Demi’s amusement vanished. “I don’t have a choice.”
“His lordship might have somethin’ to say to that if someone was to let him know.”
Demi swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat. “You’re such a romantic, Sarah! He knows.”
“But does he know yer sweet on him?”
She blushed. “I think so.”
Sarah frowned. “Maybe he only needs a little nudge.”
Demi sighed. “Aunt Alma would have me shipped off to the workhouse faster than I could say squat if she suspected for a moment that I was hanging after Phoebe’s beau.”
“He’s not Phoebe’s beau, never was. Haven’t I been tellin’ ye it’s you he’s had his eye on the whole time. You may be blind, and he might be blind, but I’m not!”
Demi wanted to believe her in the worst kind of way, but, unfortunately, she was more inclined to think her aunt might have been right than Sarah. If he had noticed her as Sarah said, then his intentions toward her had almost certainly been dishonorable. If they had been anything else, he would have approached her openly, not clandestinely.
She should have been completely devastated by the knowledge. She was certainly hurt, but there was a bittersweet gladness, as well, that he at least found her attractive on some level. She could’ve wished for far more, but she was enough of a realist that it had never occurred to her that he might actually court her. She hadn’t thought he would notice her at all and she felt a faint stirring of happiness at the realization that he had. Something was better than nothing, to her mind.
Shaking her head, Sarah gathered the bundle of clothes by the door and left. Demi lay back, staring dreamily at the ceiling as she allowed her mind to replay those moments with him in the meadow. She’d been wrong, she realized. Being sick hadn’t totally marred the memory. He’d been so kind, so matter of fact about it, that her embarrassment had faded.
And then he’d kissed her and held her. He’d desired her. She couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if she’d ignored his warning and stayed. It made her feel warm all over trying to imagine what he might have done.
She was drifting dreamily when the door opened abruptly. She sat up guiltily, staring at her maid. Sarah was leaning against the door, her hand over her chest.
“What is it?” Demi gasped a little breathlessly.
“I’d thought I might sneak ye a bit to eat up the backstairs, but yer aunt was layin’ in wait for me,” she gasped.
Demi bit her lip, trying to curb her amusement at the look on Sarah’s face.
“Aye, ye may laugh, but it weren’t ye that had a run in with the old battle ax! Gave me a nasty turn, it did!”
“I’m so sorry. It was sweet of you to think of it. I wish you hadn’t mentioned it, though. I hardly ate anything at luncheon, and … well I lost that I was so sick afterwards. Now I’m famished.”
Sarah darted away from the door, fishing a biscuit from the pocket of her apron. “Bread and water’ll have to hold ye. I lost the rest when Lady Firebreather crept up behind me.” Dropping the biscuit in Demi’s outstretched hands, she hit for the door again. “If she comes in while yer eatin’, yer on yer own.”
The moment Sarah disappeared out the door, Demi hopped from the bed and rushed over to latch it. Nibbling on the biscuit, she headed for the pitcher of water on her washstand. She’d just swallowed the last bite and lifted the pitcher for a drink of water when something large and heavy crashed into her door. A loud shriek followed. “Demitria Standish! Open this door instantly!”
Demi almost dropped the pitcher. Swallowing with an effort, she glanced around a little wildly, then, stalling for time, called out weakly, “Is that you, Aunt Alma?”
Her cheeks felt perfectly cool when she touched them. Darting on tiptoe around the bed, she looked around frantically for the cloth she’d used before. Unfortunately, Sarah had gathered it up and taken it with her soiled clothing. Scurrying toward the fireplace, she leaned her face as close to the flames as she dared. Almost instantly, the foul smell of singed hair hit her and she drew back, checking her hair and eyebrows.
“You know very well it’s me! Why have you locked the door?”
“I’m coming,” Demi called, racing back to the bed and bouncing on it once before landing beside it heavily.
Her aunt was livid when she finally opened the door. Brushing past Demi, she searched the room suspiciously before she whirled to confront her. “Why was the door locked?”
“It was locked?” Demi echoed, but she realized instantly that her aunt wasn’t likely to fall for an act of innocence. “My head hurt. I’d forgotten I locked it because I didn’t want anyone to wake me.”
Alma Moreland’s eyes narrowed. “I smell burning hair.”
Demi touched her hair self-consciously, wondering if she’d done more than merely singe it. “I was cold. I guess I got a little too close to the fire.”
It was clear her aunt didn’t believe a word of it, but after a moment she turned to go. “Remember what I said earlier.”
Nodding, Demi closed the door, then, feeling a burst of rebelliousness, locked it, making no attempt to slip the bolt home quietly.
Her aunt paused just outside the door, but apparently decided she wasn’t in the mood for another confrontation. After a moment, she turned and left.
When she could no longer hear her aunt, Demi returned to the pitcher and drank enough water to wash the dry biscuit down and then crawled into the bed once more. It wasn’t until she’d settled that she recalled her aunt’s collision with the door. A chuckle escaped her before she thought better of it. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she stifled the peal of laughter that followed the best she could, but each time she thought she’d gotten control over her wayward humor, she’d envision her aunt slamming into her locked door and lose control all over again.
Finally, exhausted, she blew out the lamp beside her bed and settled back. Anxiety almost immediately washed over her, chasing the last of her humor far away. She was to have an outing with Mr. Flemming on the morrow, and she looked forward to that with about as much enthusiasm as she looked forward to facing her aunt.
As it turned, however, her aunt had other things on her mind. Young Lord Moreland arrived from Eton, having been expelled for the remainder of the term.
Chapter Five
Demi was both surprised and relieved when Reverend Flemming arrived the following day with Esme perched up in the carriage beside him. She’d spent the morning in her room, pacing the floor, too nervous to sit for very long at the time and far too nervous to venture downstairs, where she was almost certain to run into someone she’d as soon not.
In the bright light of day, her romantic interlude with Lord Wyndham took on a whole new light. She was dismayed at her own behavior and couldn’t help but wonder if the entire episode had been entirely of her making. Lord Wyndham was a gentleman, but when all was said and done, he was still a man. Had he actually instigated the kiss, she wondered now? Or had she been so desperate for his attention that he’d taken his cue from her?
It was mortifying to think that that might have been the case. She didn’t know if she could face him again.
She’d been going over and over it in her mind, but try as she might she couldn’t recall anything he’d done leading up to that moment, the first kiss, that might have indicated a desire to kiss her, let alone anything more. He’d given her his coat. When she’d begun shivering, she remembered that he’d moved closer and even placed an arm around her shoulders. She’d thought that he was going to kiss her and she’d looked up, hoping he would, but she couldn’t remember now why she’d thought so.
She put her hands to her burning cheeks. She’d thrown herself at his head, just as her aunt had accused her of doing, and she didn’t have to wonder what he’d thought about it for he’d made indecent suggestions, and she hadn’t even had the good sense to at least behave as if she’d been offended!
She’d actually touched ‘it’, and she
hadn’t screamed or fainted or even thought to slap his face. She’d wanted to touch it. She’d wanted to examine it more than she had.
Someone was bound to have seen them together. There would be talk, a scandal. Jonathan Flemming would withdraw his offer and she’d be ruined and her aunt would ship her off … somewhere.
She almost jumped out of her skin when a maid tapped at the door to let her know that Mr. Flemming had arrived. “I’ll be right down,” she responded, hurrying over to grab the bonnet and shawl she’d chosen to go with her outfit. She stopped before the mirror on her dressing table long enough to perch the bonnet on her head and secure it with its ribbons. Her face was pale with fright, but she rather thought after her pretended illness the day before that it was better than bouncing down the stairs with the glow of health in her cheeks.
Tossing the shawl over one arm, she left the room and made her way downstairs. She had to feign surprise at the discovery that Esme would be joining them. She didn’t want either her aunt or Mr. Flemming to know that she’d been watching for the carriage from upstairs. Jonathan greeted her a little stiffly, his gaze suspicious as he looked her over and she wondered guiltily if it was because of her bad behavior in the parlor the day before or if he’d seen her in the meadow with Lord Wyndham.
Once they’d settled in the carriage, she discovered why Esme had been included in the outing. Their destination was the small town of Moreland, named for the abbey, rather than vice versa. Their expressed reason for going was to see about making a few purchases to furbish Esme’s wardrobe and to take luncheon at the local tavern. It wasn’t until they’d left the carriage at the livery and begun to stroll through town that Demi realized the true reason for their trip to town. They’d not gone far when one of Reverend Flemming’s parishioners stepped from one of the shops they passed and stopped to chat when he tipped his hat at her. “Allow me to introduce my fiancé, Miss Demitria Standish,” Flemming said without preamble.
The woman, who looked to be around Flemming’s age, looked Demi over and forced a polite smile, offering her hand. “So nice to meet you, my dear. You’re Lord Moreland’s cousin?”
Demi pasted an artificial smile on her lips and nodded.
They covered several blocks in much the same manner, stopping to greet Flemming’s numerous acquaintances, exchange introductions and pleasantries, and then move on again, and finally arrived at the shop that was Esme’s goal--which was directly across the street from a livery.
Demi felt like the lowest form of human life during the course of the first several introductions. She’d accepted his offer of marriage when she hadn’t wanted him at all, had, in fact fallen head over heels for Lord Wyndham many months ago. Worse, the very night she’d accepted him, she’d been in the meadow with Lord Wyndham doing her utmost to encourage him to lose his head and … ravish her, and she hadn’t felt a whit of shame over it--until now.
It had not occurred to her before that he might honestly feel some affection toward her, that he might be wounded by her perfidy, and his obvious pride in her was almost worse, for she could well imagine what even a hint of scandal would do to him.
It wasn’t until she happened to catch the cold glitter of possessiveness in his eyes as he glanced at her that she began to have a totally different picture of the situation and began to entertain grave doubts about her intelligence. He was proud of her, that was for certain, but not for the reasons she’d attributed to him. She was related to the Morelands of Moreland Abby, a poor relation, and not even on the Moreland side, but that didn’t seem to matter to any of the people they met, and thus it didn’t matter to Flemming either. She could see the calculating looks in their eyes as well as Flemming’s, and knew that they were speculating on how much had been settled on her.
By the time they reached the shop, she’d tilted in the other direction once more and begun to wonder if she’d misjudged Flemming. Was it her sense of guilt and shame that had made her feel she had to have an excuse for her behavior? Her dislike of the match that made her want to find fault in him? She could not think that Flemming behaved the least bit as if he was enamored with her, but perhaps that was only because of his position in the community? Maybe he truly had developed an affection for her and his pride stemmed from that?
Try though she might to be both honest and fair, she didn’t believe it. She’d known from the beginning that he was very like her Aunt Alma, and this was just the sort of calculating maneuver that she would consider--blocking any chance of retreat by the threat of public humiliation. He had very calculatingly introduced her to half the town as his fiancé. By bedtime not a soul in the small hamlet would be unaware of it. If she even considered trying to back out of the engagement now, she would be ruined, her reputation in shambles. Of course, he too would be humiliated, but it was obviously a risk he was willing to take to ensure she didn’t try to wiggle out of the deal he and her aunt had hatched between them.
Perhaps a part of it had been aimed at his parishioners themselves, to put them in their place, for it was a well known fact that every widow for miles around had been hanging after him for years and everyone had wondered aloud why he had not married again. He had set out to show them that he was above their touch, a member of the aristocracy. He might not have the breeding or wealth to seek a wife in the highest echelons, but he would have a genteel wife, nevertheless, not the wealthy widow of a merchant.
She could not fault him for having pride in his family name, nor wishing to marry into the peerage when he was genteel himself. His first wife had been a wealthy merchant’s daughter and she supposed it must have chafed so proud a man to know that everyone considered that he’d been forced to marry beneath him because his pocketbook required it.
It did not make her feel more kindly toward him. She’d hoped, since she had no choice in the matter, that she might find something that would appeal to her. Instead, it seemed the more familiar she became with him, the worse her prospects of happiness looked.
Apparently, he sensed the dislike she was trying hard to hide, or better yet, dismiss. Once he’d finished parading her about town, he set out to charm her. The luncheon the three of them shared was almost pleasant, and not entirely due to Esme’s presence, though Esme was so excited about the rare treat that it was infectious. By the time they set out for the return trip to Moreland Abby, Demi was almost relaxed--right up until the moment that she realized that they had detoured by the parsonage to drop Esme off before returning her home.
She glanced at Flemming uneasily as the door closed behind Esme and forced a nervous smile. “I expect Aunt Alma will begin to wonder if we have had a carriage accident we have been gone so long.”
Flemming sent her a cool smile. “I told her that we would most likely be late.”
“Oh?” Demi responded a little uneasily. “I am quite certain she will have expected us back by now, though. We generally dine early unless we’re having guests and Aunt Alma is a stickler for punctuality.”
Jonathan sent her a speculative glance and flicked the reins. “Soon or late, she will have to grow accustomed to the fact that, as your husband, I will expect to have a say in your comings and goings. At any rate, I’m sure she’ll forgive us if we’re a little late.”
Demi caught her bonnet with one hand and the armrest at the edge of the seat with the other as the carriage jolted forward. “I expect she will concede that … once we are wed, but then there is no telling with Aunt Alma. She is very accustomed to having her way.” She frowned as his body bumped her side and his arm brushed along hers for the third time in less than three minutes. Glancing down at the seat between them, she hadn’t noticed before that the seat was so narrow that he could not drive without brushing against her. Surreptitiously, she shifted over to put some distance between them.
“We are the next thing to wed now,” he said with a complacent smile. “And I am very accustomed to having my own way, as well, particularly where it pertains to my wife.”
Demi return
ed his smile with a slightly forced one. “We are barely engaged as yet and many months from being married.”
He shrugged. “The settlements are signed. I’d forgotten you left yesterday before we’d finished up. At any rate, I see no sense in a prolonged engagement, particularly when I am anxious to have you in my home. Your aunt and I settled it between us that we would publish the bans next month and wed the following month.”
A jolt of surprise and dismay went through her. She couldn’t decide what to respond to first, the fact that Jonathan and her aunt had not only made all the plans, but settled them, as well, without consulting her or even advising her of them. Or his statement that the contracts had been signed without her. “The contracts cannot be signed. I did not sign.”
“Your aunt took the liberty of signing for you since you weren’t feeling well. She is your legal guardian, after all.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to inform him that her aunt could also take the liberty of marrying him and taking her place in the marriage bed if she was so anxious to do it all. “Don’t you think announcing the engagement and following it by a wedding within two months is scandalously precipitous? People are bound to think the worst. I’d expected we would be engaged a year, at least, before we began to discuss a wedding.”
He sent her a look of surprise. “Did you? But we were discussing the wedding plans when you left yesterday. Surely you must have realized that we would not be planning it a year in advance. In any case, I’ve no wish for a prolonged engagement. We are all in agreement. We have known each other since you first arrived at Moreland Abbey.”
“I was scarcely eight years old!” Demi exclaimed in outrage.
“Exactly my point. I have known you nigh ten years now. I watched you grow up from a pretty little girl to a beautiful woman. I am anxious to have you for my wife.”
Demi felt a little nauseated. Put that way, she had to wonder if he’d had his eye on her since that time. She supposed some women might find that romantic. She might have herself, for that matter, if she had felt any sort of affection for him. She didn’t, and she began to wonder if she could manage even to tolerate him when she was being forced from every direction without regard to her sensibilities. She thought she might adjust, if given time. She might even learn acceptance, but every feeling revolted at being pitched so precipitously into the most extreme intimacy with a man she felt she already knew better than she wanted to.
The Rake Page 5
