She gave a start and whipped around. “Lord Davenport. Don’t creep up on me like that.”
“Sorry. I thought you’d hear me coming, but you were lost in a brown study, I gather.”
He took her elbow and guided her to the next portrait. As if she couldn’t very well walk a few paces without his assistance.
His voice was a trifle husky, but that was the only trace of evidence that he’d spent a dissipated night.
“Worse for wear this morning, are you?” she asked, wishing she might keep the waspish note from her tone.
But she couldn’t help it. He was so stomach-clenchingly handsome. Women must trip over their own feet to throw themselves at him. He’d probably forgotten her name by the time he’d danced with all those elegant ladies at the ball last night.
“I am not accustomed to rising at this hour, but I needed to speak with you before we face the others.” His gaze narrowed on her. “You seem out of sorts yourself.”
“Oh, not in the least. Whatever gave you that idea?” She moved on to a likeness of Catherine deVere, a daughter of the house whose formidable eyebrows hinted at an equally formidable temper.
“I trust you were comfortable last night?” he said. “No lumpy mattress, no ceilings falling in, that kind of thing?”
“You are hilarious,” she said. “Everything was perfect. Thank you.”
“I am delighted to hear it.”
He hesitated, making her look up at him in mute inquiry. “I have some news that you will not like.”
Her voice scraped. “Oh?”
But there was no time for him to tell her this news. At that moment, the most exquisitely lovely lady Hilary had ever seen walked into the gallery. Her palm rested lightly on her stomach in that universal, protective gesture of expectant mothers.
The newcomer did not wait for Davenport to make the introductions. “Good morning,” she said. “You must be Miss deVere. I’m Lady Tregarth, you know.”
She shook hands with Hilary, enveloping her in the golden warmth of her smile.
Lady Tregarth was not so much older than Hilary herself, which made her less of an imposing figure than Hilary had imagined. There was a decided twinkle in those deep blue eyes. Hilary liked her immediately.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Tregarth.” Hilary made a curtsy so elegant, it would have served as a model for every other curtsy ever made, but Lady Tregarth chided her for her formality, took her hands, and drew her up.
Giving her fingers a small squeeze, she said, “You must call me Rosamund. And I shall call you Hilary, yes?”
Hilary nodded, scarce able to believe she was being received with such affability. For a bare, frightening instant she wanted to weep.
Releasing her, Rosamund bent a minatory gaze on Davenport. “My husband has a cracking sore head this morning and refuses to leave his bed. You had a pretty batch of it last night, I hear. After you’d turned the head of every female in the vicinity.” She rolled her eyes. “I cannot tell you how many supposedly idle inquiries I received about the source of those bruises on your face. The silly chits are determined to make a romance of you, but I keep telling them it is nothing of the kind.”
Davenport gave a slightly contemptuous snort. “I’m obliged to you. Now, listen, Rosie. We need to discuss Miss deVere’s stay in London.”
“Yes,” said Rosamund. She turned to Hilary. “I’m afraid, my dear, that I was obliged to send for your guardian this morning.”
A sick feeling churned in Hilary’s stomach. “Oh, no,” she whispered. Her stay would be cut short immediately if deVere had any say in it.
“Hilary, you are still a minor and neither Griffin nor I can reconcile it with our consciences to keep your presence here from your guardian.”
Disappointment soured Hilary’s stomach and put a metallic taste in her mouth. She managed a smile. “My lady, of course I understand. You were right to inform Lord deVere. He would learn of my presence in Town soon enough, in any event.”
Once her brothers arrived in London, deVere would be the first person they told about her escapade.
She tried to quell the queasy pitching of her stomach. She loathed deVere’s mode of communication, which mainly consisted of strung-together insults and shouting.
Rosamund nodded her approval. “I hoped you would be sensible. Come along, both of you, to the drawing room. The family is here as well. We are having a council of war.”
“Wait.” Davenport laid a hand on her arm. “Who is there, precisely? And what does the rest of the family have to say to anything?”
Rosamund opened her eyes wide. “Cecily is here, of course, and Montford.” A small frown creased her brow. “I don’t know how the duke heard about the matter, for I did not tell him and Cecily didn’t, either, I’m sure. But he accompanied Lord deVere.”
“Damn,” muttered Davenport.
Hilary’s heart plummeted to the soles of her half boots. Being raked over the coals by her guardian, Oliver, Lord deVere, was one thing. Having him harangue her in front of all of these strangers—a duke, for goodness’ sake!—was another. Lord deVere would be sure to humiliate her.
“And Lady Arden, too,” added Rosamund serenely.
“What?” Davenport threw up his hands. “Suddenly, a matter requiring the utmost discretion has become public knowledge.”
“Not public, dear boy,” said Rosamund. “None of those present has a reason or an inclination to gossip. And you must admit, Montford and Lady Arden always exercise a civilizing effect on Lord deVere. Come, we must discuss what is to be done.”
She sailed out of the gallery, much in the manner of a captain leading a charge.
Hilary’s steps dragged. Davenport caught her elbow and turned her to face him. “You don’t have to go in there, you know.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I need Lord deVere’s support to make my come-out. He’s my guardian. Besides having the power to order me back to the Grange, he holds the purse strings.”
Davenport frowned, opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it again. “Very well.”
He took her hand and drew it through his arm as they followed Rosamund. “But you are not to stand any nonsense from any of them. They can be … formidable.”
She suspected that was an understatement.
“I’m well accustomed to bluster from the likes of Lord deVere,” she replied.
His lips pressed together in a grim line. “Hmm, yes. What you’re not accustomed to is—”
He was obliged to break off, for here they were on the threshold of the drawing room.
The soaring proportions of this scarlet and gold salon had been arranged to inspire awe. They certainly inspired awe in Hilary. No less did the assembled personages daunt her.
For some reason, all of them were standing in a cluster by the fireplace at the far wall as she and Davenport followed Rosamund in. The three of them were thus obliged to traverse the entire length of the room to reach the group.
No one spoke. They all stared at the interloper in their midst. She felt their gazes like hot needles pricking her flesh. All that could be heard was her own heels and those of Rosamund and Davenport clicking on the parquetry floor, echoing through the silence, click, click, click.
Hilary strove for a calm demeanor. She might be nervous on the inside, but she refused to show them how intimidated she was.
Davenport found her hand and gave it a surreptitious squeeze.
No doubt he meant it to be comforting. Hilary nearly shot out of her skin. A mix of sensual shock, embarrassment, and fury surged through her.
She snatched her hand away. What did he mean to do? Show them all that he and she were on much more intimate terms than was proper? Such a display would sink her chances from the outset.
When they finally reached the group of dignitaries awaiting them, Rosamund made the introductions. Hilary swiftly gauged the mood of each member of this party.
She saw immediately the likeness betwe
en Cecily, Duchess of Ashburn, and her brother. Cecily had the same dark coloring as Davenport and the same-shaped eyes. Snapping dark eyes they were, full of animation and intelligence.
And hostility. Yes, Hilary knew precisely how the duchess viewed her: as a scheming wench bent on ensnaring her brother. The sooner she was disabused of that notion, the better.
“Your Grace,” said Hilary, making a curtsy even deeper and more elegant than the one she’d bestowed on Rosamund.
There was no invitation to call Cecily by her given name.
The duchess said, “I’d say I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, but we’d know that for the social lie it is. Suffice it to say I’m reserving judgment on you, Miss deVere. You are not what I expected.”
Hilary smiled. “While Your Grace, if you don’t mind my saying so, is precisely as Lord Davenport described you. I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
Cecily blinked in surprise; then her gaze took on a hint of speculation.
Hilary lifted her chin.
“Bravo, Miss deVere.” The suave, cool comment came from an older gentleman, whom Rosamund introduced as His Grace, the Duke of Montford.
He was somewhere between forty and fifty, Hilary supposed. Yet he possessed the lithe, languid grace of a younger man. His eyes were as cold and sharp as icicles. They seemed to drill down into her innermost thoughts.
Hilary sank into a deep, deferential curtsy. She only wished the duke could read her mind. Surely then he’d realize she had no designs on Davenport. Heavens, hadn’t she said time and again that she couldn’t imagine a worse fate than to be married to him?
Lady Arden, by contrast, bestowed on Hilary a genuine smile. “How very interesting.” She threw an amused glance at Davenport. “Not at all in your usual style, my dear.”
A woman of mature years, Lady Arden was strikingly handsome, with a magnificent figure. Her comment and the amused familiarity that tinged her words made Hilary bristle. Had Davenport and Lady Arden…? Surely, she was much too old for him.
At least Davenport did not seem to share the lady’s amusement. “As you say.”
A deep growl emanated from the armchair in the corner. The small group parted, and all turned to look at Hilary’s guardian.
Lord deVere’s was not a handsome face, but it was arresting in a swarthy, rough-hewn way. A very different cast of man from the elegant Duke of Montford, but about the same vintage, she would guess.
“Come here, my girl,” he rumbled.
Bracing her shoulders, Hilary moved toward him and dipped a curtsy. “Lord deVere, perhaps we might meet in private. We have much to discuss.”
“Discuss?” DeVere looked around him, as if inviting the company to share his incredulity. “Discuss? There is nothing to discuss. I am going to tell you what you will do and you, my precious ward, will do it! Understand me? What the Devil d’you mean by coming to London, eh?”
“I wrote to you that I intended to travel to Town, my lord, for the same purpose most young ladies of my age and situation visit during the season. As you did not write to reject the proposal, I assumed you agreed with it.”
She had not written to him, in point of fact, but since she knew very well that all of her careful missives found their way directly into deVere’s fire, she was reasonably certain he wouldn’t catch her in the falsehood.
He gazed at her through half-lowered lids. “Come to catch yourself a husband, eh? Well, now, let me have a look at you.”
He eyed her up and down as if he inspected a heifer at market. She suffered his scrutiny without comment because he held her future in the palm of his big, meaty hand. She itched to box his ears, however.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
“That’s enough, I think.” Davenport ranged himself beside her. “Accord Miss deVere some respect, sir.”
“Respect?” spat deVere. “Filly runs off alone with the worst rake in Christendom and you say she’s worthy of respect? How many times did you respect her on the way to London, eh, boy?”
Hilary gasped at the implication. She sensed the tension in Davenport and was ready when he took a hasty step forward, fists clenched. She grabbed his arm and hung on.
“Don’t, my lord,” she said. “Please. Such accusations are beneath contempt.”
To deVere, she said, “Lord Davenport is innocent of these charges, sir, but you are right to reproach me. I behaved rashly by going with Lord Davenport, but the circumstances were such that I had no choice. Perhaps, if we might discuss this in private—”
“Damn me, but you’re an impertinent wench,” said deVere, slapping his massive thigh. “I’m here to control the damage you’ve caused with your flighty ways and you’re giving me a lesson on propriety?
“And you,” he purred like a big jungle cat, turning his head to glare at Davenport. “Even if this silly chit didn’t know better, you did.”
Between his teeth, Davenport said, “I rescued Miss deVere from an intolerable situation. A situation she might not have been placed in if her guardian had done a better job of protecting her.”
“And you brought her to London,” said deVere, stroking his chin. One eyebrow jerked up. “For what purpose?”
“Miss deVere must have a season,” Davenport responded. “It is her due as a gentlewoman and a daughter of your noble house.”
Hilary could not help but stare to hear Davenport speak with such a haughty air. A glance at the younger members of his family told her they were equally astonished.
“Be damned to you, sir,” said deVere. “That she will not. She’ll go straight back to that infernal school and stay there until I’m ready to find a husband for her.”
“That infernal school dismissed her, or didn’t you know?” said Davenport. “For no fault on her part other than having the misfortune to be born a deVere. I discovered poor Miss deVere on the road, trudging alone through a storm. Upon escorting her home, I found her brothers engaged in an activity I cannot mention in front of ladies.”
“Oh, don’t mind us,” put in Cecily. “Were they having an orgy, Jonathon? I wonder that you didn’t join in.”
The goading sting in Cecily’s tone made Hilary cast a quick glance at her. Cecily’s dark eyes smoldered. There was something wrong here beyond the present crisis, but Hilary couldn’t fathom what.
“Cecily, do not be vulgar,” said Montford calmly. “But this is abominable, Davenport.” He turned his wide-eyed gaze to deVere. “Really, I don’t see what else my cousin could have done, do you? It appears he acted out of the purest sense of chivalry.”
Davenport narrowed his eyes at the duke, as if unsure whether to trust this unruffled declaration of support. He turned back to deVere. “The reality is that only her brothers and the people in this room know anything of the matter. If Miss deVere is seen to be in company with Lady Tregarth for the season, all will be well. It will be as if Miss deVere and I never met.”
At these words, Hilary felt the oddest sensation in the pit of her stomach. A heavy, sinking feeling she didn’t wish to examine too closely.
How many times since she’d made his acquaintance had she wished she’d never met him? And yet—
“I won’t have it,” roared deVere. He jabbed a finger in Montford’s direction, baring his teeth. “And I won’t have you encouraging the chit to defy me, either.”
“I wouldn’t do that for the world, deVere,” said Montford. “You may act as you wish regarding Miss deVere. She is your ward, after all, and wholly your concern. My concern is that my relative does not figure as the villainous debaucher of innocents in this piece.”
“Protecting the good name of the Westruthers, as usual,” muttered deVere.
“Precisely.”
Fear and disappointment clenched around Hilary’s heart. For a moment, she’d hoped Montford might support her. But His Grace only acted to save Davenport from an entanglement with a penniless, good-for-nothing deVere.
Once more, she was alone, at the mercy
of her heritage. And of her horrid guardian.
“I don’t believe it,” rumbled deVere, glaring at Davenport from beneath lowered brows. “When did you say you made my ward’s acquaintance?”
“The day before yesterday,” lied Davenport.
“You spent the night where?” barked deVere.
Davenport looked arrogantly down his nose at deVere. “In her brother’s house.”
“While this orgy took place?”
“No, my lord. I ejected the brothers’, er, companions from the house immediately.”
DeVere’s brows lowered. “So you, the most notorious rogue in London, were alone with my ward in a house where her drunken sots of brothers were her only chaperones.”
“Yes,” said Davenport between gritted teeth.
“Overnight, you say.”
“That is correct.”
Hilary was ready to sink into the Aubusson carpet with humiliation. When deVere shot the Duke of Montford a blazingly triumphant glance, she knew the conclusion everyone must draw.
Davenport’s voice sliced through the air, “I did not lay a hand on Miss deVere, either then or on our journey to London.”
Lady Arden frowned. “No one will believe that.” She turned to address Hilary. “My dear child, what on earth were you about to let this rapscallion escort you to London? Didn’t you know what must come of such behavior?”
“I … I…” Hilary gulped for air. This could not be happening. She was ruined. All of her dreams turned to dust.
In that moment, she hated Lord deVere with a white-hot passion. Why must he force the issue? What sort of man kept pushing and pushing until he brought the dishonor of his own ward out into the open?
She would never have her season now. Never meet that kind, gentle man of her dreams, never hold their dear, sweet babies in her arms.
She would be exiled, sent back to her brother’s house to stew in the filth and degradation of the place until she could no longer remember what proper conduct was. She’d turn into her brothers’ drudge and become a dried-up old maid or, worse, finally succumb to her fate and become the fallen woman these people clearly thought her already.
She couldn’t face it. She simply couldn’t.
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