Chapter Twelve

And finally, there it was. He knew she’d had to have some ulterior motive for bringing him here to this cozy little nook rather than going straight off to Bletchly’s to dance the night away. Rain, even when it was as hard as he could hear pounding the cobblestones beyond the heavy drapes, was hardly a deterrent for any Londoner. Especially one bent on ensnaring a husband.

Curiosity was her weakness. One he might as well indulge, since it furthered his purpose. He explained how during their school days Lovelace had picked on him—but from Devlin’s perspective. He neglected to cover the finer details of the conflict’s resolution, however, leaving out the punch that had cost Lovelace a tooth and a sizeable amount of dignity. The last thing he needed was for her to see Devlin as some sort of dashing knight-errant charging to the rescue.

If this also happened to avoid casting the one rescued in a light that made him appear weak and ineffective, well… Vanity was a sin, but Daniel felt there was also no reason to expose himself to such humiliation, even from afar. She’d no doubt talk of it with her friends even if asked to refrain, and Londoners occasionally visited Harper’s Grove. With his family’s unusual last name, somebody might remember such a tale.

“So, now you know why the gentleman and I don’t much care for one another’s company,” he finished, waiting for the disappointment to show itself on her face. That the hostility she’d witnessed had nothing to do with her must surely sting, considering she’d worked so industriously to set them against each other.

But it never came. Instead, a pensive look entered her eyes as she quietly sipped her wine, and she let out a heavy sigh. “I fear I cannot find it in myself to like Lovelace,” she said unexpectedly. “Heaven knows I’ve tried. His behavior as a youth and his ongoing contempt for your brother, by all accounts a saintly man, lessens him too much for me to ignore.”

The mouthful of wine he was swallowing went down wrong, and he coughed to clear it. Saintly? “Daniel is a good man,” he said quickly, willing himself to believe it. “But he’s no saint. As for Lovelace, his relationship with me and my family ought to be the least of your concerns about him.”

“Oh, indeed? What ought I to be concerned about, then?”

Damn. His mind raced to find a reason for his advice that wasn’t the vulgar truth. “The man has no care for anyone but himself. His manner toward you has exemplified that much.”

Her brows pinched. “He may not be as eloquent in his speech as some, but even if I do dislike him, he’s been a perfect gentleman.”

Ire brought the blood rushing to his face all over again. “If you consider his treatment of you to be gentlemanlike conduct, then I wonder at your education,” he muttered. “Your father ought to have taught you to expect, or rather demand, better behavior from a man purporting to court you. I cannot speak for the example he set when your mother was alive, but as he doubtless in ignorance of its necessity neglected to carry out this duty, I’ll do him the favor of saying it now.”

Color bloomed in her cheeks as she straightened and set aside her wine with a dangerously loud clack of glass on wood, her stockinged feet planting themselves on the carpet, toes curling into the pile as if she were preparing to leap up and launch herself at him in fury.

Oh, that red hair is no lie!

“My father may be an ignorant commoner and a bit too coarse for the rarified sensibilities of some, but he respected my mother,” she snapped. “He certainly never gave her any cause to be unhappy or think that—”

“Because he’s a good man and he actually loved her,” Daniel cut in, silencing what would no doubt have quickly escalated into an all-out tirade if left unchecked. “If I thought Lovelace was a decent man who harbored such sentiments for you, I would have held my tongue. As it stands, I cannot in good conscience remain silent. You would be wise to sever connections with him before it’s too late.”

Triumph flared bright in her eyes. “Why? Other than your low opinion of him, tell me why I should do so?”

Careful now… “I cannot reveal to you all I know of his character—or lack of it, I should say—without impugning my own. There are certain things a gentleman does not discuss with a gently raised lady. Suffice it to say, he is not what he appears. As for my opinion, you may take it or leave it. In truth, I would prefer that you open your eyes and weigh his behavior on your own scales as opposed to using mine. At several points during his last visit, he exhibited a distinct lack of respect for you. That alone should be enough to condemn him in your eyes.”

“Why do you care?” she demanded. “Why should it matter to you whom I marry? I’m no concern of yours.”

Her fingers gripped the arms of her chair with white-knuckled intensity, and he knew his answer must be judiciously worded to avoid the trap.

“Because I consider you my friend,” he said quietly. “And if that’s not enough for you, then you should know that any man who adores the women in his family cares how other women are treated in general.” Leaning forward, he pinned her gaze. “You are my friend. I have no power to stop you from doing anything, but I can offer my advice in the hope that you pay it heed. As your friend, I don’t want you to suffer the pain and regret I’m certain you would endure if you were to marry that man. Put it this way, if my sister were being courted by a man like Lovelace, I would stop at nothing to end it.”

Shock suffused her features as she stared at him. Then a sly look entered her eyes. “You say this now, but your reputation precedes you, sir. You are a celebrated rake, a man who flits from flower to flower, as it were, like a bee without a care in the world for the blooms he visits.”

It was a good counter, he had to admit. But he was ready for it. “Such is very likely the outward appearance, I confess. But if you were to ask the flowers I’ve visited whether I treated them in a harsh or ungentlemanly manner, I assure you their answer would be a resounding and unanimous no.”

An unladylike, derisive noise broke from Olivia’s mouth. “As if I would ever be so brazen as to inquire of married women concerning their infidelities, much less be seen anywhere near such creatures as Miss Maria Blythe.”

Daniel felt himself blanch. Of course she’d bring up the opera singer, who’d written his brother no less than four times since his arrival. Daniel had read her embarrassingly passion-filled letters, as well as others, mostly from neglected wives among the Ton. His twin might be a gambler and a hedonist, but he’d never been ungentle with a woman—very likely the reason he was so sought after as a lover.

The entire situation laid upon Daniel a great moral conundrum. Much as he despised the fact that his twin was a party to adultery and fornication, while his dalliances were immoral they were at least mutually agreeable to both parties. Lovelace preyed upon those forced to comply in order to survive, a far cry from simply taking what was offered by those seeking their own pleasure. Neither was right, but one was most certainly the lesser of the two evils.

Sighing, he swallowed his gall at having to defend Devlin’s licentiousness and affected a tired, jaded demeanor. “Dear girl, if you think my behavior toward the female sex is in any way comparable to that of Lovelace’s ongoing conduct, then you have been sheltered—and rightly so—from the true ugliness of this world.”

The stubborn set of her chin told him it wasn’t enough.

In for a penny… “I may be a ‘celebrated rake,’ as you say, but at least I have taken only what was freely and enthusiastically given.”

The color bled from her cheeks and then flared back into them as the implication sank in, and he allowed her a dignified retreat into silence to contemplate. Thick and uncomfortable, that silence hung between them, unbroken save by the hiss and crackle of the fire, the soft shifting of ash, and the irregular patter of rain against glass.

At last, she spoke. “I see. If I understand your meaning, then I must thank you for your kind intervention.” Again, she tucked her feet up under herself. Now, however, it seemed like a defensive motion, as if she were curling in on herself like a hedgehog in the presence of a threat.

He swirled his wine and stared into the fire. “I did not mean any insult to your father, you know. My respect and liking for him are unwavering. As protective as he is of your happiness, I simply could not imagine he would raise you to submit yourself to ill-treatment by any man. He was quite displeased with Lovelace after that last visit.”

“I’m aware,” she murmured. “He urged me to send my regrets a day or two prior to the Worthington party and claim illness, but I was unwilling to do so. In light of your revelation, however, I shall reconsider my decision.”

The breath Daniel hadn’t known he was holding eased out of his lungs, and he risked a glance at her. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“My father has truly done his best by me, you know,” she went on, gaze firmly fixed on the wineglass in her hands. “Most in his situation would have sent me away to a boarding school or foisted me off on a relative. He could easily have done so. Both my aunts offered to take me, but he refused. Everyone urged him to remarry, but he would not even entertain the idea. As such, I had only him and a series of nursemaids to provide guidance.” Now she turned rueful eyes on him. “I may be headstrong, but I am not unreasonable. Had I but known…”

“You were not ready to hear such things until now,” he replied softly. “And I regret having to reveal even that much,” he said, deliberately implying there was much more that hadn’t been revealed. “Impugning another man’s character is hardly an honorable act—but then, I’m not really an honorable man, am I?” He gave her a wry grin. “I’m a ‘celebrated rake.’ As such, I’m privileged to occasionally take a bit of license with regard to the rules.”

…

Inwardly, Olivia cringed. Oh, how she regretted having spat those hasty words at him!

Cold unease settled in her bones over his revelations concerning Lovelace. That it was true wasn’t even in question. Devlin would never have risked the possibility of word getting back to Lovelace and resulting in a duel over a lie. He’d never have risked ostracism by his own sex, either. Gentlemen had an unspoken code amongst themselves—they didn’t talk about each other’s peccadilloes. Especially not with women. He’d just breached that code.

He must truly care for me. “I think it far more honorable to break silence than to let a friend proceed unknowing into a grave situation,” she replied, struggling to maintain composure and hating the word friend with all her heart. “And you need not fear. I will say nothing of this to anyone.” She peered at him sidelong. “Does Papa know?”

“I don’t think so. It’s not common knowledge.”

Suspicion crept back in. “And how are you privy to such knowledge?”

He kept his eyes trained on the flames as he answered. “I well remember his behavior during our college years. From what I understand, his father paid dearly for the headmaster’s blindness when it came to his son’s conduct with young women as well as for the silence of those wronged.”

“But many men sow wild oats during their youth,” she reasoned with a relieved laugh. Perhaps it wasn’t as grave a situation as she’d imagined. “You yourself are likely guilty of sowing a few of your own. Perhaps he has changed?”

A muscle leaped in his jaw. “I assure you, if anything he has only grown more dissipated. When I first arrived in London, I explored all its many offerings and ventured into some establishments I ought never to have visited, and there witnessed…things—some I dearly wish I could forget. Lovelace was frequently a guest at such places and to this day remains a patron of several.”

Unwilling to accept such vagueness as an explanation, she held her tongue and continued to look at him expectantly.

He shifted in his seat, clearly discomfited. “Such establishments offer the sort of employment no one above the line of most wretched starvation would willingly accept.” His voice sank to a strained rasp. “Please, ask me no more. I cannot, as a gentleman, describe it in any further detail to a lady, and I fear I’ve already said entirely too much.”

Her gut felt like someone had tied a bowline knot in it. She knew more on this subject than most gently raised females. London boasted hundreds of brothels catering to a wide variety of clientele. Most were simple, run-of-the-mill bawdy houses, but a few fed darker appetites. Devlin’s manner suggested that those were the sort to which he was referring with regard to Lovelace’s patronage.

Rallying her fortitude, she drained the last of her wine. “You may consider the matter closed. I will feign illness and decline to attend the Worthington event.” She set aside her empty glass and smoothed her skirts over her knees, warding off a sudden chill that had taken her despite the heat coming off the fire. “When I fail to continue encouraging the association, he will likely wish to know why.”

He let out a snort and shot her a dry look. “I’m fairly certain he’ll suspect I’m the cause and decline to inquire of you.”

“Does that not worry you?”

“No,” he replied without hesitation. “He is unaware that I possess the information I disclosed to you. He’ll simply assume I’ve influenced you through benign means. A misperception I shall endeavor to promote.”

Now that was more like it. “And what would you consider ‘benign means’?”

The grim set of his mouth told her he’d resigned himself to whatever was about to come out of it. “To begin, I’ll be sure to send flowers when I hear of your illness next week,” he said, amusement glinting in the blue depths now staring back at her.

“Men send flowers to me daily,” she breezed, tilting her nose up. “Yours will likely arrive alongside his.”

“Would you prefer I send a pony?”

The sarcastic riposte pulled an involuntary burst of laughter from her. She clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the raucous noise before responding a moment later in a voice that still trembled with barely contained mirth, “Pray don’t. Please. At least, not to this residence.”

“Ah, so you want a pony, just not here. Duly noted. I’ll send the pony to your country estate.”

“That will certainly send a message.” She giggled helplessly. “If he wishes to outshine you, he’ll have to send a basket of kittens. With big, satin bows tied ’round their necks.”

Now he made a show of pulling an imaginary notebook from his pocket and studiously writing in it as he pursed his lips and murmured, “Kittens. Satin bows.” Looking up, he raised a brow. “Anything else? Chocolate? A diamond tiara?”

Affecting an air of insouciance, she waved a dismissive hand. “Mama always said chocolate was bad for the complexion, and diamonds are far too ostentatious for this peasant.” She grinned at her own impudence. “In any case, I prefer colored stones.” Hint, hint…

Again, he pretended to write in and then tuck away his invisible book. “Strange, I thought you more the roses and pearls sort.”

“Roses are best enjoyed in the garden. In truth, I don’t much care for cut flowers. They wither and leave a mess. As for pearls, my mother loved them,” she said softly. “Papa gave me her favorite amethyst and pearl set last year, but I don’t often wear them because it reminds him of her, and I don’t wish to make him melancholy.”

A frown creased his brow, and his tone gentled. “I should think it would make him happy to see you wearing something your mother loved so much. He once told me you were all he had left of her. You’re everything to him, you know.”

Eyes smarting, she looked away. “He’s going to be devastated when I leave him to marry. He’ll throw himself into his business, of course, just as he did when Mama died, but it will be too quiet for him here all alone.”

“Perhaps he’ll remarry? Once having fulfilled his duty as a father, he’ll be at liberty to think of his own pleasure.”

“I doubt it,” she replied, biting her lip and shaking her head. “His love for my mother was all-consuming. They were quite mad for each other, my parents. Several years ago, I got it into my head to try and find him another wife.” A smile came unbidden to her lips at the memory. “He put a definitive end to my efforts and told me the love he’d had for her was the kind that knew no death. That is the sort of love I want when I marry.”

His reaction to the statement was unexpected. She’d anticipated rolling eyes and some sarcastic comment concerning the overly romantic sentiments of young women in this day and age. Instead, naked longing shone in his eyes for a moment before he looked down, veiling them. “Such love is quite rare. I hope you find it.”

The breath that had lodged in her chest released just as the clock on the mantel chimed the tenth hour. They’d been talking for little more than an hour. Her ears told her the rain had at some point slackened enough to be navigable. Perking up, she rose and went to the window to verify it. “Good news. I do believe nature has spent the greater part of her ire.”

The back of her neck tingled, and turning, she found herself face-to-face with him as he, too, peered through the opening she’d made in the drapes. She hadn’t even heard him get up. Swallowing to ease the lump that had risen in her throat, she managed to ask, “Shall I call for the carriage?”

Nodding, he stepped aside.

It was as though her feet had become somehow mired, slowing her steps as she passed him, her gaze held captive by his dark eyes. Or maybe it was time that slowed, and not her? He blinked and looked away, and the ties that bound her eased, but the experience left her feeling oddly disconnected from her own body as she walked on. Her hand seemed to belong to someone else as it pulled the cord to ring for service.

Within seconds, the door opened, and the ensuing flurry of activity preparatory to their departure helped alleviate her flustered state.

It was cold and drizzling as they stepped outside. Shielded from the brunt of it by servants holding umbrellas, she pulled up her skirts enough to protect the hem from getting filthy. It left her ankles and lower calves indecently exposed, but there was nothing she could do about that. It was either concede to modesty and ruin her gown or protect the precious silk and risk being thought fast. Damned if she was going to be seen with a dirty hem tonight! And if a flash of her legs served as further incentive for Devlin to move his arse in the right direction, well, so much the better.

Her hand was now properly sheathed in kid leather, which did absolutely nothing to prevent an electric jolt of excitement from running through her as Devlin took hold of it to help her up into the carriage. The heat of him could be felt even through his gloves and hers, and she only reluctantly released her hold once safely aboard.

When the side of his leg pressed against her knees before he turned and sat opposite, she again marked how warm he was. Even through the material of his breeches, she’d felt it.

Lovelace had inadvertently brushed against her several times, but she hadn’t noted such a phenomenon with him. And his gloved hands had been no warmer than her own. But Devlin seemed to radiate heat, as if he’d swallowed the sun and was unable to fully contain its fire.

His entire person exuded an aura of almost tangible warmth. Funny how she’d never noticed it before. Had his hands been that hot when he’d held her chin and run his thumb across her lips on the day they met? Strange, but she couldn’t actually recall. To her surprise, she found the details of that fortuitous meeting seemed to have somewhat faded. It was a bit disturbing, considering she remembered every detail of their every meeting since his return from Winterbourne.

The carriage lurched into motion, and their knees bumped again.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry,” she said at the same time.

“These things are not really built for long-legged people,” he said apologetically.

She almost offered to scoot over a bit so he could sit beside her but thought better of it and rejected the impulse. For one, he’d see it as suggestive. Then, too, there was the whole issue of the temptation being too much to bear without incident. She knew he wanted her. And she beyond any doubt wanted him. But much as she’d love to let him have his wicked way with her, she knew better.

No, now that the wheels had been set in motion for a legitimate courtship, it had to be done properly. If not for her own sake, then for Papa’s. Her mad longing for Devlin’s attentions had made her act rashly before, but now that she had him in her sights, she needed to be more careful. She wanted no patched-up, hasty wedding to confirm the negative opinions of her father’s detractors.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” remarked her companion.

“Woolgathering is always a danger when it rains.”

“It’s barely even misting anymore.” He peered through the glass at the now-foggy streets. “I predict we’ll enter Bletchly’s completely dry, unlike the poor, punctual souls who felt compelled to arrive on time. Your offer to postpone departure in favor of fireside wine was most insightful.”

“In truth, I sought to preserve my own comfort as much as yours,” she confessed. “Rain is a given, but such rain as that is unusual this early.”

“Such strong storms often precede a long snow back home.”

“You mean Winterbourne,” she murmured, her spirits sinking. That dozy little hamlet seemed to have cast a spell over him.

“I suppose it has been on my mind a lot of late,” he said with a sigh. “I’m glad to have visited again.”

“Nothing will prevent you visiting every Christmas once you’ve sorted things out with your sister,” she said, hoping that would be often enough. Christmas in the country held some appeal, but it would likely be dreadfully dull any other time of year.

“True.” He shifted in his seat. “You’d like her, you know. Diana, I mean. She’s quite headstrong herself. There are only a few ladies in Harper’s Grove near to her age, and most of them are already married.” He pulled a wry face. “All of them are a good deal more demure.”

Joy filled her. He could only mean for her to become friends with his sister, and a man generally only wanted his sister to befriend a lady friend if he was thinking of marrying her. “I look forward to meeting her when she comes to the club.”

She and Devlin were actually now friends of a sort, she supposed. He’d confided in her, and she’d done the same, at least in part. A new camaraderie, a rapport had sprung up between them that was somewhat less than romantic in nature. Frowning into the dark, she wondered: was one supposed to feel that way toward a potential husband?

On arriving at Lady Bletchly’s, Olivia smiled to herself on catching a glimpse of Lovelace’s crest among those emblazoned on the waiting carriages. So the temptation had been too great. He’d likely try to steal her attention from Devlin. Again, the question of why nagged at her. There had to be some reason other than sentiment.

For now, however, she had more important things to worry about, namely the man seated across from her and how to navigate the rest of this evening with him.

Bletchly’s soiree was a relatively small affair, no more than a hundred fifty or so guests. Most ladies preferred larger events—the more unattached gentlemen available, the better one’s chances of ensnaring one. But Olivia liked a closer, more intimate setting in which to wage battle. She’d already selected her quarry, for one, and the fewer unattached ladies there were present, the better her chances of having him all to herself.

Not that she felt there was much to worry about in that regard. He was, after all, escorting her tonight. But they could hardly dance every dance together. Any more than two, and everyone would consider them practically engaged. Immediately following this delightful thought, she spied Lovelace and knew she’d have to dance at least once with him. But first, she’d be seen on Devlin’s arm and make certain everyone knew they were here together.

Greeting their hosts, they made polite apologies for their weather-induced lateness. As her hostess was giving her a dance card—a charming little fan with an ornately carved ivory handle and individual dances printed on the back of each delicately hand-painted blade—she marked that everyone looked a bit bedraggled tonight.

Dingy hems abounded, as did limp curls, and all around she heard the soft squish of sodden stockings in doubtless equally sodden shoes. It was hard not to feel at least a little smug as she wriggled her warm toes inside her blissfully dry dancing slippers.

Devlin immediately filled in his name for the last dance as well as the very next—a courtesy, seeing that they’d only just arrived and she hadn’t yet had a chance to fill her card. Eight slots remained—they’d missed the first two—and there were only three left before the dinner break, at which she was sure to be seated beside him, seeing as they’d arrived as a couple. She didn’t think their hostess was offended by their tardiness, but even if she kept them apart out of spite, it would only be for a little while.

The current dance had finished, and everyone began gathering and lining up for the next, a Scotch reel. She’d have preferred a waltz but could hardly expect a staunch traditionalist like Lady Bletchly to allow something new and considered by more conservative parents to be scandalous for the required closeness of its participants. The reel would have to do.

As they formed a sextet with two other couples, she contemplated her partner. By far, he was the handsomest gentleman present tonight. Movement to her left caught her attention, and she saw Angela smiling proudly from across the aisle. A subtle nod drew her attention to her friend’s partner. It was Lord Torrington.

Grinning, Olivia raised an approving brow. The music began, and everyone swung into motion. It was a lively dance, and she was again quite glad for having dry feet. At least when she went home tonight, she’d have no blisters to deal with from dancing in damp stockings and tight shoes.

Again, she felt the inward pull toward Devlin every time they parted. Perhaps it was their growing familiarity, but it felt different now between them. His draw was no less potent, but it was more comfortable. Instead of a disruptive rush of heady sensation, a steady, pervasive warmth built inside her, spreading from the chest outward.

She could see from the gentle light in his eyes that he genuinely liked her. For some reason, that meant more to her than his desire. Not that she didn’t want him to want her, but genuine fondness and affection from a man were far more precious than lust.

He’d called her his friend. As frustrated as she was about that when she wanted to be so much more, it held value—a great deal of value. She’d never been any man’s friend before and couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever called any other woman by such a term and meant it in the genuine sense. She didn’t think so.

His attention seemed riveted on her now, and she could no more tear her eyes away from his than she could remove her own arm. All else faded into meaninglessness as the warmth inside her buzzed and tingled just beneath her skin. By the end of the dance, she could hardly breathe for it.

“Miss St. Peters,” he said, bowing as an eager gentleman stepped up, presumably to beg a dance with the newcomer. “I look forward to our next dance. Until then, I remain your humble servant.”

Nodding graciously and releasing him from further obligation, she turned to the waiting gentleman, who was practically bouncing on his heels with anticipation. Good heavens, he was young! Biting back a sigh, she pasted on a bright smile and accepted his invitation to dance. Another was right behind him, intent on securing the one following. She accepted him, as well, despite his rather unfortunately large and protruding ears.

Latecomers cannot afford to be picky. The downside to a fashionably late arrival was that the most desirable of the eligible partners were usually already committed to pairings with other ladies. That left the second tier and those who’d been unlucky enough to be declined by those ladies among the first. The two young men were embarrassingly grateful for her acceptance, and it was all she could do not to grit her teeth as they preened by her side before each dance.

At least neither of them stepped on her toes. As she danced, she marked Lovelace watching her from the side. He’d declined to partner with anyone for two dances, which she thought both odd and a bit rude, considering there were several pretty young ladies sitting nearby, obviously lacking partners.

Devlin, for his part, had come to the rescue of two such wallflowers himself. Seeing their smitten eyes devouring his handsome features was enough to make her stomach tighten. But he paid them no special mind. In fact, she noted that his eyes often sought her out from among the crowd.

Again, his marked attention warmed her through and through. Between dances, they met at the refreshments table, where he procured a glass of punch for her. It couldn’t be clearer to everyone there that they were a couple. And what a couple! Their dark clothes stood out from among the abundant pastels, just as she’d predicted. They made a striking pair.

She couldn’t wait to read tomorrow morning’s gossip sheets!

Before they filed in to supper, Angela joined her for a quick repair in the cloakroom—an elderly gentleman had stepped on Olivia’s hem and had detached it. As she stood for the seamstress, she relayed in short the events of the evening prior to her arrival, careful not to give away any damning information concerning the “other gentleman” whose name she deliberately omitted. She’d limited her revelations about his behavior to conduct unbefitting a gentleman and let it rest at that, too.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Angela softly. Her eyes had been steadily widening throughout the telling of the tale.

“He claimed it was all in the name of friendship,” Olivia went on. “But I know it was more than that. A friend would have simply gone to my father and that would have been the end of it, and I’d never have known why.”

Angela’s eyes widened further yet. “He wanted you to know he cared enough to intervene.”

“Precisely,” Olivia replied, allowing herself a satisfied smirk. Equating her with his sister was a lot of rot, too. He might say friend and imply sibling, but the way he looked at her said he felt more. Much more. As for him feeling responsible for the wellbeing of ladies unrelated, well, his reformation was obviously well underway.

This thought left her feeling ambivalent, however. True, he’d violated male solidarity for her sake, but she still wanted to marry the man whose eyes undressed her, whose touch set her ablaze. Sudden apprehension forced her to speak aloud her concerns. “Angie…what if the man he is should become lost due to the sudden, fierce onset of religious conviction? Such things have happened. Georgette Burnside married a rakehell who within less than a year of their wedding became a passionate convert to Methodism.”

“Oh, yes. I remember that,” said her best friend rather sourly.

Olivia recalled that Angela hadn’t much cared for Georgette.

“His father settled an enormous sum on him,” Angela went on. “But under the stipulation that he move to America. Permanently.”

“They resettled there last spring,” Olivia affirmed, nodding. “I learned in a letter from Georgette that he’d bought a tobacco plantation. She claimed it was as if he’d become a different man, and she greatly lamented the change in both his temperament and their situation.”

Angela shuddered. “I cannot even begin to fathom such a drastic alteration of life and circumstance. To go from being the bride of a wealthy shipping magnate’s son and living in the heart of London…to being the wife of a dour, religious farmer in some wilderness? It’s unimaginable!”

Olivia shuddered right along with her. Putting aside such thoughts as blatantly inapplicable to her own situation, she refocused. “Surely Lord Devlin would not become as fervid as that.”

Angela narrowed her eyes. “Best to make certain he does not.”