothing to explain. Lady Henslowe will take you in.’

  Lady Henslowe tugged on her arm. ‘Come, my dear. You cannot stand here with your gown in such
repair! Oh, Sarah, how could you do this? Whatever will Monteville say?’

  Sarah stared at her. ‘Oh, no! Not Grandfather! You cannot tell him about this. He…he will probably murder me!’

  ‘My dear child, I hope I have done nothing to put such fear in you.’

  Lady Henslowe stiffened and made a little moaning sound. Sarah froze, her gaze going to the man who had silently appeared behind them. For the second time that night, she wished she might vanish from the face of the earth.

  The Earl of Monteville’s cool, impersonal gaze travelled over the group for a moment. It was only when his gaze fell to Sarah’s bodice that it hardened. He looked at Huntington. ‘I trust there is an explanation for why my granddaughter should be standing in a darkened garden with a rather large tear in her gown.’

  Huntington’s own gaze was equally hard and direct. ‘I believe, my lord, we had best meet in private.’ He did not look at Sarah.

  Sarah shook off Lady Henslowe’s arm. ‘No, there is no need, I can explain…Lord Huntington has done nothing…he only wished to help me!’

  ‘The rogue tried to seduce her!’ Henslowe said.

  ‘It is not true!’ Sarah glared at him. His mouth fell open.

  The look Lord Monteville turned on her was not unkind. ‘My dear child, it is best that you go in. You are undoubtedly cold. Penelope can take you in and find your shawl.’

  ‘Oh…oh, yes!’ Lady Henslowe, who had been watching in stunned silence, sprang to life. ‘My dear, come with me.’

  Sarah allowed Lady Henslowe to take her arm without protest. It was no use arguing with her grandfather. She had seen that look too many times to know that any sort of resistance was in vain. She only prayed that he would talk Huntington out of the ridiculous notion he must marry her.

  Dev stepped past Monteville into Henslowe’s private study. A candle on the massive mahogany desk cast a dim light in the dark panelled room. Monteville closed the door and moved to the sideboard. He poured two glasses of brandy and held one out to Dev. ‘I believe this might be in order.’

  Dev accepted the glass. Apparently Monteville had no intention of calling him out, at least not yet. Despite the Earl’s age, he was reputed to be a master with a sword. Although Dev possessed no mean skills in that regard, he had no desire to duel with a man several decades his senior. He took a neat shot of the liquor, its warmth burning down his throat, then turned his gaze on the Earl.

  Monteville watched him without touching his own drink. Although in his mid sixties, he was still a formidable presence with a lean, upright figure and a pair of piercing grey eyes. Now they were fixed on Dev. ‘So, Lord Huntington, perhaps you will explain the little drama in the garden and Lord Henslowe’s rather confused desire to either evict you from his house or run you through.’

  Dev set his glass down and looked directly at Monteville. ‘He believes I tried to ravish or seduce your granddaughter. I am not certain he’s yet decided which.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Dev scowled. ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will enlighten me as to what did happen.’ He looked merely curious, a sign Dev found more disconcerting than all of Henslowe’s blustering.

  ‘Lord and Lady Henslowe found us alone in the garden,’ Dev said.

  Monteville raised a brow. ‘And was that all? Although secreted alone in a dark garden is somewhat improper, I cannot quite fathom how the position could be described as damnably compromising. I would imagine a man with your intelligence could come up with a plausible explanation for your, er, situation.’

  ‘My hand was at her breast,’ Dev said bluntly.

  Monteville’s brow shot up further. ‘Ah, I can see that might present a more delicate dilemma. I trust you had a reason for doing so?’

  ‘I was attempting to remove a brooch. She needed it to repair a tear in her bodice.’ He would not have been surprised if Monteville demanded satisfaction. Even to his own ears the explanation sounded feeble.

  ‘And precisely how did that tear come to be in her bodice?’

  He had no intention of revealing Blanton’s role. ‘I haven’t the damnedest idea. I did not do it if that is what you wish to know. I have every intention of marrying her,’ he added stiffly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve no desire to be held responsible for seducing your granddaughter.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘There’s enough tension already between our families—it would probably make the Battle of Waterloo look like a tea party.’ He fixed Monteville with a hard look. ‘Nor do I intend to let my damnable sins interfere with my sister’s happiness. Henslowe has not only made it clear I’m not welcome here, but he would stop the marriage if he could.’

  Monteville moved towards the sideboard and set down his glass and picked up the decanter. ‘More, my lord?’

  ‘No.’

  He set the decanter down. ‘I am still at a loss to know exactly why you were in the garden with Sarah?’

  ‘I saw her quit the ballroom, and when it was time to go into supper, she still had not returned. I decided to look for her.’ He undoubtedly sounded like a complete fool or a liar.

  ‘I see.’ Monteville looked at him. ‘Tell me, my lord, do you hold any fondness at all for my granddaughter?’

  Dev nearly staggered back. It was the last question he’d expected from the man. ‘I hardly know her.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I fear our relationship could best be characterised as an armed truce.’

  ‘Quite understandable under the circumstances,’ Monteville said. He looked at Dev carefully. ‘You see, I have had a rather interesting evening. Shortly before I joined your little party in the garden, another gentleman, who, er, claimed he had also been alone with my granddaughter, accosted me, saying they had been interrupted by a witness who would have no scruples in spreading the tale about that he’d seen my granddaughter and this gentleman locked in an embrace. Under the circumstances, the gentleman seemed to feel I was obligated to give my consent to a match between himself and my granddaughter.’

  Cold fury rose in Dev. ‘You may rest assured that his witness would sooner sell his soul to the devil than spread such tales about. Nor was the embrace willing, at least not on your granddaughter’s part.’

  ‘I thought not,’ Monteville said. He continued to regard Dev with his bland gaze. ‘I am concerned for her happiness. I would not want her marriage to you, for instance, to be a notch better than a marriage to this other gentleman.’

  Dev had the sudden image of her struggling in Blanton’s embrace. He took a step towards Monteville. ‘If you want her happiness, then keep her away from Blanton. I wouldn’t allow a dog in his care, much less a woman. He would make her miserable. At least, I would not—’ He realised Monteville was regarding him oddly. It would not do to let anything but cool logic show. He frowned. ‘I will not make her unhappy,’ he added stiffly.

  ‘I trust not,’ Monteville said. ‘She has a kind and generous heart. I would not want that changed.’ His eyes had lost their bland indifference and Dev suddenly knew why Monteville could be such a formidable enemy.

  ‘No.’ Dev understood. He would not hesitate to strangle any man that dared to hurt his sister Jessica.

  ‘Good,’ Monteville said softly. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It is late. I suggest we continue this conversation in the morning. By the way, did you give my granddaughter any indication of your intentions?’

  ‘Yes. She was not pleased.’ An understatement. She had looked as if he’d said he was going to imprison her.

  Monteville’s mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. ‘I imagine not. You will need to pay your addresses in the more conventional manner. You will call tomorrow.’ He moved towards the door, indicating the conversation was finished. He paused and looked back at Dev. ‘And if you are wondering where you are to sleep tonight, I can assure you Lord Henslowe will be quite amenable to having you remain under his roof.’ He departed, silently closing the door behind him.

  Dev stared after
him, wondering if he’d lost his mind. Had Monteville just commanded him to properly offer Sarah Chandler marriage? He’d hardly known what to expect when he’d entered the study with the man—Monteville calling him a libertine and a liar, perhaps even a threat to his life…but never such ready acquiescence.

  He knew the Chandlers had no more love for him than he had for them. No matter that it had been Nicholas who had been his wife’s lover, the Chandlers had blamed him as well. Rumours had circulated that it was Dev’s own cold treatment of Mary that had driven her into Nicholas’s arms.

  And then there was the duel between himself and Nicholas. He smiled grimly. There had nearly been another duel tonight. From the look on Henslowe’s face, he had no doubt it was still a possibility.

  He stalked to the sideboard and picked up the decanter. What the devil had he done? He should have followed his instincts and stayed away from Sarah Chandler. But if he hadn’t—Blanton might be the man who was calling on Sarah tomorrow. He set the decanter down, the thought making another shot of brandy unpalatable.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah attempted to force a piece of toast down her throat and finally gave up. She fell back against her pillows. Morning sunlight streamed across the patterned green quilt covering her bed. Usually on such lovely days she looked forward to spending a few happy hours painting or drawing in the magnificent gardens surrounding Monteville House.

  But not today. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back under her covers. Or wish herself back to yesterday, when the sky had been leaden and grey, a day when it had still been possible to plead a headache and forgo the Henslowe ball. No matter that it would have upset Lady Henslowe and insulted the St Clairs. At least she wouldn’t be awaking today with the events of last night fresh in her memory like a bad dream.

  Lady Henslowe’s expression of horrified shock, Lord Henslowe’s threats, her grandfather’s cool, impersonal assessment. And, worse of all, the cold look on Huntington’s face.

  Even Blanton’s declaration of love and his repugnant kiss had dimmed compared to the subsequent events. She’d had no chance to speak to her grandfather. Lady Henslowe had led her to a small private saloon and bustled off to find a servant. And then her aunt, Lady Omberley, had appeared, Amelia in her wake. The worried look on their faces had been almost too much to bear. Lady Omberley had insisted that Sarah must leave immediately and had routed John, Amelia’s husband, from his card game to escort them home. His face was grim, although he said nothing. In fact, none of them had said a thing and instead treated her with a solicitude which was more frightening than if they had scolded her.