Devil's Match (3 page)

“Then think about what you offer, my dear, before you throw a brilliant future away. Would you really want to give up your Season to wed with an outcast? That's what I am, after all,” he reminded her with a trace of bitterness in his voice.

“I don't care.” She spun back around. “Patrick, of all the family, I like you the best—I cannot stand what they have done to you. I'd marry you before I'd let them make a laughingstock of you. Only say that I may bring Caro with me, and—”

“Of everyone I know, Ju, we are the most alike,” he interrupted. “No—we should not suit. For one thing, you'd have to change too much—and so would I. You'd flirt, and I'd forever be defending my honor.”

“But I wouldn't! I'd be the most unexceptional wife! And I would never have to listen to Mama carp—she'd never speak to me again.”

“Well”—he administered the coup de grace—“assuming that everything else worked out, have you considered the degree of intimacy required to obtain a Westover heir?” He watched her eyes widen and nodded his head. “Whether you would like it or not, we'd have to embark immediately to put you into an interesting condition. And assuming we are successful, have you thought that you will be dandling a little redheaded fellow on your knee this time next year? With your coloring and mine, we should most likely produce a carrot-top,” he finished with a grin.

“Ugh!”

“Precisely. And think if the poor child should be a girl. We should never fire her off.”

“Oh, Patrick!” She began to giggle at the picture of wedded life he painted. “Well, if you insist on describing life with you in those terms, you will not even have to worry about your horrid reputation. There's none to have you.”

“Do you think I haven't considered that? How the devil am I to find a female I can tolerate, anyway? And assuming there is such a creature out there, I'm going to have to offer as bold as brass, ‘Marry me, miss, and give me an heir so I can be rich.' No doubt I shall be impaled on her hatpin for the suggestion.”

“Well, maybe we can think of something,” she ventured doubtfully.

The sound of footsteps outside made both of them jump. Juliana moved to rearrange the flowers in a bowl and Patrick turned to study the latticework of the windowpanes. After a soft rap at the door, Caroline Ashley let herself in and moved forward apologetically. Patrick edged around cautiously, took in her dull, drab gray gown, the starched cap atop her braids, and relaxed slightly.

“Your pardon, Juliana, but your mama is looking for you. I promised to fetch you before she came herself. After all—” She stopped, suddenly aware of the man in the room.

“He is my cousin, Caro—'tis Westover,” Juliana hastened to explain.

Clearly, the title meant nothing to her and she did not make the connection with the more infamous Patrick Danvers. To keep her at
point non plus,
Patrick moved quickly to bow over her hand while Juliana added, “Westover, may I present my dearest friend, Caroline Ashley? Miss Ashley stays with us for the Season.” With a wary eye on the open door, she added, “My cousin has but returned to town.”

“I did not mean to intrude, but Lady Canfield was most insistent.”

“Westover was just leaving, Caro. If you will but tell Mama that I shall be up immediately, I'll see him out.”

“Pray do not be long, Ju,” Caroline urged, “and I will show her the rest of the sketches.”

Patrick watched her leave, much struck by two things—the slight huskiness of her voice and the deep pansy-brown of her eyes. “Is that your dragon, Coz? I'd imagined Aunt Lenore to employ a very different sort of person.”

“Well, you do not know her, of course, but now can you not see why I cannot risk losing her? Lud knows what Mama would find the next time.”

“She cannot be very old,” he mused slowly.

“She is three-and-twenty, Patrick.” Juliana started to follow her companion out, took a few steps, stopped abruptly, and spun around in inspiration. “Patrick, you are quite positive that you do not want to marry me?”

“Ju—”

“Then would you consider Miss Ashley instead? She's the dearest person, really she is, and her situation is quite desperate. Oh, Patrick, Mama keeps her in the direst straits—she has not but three gowns to her name if you do not count that hideous thing she was wearing. And she will not let me go to Papa to get her anything better because she has too much pride. And Mama dislikes her very much. And—”

“Enough! If she took you on, I know she's desperate. There is no need to go to such lengths to convince me of it.”

“And she's not given to queer starts like me, I promise, Patrick. She's quite calm, really she is. Her birth's respectable though her father committed suicide when she was but fifteen.” When she could see that her cousin was staring at her as if she were queer in the attic, Juliana cast about wildly for the means to convince him. “She's not empty-headed in the least—she's not! She's just like you—reads everything she can find. Indeed, she was such an excellent pupil that Miss Richards kept her on at no fee and even employed her to teach the younger ones. Oh, Patrick, she has nothing! And I should like to see Mama if you should make her Viscountess Westover!”

“Ju—”

“And she cannot have romantical expectations, after all,” she pursued naively, “for she considers herself quite on the shelf. Your suit would solve everything for the both of you—it would! All she has to look forward to is the life of a governess once I am fired off.”

“And you think her poor prospects would make me … er, more palatable?”

“Patrick, she's certain to find you attractive. And though you might not note it, she could be quite pretty if she had decent gowns and a dresser for her hair.”

“Juliana!” Lady Canfield called imperiously from abovestairs.

“Oh, dear—I have to go, Patrick! Mama would be furious if she even suspected you were here.” Juliana rushed to the door and peered anxiously out. “Think on what I've said—you may see Miss Ashley again at the Beresfords' this very evening for 'tis Maria's come-out—and 'twill be such a squeeze that you might manage to go unremarked.” With that, she slipped out of the room.

“G
ood heavens!”
Lenore Canfield clutched convulsively at her husband's coat sleeve and gaped with astonishment. “Max, 'tis Patrick! How dare he—Max, you must find Juliana ere she is ruined by the assocation—she'll not have sense enough to give him the cut direct. Oh, Max,” she moaned, “he'll ruin us.”

“Nonsense, Lee,” her husband soothed while carefully disengaging her clenched fingers. “He is her cousin, after all, so it is to be expected that they will converse. Besides, I have never thought him half so bad as you would have him. Indeed, I quite like him above any of your other relations.”

“How can you say so when you know what he has done to us—after those horrid inquests? Max, you are the most unfeeling of fathers!”

“And I have always believed that we should have brushed through better if the Danvers family had supported Patrick,” he reminded her dryly. “He was acquitted—or have you chosen to forget that?”

Ignoring his logic, she continued to fret. “Oh, dear! What can Joanna Beresford be thinking of? And poor Maria! 'Tis her come-out, after all.” Lenore craned her neck for a view of their hostess and the honoree, but was denied the satisfaction of seeing their shocked and dismayed expressions since Patrick's tall frame obscured the scene. “Well, there is nothing for it,” she decided, “but that we must leave. I would not for the world remind anyone of the connection.”

“Lee,”—her husband's voice dropped in warning—“we shall do no such thing. For one thing, I have paid more than a hundred guineas for the gowns you and Juliana are wearing; for another, such a public display of your feelings cannot but dredge up the very scandal you wish to avoid.” He smoothed the fabric of his sleeve before carefully placing her hand in the crook of his arm. “Now, we shall go on as planned. You may ignore his presence if you wish, but you will not cause any unpleasantness. That would be far more fatal to your daughter's success than a chance meeting with Patrick,” he told her firmly.

But Lady Lenore was not easily mollified, particularly not when she saw the object of her indignation moving from the receiving line to intercept Juliana. “Max,” she hissed almost hysterically, “
do something!”

Unperturbed, Maximillian Canfield forcibly drew his lady away. “Now, Lee,” he reminded again, “she is his cousin. And unless I am mistaken, that is Albert Bascombe with him. Ten to one, he is but presenting young Bertie to your daughter.”

“Bascombe?” Lenore was temporarily diverted as she digested the possibility. “Is that not the Earl of Haverstoke's heir? I do not believe I have seen him at any of these affairs before.”

The transparency of her thoughts amused her husband. “It is—though I should not set my heart on him for a son-in-law, Lee. Bertie Bascombe is certainly no match for Juliana—from all I have heard, the boy's a trifle slow-witted.”

“Nonsense,” she dismissed, “Haverstoke's got thirty thousand if he's got a farthing, Max. Besides, with Juliana, there's much to be said for an amiable husband.”

“Quite the opposite, my dear.” Sir Max shook his head. “Our Juliana will require someone quite masterful, I think.” He turned to watch his wife's nephew bow over his daughter's hand. “No, she and Patrick are much alike, I am afraid—both quite intelligent, but too headstrong by far. The right match could be the saving grace for each of them, while the wrong one could have disastrous consequences.”

At that very moment, Patrick firmly pushed a reluctant Albert Bascombe forward to meet Juliana under the bemused stares of a rather large number of her admirers. The unfortunate Bertie colored uncomfortably and merely goggled speechlessly at the lovely heiress. It was not until Patrick had physically prodded him that the hapless young man found his tongue at all. Ju's blue eyes were full of mischief as they met Patrick's.

“Ah, Coz—so you found your invitation, after all.” She smiled.

Bertie, remembering his role finally, managed to stammer out a request to procure some lemonade for her. As if on cue, the gentlemen around them began vying for the favor until Juliana settled the matter by sending each one off in search of a different delectable, leaving her temporarily alone with her cousin in the crowded ballroom.

“Really, Patrick,” she observed after Bascombe's retreating form, “but I cannot imagine the association.”

“Bertie? Alas, my dear, but I've found friends few enough when I needed them. Bertie at least has that rare quality of constancy in the face of adversity—he has never wavered in his support.”

“But he does not appear to have all his wits about him.”

“I should characterize him as being a slow thinker rather than half-witted, Ju,” Patrick responded.

Out of the corner of her eye, Juliana could see her parents watching her so she moved to the matter at hand. “I collect you had no difficulty getting in?”

“None.” He grinned. “If you do not consider my putting Lady Beresford on the verge of the vapors a difficulty. I thought she meant to faint when I kissed her chit's hand.”

“Maria? Well, I vow she liked it well enough.”

“No—she could not decide whether to flirt or recoil—and, alas, I was gone by the time she'd made up her mind.”

“Patrick,” Juliana giggled, “you are incorrigible!”

“I? 'Twas not I who came up with this preposterous scheme. By the by …” He looked around the room for a moment. “I do not seem to see this charming companion you would foist on me, my dear. If you've dragged me out merely to pique the
ton
for your diversion, Ju, I shall wring your neck.”

She considered pouting prettily or rapping him coquettishly with her enameled fan and then thought better of it. For all that could be said of him, he was little given to flirtatious games. Instead, she inclined her head toward a curtained-off area behind the musicians. “I daresay you might find her there, Patrick, for once she's exchanged proper greetings around and seen me establish my crowd, she usually seeks out a place to read. And Mama does not mind because she does not like for Caro to put herself forward, anyway.”

“Have you mentioned any of this to her?”

“Caro? Of course not—'twould be most improper of me, don't you think?”

“And when has that ever stopped you?”

“This time I leave it up to you to determine if you will suit, Coz, though I cannot imagine that you would not.” Another quick glance at her parents revealed that her mother was still staring at her. “Patrick …” She touched his arm impulsively and asked, “Would you waltz with me?”

With raised eyebrow, he reached for the card that dangled from her wrist. “Really, my dear, but there's no room—'twould seem I am too late for the honor.”

“Pooh. You are Patrick Danvers, after all, so who's to quibble? Besides, you are quite the handsomest man in this room.”

“I'd ruin you,” he reminded her bluntly. “No—despite what you both seem to think, I was not born to vex Aunt Lenore.”

Before she could wheedle and coax, he executed a quick little bow and turned his attention to the alcove behind the musicians. It seemed to him that he could literally hear his aunt sigh with relief as he moved away.

Safely hidden by the curtains, Caroline shifted her position in one of the straight-backed chairs to gain more illumination from the candle sconce above her. Unconsciously she slid a kid slipper off her foot and settled back to read again. Bending her head low to see the page, she failed to note that she was no longer alone.

“Do you mind if I join you, Miss Ashley?”

She jumped guiltily and looked up to take in the tall frame and handsome face of Juliana's cousin. “Since I have but one book, I fail to see how 'tis possible, sir,” she responded waspishly to his intrusion. The smile faded from his eyes and she was instantly contrite. “Your pardon, sir—I did not mean you were unwelcome,” she managed as she searched for her shoe with her stockinged foot.

“Allow me.”

Before she could fathom his intent, he had dropped to one knee and retrieved the slipper, slid it on, and tied the narrow strap at her ankle. Red-faced, she tried to draw her foot away, but he held it firmly. When he looked up, there was a hint of amusement in the hazel eyes that temporarily nonplussed her.

“Thank you, sir—but would you mind unhanding my foot?” Then, suddenly realizing how high-handed she must sound, she managed a self-conscious little smile. To her relief, he released her ankle and took the chair next to hers.

“So, Miss Ashley, what is so fascinating that it tempts you away from the squeeze out there?” he asked as he reached to close the open book over her fingers and read aloud, “
Pride and Prejudice,
eh? I quite like Miss Austen's works myself, although I prefer
Sense and Sensibility
over this one.” He flipped the cover back open and noted the dog-eared condition of the novel. “Not the first time through this one, I'd have to say,” he observed.

“Nor the second,” she admitted ruefully. “I find books I enjoy are like friends—they bear a continuing acquaintance as one discovers something new about them each time they are met.” She raised her dark eyes to meet his. “Silly of me, isn't it?”

“Not at all. While I am fond of Austen's works, I cannot say I've read any of them twice. Shakespeare, on the other hand, is quite another matter. And I'm afraid my copy of his sonnets is positively falling to pieces.”

“You are funning with me, sir,” she accused stiffly.

“I assure you I am not. Indeed, I'll bring it with me the next time we meet and you can see for yourself,” he promised solemnly despite a twinkle that lit his eyes.

“My lord … Westover, is it? Gentlemen of the
ton
do not usually admit to reading anything other than the
Gazette.”

“Ah, but then I am lately come into my title, so I daresay I've not learned all the finer points of being a viscount.”

“Now I know you are funning with me.”

“No.” The twinkle faded as he admitted, “I've not gone about much and certainly I've not spent any time surveying the Marriage Mart. It all seems a foolish and empty pastime, if you want my opinion.”

“It
is
a foolish and empty pastime,” she agreed readily. “But 'tis a ritual to be followed nonetheless if one is to be successful socially. To even admit to being different, unless one becomes the latest fashionable rage as Brummell has done, is social suicide. Somehow, sir, I cannot think a passion for Shakespeare will make you fashionable. Now, if it were Byron—”

“Oh, I quite like him, too … and Shelley and Scott and young Keats … Coleridge, Wordsworth, Lamb—I like all of them except perhaps Rogers, who is too acerbic for me. But actually I prefer the classics even more—Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Tacitus' histories. In short, Miss Ashley, if it is printed, I am not above reading it.”

She stared at him in fascination, uncertain whether to believe him. Finally a smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. “Somehow, sir, I cannot think a passion for literature will make you fashionable. When you are amongst the
ton
, you must affect an ennui, you must give far more attention to your shirt points and your cravats than your mind, and you must appear totally absorbed in the pursuits of your own pleasure.”

“The advice of a seasoned dragon, eh?”

“No—merely an observation.”

“Tell me, Miss Ashley—how is it that you come to be in Lady Canfield's employ? You seem rather young for the task of companioning my hoyden cousin through her first Season.”

She set aside her book and folded her hands in her lap while she considered how best to answer him. It was, after all, an impertinent question, and one that she need not even try to answer. But then, he seemed unaware of the impertinence and there was something about him that she instinctively liked. Certainly there was nothing condescending or patronizing in his manner. Finally she nodded. “I am three-and-twenty, sir, and quite on the shelf myself, but I have taught deportment at Miss Richards' Select Academy for Young Ladies since I was eighteen. When Juliana …” She hesitated, wondering how much of the story he'd heard. “When Juliana left the academy, Miss Richards recommended me to Lady Canfield, saying that Juliana would be far more likely to listen to me than to an elderly chaperon.”

“An unenviable task, I should think.”

“Oh, no! I quite like Juliana, you see, and I do think that I must have some influence.”

“If she has gone a month without getting into a scrape, I'd say you were worth a fortune to Aunt Lenore.”

“Would that I were, but alas, I am not.”

He took in her faded gown, its alterations evident even in the faint light of the candles, and felt a stirring of sympathy for her. Juliana had been right. Caroline Ashley was not an ill-looking girl—quite pleasing, in fact—intelligent, sensible, and possessed of a sense of humor. While definitely taller than the fashion, she held herself proudly and showed a trim, well-defined figure. That her hair was dark in a time when blonds were the fashion did not bother him at all. There was something about her that bespoke quality without affectation. On impulse, he leaned over to examine her bookmark and found it to be her dance card. It was empty.

“I see you have saved a waltz for me,” he told her lightly.

“No—I do not dance this evening, sir.”

“But you can waltz, can you not?”

“I have practiced some,” she admitted.

“How fortunate for us both.” He flashed his most engaging smile and penned his name next to one of the numbers. “Let us hope I have hit it aright, Miss Ashley, for I despise rondels.”

Her eyes widened at his easy, open manner. It was inconceivable enough that this handsome, well-favored man would seek her out to speak with her, but to single her out to waltz—well, he must be misadvised as to her situation. And before he embarked on a flirtation that could only be painful for her, she felt the need to explain, “My lord, I think it incumbent on me to point out that my card is empty because I am totally ineligible. I—”