She smiled up at him, her eyes still sparkling with tears. “I happen to agree with you.” Suddenly, whether by accident or design—it certainly didn’t matter which to Dane—the counterpane fell from Cecily’s shoulders to the floor, and once again she stood before him beautifully naked.
He dropped the sheet and took her into his arms.
And then they went back to bed, where Dane knew such pleasure and happiness he’d never known in all his life before last night.
When he left Ashdown Park later that morning, his only regret was that Cecily wasn’t coming with him. “Don’t get so accustomed to staying here that you decide to remain instead of joining me in London,” he told her as they kissed good-bye.
“I won’t,” she assured him. “Already I feel as if Grace is more than just my cousin by marriage—she’s like a sister to me. More so than Rebecca or Marianne ever were, oddly enough.”
Dane made a brief stop at the village posting house to confirm that Harry had left the vicinity. The proprietor confirmed that a rather disreputable looking buck with a bad limp fitting Harry’s description had left on the mail coach this morning. Satisfied that Cecily was safe, Dane continued his journey, reaching his house in London well after dark, but just in time for dinner.
His brother Gareth and sister-in-law Evie were right there to greet him. With a broad smile on his face, Gareth held a baby in his arms.
“Yours?” Dane asked in jest.
“My son and your nephew,” Gareth said proudly. “Say hello to Master Jeremy Armstrong, putative future Duke of Bradbury.”
Dane took the baby into his arms. Baby Jeremy had his mother’s black hair but the rest of him looked very Armstrong. “Oh, but I do believe there’s a fair chance he will never be more than a mister. I trust that doesn’t trouble you? You’ve never been interested in being the duke yourself.”
Evie’s brown eyes lit up. “Do you mean you’ve finally found a bride?”
“One who won’t jilt you for some lesser mortal?” Gareth piped in.
“I have, indeed,” Dane said, as the baby began to fuss, and Evie promptly took the baby back. “And I don’t believe she’ll jilt me.”
“Who is she?” Evie inquired. “And does she know about the book? Speaking of which, Gareth has an advance copy from the publisher.”
“She can’t know about the book if she’s willing to marry Dane, and he believes she’ll never jilt him,” Gareth said.
“Oh no?” Dane retorted. “Well, she wrote the book, my good fellow.”
Gareth’s mouth dropped open a bit, while Evie burst out, “She wrote it? And yet you’re marrying her?” The baby fussed even louder. “Oh, look at what you’ve done. Well, all right, I did it just now, but—who is she? Tell me now, so I can take Jemmy back upstairs.”
“It’s a longer story than that book, but she’s Miss Cecily Logan, cousin of Lord Ashdown and niece of our uncle Frampton,” replied Dane. “Now you can take the baby upstairs while your husband joins me in the library. I’d like to have a word with him, and see the advance copy.”
Since, being the duke, this was really Dane’s house, he didn’t need Gareth or anyone else to lead the way to the library. He led Gareth, and even poured the brandies for the two of them.
Handing the snifter to his younger brother, Dane said, “Miss Logan is the heretofore unknown bride our late father arranged for me many years ago.”
“Then it wasn’t Miss Cassandra Payne, who later became Mrs. Frey? I’m still shocked about that.”
“Our father arranged many marriages for me.”
“Yet he never arranged marriages for me or Linus. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I couldn’t be happier to have stumbled upon Evie the way I did.” Gareth grinned sheepishly. He’d “stumbled” upon Evie at a masked Cyprian ball.
Dane told Gareth exactly what he told Cecily this morning. Gareth was so astonished that he drained his snifter in one gulp.
“I had no idea,” he said. “I honestly thought he grieved for our mother. Of course, I was very young at the time. I had no idea that our father was nothing but a—a—”
“A wastrel,” Dane said grimly. “As I told Miss Logan, our father was the real devil.”
“And yet you still mean to marry her.”
“Why should I not? Our marriage has nothing to do with the arrangement our father made with hers many years ago, all the more so because he nullified the contract shortly thereafter. Miss Logan and I have been acquainted with one another for many years. But only recently have we fallen in love.”
“Despite the book?”
Dane sipped his brandy. “You might say it’s because of that book. By the way, where is it?”
Gareth pointed to the desk, “Over there. I haven’t unwrapped it, but it was delivered by the publisher and addressed to you.”
Dane stalked over to his desk. “You mean you didn’t open it and read it?”
“As I said, the parcel is addressed to you. I don’t open your mail. Or, for that matter, any parcels from publishers with your name on it.”
Dane unwrapped said parcel. “I take it Evie’s been chomping at the bit to read this thing?”
“You have no idea. That’s why I’ve kept it locked in here.”
Dane pulled back the wrapping to reveal a freshly printed version of Cecily’s book. On top of this was a letter addressed to Madfury’s real-life counterpart.
Gareth stood on the other side of the desk. “Why isn’t it bound?”
Dane scanned the letter. “Because this isn’t the actual book. It’s a galley, the final proof and last chance to correct any errors.”
“I should think that would be up to the author. You’re not the author, are you?”
“The author doesn’t want this book published at all,” Dane said. “But I do.”
“But do you know what she—”
“Yes, I know exactly what she wrote about me. Or rather, about Madfury. Do you know why she doesn’t want it published, Gareth?”
“Mayhap she doesn’t think it’s her best work.”
“She thinks that about everything she’s written, but I happen to think she’s wrong. So does the publisher, apparently. No, she thinks the publication of this book will ruin her, because she dared to lampoon a real duke—me. She also believes that if I ever happened to read this book for myself, I will be so outraged that I will see to her sempiternal ruin myself.” He glanced up at Gareth. “I know—sempi what? That’s what you’re about to ask. It means everlasting, forever, till the end of time, eternal.”
“No, that wasn’t what I was about to ask,” Gareth replied. “I saw that word on the promotional broadside being circulated about Town. Evie’s the one who told me what it meant. She reads anything she can get her hands on. And your prospective bride is a writer. You and I shall have the brightest wives in London.”
Dane grinned. “I wouldn’t want one who’s dull and insipid, would you?”
“Certainly not. Then Miss Logan must know that you’ve read it and you’re not at all outraged?”
Dane shook his head as he surveyed the title page. The Duke Is a Devil by The Lady He Ruined.
Sempiternally, he silently added.
Nonplussed, Gareth asked, “She doesn’t know you’ve read it from beginning to end?”
“She doesn’t.”
“She doesn’t know that you’re not outraged by it?”
“I should think she does by now.”
“Why doesn’t she know that you’ve read it and approve of it, Dane?”
He set down the galley and surveyed his brother. “That would be too easy, Gareth. I’d rather she learn the truth only after we’re formally betrothed.”
“Good God, man, why?”
“Every other woman to whom I’ve been betrothed, whether for real or pretense, has jilted me for someone else,” Dane replied. “Our father tore up the contract he made with the late Mr. Logan after Lady Honoria refused to meet his terms. He made a similar arrangement
with Sir Roderick Payne, whose wife was just as beautiful as his daughter Cassandra.”
“Yet that contract was never torn up,” Gareth pointed out. “Cassandra herself brought it to the church the day you almost married my wife.”
“Exactly,” Dane said. “That means our father and Lady Payne...” He shrugged. “I’ve often wondered if Cassandra ever knew. I’ve never had occasion to ask, and see no purpose in doing so. But getting back to Cecily—I only want to see if she’ll still marry me after she learns the truth about this book’s publication.”
“Pray, what is the truth?”
“That I knew the book was in the hands of a publisher before she did. And that I ordered my solicitors to cancel whatever contract Harry or Willard had with them, and to transfer it to me, instead, on Cecily’s behalf. The law doesn’t trust a woman to act in her own interests, even when she has more sense than those two put together.”
“Then she doesn’t know you’ve done this.” It was more a statement than a question, because there was no question about it. Yet Dane sensed an undercurrent of doom in his brother’s voice.
“Not yet, but she will. I do believe she will accept it.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“I don’t believe she will jilt me,” Dane declared. “Call me a fool if you like, but for once I will not be jilted.”
“Very well, I will. You’re a fool. She may not jilt you, but she might very well kill you. And I’ll wager my wife will second that sentiment.”
Dane thought of the magic night he spent with Cecily at Ashdown Park. Not once had he told her that he would stop the book’s publication.
He said as much to Gareth. “She’s given no indication that she still objects. She accuses me of being able to read her mind, and I must say I haven’t been able to read anything in that fascinating mind of hers that tells me she’ll kill me or otherwise jilt me. She doesn’t realize it yet, Gareth, but she’s very talented and deserves recognition for her work.”
“What sort of recognition is calling her ‘The Lady He Ruined’?” Gareth’s tone was skeptical.
Dane waved the letter addressed to him from the publisher. “According to this, I can make any last minute changes I like before it goes to final press. That would include how I wish to identify the author. Once we’re married, she’ll be under my protection. People will not only know that she wrote the book, but that I approve of it, and as her husband, I am very proud of her and her work. How could any woman ever walk away from that?”
Gareth still looked askance. Dane didn’t know how to explain that even though he’d never loved any of the women to whom he’d been betrothed for whatever reason—save for Cecily—he still couldn’t help taking it a bit personally to be jilted by each and every one—as if there really was something wrong with him. Didn’t Cecily write in that letter to him that this very idea had formed the basis for her book? Yet she’d also written that she didn’t believe there was anything wrong with him; only with his fictional counterpart—until he was redeemed by true love.
He didn’t know what else to say except, “Now when is supper being served? I’m starved.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cecily arrived in London a week later with Lord and Lady Frampton, staying at their house in Berkeley Square. The next day, Lady Frampton received two lady callers and insisted that Cecily join her in the drawing room to be formally introduced to them.
Cecily was quite certain who they were, or who one of them was, as soon as she set eyes on them. One was a younger version of Lady Frampton, with the same raven hair and brown eyes. The other had auburn hair and green eyes.
“Miss Cecily Logan, may I present my son’s wife Tabitha, the Countess of Tyndall,” said Lady Frampton, as she gestured to the green-eyed redhead. “And may I make known to you my daughter, Lady Gareth Armstrong, the wife of Bradbury’s younger brother.”
“Meaning that we will soon be sisters,” her daughter chimed in. “So I hope you will call me Evie. It’s short for Evangeline, but nowadays only my husband calls me that. My mother and brother only use the full name when they’re vexed with me.”
“And call me Tabitha,” said the Countess of Tyndall.
“I am so pleased to meet both of you. And of course I wish to be just Cecily.”
“Even after you’re the duchess?” Evie inquired. “You will outrank every other person in this room after you marry my husband’s brother.”
“Especially after I’m his duchess,” Cecily declared.
Tabitha gave a little sigh. “Did you notice that, Evie?”
“Yes, I did,” Evie said, also emitting a little sigh.
Nonplussed, Cecily asked, “Notice what?”
Evie smiled brightly. “Not the duchess, but his duchess.”
Tabitha’s green eyes sparkled at Cecily. “If that isn’t a sign that you’re in love with Bradbury...”
“Indeed, we can scarcely believe you wrote that book about him—or rather, someone who’s similar enough to him that he couldn’t be anyone else,” Evie added. “I mean, we can easily believe that you wrote a book. Bradbury has mentioned how very clever and well read you are—all the more reason Tabitha and I agreed to embrace you sight unseen. But we couldn’t help feeling just a bit puzzled at the knowledge that you wrote such a book about him—and that you still mean to marry him.”
“Until we read the book for ourselves,” Tabitha put in.
Cecily gazed at the two ladies in dismay. “Both of you have read it already?”
“I read it twice,” Evie said. “And in one sitting both times.”
“Evie read it first,” Tabitha said. “Then she let me read it, but as soon as I was done, she demanded it back because she wished to read it again.”
Cecily felt her knees buckling, at about the same moment Lady Frampton said, “Come, why are we all still standing? Let us sit already and have some tea!”
Cecily came perilously close to sitting down right where she stood, in the very middle of the Aubusson rug. She glanced around frantically in search of a place to sit while Evie and Tabitha claimed the sofa near the fireplace.
“Do take this chair over here, Cecily,” urged Lady Frampton, as she gestured to one of two chairs situated across from the sofa, on the other side of the hearth.
Cecily half-stumbled to the appointed chair.
“I daresay, my dear, that you know of no other way to approach a chair,” Lady Frampton remarked. “That’s how you did it at Tyndall Abbey more than a week ago. Yet I don’t seem to recall you had such trouble at Ashdown Park.”
“Maybe that’s because Dane wasn’t there,” Evie surmised, her tone mischievous. “Another sign that Cecily is madly in love with him.”
Cecily finally, somehow, managed to plant her derriere in the chair without falling over the nearby fender and into the grate where a cheery fire warmed the otherwise chilly room. “How did either of you happen to read it? I thought...” She could say no more, as if she didn’t even want to think of it.
“Dane received an advance copy from the publisher,” Evie said briskly, as if this should have been common knowledge; never mind that the author herself should have known about it.
“But...but he told me...or I thought he told me...” Everything seemed foggy to her now. “Well, what did he tell me?”
“He did mention that you didn’t want to see it published, yet Lord Willard and his son decided to have it published anyway, so they might benefit from the profits,” Evie said. “They even thought to blackmail him with it, but in your name.”
Something seemed to be caught in Cecily’s throat. She struggled to gulp it down. “Yes, I told him that myself. And he told me at Ashdown Park that—oh, dear heavens.” As she felt herself turning into quivering jelly, she had to press her feet against the floor to keep from sliding out of the chair altogether.
Tabitha leaned forward. “My dear Cecily, you have nothing to worry about now. He assured us that they will never benefit from that book
.”
“That’s what he told me the night he—he—”
The night he made love to her immediately afterward. And she’d allowed him such a liberty ahead of the wedding because she believed—mistakenly now, as it turned out—that he had stopped the book’s publication altogether.
But no—he’d always said he had no issue with it being published. That he would never prevent it being published. His only concern had been precluding her greedy relatives from claiming the profits.
“Is something amiss, Cecily?” inquired Tabitha. “He only wants to make sure you, and you alone, collect every penny you’re due for that book.”
“Now that’s what I call true love,” Lady Frampton said, as a footman entered the drawing room with the tea tray. “And here is our tea at last.”
Cecily struggled to sort out everything she was hearing. Evie and Tabitha seemed blithely unaware of the anvil they just dropped on her stunned, spinning head.
The book she wrote was out there. It was published. People were reading it. Two people who’d already read it—one of them had even read it twice already—were sitting across from her, all smiles, eager to embrace her as their sister in spite of it. Or maybe even because of it.
She should have been relieved. She should have been overjoyed. Instead she felt—well, she didn’t want to use the word betrayed. He’d always made his position clear—except the other night, when it seemed, at least now in retrospect, to be rather murky. Or had she been too dazzled by his declarations of love, too overset by the tumultuous events of that evening, to see clearly through the magical mist swirling around them—the same mist that enveloped the romantic joining of Madfury with Catriona?
The fact remained that she never intended for that particular book to ever see the light of day. Yet it was the only one she’d ever written that was now out in the open. And everyone knew—or did they?
“Does anyone else know yet that I wrote it?” she asked, almost choking out the words.
The Duke Is a Devil Page 24
