Chapter Twenty

Devlin approached the marquess’s townhouse only an hour after he’d seen the scandal sheets. He’d understood then there was not a moment to lose. In his experience and understanding of the ton, the marchioness would move swiftly to protect her family’s reputation and consolidate their alliances in the face of the latest scandal. That would mean offering up Fifi to the most connected bidder.

He was certain that this would be an unpleasant interview, if the marquess even agreed to speak to him. There was a deep stillness inside of him as he waited for someone to open the door. The sounds of banging and rushing around came from within the house as if some crises were being dealt with. The house was not the quiet, conservative dwelling of a marquess and his family at present. If pandemonium reigned, then perhaps there was a crisis caused by Fifi telling her parents that she wished to marry a commoner. He smiled ruefully at that thought and masked his expression as the solid door cracked open.

“Will you inform the marquess that Mr. Devlin Byrne is here to see him?” he asked the butler who had opened the door.

“I will inquire whether my lord is at home to you…sir,” he said.

The pause before reluctantly saying the word “sir” was just a trifle too long, and the door was then firmly closed. There was some considerable wait before his return, and Devlin’s keen ears heard raised voices coming from within the house. He thought he heard the words, “How dare the bounder call on me; the man is an utter scoundrel…” and he suspected the explosive utterance had been the marquess, who must have yelled them at great volume.

He could pick out the muffled sounds of more speech, but the words were quieter and could not be distinguished from the stone steps of the townhouse. Devlin let it wash over him. It was not the first time he had been refused entrance to a grand house.

He waited, taking two paces back and forth on the top step, counting his steps—he was reaching two hundred—when the door opened again. The same butler stood there and sniffed before pompously saying, “My lord will grant you a brief interview…Mr. Byrne.”

With grim amusement, Devlin noticed the replacement of the word “sir.” He stepped inside, and the butler closed the door behind him, taking his damp coat, hat, and umbrella. The butler showed him down a corridor and knocked on a door.

“Mr. Byrne to see you, my lord,” the butler intoned pompously.

Devlin entered, and the butler closed the door behind him. Seated at a large mahogany desk was the marquess. He had clearly got his temper somewhat disciplined, and the empty brandy glass on the desktop suggested he had swigged a measure to control his fury. The pinpoints of high color on Fifi’s father’s cheekbones proved that attempt had not been entirely successful.

“Well, what do you want, man? This intrusion into my privacy is beyond intolerable,” were the first words the marquess uttered.

“I want to seek your blessings on the union of your daughter, Lady Ophelia, to myself,” Devlin stated, knowing that whatever answer he would receive from this blustering, irate man would not be positive.

“Refused! I’ll never permit my daughter to marry scum of your ilk. Now be off with you. This interview is over!” The marquess was trying hard not to shout the word, but he was failing.

Ah, Fifi, he thought, closing his eyes briefly. Devlin never wanted to do anything to cause her pain. This would hurt her.

At his silence, the marquess stood, trying to intimidate Devlin.

“My daughter will be marrying the Earl of Langdon.”

How certain he sounded. Ice congealed inside Devlin’s chest as he stared at Fifi’s father. “Am I truly so unsuitable to be Fifi’s husband?”

The man slapped his hand on the desk. “Yes!”

“I make her happy,” Devlin said simply. “With me, she will always be cherished and protected.”

Something quick flickered in the man’s eyes before his lips flattened. “Lord Langdon will also love and protect her. He already made his offer, which was accepted, and he is even now waiting on Ophelia in the drawing room. Your presence has rudely interrupted a happy occasion.”

“She will never marry him.”

The marquess’s mouth curved into an unpleasant smile. “You have no notion of their close friendship.”

Raw silence coated the room for a precious moment. “Is there anything I can do for you and your wife to grant your blessing?”

“By God, there is nothing,” the marquess snarled, clearly aghast at his gall.

“I offer my fortune for her hand.”

The marquess staggered and stared at him as if he did not know what to make of him.

“All of it,” Devlin said. “And it amounts to over two million pounds.”

“You have clearly taken leave of your damn senses,” the man spluttered. “The answer is still no.”

“I am willing to lower to my knees and beg you if that will sway you.”

“My God, man,” the marquess sneered. “Have you no dignity?”

“I am willing to sacrifice anything for Fifi. For you see, since she is of age, she does not need your permission to marry me, my lord, but your blessing seems important to her. I presume it will make her happy, and that is the only concern of mine,” Devlin said softly without flinching. “Money…pride…dignity…nothing is as important as her happiness. I came to respectfully ask your permission, as we will be family, whether you wish it or not.”

He seemed as if he stared with some sort of understanding, and then it died.

“I’ll never accept it; she will be dead to me,” the marquess said. “Ophelia knows her duty and would not deign to marry so low…” The marquess hesitated as if less sure of himself and resorting to bluster.

Something cold and ruthless moved through Devlin. “I had hoped that you would be a sensible man over this. I hoped you might love your daughter enough to care about her happiness. I have bought up most of your debts and mortgages simply to ensure I could ruin you completely at one word to my man of business.”

The marquess paled, but Devlin remained unmoved when he leaned forward and braced his hands against the table. “However, Fifi would not like that. She loves you, so I…must tolerate your prejudice. It will be a wedding present to my bride and I will settle the rest of your debts before we wed.”

Devlin turned and strode toward the door, gripping the handle to open it.

“How dare you, you absolute scoundrel. I forbid it; you will not marry Ophelia. Get out, get out, get out before I have you thrown out!” All vestige of self-control had disappeared from the marquess’s face. “As if I would allow my daughter to marry a man from the gutter!”

Devlin stared back at the marquess, the coldness throughout him growing deeper by the second. “I want to imagine a life with your daughter as my wife. Some might sneer; others might try to look down their noses at us, and by default, you might be caught up in that. However, Fifi has a spine and heart of steel, and she is not bendable. Not by people’s opinions that do not matter to her. My wealth will, however, matter, as will my influence over their debts—gambling and otherwise—and I promise anyone who hurts her will rue the day. When I tried to make myself into a man of wealth and influence for Fifi, it was not only to buy her all the houses, dresses, country homes, and seaside resorts she wishes. It was also so that my reach would be unfathomable to those who dare think they can hurt her. You can give your blessing knowing she will be sheltered from society’s storm with a man who would give his life for her…or live knowing that if you make a move to thwart our union, one day she will disappear from under your noses, and never will you see her again, for I will take her far away from all of this.”

The marquess had faltered into remarkable stillness, and the gaze that stared at Devlin hinted of the marquess’s own ruthless nature.

Devlin allowed his mouth to curve into a humorless smile. “Do not bother to show me out. I know the way.”

…

It was utterly and wretchedly ridiculous that Ophelia had been locked inside her chamber. Pacing the carpeted floor, she silently raged.

She had bounded up the stairs after a fierce back-and-forth on the merits of why she cannot marry the earl, and to her shock, a few minutes later, she had heard the key turned in the lock. Her mother had spoken through the door, informing her that the earl would be stopping by soon and she should make herself presentable for an audience. It had almost been an hour since her maid whispered through the door that Devlin had come to call. Ophelia had not been able to warn him what he would be walking into. With a shake of her head, she realized he would very well know it, for he had always lived outside the acceptance of society.

The key turned in the lock, and she whirled around to see Effie.

“Lord Langdon is awaiting you to take a turn about the gardens. Tidy your hair and—”

Ophelia rushed past her cousin and down the stairs, aware of her bare toes and her hair flying behind her. Was Devlin still here? Hastening down the hallway, she skidded to a halt to see Peter coming from the library with her father. They were smiling and shaking hands.

“Lady Ophelia!”

Surprise flared in her mother’s eyes, and disapproval in her father’s, no doubt at her state of dishevelment.

“Forgive my manners, my lord, but I cannot speak with you just now.”

Her father smiled tightly. “Lord Langdon would like a word with you in private in the gardens.”

A word with her in private. To propose marriage—one which her father had clearly already approved.

“Where is Devlin?” she asked, painfully aware of the stuttering of her heart.

Her father’s eyes cut to the earl and then back to her face. “I do believe you mean Mr. Byrne,” he said with icy precision.

“Yes, Mr. Byrne.”

The marchioness lifted her chin. “Your father has made it clear he is not welcome in our home, and the utter gall he showed in calling upon us is too much to even speak of.”

“Mother—”

“I believe he will be away from England for the foreseeable future. Good riddance,” her mother said with feeling.

Ophelia stumbled back as if she had been pushed. “He left?”

“Yes,” her father clipped with chilling civility. “Let us retire to the drawing room. I am certain you are alarming Lord Langdon with this display.”

She had forgotten that the earl lingered in the hallway, and a quick glance revealed his intense stare upon her. Ophelia pressed her hands over her face, desperate to hide the piercing agony cutting through her. Tears slipped through her fingers.

How could he have given up on her so easily? Devlin had simply left. Why had she not answered him when he asked her if she would sail away with him? Perhaps he did not think she loved him, when she desperately wanted to spend her years with him. Why hadn’t she told him, instead of saying her “not yet” was cracking?

“What else did he say?”

“Ophelia—” her father began sternly.

Peter came over to her. “Mr. Byrne came for the same reason I did: to save your reputation…to ask for your hand in marriage,” the earl said with soft contemplation.

“He was, of course, refused,” her father said with a scoff of incredulity. As if he could not believe the man’s daring, even though she had forewarned him.

Ophelia choked on a small laugh. Devlin had done it the gentleman’s way. How much it must have taken to approach her father to ask for her hand, knowing the contempt he would face. What must her father have said to him that he would leave without speaking to her?

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him the truth of it. Should you marry him, you would no longer be a part of this family.”

“You cannot mean that, Papa,” she whispered.

Harsh resolve was stamped on his face. “He is a commoner, Ophelia.”

She appealed to her mother. “There are many people in the ton who have married below their station, Mama. Many, and they are still welcomed in society even if it is strained. It is your innate prejudice I am resisting. And that is what I am hoping you will see. It is not society’s acceptance I hope for. Hang society. I will be so scandalous and original and outrageous many will still send me invitations to their balls and drawing rooms. My friends will never forsake me. It is your acceptance that is important to me. Do you understand? It is yours.”

In the face of her heartfelt plea, her parents remained silent. Mama’s eyes were glistening with tears, but her father’s mien was icily composed.

“Will you not say something, Mama?” Ophelia inhaled on a ragged breath. “You would force me to make such a painful choice?” And of course they had every expectation that she would go to the garden to have an amiable talk with Peter and then accept his offer. She’d always had a steadfast loyalty to family and friends, yet never to her own wants and needs.

“The man you claimed to love walked away with little fight for your hand. Have you considered that, young lady?”

A sharp pain lanced through her chest. How long did it take for dreams…hope…and love to die? Ophelia turned away from her father, staring at the door. She shook under the piercing loss she felt. How could you leave me so easily?

Once you hold my hand and step forward, I will never let you go.

She faced her parents with a small smile. “Mama…Papa…I cannot imagine a world without Devlin by my side as my husband. You’ve had your story…your grand love, and it was frightful and complicated and also beautiful. I will have mine, and I will not have you interfere with it. It does not mean I love you less as my parents; however, since you are forcing me to choose…I will always choose Devlin Byrne.”

Ophelia whirled around and ran toward the door.

“Ophelia!”

The shocked tones of her mother did not stop her, but she skidded to a halt with her hand on the latch, profoundly afraid that she might open the door and he would not be there. It was raining, and he could have gone to his carriage for shelter, and his coachman might have carried him to the vast open world where she might never find him again. The fear was irrational…or perfectly acceptable, given the depths of her feelings for him.

The butler stood stoically to her left, unmoving, his face a mask of polite professionalism.

“Clarkson,” she whispered. “How long ago did he leave?”

He cleared his throat. “At least thirty minutes, my lady.”

“How did he…how did he seem to you?”

“Frightfully cold and indifferent. I have never seen such empty eyes.”

Her hands slipped from the latch, and she dropped her forehead to the door, uncaring that it hurt.

“But I believe he is still standing outside,” the butler gently said.

Ophelia’s head snapped up with such force her neck hurt. Looking up at the butler, she saw he stared straight ahead, and she wondered if she had conjured the words in her desperation.

Gripping the latch, she could not bring herself to open it. With a sense of mortification, she realized her heart could not withstand another disappointment. Uncaring of the appalled shock of her father and mother and the look of stupefaction on the earl’s face, she ran to the chair in the hallway and shoved it to the door. Clarkson politely helped her, and Ophelia hopped up, peering through the stained glass at the upper door.

And looked straight into the eyes of Devlin Byrne.

She was so shocked, she quickly dipped from his sight. Why was he just standing there, watching her door? And why was she hiding from him? The ridiculousness of it all shook a gasp of laughter from her and more wretched tears.

Wait for me…Fifi. Devlin was waiting for her. God. He would have waited for hours, days, if necessary, until she came from her townhouse, she knew. Her heart shook so fiercely it was a miracle she did not faint. Ophelia jumped down, dragged the chair away, and opened the door.

He was not there. Her chest tightened painfully. “Niall!”

He seemed to emerge from the night shadows of the sleeting rain like the prince of darkness himself. He held a large black umbrella over his head, a faithful Conan at his side. His gaze was bleak and dangerous.

“You are soaked to the bones,” she said, aware tears still ran down her cheeks. Ophelia hated tears, but she could not stop them.

A brief silence passed in which he did not move. Then he took one step closer.

“Why were you here?” she asked.

“I asked your father for permission to marry you, promising I had enough wealth that you can live as a duchess for ten lifetimes. Promising to love and cherish you forever, Fifi.”

She licked her lips. “And he said no.”

A single dip of his head.

“And you were leaving?”

His eyes stayed on her face for a very long time. “I was thinking.”

“Now is not the time for brevity, Niall,” she whispered. “What were you thinking about?”

“Will you marry me, Fifi, without his blessing?”

Her father’s shout of outrage was heard over the harsh pattering of rain and, incredibly, over her heartbeat.

“The common, wretched vulgarity of this man’s audacity! You will return inside at once, Ophelia!”

Instead of obeying her father, Ophelia took a single step over the threshold and into the sleeting rain. Yet Devlin did not move, and though she longed to fling herself into his arms, she had to spare her parents in this at least. One or two scandals were enough.

“I feel I have been waiting all my life for this moment to love you,” she said. “I feel no regret in knowing you…I feel no regret in loving you…and I do love you most astonishingly. ‘Not yet’ crumbled a long time ago. I want to take your hand and step forward.”

Devlin jerked, the umbrella shaking, before he stilled. Then he smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“I will marry you,” she said with a light laugh. “And I promise to love and cherish you for all my lifetimes.”

“Over my dead body will you marry this man,” her father snapped, perilously close behind her.

Something dark moved over her lover’s face, and his eyes gleamed. “I will arrange your wish, Lord Shelton,” he commented in a tone of polite boredom.

“Papa,” Ophelia gasped. “He teases you. In time you will come to understand his black humor, even appreciate it and love it as I do.”

A choking sound came from behind her, but she paid it no heed. Suddenly, a sob burst from her, and she ran down the steps and into his arms, pulling herself close to him.

He pressed a kiss of violent tenderness to her forehead. “Who would I be if I didn’t meet you, Fifi?” he murmured harshly. Yet the touch against her cheek was impossibly tender. “Who am I without you?”

He gave her the umbrella, and once she held it, Devlin lifted her into his arms and walked her toward his carriage, away from the shocked stares of her mother and the spluttering of her father. And yet she couldn’t help laughing and crying.

“Are those happy tears?” he demanded gruffly.

“The happiest.” Her voice was muffled against his waistcoat.

She shifted in his arms, tucking her head against the corded muscles of his throat.

“I have a special license in my top pocket.”

She squeezed him so tightly he grunted. “Let’s find a vicar to marry us tomorrow.” When he pressed a kiss to her forehead, she felt his smile. “Devlin…I waited for you.”

“I love you, Fifi, so damn much.”

“I love you, too… Now take me to our cottage.”

She smiled faintly. And so did he.