Devil's Match (8 page)

“Of course you will not—I've not the least doubt that you and Mr. Bascombe plotted my ruin, Lord Westover. For some obtuse reason, you have chosen to bring me down to your level, haven't you?”

The bitterness in her voice took him aback. “I had nothing to do with the entire affair, Miss Ashley,” he retorted. “As far as I was concerned, your rather pointed refusal of my suit marked the end of any discourse between us.”

“No.” She shook her head. “ 'Tis all of a piece. Out of pique, you have ruined me. In the space of two days, you and Mr. Bascombe have taken my reputation, and in doing so, you have taken my livelihood—I shall never be able to seek respectable employment again. I knew from the start that the abduction was all a hum—Albert Bascombe has no more interest in me than I have in him, which is none at all.”

“He did it in the mistaken notion that he was helping me.”

“And neither of you cares that you have taken my living!” She paced the floor away from him. “If I were a man—”

“But you are not,” he reminded her reasonably. “And I do care—else I'd not be here. Once I'd deciphered his intent, Miss Ashley, I left the comfort of my house and the promise of my bed to take off in the middle of the night. Counting a trip to Newmarket, I've spent the better part of three days in a carriage, Miss Ashley. I've not had a bath or a bed in that time, so I fail to see how you can blame me. Nonetheless, I am prepared to take responsibility for Bertie's misguided actions.” He moved behind her and gripped her shoulders. “You say I am to blame for your ruin. That being the case, ma'am, I am afraid you will have to marry me, after all.” He felt her body stiffen beneath his hands. “I apologize for the inconvenience, since you have made it plain that I am not the sort of husband you would have, but I shall contrive to behave honorably to you.”

“Marry you!” Caro choked. “Marry you! I should rather be thought the veriest trollop than be condemned to life with you, my lord! I have not the least doubt 'twas you who contrived this entire absurd situation!”

“You are mistaken!” Patrick snapped back. “But nonetheless, marriage is the only answer. As a matter of honor, I will not allow you to be ruined. Whether I knew his intention or not, 'twas for me he did it, I repeat that I am prepared to accept the responsibility. You will, of course, marry me,” he finished flatly.

“I will not!”

“You will!”

“I think you are insane!”

“You are not a fool, I think,” he managed more calmly. “If you find you cannot stomach me as a husband, I'll not make any demands on you.” He forcibly turned her to face him. “If I can find a Protestant divine in this place, we can be married at once and return to London before Aunt Lenore even suspects what has happened.” A small, wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You will not find me ungenerous, my dear.”

“Really?” she asked with deceptive sweetness. “And what of your required heir?”

“Given the circumstances, Miss Ashley, I am prepared to forgo the necessary intimacy.” His fingers dug into her shoulders and he leaned closer. Her eyes widened for a moment and then closed defensively. “I am not even fool enough to attempt kissing you again,” he muttered as he suddenly released her and thrust her away from him.

“You cannot do this. I will not …”

He bent to retrieve his copy of the
Iliad.
“Here—'twill give you something to read until I return.” For a brief moment his eyes met hers and locked with them. “Make no mistake about it, Miss Ashley—you are my responsibility now.”

C
aroline looked up as Patrick entered the private breakfast room. Bathed, shaved, and attired casually in a soft white cotton shirt, buff-colored pantaloons, and impeccably polished black Hessians, he looked more like a man about to go shooting than a guest at an inn. His dark red hair had been merely brushed rather than arranged, giving him an almost boyish appearance. The faint but pleasant odor of Hungary water floated across the table as he sat down.

“May I join you, Miss Ashley?”

“It would appear you already have, my lord.”

“Patrick,” he corrected with a smile that lit the beautiful hazel eyes. “As I am but lately come into the title, I find myself looking around for someone else when I am addressed as ‘my lord.' ” Before she could draw back, he reached across the table and clasped her hand. “Come—can we not cry friends, my dear? I would not be forever at daggers drawn with you over something neither of us can help.”

She dropped her eyes self-consciously to where his fingers held hers and was much struck by both the warmth and the reassuring strength of them. As if aware of her thoughts, he gave her hand a quick squeeze but did not release it. Involuntarily she glanced up again. He was watching her intently. The thought crossed her mind that a mortal man ought not to have eyes like that. Finally she managed a smile and nodded. “I ripped up at you like the veriest harridan, didn't I? The more I think on it now that my head has cleared, the more likely it seems that Mr. Bascombe's brain cooked up this entire situation. You were so kind when I was ill, and yet I was out of reason cross.”

“Nonsense. You had a devil of a head, my dear—I should not have quarreled with you.”

“Well,” she admitted, “I am willing to cry friends if you will not persist in the ridiculous notion that we should wed. Upon reflection, I do not believe the situation is irretrievable. I daresay I can contrive to come about if I can but get back to England.” Catching his expression of patent skepticism, she added, “I mean, if you will but advance me the money for passage, I shall go back and apply to Miss Richards.”

“No, it won't fadge, my dear.” He released her. hand and leaned back. “Come—am I that difficult to take?”

“No,” she admitted frankly, “but we should not suit. Were it not for …” She groped for the right words.

“My shocking reputation?” he supplied.

“I was about to say that we are of different natures, sir. You see,” she explained slowly, “in spite of my straitened circumstances, I have always harbored the insane notion that I should like to be loved and cherished by the man I marry. I … I cannot … I will not accept anything less.” A wry smile formed at the corners of her mouth. “Foolish of me to cling to such nonsense, isn't it? For every rational thought tells me 'twill never happen. After all, it isn't like any gentlemen dangle after a penniless female whose father killed himself. But let us speak no more of such things, sir.” Abruptly she reached for her reticule and drew out the slim, worn, leather-covered volume. “Here—I enjoyed it very much, particularly your marginal notes.”

He took the book with a sigh. “You know, Miss Ashley, I once was a dreamer also. I loved stories of bold adventure and wars. I still do, but now I know the difference between the romance and the reality of life. When I was sent down from Oxford for one of my innumerable pranks, Uncle Vernon bought me my colors. One taste of Boney was enough to disabuse me of the glory of it.”

“You fought the French? I thought—”

“You thought I merely killed my fellow Englishmen,” he finished dryly. “Alas, my military career was short and not particularly distinguished, my dear. I took a wound three months into the campaign and was sent home to effect a complete recovery. Considering the losses we sustained, I count myself fortunate.”

“I'm sorry. I did not know.”

“My point, Miss Ashley, is that life is not like one's dreams. We do not get what we wish for. I'd like to tell you that you have a chance to get what you want, but you do not. Under the circumstances, you'd best settle for me.”

“My lord—”

“Patrick.”

They were interrupted by a serving maid bearing the breakfast tray. Reluctantly Caroline abandoned what could only lead to another quarrel with the viscount. Unfolding her napkin to lay it in her lap, she dipped her spoon to stir the cup of steaming chocolate placed in front of her.

“It would be advisable if you do not go out at all while we are here, my dear,” he continued when they were alone again. “While we are far from London, this is a frequented port, and I have already observed other English staying in this inn. I do not think I have to tell you it would not do for them to discover your presence, particularly since I mean to give out that we eloped from Aunt Lenore's to my hunting box in Berkshire. If she brings up Bertie's letter, I'll say he was party to the elopement.”

“Where is Mr. Bascombe?” she asked uncomfortably.

“I sent him to inquire of an English divine rumored to be traveling with a Mrs. Wanstead and her son. Monsieur Crespin, our innkeeper, tells me they left for Paris yesterday, but I have hopes of Bertie's catching them. Mrs. Wanstead, it seems, is an invalid and travels quite slowly.”

“Oh.”

“Would you care for some sausages?” He pushed a plate toward her.

“No, thank you. I rarely have more than toast or a sweet bun in the morning.”

“You aren't one of those females who never eat a morsel, are you?”

“Not at all.”

He began cutting up the food on his plate. “Well, I would not have you fainting on me. Rumor has it that 'tis the fashion to starve to improve the female form, but you are quite thin enough. Here …” He slathered jam on a slice of bread and passed it across to her. “I do not like to eat alone.”

Conversation ebbed for several minutes as they ate. Finally he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I told Madame Crespin that your bags were lost in passage, and she is attempting to procure some dresses for you. When we return to England, I'll take you to Madame Cecile's for a fitting.”

“My lord, I cannot accept clothing from you.”

“Is it so very difficult to say ‘Patrick'?” he asked as he ignored her refusal. “Pat-rick—'tis a simple Scottish name I got from my grandfather on m'mother's side. Try it.”

“Very well. Patrick, I cannot accept clothing from you.”

“I believe it's expected to clothe one's wife,” he continued, unperturbed. “And it does not appear that you will be coming to me with much of a trousseau, after all. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I should like to see you in decent gowns. I've been looking at you, and I've a notion that you are far prettier than I suspected at first. Take your hair, for instance—you've got it parted and braided and you still look nice. Who knows—with it cropped and curled, you might look even better.”

“Of all the stubborn, pigheaded people—” She caught herself and managed in a more conciliatory tone, “My … Patrick, I cannot … I will not marry you—not so much because of your reputation, but rather because it is unnecessary.”

He rose from the table to stare for a moment out into the busy innyard. Turning back around to face her, he told her quietly, “Whether you choose to believe it or not, Caroline, I never killed anyone I did not have to. If that makes me repulsive in your eyes, I am sorry for it.”

“Please, Patrick—”

“I never cared much what anybody thought. I knew what I'd done, and I accepted the responsibility for my actions. I've killed three men in duels, Miss Ashley, and all with good reason. Twice I was acquitted and once no charges were brought. I don't know if that makes any difference to you or not—I don't even know what you've heard of me—but that is the truth.” He moved to stand over her. “And in spite of all you may have heard, I am not without honor.”

“Patrick!” Bertie burst in the door. “Your pardon, Miss Ashley.” Turning back to Patrick, Bertie announced breathlessly, “I found him for you, and he'll do it. He won't come back, but they ain't gone but ten miles.”

“You found the Wanstead party?”

“Uh-huh. Told 'em you was eloping with Miss Ashley—long-standing passion, and all that.”

“Bertie, your heretofore undiscovered powers of invention amaze me,” Patrick approved.

“I won't … I won't do it—'tis folly,” Caroline insisted stubbornly.

Neither man paid any attention to her flat refusal. Bertie described his meeting with the Wanstead chaplain and laid out the agreed plans. “Well, Miss Ashley”—Patrick nodded to her—“you are about to be abducted again, it would seem. As soon as I locate Madame Crespin and get you a decent wedding dress, we'll set out after the Wansteads. Bertie will see to the hiring of a carriage, since I had to leave mine at Dover. Then, once he has supported us through this ordeal, he can part company. In the meantime, you will prepare to leave this afternoon.”

Once his plans were set, Patrick escorted her back to her small chamber. At the door, he stopped and chucked her under the chin. “Buck up, my dear. I mean to take good care of you, I swear.”

For a time after he left, she sat staring absently into space while contemplating what to do. She had been responsible for herself since the age of fifteen—she had faced her unpleasant lot in life and made the decisions that enabled her to survive in a world where money and position were everything. She could take a certain pride that she'd earned her bread rather than hung on someone else's sleeve. Of course, there'd been no sleeve to hang on, she reminded herself, so the choice had not been entirely her own. Now she could not go back to the Canfields—Lady Lenore would see to that. And it was not certain that Miss Richards would take her back if it were known she'd traveled to France in the company of Albert Bascombe. That she had not gone willingly would have no bearing on the matter—compromised was compromised, regardless of how it came about. The only honorable outcome would be a marriage to Bascombe, and the very thought sent a shudder of distaste through her. After all, who could wish to be married to a fool, no matter how rich or how amiable that fool might be. She could just see herself trying to discuss anything of import with him. Unless he was speaking of Patrick Danvers, he had next to nothing to say. Patrick Danvers—aye, there was the rub.

Despite Danvers' reputation, she could not deny an attraction to him. Certainly she would be hard put to find a more handsome man, and she had to own that there was more to him than looks. After all, she could scarce imagine any buck of the
ton
holding her over a basin as he had done. No, there was something about him—something she could not quite fathom—that puzzled her. There was no question that he'd earned the reputation he had—he'd admitted as much; and yet … yet there was a gentleness, a humanity about him that she found surprising. After all, how many people would tolerate an Albert Bascombe, no matter how devoted Bascombe proved to be? Yet Patrick Danvers seemed to count him a responsibility. A responsibility. And now he would count her a responsibility too. Well, she did not want to be anyone's responsibility—not now, not ever. When she married—if she married—she wanted to be her husband's lasting passion rather than his burden.

Her thoughts turned to his first proposal, the bloodless bargain he'd offered—his name for an heir. She'd been astounded and offended by the preposterous offer. Now he merely offered his name and his protection for nothing. Somehow, it was no comfort to know that he would not expect any intimacy between them. No, not even on those terms would she marry him.

Resolutely she reached for her reticule and drew out her purse to count its pitiful contents. It was not much, but perhaps it would pay her fare somewhere until she could find employment. She squared her shoulders and stiffened her resolve. The sooner she acted, the better it would be for her peace of mind. She would simply slip out while Lord Westover and Mr. Bascombe were gone, and she would book passage back to England before they found her.

That decided, she threw on her pelisse and tied her chip-straw hat under her chin before cautiously making her way downstairs. The taproom and entry were empty except for servants cleaning and setting up for nuncheon. It was an easy thing to slip past them and out into the bustling innyard. A large black carriage blocked her view of the street as its owner haggled with the ostlers over stable fees. It was obvious to Caroline that the gentleman was in a hurry, for he finally flung several coins on the ground. Shouting his desire to reach Paris quickly, he brushed past his waiting coachman. When he stepped out of the way, Caroline was dismayed to see Patrick Danvers returning. Almost without thinking, she caught up to the carriage door and burst out, “Would you be so kind as to take me up, sir? My … my great-aunt lies very ill some few miles down this road and I must get to her,” she invented rapidly.

Apparently her French was sufficient, for the gentleman inside reached a hand to help her up. She settled against the squabs in time to see Lord Westover carry a box into the inn she'd left. The carriage lurched forward as the driver cracked his whip. Caroline leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a moment. She had removed herself from Patrick Danvers' insistent protection.