“Oh, fie,” she exclaimed impatiently, but she was touched by his concern for her. No one had worried about her since Papa had died six months ago in a riding accident. “You intend to use this rope to go back, do you not?”
“Aye, but—”
“It is as safe for me as it is for you. I apprehend you are one of those stuffy men who think all females are helpless. Well, you are wrong! Why are you laughing?”
“I have been called a great many things by women, but stuffy was never among them.” A teasing light danced in his silver eyes.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, instantly interested, “what did they call you?”
His mouth curved in amusement. “I don’t think you would understand.”
When she started to protest, he said hastily, “Actually, some of them were in—er, Dutch.”
“You could translate them for me,” she suggested.
“I think not,” he said dryly.
Angel reached for the rope again, and this time he did not try to stop her. She belatedly realized that she had forgotten to tie up her skirts, but modesty prohibited her from doing so while he was watching. “Please turn your back, my lord,” she said primly.
His sudden, wicked grin sent a tremor of excitement through her. “Must I?”
“You are a gentleman, are you not?”
“Only occasionally.” His grin widened. “Has no one warned you that my nickname is Lord Lucifer.”
She blinked in surprise that he could smile about it. “Does it not bother you to be called that?”
He shrugged carelessly. “Why should it? It is even deserved at times.”
Angel decided that he was merely trying to shock her, and she was determined not to let him know he had succeeded. She asked coolly, “Are you telling me that you refuse to turn your back?”
His grin reminded her of his nickname, but then he presented his broad back to her. “You shame me into it.”
“You see, you are better than you thought,” she retorted as she hastily tied up her skirts.
Then she grabbed the rope and executed her unorthodox departure.
As soon as the girl’s feet left the ground, Lucian turned to watch her. He wanted to make certain she made it safely across the water, but he also welcomed the chance it offered him to see her lovely legs again.
When she landed on the other side of the creek and saw him watching her, she cried, “You broke your word!”
“I did not! You asked me to turn my back, and I did. You did not tell me how long I must keep it turned.”
Lucian watched her until she disappeared into the wood, then seated himself on the stump of a felled oak. He would wait fifteen minutes before he crossed the creek, to make certain that she had plenty of time to return to the house.
If he followed her too quickly, it might arouse suspicion that they had been together. Rarely had he given much thought to a female’s reputation, but she was such a delightful innocent that he was loath to cause the smallest blight on hers.
He wondered what plot her step-relatives had concocted. Lucian had been furious when she had told him. By God, no one, least of all conniving blackguards like he Crowes, were going to rob him of the triumph that his marriage to Bloomfield’s daughter represented. Now that his temper had cooled, however, he was not overly concerned. He would outwit them.
Lucian admired the Winter girl’s courage in warning him. If the Crowes were to learn she had done so, he shuddered to think what they might do to her. Yet the hoyden apparently feared them no more than she did flying across a raging creek on a rope.
She was a beguiling combination of innocence, bravery, and intelligence. He had never before met a female who was aware of Leonardo’s models, and here was one who even believed human flight was feasible.
When Lucian returned to Lord Bloomfield’s house, it was nearly time for him to go riding with his friend David Inge. Hurrying along the hall toward his room where he was to meet David, he noticed one of the doors was ajar. As he approached it, it opened suddenly, and a buxom female, her long black hair cascading about her shoulders, emerged.
Her hips swinging provocatively, she stepped toward him with a seductive smile on her full lips. There was no mistaking the invitation in her dark eyes and very little doubt that this encounter could be accidental.
It seemed to be his day for eager females, Lucian thought cynically.
Except, he reminded himself, Miss Winter had not been eager, merely naive.
Something this female clearly was not. No innocent walked as she did nor wore a red satinisco gown cut so low it barely confined her very large breasts.
Ignoring her silent invitation, Lucian went into his room and would have shut the door behind him had she not hastily thrust herself across the threshold.
“My lord,” she began with the smile of a woman certain of her charms.
Angered by her confidence that she could captivate him, he pointed out coldly, “I did not invite you in.”
Undeterred, she crooned, “But if you do, I shall make you very happy, if you take my meaning.”
“I do, and I am not interested.”
An angry gasp escaped her. Clearly, she was unused to being refused. Lucian watched in amusement as she struggled to contain her temper. Finally she succeeded, then fixed a provocative smile on her lips. “You do not know what you are missing, my lord.”
“Nor do I care to find out.”
“But we’ll have such a good time together. Maude here knows how to treat you like a king.”
Her persistence in the face of his rude rejection puzzled him. “Whose room was that and what were you doing in it?” Lucian demanded suspiciously.
“’Tis my lady’s room,” she cried, flushing indignantly at the implication of his words. “I am her maid.”
Lucian had never known a lady to employ a maid who wore such a vulgar, revealing dress. The slut must pick up extra coin by servicing men at house parties her mistress attended.
“Perhaps I should come back later,” David Inge said from the doorway.
“No,” Lucian replied, thankful for his friend’s appearance. “Maid Maude is just leaving.”
She glared at both men, then swept from the room. David, who had stepped back from the doorway to let her pass, came in. Sparely built, he walked with a slight limp, a permanent reminder of the severe wound that had ended his military career. Once, some years ago, he had saved Lucian’s life in battle at great risk to his own, and Lucian had subsequently returned the favour twice.
“I fear your eyesight is failing, Lucian,” David said wryly. “Maude is no maid.”
“Not maid as in maiden; maid as in servant. God’s oath, but she is the boldest, most determined female I have encountered in a long time.”
“I find that hard to believe,” David said with a grin. Lucian was pleased to see the laughter in his friend’s clear, gray eyes. David was normally the most amiable and amusing of companions, but lately he had been grave and quiet. Although Lucian had not pried, he wondered what was troubling him.
David said, “I recall that female you encountered only a fortnight ago outside Whitehall.”
“Your memory is too good!” Lucian grumbled. “Let us go riding. I want to see Sommerstone.”
Angel had taken refuge in Lord Bloomfield’s deserted library, where she sat with a copy of The Man in the Moone open before her.
When she had returned to the house after seeing Lord Vayle, she had been loath to go to her room, fearing that Maude, the dreadful maid the Crowes had foisted on her, would be there.
Angel had objected strenuously to Maude accompanying her to Fernhill, Lord Bloomfleld’s country estate. She had argued that she had never had a maid before and did not need one now. The Crowes had insisted, however, that no lady would dream of attending a country house party without a maid in attendance.
Since Angel had never been to such a gathering before and had no idea what was customary, she could not argue with them.
&nbs
p; The library was a small room, for her host was not a bookish man. His modest collection was a disappointment to Angel, used to her late papa’s far superior library at Belle Haven.
The two men’s country estates were adjacent to each other, and their daughters, as children, had been good friends. But sixteen months ago, Lord Bloomfield had suddenly decreed that Kitty and her mother must accompany him for a lengthy stay in London. Their departure had been particularly painful to Angel because it had come only three weeks after the death of Angel’s brother Charles. Angel had not seen Kitty since then, and she had missed both her late brother and her friend dreadfully.
At first, Kitty had written often, but then her letters had become less and less frequent until they had stopped altogether. Two parallel themes had run through her final several letters: her increasing absorption with the London social whirl and her love for David Inge. In her final note five months ago, she confided that she planned to marry him. Her papa did not approve of the match, but Kitty was certain she could change his mind.
With each passing week, Angel had expected to hear that Kitty was officially betrothed, but no word came until a fortnight ago.
And then the betrothal was to the Earl of Vayle, not Mr. Inge. The announcement was accompanied by news that the Bloomfields were returning briefly to Fernhill for tonight’s grand party celebrating the betrothal.
Timms, Fernhill’s butler, whom Angel had known since she was a child, appeared at the door. “Lady Angela, Miss Kitty was looking for you. She is in her bedchamber.”
Angel hurried up to Kitty’s room, where she hardly recognized the vision of loveliness that greeted her. Kitty had left Fernhill a coltish girl and returned a beautiful young woman with soft, doe-shaped brown eyes and a full, pouting mouth. Golden blond hair in charming ringlets framed her heart-shaped face.
“Oh, Kitty, I am so glad to see you,” Angel exclaimed, hugging her friend warmly. “I have missed you so.”
When they drew apart, she looked admiringly at Kitty’s russet silk gown with its open overskirt that revealed an elaborately embroidered and pleated cream underskirt. Angel suddenly felt hopelessly dowdy in her plain black dress that had been made over from one of her mother’s long- ago cast-offs.
“How pretty your gown is, Kitty.”
“Not nearly as pretty as some of my other new ones. I’ll show you.” She led Angel into her dressing room, crowded with costly gowns in silk, velvet, and satin.
Angel’s papa had ridiculed society’s trappings, especially fashion, which he had mocked as the silly concern of idle, frivolous minds. He had raised his daughter to pay no heed to clothes, but Angel loved pretty things, and she could not help feeling a little envious as she looked at Kitty’s finery.
Kitty said, “My papa has been so generous to me since my betrothal, He has not complained about a single one of my purchases.”
Certainly she had given Lord Bloomfield much to complain about.
“Papa is so pleased and proud that I have captured Vayle. You have no notion how many gorgeous females were dangling after him, even the Duke of Carlyle’s daughter. They are all so envious of me.” Kitty was clearly as proud of her achievement as her papa was. “My betrothed is one of the most powerful men in the realm.”
“But do you love him?” Angel asked, thinking of Kitty’s letters, in which she had professed to adore David Inge.
“What a silly question!” she responded in an unnaturally high tone, “Lord Vayle is the trusted confidant of King William and Queen Mary. As his wife, I shall be a member of the royal inner circle. And I shall be a countess after all.”
The sudden triumph in Kitty’s voice startled Angel as much as her words. “What do you mean ‘after all’?”
Kitty’s beautiful cheeks coloured. “I. . . I have always dreamed of being a countess, like my sister Anne is.”
She sounded as though being a countess with a powerful husband who moved in royal circles was all that she cared about.
“What of David Inge?” Angel asked. “You wrote me that you had agreed to marry him.”
“That...” Kitty’s voice faltered. For an instant she looked so unhappy that Angel thought she might burst into tears. Then her expression hardened in determination. “That was before I met Lord Vayle. Papa said I would have been wasting myself on David. And he is right,” she added in a shrilly defensive voice. “It is my duty to myself and my family to make the best marriage I can.”
She sounded as though she were trying to convince herself as well as Angel.
Recalling sadly the glowing things Kitty had written about David, Angel said, “I should like to have met Mr. Inge.”
“You can,” Kitty said unhappily. “He is here. Lord Vayle is his friend and insisted that he be invited. I could not believe he would come, but Mama says he has.”
“I fear that you have two other guests that you did not expect,” Angel said in embarrassment.
The Crowes had insisted upon bringing Angel, the only one of them invited to the party celebrating Kitty’s betrothal, to Fernhill. Upon their arrival, there had been a humiliating scene in which the Crowes had said that unless they were allowed to stay, Angel must leave too.
Lord Bloomfield would have ejected all three of them had his wife not interceded on Angel’s behalf. Kind Lady Bloomfield had always been very fond of Angel, and she would not allow her to be turned away even though it meant putting up with the Crowes.
“Who are they?” Kitty asked.
“My stepfather, Rupert Crowe, and his son, Horace.”
Kitty’s pretty face twisted in revulsion. “Oh, no! Not that horrid little toad, Horace Crowe,” she wailed. “I despise him. He has made such a nuisance of himself to me.”
“Horace confided to me that he is madly in love with you.” Something about the peculiar light in Horace’s eyes when he had talked of Kitty had made Angel uneasy.
Kitty’s lip curled scornfully. “As if I would have anything to do with him! I cannot tolerate him, but the more I try to discourage him, the more determined he seems to become. Please, do not talk about him to me. I cannot stand to hear his name.”
Angel did not want to upset Kitty even more by telling her about the Crowes’ plot. She had warned Lord Vayle, and surely he would be more than a match for the Crowes.
From high on a ridge overlooking Sommerstone, Lucian looked down at it in disappointment. This was the first time that he had actually seen the estate that he had worked for the past fourteen years to acquire. He reminded himself it was not Sommerstone itself but what it represented that was important.
Its house was smaller than he had expected, an undistinguished hodgepodge of Gothic, Tudor, and Dutch architectural styles. Lucian had anticipated something grander. Nor did he approve of where the house had been placed at the bottom of a small dale. He would have built it on the knoll opposite him.
David Inge asked, “What do you think of it?
“I confess I am not impressed.”
“Bloomfield would be happy to keep it,” David said. “Indeed, I am surprised he agreed to give it to you in the marriage settlement. I once heard him say he would never part with it.”
“That was before he made the mistake of backing the wrong king, siding with James against William,” Lucian said cynically. “Since James was deposed a year and a half ago, Bloomfield has been desperately trying to work his way into King William’s good graces. He hopes I will be the key to his escaping the royal displeasure. He was so eager for me to wed Kitty that he agreed to everything I wanted in the marriage settlement.”
“Your bride is as eager as her father.” The sour, bitter edge to David’s voice puzzled Lucian.
“I do not flatter myself that Kitty cares so much for me as she does for my power and connection with the king and queen,” Lucian said. David was the one person on earth besides Selina to whom he would speak so bluntly.
“Does that not disturb you?”
“Why should it?” Lucian did not love Kitty,
and he could hardly demand a higher standard of her than of himself.
He had no romantic illusions about marriage. Respect, deference, and, above all, obedience were what he required from his wife. Kitty would give him all three. She was awed and a little afraid of him.
“As you well know,” Lucian said, “a man in my position does not marry for love but for a prestigious alliance, estates, and an heir of suitably impressive bloodlines. With Kitty, I will have all three.”
Plus vindication, the most important reason of all, but Lucian would not tell even David that. Instead he confided, “I hear on good authority that Rupert and Horace Crowe hope to prevent my marriage to Kitty.”
“Odd’s fish, why?” David sounded as startled as Lucian had been.
“So Horace can wed her himself.”
“That bloody little rascal!” David exploded with uncharacteristic ferocity. “If there is some devious, underhanded way of achieving that, the Crowes will do it. You cannot let that happen.”
“I do not intend to,” Lucian said calmly. “Why would Horace aspire to marry Kitty?”
“It is common knowledge that he is infatuated with her,” David said. “He has been a terrible bother to her.”
Lucian frowned. Kitty had said nothing to him about Horace.
“He is also desperate to win for himself the acceptance his father long ago forfeited in society,” David continued. “Marriage to Kitty would help him do that. He fancies himself one of the beaux, aping their affectations of manner and dress, but I know of no one who likes him except his father. I doubt that Rupert ever cared for another human being in his life, but oddly he dotes on his son.”
“Horace will not get what he wants this time,” Lucian said. “Shall we ride back?”
“First, let me show you one of the handsomest houses in Berkshire. It was designed by Inigo Jones. There is an excellent view of it from that high point on the ridge.”
David turned his horse in that direction, and Lucian followed him on his big bay.
When they reached the spot, Lucian’s breath caught at the sight of the great house that graced the hilltop in the distance. Its elegant, classical facade, with a pillared portico and balustraded roof, was unified and symmetrical, uninterrupted by the confusion of turrets, towers, bays, and gables that in his view marred so much English architecture,
Devil’s Angel Page 2
