Chapter Eleven

Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched her attempt to salvage things with Lovelace.

And after so blatantly insulting her!

Seeing them standing there side-by-side talking too low to be overheard caused an ugly feeling to swell inside him. He squashed it down, determined to suffocate that flame until it died out. He knew he was being played, that she was using Lovelace to try and make him, or Devlin, rather, jealous. And it was working, to some extent. There was no denying it.

But no matter what wiles she employed, the knowledge of who he really was did not fail to pull him back from the brink of idiocy. Evening out his breaths, he focused on resetting the chessboard and tried not to overhear what she was saying to the other man.

His effort to dissuade her from Lovelace seemed to have failed utterly. Which meant he’d have to try again. But not tonight. He’d already slipped up once in front of the blackguard and didn’t care to tempt fate again.

When the last piece was reset, he rose and went over to join his host, who at once handed him the glass of brandy he’d been pouring.

St. Peters grimaced in distaste as he poured another for himself and murmured, “The matter we spoke of earlier needs must be resolved, and quickly. I cannot see anything built upon such a foundation standing for long. A suitable alternative must be found.”

“Agreed,” he murmured back, understanding the man perfectly. “But I fear our would-be builder may not wish to entertain alternatives.”

“Then I’ll retract the permit,” bit out St. Peters. “Then they cannot build.”

And Daniel knew precisely how well that tactic would work. “Let me try what we previously discussed first,” he said, wondering if indeed he was being a fool for not letting the man simply handle it by the most expedient means.

But he knew enough of Olivia to know her reaction to being strong-armed. She’d squeak out from under her father’s thumb and quite likely do something rash, and if it involved Lovelace, such might well be the ruination of her.

St. Peters knew it, too, and hesitated only for a moment before nodding and moving off to collect his daughter.

As planned, Daniel would keep her from getting too close to Lovelace by placing himself between them, drive him away, and then extricate himself. It was that last part that had him most worried. He’d have to find a way to disappoint her enough to make her truly dislike him.

Why could she not have chosen someone other than Lovelace? Or my thrice-blind brother, for that matter? She could have chosen someone decent, but instead one is a philanderer and the other scum! Perhaps someone else should choose a husband for her…

It was an epiphany.

He’d always avoided meddling in people’s love lives, but he felt he was a fairly good judge of character and ought to be able to select a proper husband for Olivia. After all, he had her best interests at heart. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed.

Yes. Such a course would solve all our problems. He’d learn her likes and dislikes—and yes, her faults, too—all the things that would help him choose someone perfect for her while hopefully diminishing his own alarmingly inappropriate feelings toward her. Then, he’d put the two of them together and let nature and sentiment take over.

The trick will, again, be to make her think it’s her own idea.

In the meantime, he’d also do a bit of careful digging on Lovelace. He didn’t like how eager the fellow was to woo Olivia. It would be different if he were a good man, but he wasn’t. And though the pair had spent some time together tonight, he saw no fondness whatsoever in the other man’s eyes when he looked at her. Not even the barest hint.

That bothered Daniel. It shouldn’t, given that so many marriages within the upper crust were made without any consideration for the heart. But he’d always felt it shouldn’t be so. Marriages devoid of affection often resulted in one or both parties committing adultery, which was a grave sin indeed.

So distasteful was the idea of marrying a couple that felt no love for each other that he’d purposely avoided advancement within the clergy to prevent being transferred to a wealthier, more populous parish. He liked his provincial life, liked living so close to his childhood home, and enjoyed performing wedding ceremonies for people that truly longed to be together and fully intended to honor their vows.

A pang of homesickness struck, sudden and potent, just as a servant came in bearing word that Lovelace’s carriage was pulling ‘round. Looking at his lavish surroundings, Daniel longed for the simple stone walls of his rectory, for the peace and quiet of home.

He missed his pokey little hallway. He missed the scent of wood smoke—the hearths at his brother’s house all burned coal. He missed the contentment of hearing his neighbors call out, “Good evening!” to one another in passing outside his window at twilight.

He missed it all. So much. And he especially missed his parishioners, the familiar faces of people he’d known for years, some of whom he’d grown accustomed to seeing almost every day.

When I return, I’m never leaving Harper’s Grove again.

“You are somewhere far away from here, I think.”

Blinking, he turned and saw Olivia, who’d plainly been standing there staring at him for some time. Looking around, he marked that St. Peters and Lovelace had gone.

“He’ll be back,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “Eventually.”

Daniel knew she wasn’t referring to her father. His next words erupted from his mouth with zero forethought. “You cannot still be entertaining the thought of marrying that scoundrel?”

A startled chuckle burst from her ripe mouth, the sound delighting him even as it bespoke trouble. “Unless a better choice presents itself…” She gave an insouciant shrug.

Her words played right into his hands. Only he had no desire to pick up and play the card he’d agreed to play. “You have your pick of gentlemen, yet you would encourage a man who looks on you with open disdain based upon a title that makes him no better than any servant in your house. His rank gives him no right to treat you with such scorn.”

A bright spark of anger flared to life in her green eyes. “Though it…annoys me to be looked down upon by the titled, I bear their slights with grace because I must in order to move among them. But make no mistake—I don’t partake in the belief that rank bestows greatness upon any man, certainly not one that inherited his title from his doubtless worthier forebears.” The anger dissipated, and a tiny smile twitched the corner of her mouth. “You have a most unusual view of social hierarchy, considering you’re the son of a duke.”

Damn. Time to clean up his mess. “Even had I not been banished, I was born so far down the line of succession as to make it all but impossible for me to inherit.” He smiled ruefully. “My oldest brother reminded me of this on a daily basis, as did our father, though not through any specific words on his part. He rather communicated his view of my importance, or lack thereof, by how he treated me. I was an afterthought, just another ‘spare’ only to be remembered when some event necessitated it.”

Olivia, who’d lived her entire life as a beloved only child, pampered and spoiled from the moment of her birth, could hardly be expected to understand, yet instantly her face conveyed sympathy. “How awful!”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “It was not as bad as all that. There were five of us born after the golden heir and his understudy. Aside from the obligatory tutoring, I and my fellow spares were mostly allowed our freedom, provided we stayed out of trouble. And, for the most part, we did. We learned very quickly that it was preferable to remain out of sight and out of mind, as Father could be most unpleasant when vexed.”

“You mean you only ever saw him when he was angry?” She looked crushed by the idea.

“Oh, we were occasionally trotted out to stand as testaments to his virility, at which times he was usually pleased to see us, but other than that, as long as we behaved ourselves, we were left in peace—unlike Drake and David, who were expected to hang at his coattails and emulate him, of course.” The bitterness that had crept into his voice couldn’t be helped.

Indeed, Drake had become their father all over again, to the point of pressing him to distance himself from Devlin. David, however, had always chafed under Father’s aegis. He’d wanted to run wild with his younger siblings. On rare occasions, he’d actually done so—until their father’s inevitable intervention put a stop to it. Remembrance gentled his tone. “Even if we spares were largely ignored, we always had each other. And we still do.” Clearing his throat, he got back to it. “Especially since, with only one exception, I’ve reconciled with them.”

She tutted and shook her head. “Yes, about that. I really think our little club will do a great deal for you in that regard. Once it’s become well established, you ought to invite your sister to a ball.”

Merciful Lord… His stomach quietly knotted at the idea of further involving Diana in this farce. On the outside, however, he maintained his placid demeanor and simply nodded agreement.

“It would be an excellent backdrop for your next reunion,” she continued with growing enthusiasm. “You’ll be fully ‘reformed’ by then. And I’m sure that by, say Easter, Saint’s will be the place to be seen.”

Of that, he had no doubt. Her ideas were sound, her plans well thought out, and her will to see them through was formidable, to say the least. Again, he couldn’t help thinking that, had Devlin seen this side of Olivia, he might not have been so eager to be shot of her. It was an uncomfortable thought.

No. She’ll do better. Better than Lovelace. Better than Devlin. And, before he could stop from thinking it: Better than me.

…

Olivia frowned with disappointment at her father’s all-too swift return and positively scowled when he at once sent her up to bed as if she were twelve years old. But she didn’t dare protest. Not when he was in this mood.

She’d been offended by Lovelace’s attitude, certainly, but Papa, whose origins were truly humble, had likely felt his insult most keenly. A man who’d done nothing to earn his wealth or stature, who’d been handed a life of ease by simple virtue of being born into the right situation, had mocked him, a self-made, wealthier, and far more noble-hearted man. And he’d done it in front of his business partner, who also happened to be the son of a duke, albeit a disgraced “spare.”

The look on her father’s face had told her it’d been almost too much for him to bear in silence. She knew he’d only done so for her sake.

On the bright side, no matter how she dangled the threat of accepting Lovelace in front of Devlin to keep him in line, she knew Papa would never allow it.

A good thing, too, she thought with a soft snort as she stripped down to her chemise. I’d sooner marry a rat.

Devlin, on the other hand, had managed to affirm her good opinion of him and further prove to Papa his worthiness as a prospective son-in-law. Instead of balking at her involvement in the new club’s construction, he’d respected her input. As well, his masterful handling of Lovelace had been not only impressive, but endearing. Even now, her heart was warmed by the memory of how he’d turned the odious man’s insults around to make him look a fool.

And then there were his increasingly warm smiles and all the little glances she’d caught him sneaking at her throughout the day to consider. Those blue eyes had constantly strayed in her direction. There were times she’d swear she’d felt the weight of their gaze settle on her like a light touch. Of course, he’d always been in the act of turning the other way by the time she’d looked, but the way his ears had subsequently flushed all but confirmed his clandestine observation of her person.

It was clear she now had both his attention and his admiration, and she couldn’t deny it felt good to finally balance the scales.

Pulling the pins from her hair, she sifted through the new knowledge gleaned from their more recent conversations. He’d certainly had a different upbringing than she. So many siblings! Doubtless, he’d never suffered loneliness like she had. And how delightful it must have been to grow up practically free of parental interference!

Even as she thought these things, guilt assaulted her. She’d been extraordinarily fortunate to have a father who adored her such that he’d kept her close. And she might not have had siblings or even playmates, but she’d been the apple of Papa’s eye and he’d rarely denied her anything she’d wanted.

Things would no doubt have been very different had Mama produced more children, especially sons. She’d have been raised a proper lady in every sense, not just in manners and appearance. There would’ve been no sitting at her father’s feet during his meetings. There would’ve been no learning his business or, later, assisting him. Those things would have fallen to her brothers.

She’d have been sent to her aunts and taught purely female pursuits. Like embroidery… With no one to bear witness save the mirror before her, she pulled a disgusted face. Perhaps, not knowing any better, I might have enjoyed such a life. But I seriously doubt it.

Still, the idea of growing up with siblings held a certain charm. The way Devlin spoke of his family—she’d seen in his eyes the love he held for them. Especially for the one brother in particular, the clergyman. Ooh, it gave her shivers remembering how wroth he’d been when Lovelace had belittled the man!

She paused, brush in hand, and frowned. Why had Lovelace done it? That he and Devlin had known each other in their youth was a given and that there’d been animosity between them a certainty, but why disparage a man he’d likely not seen in years? A holy man, no less? Though she longed for details, she strongly suspected Devlin would refuse to enlighten her.

But I can still ask… She added it to the growing mental list of questions she had for Devlin.

Another question, though not for Devlin, rose to the forefront of her thoughts. Given Papa’s provisions for his legacy and that Lovelace quite clearly thought her low birth an insult to his very presence, why was he even attempting to woo her? Not that she wasn’t grateful, of course. His interest would serve to dispel the nasty rumors about her carrying Devlin’s child out of wedlock—Lovelace would never pursue her if he believed it possible—but the question remained: why choose her when a richer harvest was available for the plucking if he but stretched out his hand?

…

Friday

Olivia’s heart began to pound with excitement as Marie withdrew, having delivered her message. Despite the rain, Lord Devlin had arrived a few minutes early. Quickly, she bit her lips a little to deepen their color before snatching up her reticule and gloves and making her way to the stairs.

Papa had left for Sumner’s half an hour ago, and she knew despite his threats that it was unlikely he’d join her at Bletchly’s. In spite of the relative freedom his absence provided, however, she’d decided not to push her luck. Her “armor” this evening was, comparatively speaking, a rather conservative affair, being neither too low cut nor provocatively sheer. The forest green silk was contrary to the current trend toward pastels, but that would only make her stand out more. And the jewel tone flattered her complexion, making her skin all roses and cream and her eyes shine like emeralds. She’d not fail to capture Devlin’s complete attention tonight!

Her prediction was all but proven as she began her descent and spied him at the bottom of the steps.

Blue eyes widened as he caught sight of her, and his hands stilled, frozen in the act of relinquishing his cloak and rain-dampened gloves to a footman. Not a sound issued forth from his slack mouth as she reached his level and elegantly extended her fingers. She couldn’t help the tiny, smug smile that pulled at her own lips as he swiftly doffed his top hat and bent over it—and apparently forgot that a gentleman wasn’t supposed to actually kiss a lady’s hand during the formal greeting.

Though brief, the warm slide of his fingers against her palm and the hot, silken touch of his plush lips on the back of her hand sent a shock throughout her whole body that wiped the smile from her face. Lord, have mercy… She was hard-put not to mirror his stunned expression as he rose. The man could melt her at a glance, but the feel of his mouth against her bare skin threatened to scorch her very soul.

Before she could even begin to formulate a reply, he cleared his throat and took a step back. “I’m honored to accompany you this evening, Miss St. Peters,” he grated out in a voice like honeyed gravel.

His withdrawal was a thing felt, as if someone had yanked a string tied to an anchor buried somewhere just above her navel. The potency of the queer sensation made her sway toward him a little before catching herself. “It was very kind of you to escort me this evening,” she managed, noting that her own voice had lowered into a sultry husk.

Again, his eyes widened, their larkspur color deepening to twilight’s end. It made her long to see if she could make them darken to midnight. Ideas on exactly how she might achieve such a feat elicited another wave of want ricocheting through her.

A servant entered to inform her the mulled wine was waiting in the salon.

“Thank you,” she murmured, dismissing the girl and struggling for calm. She’d thought herself ready to handle being alone with Devlin again, but now the prospect of a carriage ride in the dark and in close quarters was more than a little daunting. Good thing she had a bit of time to compose herself before having to bear such proximity—provided her guest cooperated.

Pasting on a rueful smile, she gestured toward the windows, which were taking a pounding. “It’s raining so hard, I thought to offer you a respite before having to brave it again. A-as for the wine, I thought something hot but a bit more bracing than tea was in order, considering how nasty it is out,” she explained, hating how awkward she suddenly sounded.

A long moment passed before he seemed to catch himself. “Ah. Yes. The rain. It’s why I decided to leave a bit early. I did not wish to cause you to worry, nor did I wish to delay your arrival at Lady Bletchly’s.” Even as he said it, the sound of the rain thrashing the windows intensified. Wry amusement lit in his eyes. “However, unless you’re in a rush, perhaps we might indeed wait a bit and see if it eases. I don’t much relish the thought of having to float all the way to our destination.”

Their soft, shared laughter broke the tension, and she relaxed. “Come. Let’s wait out nature’s wrath by the fire, then.” Glancing down at his hand, which still held his hat, she smiled. “We’ll set it by the hearth and let it dry.”

Leading him to the smaller family salon rather than the fancy one reserved for receiving guests, she opened the doors on light and warmth. All the lamps within had been lit, making it bright, and a fire blazed cheerily in the grate. Two chairs placed close together sat before it, angled just right for conversation.

It was perfect.

While he sat, she poured them each a glass of sweet, mulled wine, and silently blessed the howling tempest outside. The foul weather would provide an even better opportunity than the carriage ride might have done. Even during a storm such as this, the trip to Bletchly’s was far too short for any protracted discussion.

Depending on how long nature decides to vent her ire, our departure might be indefinitely delayed. It was a happy thought.

Handing him his wine, she took his hat and set it out to dry before settling herself. Emboldened by the intimacy of the setting, she toed off her shoes, drew up her stockinged feet, and tucked them up beneath herself, not really caring at this point if she wrinkled her skirts. The damp outside would take care of that later, if indeed the rain didn’t manage to completely soak her from the knees down on the sprint between door and carriage.

For now, though, all was coziness, comfort, and ease as they sipped their hot libations and stared at the fire, occasionally stealing peeks at one another whenever they thought the other wasn’t looking.

Everything in her yearned to be close to him, to curl into his embrace, but the man would hardly open his arms and welcome such intimacy. Not yet. Remember yourself, and remember the plan. Now is not the time to lose self-control. Or sacrifice your dignity. The goal was to make him come to her willingly, not for her to go haring off after him only to be rejected.

Ah, but how handsome he looked in his dark blue cutaway! Like her, he’d chosen a deep hue that accentuated his eyes. They’d make a lovely couple tonight, surely noticeable enough to warrant a favorable comment in tomorrow morning’s Gazette.

If we make it there, that is.

Finally, when his glass was nearly half empty, she broke the companionable silence. “Pity about the rain. If it fails to let up, I fear it will delay not only our entrance tonight, but affect work on our club tomorrow.”

“Ah, but most of that is inside,” he reasoned, still staring at the flames dancing in the hearth.

“True. But the materials must be brought in, and carpenters don’t like working with wet wood. Nor do painters like plying their brushes when it’s too damp. They complain of the paint not drying properly.”

“What nonsense,” he idly scoffed, taking another sip. “London is always damp.”

“Reason would have me agree, but the painters would still argue against it.” She twirled her glass, admiring the way the candlelight played in the wine’s ruby depths.

“I wonder how any work gets done in this city,” muttered her guest. “It all seems like nothing more than a means to prolonging one’s labor as opposed to simply doing the work and being paid fairly for it so one can move to the next job. Heaven knows there is enough work in London to employ every able-bodied man twice over.”

A huff of laughter escaped before she could stifle it, and he looked askance at her. Containing her amusement, she answered the unspoken question. “I’ve noticed of late that you’ve become quite critical of all things London-related.”

Color rose in his cheeks, and his gaze quickly shifted back to the fire. “Perhaps I have. I confess I feel differently after having visited my childhood home. Things are…simpler there. More comfortable.”

Now that was an unexpected turn. “You dislike London now?”

Alarm flitted across his features. “No, not at all. I love London. No other city like it in the world.”

But she’d marked his hesitation. “You’ve grown weary of it.”

A pained look briefly entered his eyes, immediately followed by the hardness of resolve. “As I said before, it’s not like it was. But I’m certain it will be again.”

Time to change the subject. “Have you written her yet?”

“Only a little. Just to tell her of the new club and a few bits of benign news I thought might be of interest.”

“And your apology?”

“Made,” he said, lifting a challenging brow, as if daring her to ask for further details.

He’s being more difficult than I anticipated. “And what of your brother, the good reverend? Are you writing to him, as well?” Her stomach tightened at the sudden wariness in his gaze. “My apologies. I don’t mean to pry. I…” She swallowed down her trepidation. “It just seemed to me that of all your siblings, he’s the one you’d confide in about your recent…ambivalence. Perhaps he might be of help? From what I gathered during your last visit here, he seems a very kind, sympathetic man.”

Devlin’s unwavering stare pierced her, and she was sure she’d delved too deep into what he considered a private matter. But he merely took another sip of wine and again looked back toward the fire. “Well, a man of his vocation would have to be, would he not?”

“Not necessarily,” she said, relieved. “I’ve met a good many so-called ‘servants of the Lord’ who appear to possess little empathy for anyone other than themselves. But the way you described your brother tells me he is not that sort.”

“No indeed, he is not,” said Devlin wryly, taking another sip. “He believes being compassionate toward others is how one becomes closer to the Lord.”

She couldn’t stand it anymore. “If he is such a good person, why does Lord Lovelace harbor so much animosity toward him?”