Miss Devon's Choice: A Sweet Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 5) Read online

  “Some of yours,” Christian corrected.

  “The title is yours, too.” His grandfather fixed him with a calculating smile Christian had seen too often. It served to remind him of all the ways he’d been manipulated by the man sitting before him.

  “Thank you, Grandfather.” He wanted to clench his hands, to decry the unfairness of it, but he maintained his calm. “Do we know anything about her?”

  His grandfather raised an eyebrow and scoffed. Christian should’ve known better than to ask.

  “I’ve had her watched since Devon started making inquiries.” That was no surprise. The Earl of Ivyford, Christian’s grandfather, had just about everyone in society watched. It was how he had done business for years. Observing people allowed him to discover what they most wanted. He was not above using that knowledge to coerce others into doing as he wished; he simply dangled the object of their desire before them and thus attained a multitude of favors.

  Christian was both inspired and repelled by the amount of information his grandfather could obtain with relatively little trouble.

  “And?” he asked, wondering why he cared. It was done. He would marry the woman, whoever she was, because the earl had chosen her and she had agreed to the match. It was more than he ought to hope for, given the way most people looked at him, the way the whispers followed him wherever he went.

  “She is barely out in society. Young, malleable I should think. Her reputation is sound and unsullied, her close acquaintances above reproach. There is some small question about the matches made by her sisters, but nothing too serious. They married beneath themselves, so this alliance is a boon to the family.”

  Christian knew he had no right to further information. Not yet. And what did it matter, really, what she looked like or if she had any accomplishments? It wouldn’t change whether or not they would marry. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “When will we marry?”

  “September.”

  That soon? In just two months, Christian’s contented peace would be interrupted by a woman who knew nothing about him and who likely saw no more than her father did—a way to climb the rungs of society and class. He accepted this, as he had when the idea occurred to him. Finding a bride through a means other than the marriage mart of London would almost assuredly keep him from the expectations of young women hoping for a love match. Still. One couldn’t be too careful. As much as he hated to ask the question, it rose to his lips.

  “Thank you, Grandfather.” He stood and bowed. “Will you excuse me? I ought to ready myself for dinner.”

  “Of course, of course.” His grandfather waved him away, a concerned expression replacing the triumphant smile. “But don’t you wish to know her name?”

  Christian made it to Ajax and reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. He considered the question, wondering what it would change to put a name to the woman who would change his life.

  He looked up, meeting his own gaze in the polished shield his grandfather kept on the wall. Knowing what people saw when they looked at him made it difficult to ask for information about a woman who would share his home. The shield blurred his image, but he knew it well enough to imagine the disgust of women of the ton. Gently bred young ladies always made it a point to look as though they were not staring at his face, though he knew well enough they must. Apart from the scar given him by that idiot Blanding were the scars from his childhood, when he’d contracted smallpox.

  “Very well.” He put his hand to the door, forcing himself not to clench the wood, desperate to finish the conversation and be left to himself. “What is her name?”

  “Rebecca Devon. Reminds me of that old Bible story, actually. Where the father sent a servant to find a suitable wife for his son. That woman’s name was Rebecca, you know.” He laughed, though Christian found nothing humorous in the statement.

  Christian remembered the tale from his studies and nodded. “Fitting. I will see you at dinner.” He left the room, Ajax at his side, turning over the name of his bride in his mind. He made it to his room but did not ring for his valet. Instead, Christian found the old Bible in his shelves and pulled it down, searching through it to find the story of the ancient Rebecca and her husband.

  It did not take him long to locate or to skim the tale. He sat before the window in his room to read, his eyes darting across the pages rapidly. His heart fell when he came to the meeting of the bride and groom. He read it aloud, causing Ajax to lift his head from the rug before the hearth.

  “Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her…”

  He shut the leather-bound book and held it loosely in his hand, his eyes on the sky outside his window. His story was nothing like Isaac’s. His wife was not found in a distant land to fulfill a love story. She was the daughter of an Englishman, a woman who agreed to marry him sight unseen in order to obtain his title and wealth.

  And love? He nearly snorted out loud. Avoiding that destructive emotion was one of the very reasons for this match. This arrangement was meant to be mutually beneficial to their families and nothing more.

  Would she think the deal worthwhile when she finally saw his face? Could he live with someone who held him in disgust?

  The papers were all be in place, and Christian must bear the thought of wedding someone who would not see past society’s regard for him.

  Ajax nuzzled his master’s hand with his nose and Christian looked down at the dog, his only companion for far too long. Ajax whined quietly. At least someone had sympathy for Christian’s situation.

  Bending to scratch behind the dog’s ears, Christian released a deep sigh. “It’s for the best, and we will make the most out of the situation.”

  Chapter Two

  Mourning her fate did not last long. As horrid as the situation was, Rebecca refused to sit and wallow in her fears. A woman of sense must act. She knew well enough by now, through her observations of the world and her extensive reading, that no person ever improved their lot in life by sitting in a corner and weeping. Her fate had been decided but that didn’t leave her helpless.

  The morning after her father’s announcement, Rebecca woke early and went to her writing desk. With the early sunrise of August, and a candle in the sconce above her desk, she wrote three letters. The letters went to her elder sisters, Julia, Christine, and the third to the Countess of Annesbury, her cousin Virginia, to whom she made a very bold request. That task completed, she set the letters aside and pulled forward smaller squares of paper. On these she wrote hasty invitations to her most connected London acquaintances, asking them to tea.

  She did not intend to confide in any of the young misses, or the gentleman, she addressed the cards to, but she meant to gather information. If she could understand the manner of man she was about to marry, learn something of his character, it would help her plan her next steps.

  Rebecca lost her mother when she was but eleven years old, and it largely fell to her elder sisters to bring her up, but they spoke of Mrs. Devon often enough that Rebecca knew their mother had not allowed an arranged marriage to dampen her spirits. Perhaps Rebecca could follow her example.

  Rebecca passed the rest of the morning and early afternoon in impatient agitation.

  Aunt Jacqueline noted it. “Rebecca, stop fidgeting. An elegant young woman about to become a viscountess ought to remain decorous, no matter the circumstances.”

  Her aunt had likely never been indecorous a single day in her life. In fact, Rebecca could not even imagine a circumstance in which such a thing could be possible.

  “Yes, Aunt.” Her response had become an ingrained habit after two years of correction. When she’d first come to live with her aunt in London, Rebecca described herself as an obedient, pleasant sort of person. Soon she’d realized her ability to be pleasant in general came from never being confronted with someone who constantly criticized her. The more her aunt censured her, the more Rebecca bit her tongue
against sharp retorts.

  Any assertion of independence she attempted, whether in choosing her own fabric for a gown or bringing a book home from the subscription library, had been met with disgust and squashed with her aunt’s acidic tongue. If reports went back to her father of her inability to conform to Aunt Jacqueline’s image of a proper young lady, the punishments were immediate and distressing.

  “I will send Hettie to sit in the room during your gathering,” her aunt said, taking in Rebecca’s gaudy pink gown with pursed lips. “We ought to have more items of that color made up for your wedding trousseau.”

  I will burn every stitch the moment I am free of you and your spy. Rebecca kept her expression bland and gave a slight nod. “If you think that is best, Aunt.”

  Aunt Jacqueline stood and swept out of the room in a regal manner. Would the queen herself be subject to her aunt’s criticism if she were present?

  Hettie appeared not three minutes later, and she took a basket of mending with her to the corner. Rebecca narrowed her eyes at the maid’s seeming lack of attention.

  Voices echoed up the stairwell, alerting Rebecca to the first of her guests’ arrival. Rebecca stood, fluffing out the ridiculous ruffles at the hem of her gown. Her aunt insisted on dressing her in unbecoming frills and puffs of fabric, despite Rebecca’s taste for the simplest lines.

  Her guests came into the room, already talking and laughing, at ease with one another. Three women her own age and a gentleman who was brother to one of them were soon settled in comfortable chairs. Taken separately, Rebecca could stand to pass an hour in their company. Having the group together, she usually had a headache after a quarter of an hour. She did not think there could be a more pompous, ridiculous gaggle of young people in London.

  The niceties of greetings and pouring out completed, Rebecca took her seat and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Perhaps you wonder why I have asked you here this afternoon. I have an announcement to make. If the gossip has not already reached your ears, you may now have the pleasure of spreading it far and wide. I am engaged to be married.”

  A collective gasp rose from the group.

  “I say,” the young man, a Mr. Gardiner, said loudly. “I did not even know anyone was in serious pursuit.”

  “Yes, your curtsy was supposed to happen this season.” His sister, a red-headed heiress without a single original thought in her head, spoke with a slight whine in her voice.

  “Will you not make your debut?” Miss Gilderoy, the daughter of a wealthy baron, asked plaintively. “But we were supposed to do it together.”

  “I am certain I will still curtsy, but it will be as a married woman instead of a debutante.” Rebecca lifted her chin, putting on her most haughty expression. Pride and arrogance went a long way with these people. “The marriage has been negotiated between our families. Why go through the trouble of a courtship when things can be handled so much more efficiently?”

  The young women registered varying degrees of horror, but Mr. Gardiner nodded at once, obviously approving of the idea.

  “But who is your betrothed?” Miss Hatling posed that question, and she was probably the least irritating of the lot, if only because she pretended to possess a measure of sense. Still, the most arduous thing the lady read were the descriptions beneath fashion plates. A small measure of pretended sense would only get her so far.

  This was what Rebecca had waited for. Their reactions to her announcement would aid in planning the future. She put on her most placid expression, unwilling to hint that the name she spoke meant nothing to her as yet. “The grandson of the Earl of Ivyford, Lord Easton.”

  “I say, I’ve heard of him.” All eyes, including Rebecca’s turned to the lone man in their midst. Mr. Gardiner looked about. “I can’t be the only one to have heard the stories. He’s that viscount that trounced Richard Blanding. It was in my elder brother’s time. Four years ago, perhaps.”

  Miss Gardiner started nodding. “Oh, I remember that. Our brother Percival was at the club when it happened.”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows shot up despite her mask. “I haven’t heard that account. Do tell, Miss Gardiner.”

  Miss Gardiner demurred to her brother, snapping open her fan as though it caused her distress to think on the story.

  Mr. Gardiner, who had all the makings of a thespian, rubbed his hands together and sat forward slightly. “Percival told me the whole of it, as a warning you know. It seems the gentlemen in question, Blanding and Easton, were already at odds. Easton had an interest in Blanding’s cousin, a Miss Dorrington. Blanding didn’t like it and said so. Easton confronted him, and before long there was shouting, and then Easton threw his fist in Blanding’s face. There was a real row, it took several other gentlemen to pull them off each other. I understand Easton took the brunt of it. Got a new scar for his trouble, too.”

  “A new scar?” Miss Hatling said, confused. Rebecca had caught that detail as well but didn’t think she could admit she’d never seen her intended to know anything about scars, old or new.

  “Oh, yes. He has a most frightful countenance,” Miss Gardiner proclaimed, lowering her fan to share these details with a degree of relish. “I don’t know that I could marry a man for his wealth if he looked that way. Miss Devon is made of a stronger constitution than I.”

  Rebecca’s stomach twisted unhelpfully. Frightful? Scars? And it sounded as though he had something of a temper.

  “I understand he takes a great deal of his features from his mother’s family,” Mr. Gardiner added, not to be outdone by his sister’s information. “They’re Italian peasantry. My father said the earl’s son married beneath himself, and when his Italian woman didn’t take to the English winter, he fled across the Channel and never returned. Sent the son back, though.”

  “Italians.” Miss Gilderoy sniffed disdainfully. “Such an odd lot. And hardly of any use during the fight against Napoleon.”

  Despite the ignorance of her company, Rebecca had now learned that her intended husband was half-Italian, scarred, and apparently had a temper and propensity to commit violence on other men. But he was wealthy. Absurdly so, if her father was to be believed, and the heir to an earldom. None of the information truly helped her. If anything, it left her more troubled.

  “We are being terribly rude,” Miss Gardiner said, putting a hand to her cheek as though mortified. “This is our Miss Devon’s betrothed we’ve been speaking of with such carelessness. I am certain she knows enough of his good qualities to have agreed to a union with him.”

  Eyes turned in Rebecca’s direction. She forced an unconcerned smile and shrugged her shoulders. She’d planned for this turn in conversation. “Oh, I don’t mind it. We are not well acquainted yet, myself and Lord Easton. It is the very best of sense to not know too much before marriage. It makes it a great deal easier to ignore faults in a spouse if you know little to begin with.” Rebecca tried not to wrinkle her nose as she spoke the words against her personal inclinations. To be courted by a gentleman who wished for her hand had been a secret dream of hers.

  They all began to murmur of the wisdom in that statement. Truly, Rebecca didn’t know what her aunt saw in these people. They were all nearly empty-headed. Who cared if they were fashionable or wealthy if they couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation?

  At moments such as this, she missed her sisters terribly. They could spend hours discussing a book or laughing over the advertisements in the Post. Christine would go on an on about horses, and then make them laugh with her observations of society. Julia, her eldest sister, would discuss the needs of their neighbors and how best to be of service to others.

  “I think it wise that the earl and his grandson decided not to make a showing this season,” Mr. Gardiner added suddenly. “Much cleverer to arrange a marriage in a more business-like manner. Especially since no one has seen Lord Easton the last several years. The man rarely goes out in company. They stay at their house in the country.”

  “Where does he live?�
�� Miss Hatling turned to Rebecca with the question, but luckily Mr. Gardiner kept talking.

  “Dartford, in Kent.”

  “Oh. At least you will be an easy distance from town, Miss Devon.”

  Rebecca quietly voiced her agreement. Perhaps twenty miles east of London. That could be an advantage should her marriage prove too uncomfortable. Many a man or wife escaped their home life by taking up residence in London, sans spouse. She’d never understood that sort of relationship. Until now.

  “Indeed.” She hadn’t really gleaned enough information, but it was time to change the conversation. “I am sorry I won’t be in London to share my news with more of our friends. I count on each of you to spread word of my engagement for me.” She didn’t really care if anyone knew of the engagement, but only after the words slipped from her did she wonder if it was wise to entrust it to this particular group of people.

  She dismissed the concern. What harm could come of it? All of society would soon know, after the banns were read.

  “Yes, you are going back to Kettering, aren’t you?” Miss Gardiner said with a nod. “The Countess of Annesbury’s summer house party.”

  “Do you know who else is on the guest list? I have heard they are terribly exclusive,” the not-so-clever, but very class-conscious, Miss Gilderoy said with a gleam in her eye.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Rebecca admitted, allowing herself a small, genuine smile. She didn’t care much who came, so long as she was able to see her sister Christine while there. Rebecca hardly spent enough time with the members of her family she actually liked. Of course, she would need support and companionship this summer, her last as an unmarried woman. Especially if her cousin sent an invitation, as Rebecca had requested in her letter that very morning, to Christian Hundley, Lord Easton, to join the house party.

  *

  Christian spent eight days trying not to think on his betrothal. It didn’t matter to him that a woman somewhere in the world, a woman named Rebecca, was claiming the distinction of being a future viscountess. He kept to himself, as he always had. He walked the grounds, spent time rowing in the river, and attended to his studies as well as the management needs of the estate. His sole companion, most of the time, was Ajax. The dog remained his silent shadow, unless his grandfather had need of him. At dinner, and after in the library, Ajax was not permitted to be present. Those were the hours in which Christian experienced the most difficulty in forgetting Rebecca Devon existed, because his grandfather kept bringing the woman up in conversation.