Devil's Match (16 page)

C
aroline awoke after an extremely restless night hoping that somehow she had only dreamed the bizarre events of Mrs. Farnsworth's party. All night long, she had been tormented by Patrick Danvers' kiss and Rotherfield's enigmatic smile. As she dawdled over her morning chocolate, she relived again every preposterous moment in the garden and saw anew the look of shocked disbelief written on all those faces when the earl had announced his betrothal. It was ludicrous in the extreme to find that she had gone from being a totally ineligible female to being pursued by two of the most notorious men in the country. Had she read her story in one of the romances at Hookham's, she would have dismissed it as utterly ridiculous.

Countess of Rotherfield. The image of the earl floated before her for a moment—cold, austere, mocking. Why had he done it? Kindness? To pique Patrick Danvers? As much as she could remember, there'd never been any
on-dits
about a quarrel between the two men. Did he think himself taken with her? Somehow, as Caroline reviewed every word of conversation they'd exchanged, she did not think so. What could possibly have prompted him to take such a rash step?

Mrs. Farnsworth's look of stunned confusion floated before her. Caro'd almost blurted out that it wasn't so—that he'd not offered and she'd not accepted—but there was such fury in Lady Canfield's expression that she'd said nothing. And in doing so, she'd made the fiction fact. Rotherfield. She had no more desire to wed with him than with Patrick Danvers. Not true, she admitted to herself. She had less desire to be wed to him, for she knew now that it was Patrick she wanted. Well, she'd certainly shut that door once and for all. Not even Patrick would pursue someone else's betrothed. With that lowering thought, she pushed away her tray and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Lady Milbourne's dresser, Marsh, entered the room and laid out a demurely cut rose muslin gown, drawers, petticoat, and zona without intruding on Caroline's thoughts. Usually condescending in her attitude, she now stood back respectfully and waited.

“Oh, thank you, Marsh,” Caro murmured absently without rising.

“Would you be wanting your hair done this morning, miss?”

“Thank you, but I can brush it myself.”

“Your pardon, Miss Ashley, but you'll be wanting to be in particular looks, I should think.”

“Why?”

“Well, there is Lady Lyndon already arrived below, and with Lord Milbourne. I believe she means to take you out.”

“It must be a mistake—there were no plans—”

“Ah, there you are, my love!” Leah Barsett breezed into the room like a soft blue cloud. “Your pardon for intruding before you are about, but we really must be out early. I sent a note round to Cecile's and she will measure you if we can contrive to be there before her regular appointments.”

“Measure me?” Caro echoed faintly. “But I cannot afford—”

“Nonsense. Rotherfield has already assured me he means to pay for your trousseau, my dear. It would not do for the Countess of Rotherfield to go about in dresses made anywhere but Madame's, after all.” Leah stood back and surveyed Caro's disheveled state with a smile. “My dear Caro, your days of practicing shocking economies are over.”

“I cannot let the earl pay for my clothes, Lady Lyndon.”

“Leah. And he is not merely ‘the earl' to you now, is he? He is your betrothed.” Leah Barsett walked over and picked up the blue muslin. “Charming, but nothing like what you will become used to. Marcus is extremely wealthy, Caro. Here—let Marsh help you, and I will go down and wait for him.”

“Rotherfield? Here?” Somehow, Caroline did not think she could face him after the previous night.

“But of course. Marcus has the most impeccable taste.”

Caroline dressed hurriedly after Leah left. Perhaps she would have the opportunity to tell the earl that she did not expect him to go through with his scheme, that she was grateful, but she could not allow him to sacrifice so much. Even as she thought it, she realized how ridiculous she would sound, for Rotherfield was a man, after all, and men had the most idiotish notions of honor. Patrick Danvers had proven that to her.

Unused to the ministrations of servants, Caroline picked up her nightrail and hung it neatly in the wardrobe. Her eye caught a glimpse of the green silk dress, and she wanted to cry.

By the time she made it downstairs, Rotherfield was already there. He looked up from where he conversed with Milbourne and smiled at her. Somehow, he did not appear quite as forbidding as he had in her tormented dreams.

“Charming, my dear,” he approved as he took in her new blue muslin dress. “We have not much time, as I am promised to my man of affairs this afternoon. I was just consulting with Lord Milbourne about what you will require, and I believe we have come to terms that will please you.”

“Uh …” For an instant, she wanted to tell them all that she could not do it, but then she saw Leah and Milbourne beaming at her.

“Marcus will settle fifteen thousand on you, my dear, and allow you five hundred pounds each quarter,” the frail Milbourne told her with the air of one infinitely satisfied with the arrangement. “Once the heir is born, there will be an additional five thousand pounds.”

But Caroline was not attending the particulars, as she was still trying to assimilate the first fifteen thousand. “Fifteen.” She nodded slowly.

“ 'Tis most generous, Caro,” Leah reminded her.

“I took the liberty of bringing my mother's ring,” the earl cut in as he extended a small box. “ 'Tis a ruby, but if you prefer another stone, we can stop at Hamlet's in Cranbourne Alley.” When she made no move to take the box, he opened the lid himself and took out a ring with a blood-red center stone the size of a bird's egg. Reaching for her hand, he slipped the ruby ring on her finger and tried it against the knuckle. “I do not believe you'll lose it,” he decided.

She stared down at the symbol of an unwanted betrothal. “It's … it's very nice,” she told him finally.

“Good. I have sent the notices in to the
Gazette
and the
Morning Chronicle,
so you need have no fear of any unpleasant gossip concerning Westover. Now, if you do not mind too much, we'd best be going. I thought to go to Tattersall's later in hopes of finding you a mare. You do ride, do you not, Miss Ashley?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then we shall begin being seen mornings in the park. The sooner the
ton
gets used to seeing us, the less gossip there will be. I am a firm believer in confronting mine enemies whenever possible. They do not like it, but they back away. Perhaps you would care to go to the

theater tonight to see Kean in
Richard III?.
Or would you prefer the ballet or opera? I believe Catalini is in
Figaro
and Vestris is dancing in Covent Garden.”

“But of course she will wish to see Kean! Tony and I were planning to attend, after all, and. we shall be a party,” Leah decided for them. “ 'Twill be vastly diverting, for I know all London cannot wait to see dear Caro.”

“And do you have the wedding trip planned also?” Rotherfield responded dryly.

“That, Marcus, I leave to you,” Leah answered, unabashed.

“My lord, may I be private with you for an instant?” Caroline cut in desperately, “I—”

“But of course, my dear. If Leah and Lord Milbourne will pardon us, we can step into one of the saloons.”

Lady Lyndon frowned, but said nothing. Caroline led the way to the smaller, private parlor situated at the back of the house, and waited while the earl shut the door behind them. Her palms were damp and her mouth dry as she tried to think of words to thank him for his kindness while making it plain she could not wed him. When he turned back to face her, his eyes met hers and seemed to read her thoughts. A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and he nodded.

“You think we should not suit,” he noted matter-of-factly, “but you are wrong, I believe. You behold in me a man much disappointed in love, a man who has made a fool of himself more than once for a pretty face, so I am not like to come into a marriage with foolish expectations, Caroline.”

“My lord—”

“And I suspect that your own heart is not unbruised, my dear,” he continued, “which is precisely why we should suit. I am nearing thirty and I am the last of my line, Caroline. My salad days are over and I am ready to settle down respectably. My eyes tell me you are a very

lovely lady, my mind tells me you are a female of character, and my heart tells me that I can make you content.” He moved closer and reached to touch her shoulders. “The burning passion you yearn for burns itself out, consumed by the very fire that first feeds it—believe me, none knows that better than I. In the end, it is regard that matters, and I am certain we can have that. Let Westover win his wager with another—wed with me and save us both from the folly of foolish passion. I can offer you wealth—more than you can dream—and I can set you above those who once ignored you.”

“But I don't love you!” she wrung out hopelessly.

“Love?” His mouth curved sardonically and his black eyes betrayed bitterness. “Love is an illusion, my dear—I know. Do not let me make a fool of myself yet again. Save me from repeating the follies of my youth.” He bent his head to brush his lips against hers. “Wed with me, Caroline, and save me from myself.”

It was as though she felt the pain that lay beneath the carefully controlled facade he presented to the
ton.
The image of Patrick Danvers as last she'd seen him flitted briefly through her brain, telling her anew that she'd lost him. Rotherfield's eyes, black and intent, promised her a life of safety and security. Slowly she dropped her gaze and nodded. “All right, my lord.”

“We shall establish and redeem each other, Caroline,” he promised.

B
eing the center of attention, both friendly and unfriendly, was a novel experience for the plain Miss Ashley from Miss Richards' school, but she managed to quell her ever-rising panic and meet the
ton
headlong. From time to time in the next couple of weeks, she saw Patrick Danvers at functions, but he made no particular effort to cross her path. She found herself in the ignominious position of being center-stage while he drifted off in the wings, so to speak. But at least, she noted with diminishing satisfaction, he had kept his word: he was attending various affairs despite the censure of his peers. And she was hearing less and less indignant gossip about him.

But Juliana—Caroline was mystified about the girl's behavior. She had expected Lady Canfield to be spiteful and vicious, but she was unprepared for the sudden coldness of her former charge. Had it not been for the hapless Bertie, forced by his father to squire his beautiful betrothed about, Caroline would have had no discourse with Juliana at all. As it was, Bertie fairly pulled the girl over to see her during intermission at the opera one night.

“Miss Ashley!” Bertie took in Caro's new deep green gown and nodded. “Ought to wear green all the time—ain't that so, Miss Canfield?”

Caroline had to suppress a smile at the way Bertie stubbornly insisted on formal address with his betrothed. “Thank you, sir. Hello, Juliana.”

She recognized the mulish set of the jaw as the girl turned her attention to her. “Miss Ashley.”

Rotherfield started to say something to Juliana and then thought better of it. Instead, he bowed slightly to Caroline and murmured, “I believe I see Bennington over there, my dear. If you do not object, I shall pay a call whilst your friends are here.”

As soon as the earl was out of hearing, Bertie shook his head. “Devilish handsome fellow, but cold, if you was to ask me. Don't know what you was thinking of to take him instead of Patrick.”

“It is as plain as a pikestaff,” Juliana sniffed. “Our little Caro plotted the whole thing, I'll wager. She saw a chance to be a countess, and she maneuvered Rotherfield into offering for her.”

Caroline stared, unable to credit the venom in Juliana's voice. “Ju—”

“Don't speak to me, you viper!” the younger girl snapped. Her cornflower-blue eyes met Caroline's for an instant, and then her face crumpled. “Oh, Caro, how could you?” she wailed miserably. Covering her mouth with her gloved hand, she turned precipitately and ran from Rotherfield's box.

“Got to go, Miss Ashley,” Bertie murmured apologetically. “Don't know what queer notion she's got now. Me—I wish you happy—just wish it was Patrick, that's all. But she's been in a devilish poor way ever since you got engaged.”

“Perhaps she just needs to rest.”

“Well, Lady Canfield ain't going to hear of it. I need the rest, I can tell you, but between her and m'father, I ain't going to get any. Don't know why m'father likes Juliana's mama, either, because the only way he's going to make her happy is to pop off early,” Bertie announced with disgust. “Well,” he sighed as he watched his betrothed being ogled by a fellow from the pit, “no help for it, I suppose. Got to go after her.”

Disturbed by Juliana's outburst, Caroline sank back in her seat and tried to make sense of it. It was obvious that the girl and Albert Bascombe were horribly mismatched, for the high-spirited Juliana could never be happy with a man she could rule. No, Juliana needed someone strong—someone like Patrick … or Rotherfield. Caroline looked across to where the earl lounged in Bennington's box and saw him watching Juliana and Bertie. It was a revelation—she'd seen that look once before when Patrick Danvers heard Rotherfield announce her own betrothal. There'd been a terrible mix-up—Rotherfield wanted Juliana.

She felt like an outsider, an intruder, watching the earl. Studiously she turned her head away from him and scanned the boxes to her left. With a jolt that struck painfully at her own heart, she saw Patrick with a woman she did not know. At first, she thought it was a member of the muslin company, but then she watched carefully. The awful conviction that the lady was Quality made her almost ill. Patrick said something amusing and the woman laughed.

“Bascombe gone?” Rotherfield asked as he rejoined her. When she did not answer, his black eyes followed where she looked. “ 'Twould seem Westover is making a push in that quarter,” he observed quietly.

“Yes.”

“I daresay he has to, if he is to have even the slightest chance at the Danvers Fortune.”

Caroline turned around, suddenly aware that the black eyes were intent on her. “I suppose so,” she managed noncommittally.

Abruptly he reached for her hand and fingered the blood-ruby ring. “Would you like to go to Oakland? We could be married by special license there, and we'd never have to see them again.”

It came to her suddenly that he was an immensely proud man despite the cuts of the
ton
, and that he meant to marry her before Juliana wed Bertie. It was a devil of a coil for him, for her, and for all of them. “Oakland?”

“My home. It is an enormous rock barn built in Tudor times. The original manor belonged to the Bishop of Durham, but was confiscated by Henry.”

“Sir, I believe plain speaking would serve us best.” She sucked in her breath and let it out slowly as one is wont to do when faced with an unpleasant task. “I believe that you are more than half in love with Juliana.”

He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke carefully. “Caroline, I am nine-and-twenty—soon to be thirty, in fact. She is a foolish, headstrong chit bent on destruction, and she is but eighteen. And regardless of the reason she became engaged to the slowtop, her family is determined to see the marriage.”

“But they despise each other!”

“Miss Ashley …” His black eyes met hers and he continued in patient resignation. “I told you once that I am unwilling to make a fool of myself again.”

“But if you care for her—”

“Moon madness,” he dismissed. “And even if it were not, there is still the matter of her family.”

“Lenore Canfield is a viper!” she announced with feeling.

He sighed heavily and leaned forward to stare at the railing before him. “You cannot have known the story, else you'd know why I cannot go against her parents.”

“My lord, regardless of what happened years ago, you deserve your happiness! You punish yourself too harshly, I think.”

“It is not a pretty tale,” he began in a low, measured voice, “but if we are to wed, perhaps you should know of it.” He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly before continuing. “I was barely nineteen—scarce into my salad days even—when I fell passionately in love with a woman I shall not name. She was older than I by some six years and bored with an elderly husband's complaints. Suffice it to say that we eloped together—fled first to a property I hold in Ireland, and then when we could no longer stay there, on to the Continent despite Boney's threat. She bore a child that did not survive.” He stared unseeing, unaware that the lights were being doused again. “My guardians cut off the money, and she found a wealthier man in Guelph. One day, I awoke to find her gone. I followed her and fought her lover, but it did not end. Within the month, she'd found another. I could see then that there'd be no end to it, and I let her go. When I returned to England, her brother called me out. He was scarce older than I, but I killed him when we met beyond Smithfield. It was not pretty—he lingered some weeks, Caroline, and then he died. I fled to Spain.”

“My lord, you must not—”

“Strangely enough, I met one of Elizabeth's other lovers there—a soldier in the Tenth Hussars—and he told me the child she bore was his. I suppose I must have looked the richer fool to fleece.”

By now, the lights were out and the orchestra had begun to play. The earl straightened up slowly and leaned back in his chair. “We dueled, of course, and he lies there still. Three men dead for my foolish passion. No, I'd not make the same mistake again.”

“You were but a boy! You cannot have known what she was! But Juliana—”

“No. We are far safer, you and I, with each other. You have spirit, but you are not unkind; you have beauty, but you are not obsessed with it; and you are intelligent. Passions fade, Caroline, but regard does not,” he repeated in much the same vein as he had before. “I would not fly in the face of the Canfields to possess a girl certain to lead me to destruction again.”

“You mistake the matter then, my lord, for Juliana is high-spirited, yes, but she is good-hearted.”

“Tell Albert Bascombe that—not me.”

The tenor began to sing, making further conversation not only impolite but also difficult. Caroline sat beside the earl and pondered what she ought to do. Certainly she could not cry off—not after what he'd endured. But neither could she marry him knowing that he wanted Juliana. She strained her eyes in the darkened opera house for a glimpse of Viscount Westover and was disappointed. Finally Rotherfield leaned so close their shoulders brushed and murmured, “The lady is Anthea Lyddesdale, my dear—a widow of exemplary reputation.”

“Who?”

“The one sitting with Westover.”

Her eyes widened at the sympathy in his voice. Unable to reply, she stared miserably at her folded hands and saw the faint glitter of Rotherfield's ruby on her finger.