Fallen Angel (37 page)

A flicker of something came and went in his eyes. The fingers which had been digging into her arms relaxed their cruel pressure. The thin line of his mouth softened. He released his warm breath on a whispered sigh.

"Oho! So my bloodthirsty wife would like to see me torn limb from limb would she? Little savage!" His thumb brushed the mutinous set of her lips.

Some day, he promised himself, some day he would confess the whole, when Maddie had learned to trust him implicitly. They would look back and laugh about the episode at

Grantham. But for the present, it behooved him to proceed with the greatest caution. "Maddie, listen to me please." He chose his next words with care. "The lady," he said vaguely, "was not there by invitation. She bribed the landlord to gain entrance to my room. She had scarcely entered when Jack Ponsonby and his cronies came charging through the door. Nothing happened. Nor would it have. I'm a married man now. That means something to me. Why would I even want another woman, when I have you as my private possession? I'm not fickle with my friends. Do you suppose that I would be any less loyal to the woman I have chosen for my wife? Trust me, Maddie, and I'll never give you cause to regret it."

Orpheus could not have played his lute more sweetly to beguile the shades in the Underworld, thought Maddie, than Deveryn plied his voice to charm her from her humour. Everything about him was mesmerizing—the liquid harmony of his accents; the fall of wheat-gold hair across the brow giving him that attractively boyish aspect; the transparency of blue eyes, hiding nothing, like a Scottish loch, still, deep, and clear down to its rocky bottom; and that smile—slow and utterly winsome. The whole effect was devastating . . . and as smooth as the polished granite sink in Drumoak's kitchen. She didn't trust him.

"Miss Ramides is only a drop in the bucket. An ocean separates us, Deveryn." The words came out clipped and bitter when she had hoped for a semblance of serenity.

"You are my wife. Nothing can change that fact," he answered evenly.

She picked nervously at a loose thread on the seam of her glove. "I wouldn't count on it. I understand a little about these marriages of declaration. The parties are supposed to set up house together. In our case that didn't happen. Perhaps, if you applied to the solicitor. . ." Her gaze drifted to his and the fury she saw building there brought her to a sudden halt.

He lifted her in his arms, none too gently, and hoisted her over the wall as if she had been a sack of coal.

"Mount up," he told her curtly a moment later and cupped his gloved hands for her booted foot. She vaulted into the saddle without a murmur, though every bone and muscle in her body made known their displeasure.

When they came to the edge of the park, he reined in and turned in the saddle to face her. She felt the probe of his eyes like a violent attack. His voice, when he spoke, held none of the warmth which had earlier charmed her.

"Make up your mind to it, Maddie, we are married, period. Need I remind you that our marriage was thoroughly consummated? Furthermore—don't say a word," he threatened when he saw her lips begin to move. "Furthermore, if I were to marry any other woman, the legitimacy of my future heirs would be forever called into question. You are my wife. Only my sense of decency has prevented me from descending on your grandfather and carrying you off by the scruff of the neck as you deserve. Argue with me on this point one more time and I'll make you regret that you ever learned to talk!"

"Who's arguing?" She could not resist the taunt.

Fleetingly, his eyes warmed. "You always have to turn every conversation into a debate! But on this subject, madam wife, I intend to have the last word!"

"It's yours," she needled.

He shot her a look of amused indulgence. "There's only one sure way to silence you," he said. "I was saving that pleasure for later. But if you go on like this . . ."

A cry rang out across the park, and both riders turned in the saddle to observe a horse and rider making in their direction.

"Sophie!" said Deveryn. "We'll talk of this later. For the present, we'll go on as we were before. Be on your best behaviour and take your cue from me."

Maddie did not mistake the softly spoken imperative for anything less than it was—a threat. Still, his words reassured her a little. "We'll go on as we were before," he had said. A temporary respite was better than nothing at all, she reasoned.

As Deveryn's young sister drew level with them, Maddie pinned a smile of greeting on her lips. She had stumbled into a tortuous maze. Until she could see her way out of it, it were prudent, she decided, to play the game as Deveryn wanted. When she extended her hand to Lady Sophie as Deveryn made the introductions, Maddie's manners could not have been faulted.

Deveryn was in a foul humour, which was nothing out of the ordinary of late, he told himself violently, as he allowed Martin to ease him into his black tailored evening coat. Ever since he'd met the prickly thistle from Scotland, his peace had been cut to shreds. But now he tottered on the brink of disaster, and all because of that one act of defiance on the part of the impetuous chit. Her fiery temper could damn well plunge them both into a scandal to rock Court circles, as well as bring infamy upon his family name. Damn her to hell!

The valet was dismissed with a curt word of thanks, and Deveryn subsided into a capacious wing armchair. The cheroot he had been smoking earlier was on the stand at his elbow. He picked it up and inhaled deeply, his thoughts drifting to the conversation he'd had earlier with his brother-in-law. Max was a barrister who was speedily making a name for himself in his field. As a younger son of a younger son, he'd been forced to take up some profession or other and claimed that it was no hardship, since he was fascinated by everything connected with law. Deveryn had quizzed him about marriages performed in Scotland, particularly marriages of declaration. Max had thereupon embarked on a long and complex tale of Robbie Burns, Scotland's Bard, whose wife had repudiated a similar type marriage and in so doing had borne bastards to the poet until such time as he'd persuaded her to a more regular union. The story made Deveryn's hair stand on end.

Since he had no desire to take Max fully into his confidence, he'd thought it expedient to turn the conversation. It was
evident, however, that his brother-in-law's curiosity was at bursting point. In the end, Deveryn had made up his mind that the only safe course was to write to the solicitor in Edinburgh as soon as he returned to town. He could not credit that Mr. Forsythe would have loaned his support to anything irregular. Of course, it could be that Maddie was right in her conjecture and that until they openly cohabited and let the whole world know it, the legality of their marriage would be in question.

His lips compressed into a tight line as he remembered that it was only an hour ago that he'd decided he was done with playing a waiting game. The talk about Grantham paled into insignificance in light of what Max had disclosed. With Samuel Spencer's blessing, he'd thought he could damn well force Maddie to set up house with him. Where else could she go? And he was certain that once the facts were laid before Samuel Spencer, he'd have the announcement of their marriage in the
Gazette
before he, Deveryn, could change his gloves. He was a damn good catch. He knew it. The girl couldn't do better.

Or so he'd thought till he had been rudely jolted out of his complacency by a few distracted words of his mother's as they ascended the stairs to dress for dinner.

"Did I mention that Uncle George will be joining us for dinner? He arrived this afternoon, but he'll be gone by tomorrow, so I shouldn't think you need consider his preferences for this houseparty you've planned.".

"For dinner?" he'd replied absently. "What could possibly drag him away from Raeburn Abbey?"

"Mary's friend, what's her name? Oh yes, Miss Sinclair. There's a betrothal there in the offing,, so I am given to understand. I feel rather sorry for the girl. Though I'm devoted to my cousin George, of course, it's my experience that these Spring and Autumn marriages are rarely happy."

He'd spun to face his mother. "What?"

His mother's look of surprise had quickly given way to speculation. "Uncle George.
He
's courtirtg Miss Sinclair," she clarified.

"Over my dead body!" he had bit out vehemently, and had spun on his heel to stalk to his own chamber.

It was this intelligence which shook him more than anything, for he did not know if Samuel Spencer would settle for an aspiring earl when a full-fledged duke had fallen into his lap. And as for his mother's cousin, Raeburn . . . who could tell? Heiresses were not to be had growing on trees, and Uncle George was known to have inherited a pile of debts when he succeeded to the title. To lay the whole story before Samuel Spencer now while Maddie still kept him at arm's length was not to be thought of. It was necessary to make their marriage incontrovertible fact before taking others into their confidence.

He threw the stub of his cigar into the smouldering fire with an angry motion of his wrist. The whole enterprise pivoted on Maddie! Not that he would be fool enough to let her know it. In her present frame of mind, she might very easily send him to the roustabouts with a snap of her fingers. He was not forgetting her antipathy based on his past actions with respect to her father. Add to that, Cynthia, Drumoak, and Dolly Ramides and his offences in her eyes must be serious indeed.

He'd been dealt a poor hand, there was no getting round it. Somehow, he had to better the odds. He examined the problem from all angles and came full circle to his original conclusion. Everything pivoted on Maddie. The thing could be settled quietly and without scandal if she would only admit to being his wife.

This last thought roused him to cold anger. There were dozens of women he could name who would give their eye teeth to be in her position. Why the hell did it have to be
her?—
a woman, a girl really, whose experience of the world was so slight that she could not recognize the good fortune that had befallen her? The word "love" he discarded as too commonplace to describe their condition. This was Fate; Answered Prayer where no petition had been made; divine intervention; The Doctrine of Grace in comprehensible form. Maddie was too ignorant to recognize it for what it was. And that made it
hell
for him. Her mind was bent on tallying accounts, calling in debts, vindicating her position. He wanted simply to immerse himself in her, blending body and soul till it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. A year ago he would have laughed himself silly if any of his friends had confided such maudlin sentiments to him. Unmanly, Jason, he told himself sadly. Also, undeniably true.

He rose and took a turn around the room, his brow creased in thought. Martin walked in a moment later to hear his master's lips whistling the refrain of some bawdy drinking song he had not heard in an age. His own lips lifted slightly.

"My lord?" he intoned mildly, and he began to fold away the pile of discarded clothes which were thrown on the bed.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you, old chap," answered the viscount as he slipped through the open door. The thought that he was about to embark on his delayed honeymoon had cheered him considerably.

Maddie was not slow to remark the viscount's cocky smile as they sat down to dinner. There were fourteen at the table, some few with whom Maddie was unacquainted: her host, the Earl of Rossmere, whose likeness to the viscount had tied her tongue in knots when they had been first introduced; Mr. William Lamb; Lady Sophie; and her governess, Miss Trimmer, an elderly dragon whose sharp eyes missed nothing. For the first time, Maddie was very glad that she'd had the benefit of Mr. Clarke's tutoring.

She found herself agreeably placed between Mr. Lamb and Mr. Branwell. Deveryn sat opposite, slightly to her right, between his sister and Lady Caro. Freddie Ponsonby and Toby Blanchard were there as well. On her host's left was "The Toast," Lady Elizabeth Heatherington. The Duke of Raeburn, whom Maddie was not at all sure she was pleased to see, was seated on his hostess's left hand. The guest of honour, Mr. Scott, naturally, on her right.

Maddie's eyes surreptitiously swept the table! She'd been told by Lady Mary that at the Countess of Rossmere's board, manners were very informal. She could tell at a glance, however, that there was nothing informal about the order in which the countess had placed her guests. Protocol was observed to the letter. She thought that her tutor, Mr. Clarke, ' would have been unconditional in his praise. It took her only a minute or two to work out that she was at the very bottom of the ladder. The thought was lowering.

As if sensing her slight pique, Mr. Branwell intoned in her ear, "Mr. Scott may be the guest of honour, but the menu has been chosen with you in mind." At her look of surprise, he explained, "Lord Deveryn's doing."