Seven

Several weeks later, the Doves met Devonworth’s family on the eve of the wedding. Hathaway and Mainwaring were also in attendance. It was assumed by everyone present that the viscount would offer for the youngest sister, Eliza, that very evening because he had asked to speak with Devonworth and Hathaway privately after dinner. They all simply needed to survive the meal first.

Devonworth was becoming less confident as the night wore on that such a feat was possible. For one, his mother was looking paler and icier with every course. By dessert, he mused that she very well might expire from disappointment right there at the table. She had been relieved when he had announced his marriage and its financial ramifications and had proposed hosting the meal. He would have bet every last penny he stood to gain from the marriage that this would be the last such meal they all shared under her roof.

For one, his mother and Mrs. Dove were polar opposites. His mother was the very image of a countess. She wore an elegant black gown trimmed in dove-gray satin with a high neck and modest sleeves. Her dark hair streaked with the silver to be expected of someone in their fiftieth year was worn up in a respectable style, each strand held in place by bandoline. Mrs. Dove, on the other hand, wore a burgundy gown trimmed with a darker wine-colored velvet that, while not indecently low-cut, was low enough to raise a brow, leaving her shoulders bare. It worked better for a ballroom than a staid dinner table. Her curled hair had been pinned up to fall in ringlets over one shoulder and betrayed not a shimmer of silver. It was anyone’s guess whether this was natural—she was in her early forties—or the effect of dye. One look at his mother’s face upon their meeting and Devonworth knew which she believed.

It had only gone downhill from there. Through the course of the meal, Mrs. Dove had spoken in no less than six different accents, most of them intentional, he believed, but a couple of them had seemed to take even her by surprise. Those had been later in the evening after she had finished off an entire bottle of wine on her own. Devonworth found her amusing. It was safe to say his mother did not.

The differences in their families didn’t end there. The sisters and their mother were simply more animated and enthusiastic in their conversation. Years of breeding had made it so that his family and others like them dined with the utmost efficiency of movement, and they spoke the same way. He hadn’t particularly noticed it before, but watching the sisters throw their heads back to laugh or exclaim at some new information made them seem more alive, as if they were living in the world. His own family, by comparison, seemed to simply exist, and the world operated around them. They didn’t immerse themselves in joy. Amusement was displayed by fleeting laughs and smiles that barely creased their faces. Nothing was to be enjoyed or savored to any extreme.

For his part, Harry seemed to have noticed these differences as well. Oh, he pretended to be jaded and older than his twenty-one years, but the way he kept eyeing the family with fascination was plain to anyone who cared to notice. Perhaps it was more than fascination that kept his gaze going back to the younger Dove sisters. Devonworth made a mental note to fund the Continental tour his brother had been begging to take for months. It would keep him out of the way until the sisters were safely married.

“My lord?”

Devonworth was brought back to the present by a footman offering him a selection of chocolates. He shook his head, and the man continued to Miss Dove. His bride’s eyes lit up as she accepted a few.

“Do you enjoy chocolate?” he asked in a low voice so as not to disturb Hathaway, who was telling yet another story about his travels.

It was odd to him that he knew almost nothing about her personally but they were meant to be married tomorrow. Many Society marriages were arranged, but the families knew each other, had known each other for decades if not centuries. His peculiar arrangement with Miss Dove was almost medieval. It made him feel protective of her.

She nodded. “It’s my favorite.” She brought one to her mouth and turned her attention to Hathaway farther down the table.

Devonworth allowed himself a moment to take her in. She wore an appropriate dinner dress of bottle-green silk. The color set off the red highlights in her hair attractively. Though not fashionable, her hair was quite possibly her most intriguing feature. He had found himself wondering more than once what it would look like unbound.

Her next most intriguing feature was her lips. They were unexpectedly sensual on a face that was otherwise pleasing but not quite beautiful. The soft fullness of them closed around the piece of chocolate, and an undeniable tug of arousal pulsed through his groin. He cleared his throat against the unexpected pull and drew her gaze. She caught him looking. He startled at his lapse in propriety and inclined his head in acknowledgment, and then forced his gaze if not his attention to Hathaway, who was now regaling them with his tale of a lion hunt.

“Perhaps, my lord, you might consider accompanying me on my next hunt,” Hathaway said. “I am told you are a huntsman yourself.”

“I hunt for food, not sport. I’ve no interest in eating lion.”

“But there is nothing like the rush of stalking big game and—”

“Charles,” Mrs. Dove intervened. “For the love of all that is holy”—his mother flinched at that—“no one wants to talk about your escapades in Africa. We are here to celebrate their upcoming nuptials. How about we do more of that and less of . . . you?” Mrs. Dove raised her wineglass in a mock toast to the table at large and took a swallow of her dessert wine.

He rather liked her gumption. Cora’s eyes widened in alarm. Jenny covered a smile with her hand, and Eliza sat in wide-eyed silence as her mouth gaped open.

“I wasn’t aware there was an embargo on the conversation, Mrs. Dove.” Mr. Hathaway put extra emphasis on her name, as if to remonstrate against her use of his first name.

There seemed to be a strange and slightly acrimonious relationship between the two of them. It made him wonder if they had been lovers at one time, but that line of thought would have to wait for later.

“Thank you, Mrs. Dove.” Devonworth motioned to the footmen, who scrambled to pour the champagne that had been waiting on the sideboard. One of them put a glass into Devonworth’s hand, which he promptly raised. “I would like to take this moment to propose a toast to my bride.” The table came to attention, and he waited as everyone was handed a coupe. “You are very much not what I expected, Miss Dove. In fact, you are more than I could have imagined.” She flushed very prettily, and he added, “You are lovely, kind, and intelligent. I could ask for no better qualities in my countess.”

“You are a very fine man, my lord, and I can think of no one I would prefer to call husband.”

“I look forward to our future together.” It was all true, he realized. He enjoyed the twinkle of mischief in her eyes and the gleam of intelligence she didn’t try to hide. Something about her drew him in, and he couldn’t quite understand what it was, but he liked it very much.

“As do I, my lord.”

He even liked the way she said that. She smiled and drank from her glass, reminding him that he had yet to drink from his own. He tossed back a swallow. There were murmurs of approval all around, and even Mr. Hathaway seemed pleased again.

“Shall we retire to the drawing room?” Devonworth said to no one in particular. The sooner this evening was done with, the better.

He held out his arm for Miss Dove to escort her from the room. Mr. Hathaway took Lady Devonworth. Fanny exited with Harry, leaving the viscount to escort both of the sisters. Devonworth intentionally kept Miss Dove behind as the others disappeared into the drawing room.

“How are you?” he asked her.

She gave him a sheepish look. “I don’t think your mother appreciates the finer qualities of my family.”

He laughed. It was true, but his mother knew they had little choice. “I love my mother, but she can be a bit snobbish.”

She laughed at that. “There will be no shortage of that, I’m afraid.”

“Do you mean tomorrow?”

“I am anxious about the wedding breakfast.”

They would be married in a small ceremony at St. James’s with a handful of friends and family present. The wedding breakfast would be much larger with notable members of Society and Parliament attending to meet her.

“You’ve no need for worry. There won’t be much conversation expected of you. We’ll simply stand there and appear gracious as everyone lines up to wish us well in our marriage.”

“Don’t forget, there will be those who come to gawk.”

He scoffed. “There will always be those. No doubt the papers will list a running tally of our wedding gifts.”

She fidgeted with the ribbon at her waist, a nervous habit she seemed to do when in his presence. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

He took her hand without realizing he had done it until her fingers stilled beneath his. He liked how her hand felt in his palm. It was solid and warm with just the right amount of softness. “We should decide now that we won’t let anything they write about us interfere with our relationship. All of that exists outside of us. What we have together is what matters.”

“What do we have, my lord?” Her eyes were more blue tonight than gray and filled with an uncertainty that brought out a tenderness within him.

“A friendship . . . I hope.”

She smiled at him, and something inside him startled as everything else faded away except the two of them.

“I’d like that,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said, looking away before he became further enraptured by the depth of her eyes. He squeezed her hand and guided her into the drawing room. Starting tomorrow, it would be the two of them against the world. He barely knew her, but already he was prepared to defend her at all costs if it came to it. She was giving him and his brother a future; he couldn’t do any less for her.