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

  That nearly brought the tears back. Rebecca shook her head. Her aunt would continue pressing her unless she found a topic of greater interest. “Lord Easton has arrived.”

  “Late.” Aunt Jacqueline shook her head, in despair of the fate of a world where people did not arrive on time, no doubt. She said not another word, but went in search of another matron for conversation.

  “Oh, Miss Devon,” Miss Dunhill, the daughter of Lord Mostyn, said as Rebecca drew near. Her father was a baron. “It is so delightful to be included in this party, though I must say I’m grateful not to be the only young lady present. Of course, with your impending nuptials, you are a touch above me in refinement, I daresay.”

  The girl possessed more poise in her little finger than Rebecca thought herself capable of producing on the best of days.

  Miss Dunhill’s prattle scraped against Rebecca’s nerves in precisely the wrong direction. “You must be glad to have your betrothed coming to join us. I have heard he’s a very dramatic sort. Do you think he will enjoy a quiet country party? I know I always have. That is to say, I have always wished to. It is a relief to be out of the schoolroom at last and take part as an actual guest.” The girl batted her long lashes over her crystal blue eyes, her expression entirely innocent.

  How long would it take the ton to eat Miss Dunhill alive?

  Rebecca’s mind scrambled to right itself. She must make proper conversation. But all she could think on was the rather formidable form of Lord Easton in the entry hall. With a brief struggle, she managed a polite response.

  “I hope everyone enjoys their time for the fortnight we have together,” she answered as diplomatically as she could. “You must look forward to your coming season. Have you planned your wardrobe yet?” Rebecca’s gamble paid off. Miss Dunhill was precisely the sort of woman to enjoy talk of clothing. Indeed, she discussed the lace on the collar of one of her gowns until Virginia called the room to order.

  “Good evening, dear friends,” she said, bringing all conversations to a close. “The earl must see to business for a moment and has asked that we not keep our guests waiting. Let us go in to dinner and he will join us shortly.”

  Aunt Jacqueline sniffed disdainfully. “No propriety at all,” she muttered.

  The Marquess of Francillon stepped forward to offer Virginia escort, and with the house bursting with guests it took a few moments for the proper order to be established. Finally, all were in the procession to go in to dinner, only Rebecca and Miss Dunhill unpartnered and at the rear of the party.

  Would Lord Easton appear at dinner? After arriving late, and in the rain, no one would blame him for taking a tray in his room. Virginia hadn’t said they were expecting another guest.

  Before long, everyone was seated and partaking of the first course. Rebecca could hardly find the will to eat. Her stomach fluttered and dipped, behaving more like a bird than a necessary part of her anatomy.

  “Miss Devon?” The young Lord Sharpeton, eldest son of the marquess, brought her attention away from the dining room door and to him. He smiled at her, the expression boyish in his round face, so different from Lord Easton’s square jaw. She blushed and nearly missed Lord Sharpetone’s question in her flustered state. “How do you like Kettering?”

  Rebecca’s grip on her spoon didn’t relax. Why did he insist on making conversation? She could hardly put together enough words for a polite response as she laid her spoon down. “I like it a great deal. I grew up not far from here, after all.”

  “Oh, really? I had not realized! This must be something of a homecoming for you, then.” He beamed at her. “How delightful.”

  Not entirely. Rebecca hadn’t stepped foot in her father’s house since he forced her to London with his sister. She doubted she would be permitted an opportunity to visit this time, either. “Yes. Delightful.”

  The doors opened and Rebecca nearly fell out of her chair. She hadn’t realized how near the edge she had been sitting. She quickly corrected her seat, her eyes flying up to see Lucas enter.

  “Good evening.” He stepped aside and gestured slightly behind him. “I’m pleased to announce the arrival of our last guest, Lord Easton.” The gentlemen in the room stood to bow as Lucas made introductions, but Rebecca’s ears refused to hear anything. All her energies went to her other senses as her eyes studied the man she was going to marry.

  He was taller than Lucas. But not by much. That was a small comfort. She wouldn’t tower over him as she did some gentlemen. And where her cousin’s husband shone like a golden-haired Adonis, her betrothed struck her by his bearing and coloring as closer kin to Hades. Would he be cold where Lucas was warm and kind? He wore black, and a silver-embroidered waistcoat, with a snow-white cravat held in place by a red-jeweled stick-pin. His hair still appeared damp, though it certainly no longer dripped. It waved to just below his ears.

  The unconventional haircut suited him, she realized, serving as a contrast to the sharp lines of his face.

  His eyes were dark, a shade that reminded her of rich earth. And they were looking anywhere but at her.

  A bump on the bridge of his nose led her to believe it had been broken. In the fight Mr. Gardiner had told her about, or another? A scar ran across his face, jaggedly going from just below his nose to his bottom lip. She swallowed. The other scars mentioned by the Gardiners were present as well; it appeared Lord Easton had contracted small pox at some point in his life.

  “And you know Miss Devon, of course,” Lucas said smoothly, which would keep the other guests from speculating on the newness of their acquaintance, but it also reminded her of the first glimpse of him she was trying so hard to forget.

  His eyes were on her. She swallowed and tilted her chin upward, striving for a politely neutral expression. “My lord,” she said.

  He didn’t smile. He had bowed to each member of the company, as expected. He nodded slightly to her. “Miss Devon.”

  Merciful heavens. His voice was deep.

  He went to the chair left open for him, near the marquess, at Virginia’s end of the table.

  That was all.

  He didn’t so much as glance her way again. Said not a word.

  Eyes of the other guests flickered her way, curious. Had they expected a warmer reunion between them? Should she have risen and gone to him? Preposterous. She didn’t actually know him. What would he have done?

  Lord Sharpeton leaned toward her, his intrusion into the air she breathed startling her from her thoughts. “He’s a somber chap.”

  She pushed away her irritation. “A difficulty with his carriage necessitated he arrive here late and in the rain. I suppose that would make anyone a trifle put-out,” she said, trying to keep the words light.

  Lord Sharpeton agreed with her and, in another moment, was chatting with Miss Dunhill at his other side.

  Rebecca looked down to Virginia’s end of the table. Rebecca sat in the middle of the table, as one of lower rank would. The formal setting hadn’t bothered her until she realized it meant she could not even see her intended from her location. He was on the same side of the table as she, but Lord Sharpeton’s eldest son and Lady Mostyn sat between them. She would have to lean very far forward to catch a glimpse of him.

  Instead, she strained her ears in an attempt to catch any conversation he might have with the ladies on either side of him. Lady Mostyn was nearly as chatty as her daughter, however, which meant she spent a great deal of time speaking and required little to no response from her dinner companions. Virginia appeared to be taken up in conversation with Lord Berwyn.

  Rebecca bit the insides of her cheeks and forced herself to attend to her food. The dining room was too loud, the table too crowded, and her curiosity too unsatisfied for her to enjoy a single bite.

  When the meal at last closed and the ladies rose to adjourn to the parlor, Rebecca cast one last look over her shoulder.

  Christian Hundley wasn’t even looking in her direction. His eyes were lowered to the table. Her spirits drooped. Di
d he not feel any curiosity about her, as she did about him? Rebecca turned away and followed the other ladies from the room, her place at the back of the line. Whatever was she going to do to capture his interest?

  Chapter Five

  Christian raised his eyes before the doors shut behind the ladies, finding the curling chestnut hair of Miss Devon for a mere instant. She walked with the posture of a princess, very differently from when she’d fled at the sight of him in the entry. Had she regained her courage then?

  It matters little. Even if he did intend to wed her. He mustn’t let what she thought of him, one way or the other, touch him.

  “Dashed bad luck, Lord Easton, to break a wheel in this weather,” Lord Berwyn said, reaching for the decanter of port placed before him by a footman. “Though I would’ve stayed with the carriage, I think. Brave of you to press on, for the countess’s sake.”

  Christian did not reach for the glass set on the table for him. He cared too much about keeping his wits about him to do more than take a glass of wine with dinner.

  “Putting out a hostess’s table is never a wise thing,” the other baron, Mostyn, agreed readily. “But our host and hostess are graciousness themselves.”

  The earl saluted the gentlemen in acknowledgement of the compliment. “I hope you will still think us gracious by the time you leave. If the rain continues as it has, this could be a very soggy sort of holiday.” The earl met Christian’s eye for a moment, his expression interested but not rude.

  They had spoken briefly in the hall of what ought to be done for Christian’s carriage and servants. All had been arranged speedily. Christian could not decide whether he liked the earl or not. Lord Annesbury had an air of authority about him, his eyes betrayed no emotion but a great deal of intelligence, and he’d been everything polite.

  Dinner had been difficult to get through. The countess, Lady Annesbury, had asked what questions a good hostess might, but very much left him to his own devices as the baroness clucked at him. Had the baroness said anything of sense, it would’ve been easier to endure, but as it was he felt something of a headache beginning just behind his eyes.

  His grandfather expected him to make a good impression, given that these men each held some level of importance in the political arena. They were all Whigs, at least in word if not always in their manner of voting. The earl himself took great interest in the rights of the manufacturers. Christian knew the marquess and Lord Berwyn both lived in northern counties, where industrial interests were on the rise. He wasn’t certain about Lord Mostyn. The man hadn’t a very eventful political career that Christian could recall.

  Parliament may be the place where arguments were made, but British policy had long been decided upon in the country houses of the peers and gentry, at hunts and parties just like this one. The earl was firming up alliances for the next session.

  “What think you on the state of our economy, Annesbury?” the marquess asked, bringing Christian’s attention back to the conversation. “With Napoleon defeated, our soldiers returning home, which way do you lean on our growth?”

  “I am watching carefully on all fronts,” the earl answered, tone cautious. “Our men come home, but to what? My crops have suffered these last two seasons and this one promises to be no better. The unseasonable coolness has meant my harvests are small and my stores shrunken.”

  “But trade with the Continent will resume unhindered,” Lord Berwyn said, leaning back in his seat, his rounded stomach protruding above the table’s edge. “That must count for something. All these young sailors coming home could help grow our merchant fleets back to the levels they were at before the war.”

  “And what are we to trade?” Lucas asked. “For years our manufacturing has been focused on tools of war, feeding and clothing soldiers. What goods do we possess that will be in demand in France, Spain, Italy?” The earl turned to Christian. “What do you think our greatest asset would be in trade, Lord Easton?”

  Although it surprised him to be addressed, Christian was careful not to let it show. “I think our manufacturing abilities will be the greatest export,” he answered confidently. “Our steam engines, for example, are the finest of their kind in the world. You have all read of Puffing Billy? It has replaced horses for pulling trams. But think of all the other uses of such a machine. Transportation of goods, transportation of people on a larger scale. Our exports will not consist of our food, but our intelligent designs.” He closed his mouth over the last word, his eyes flicking from one man to the other.

  The marquess seemed impressed as he addressed his son. “See here, Sharpeton. Someone else who likes those steam engines of yours.”

  The young Lord Sharpeton raised his eyebrows. “They are the way of the future, I am certain.”

  Christian noted the earl watching him, however. The earl had that look of interest on his face that was as much polite as sincere. Christian wasn’t sure if the man approved of his answer or not, nor did he really care.

  After another few minutes of talk, which had come back around to the weather and the events planned for the house party, the earl came to his feet.

  “I think the questions of our itinerary are best presented to Lady Annesbury. Let us rejoin the ladies and learn what fate holds for us should the rain stop.”

  The men all stood, moving toward the door. Christian stayed behind the group. His weariness from travel, his irritation with idle conversation, and his reluctance to be among a group of strangers all served to make his steps heavy. He’d rather seek out his bed than submit himself to more stares and conversation.

  Falling under the deep brown eyes of Miss Devon again would not help ease his discomfort.

  The earl had hung back in the hallway, Christian saw, and fell into step beside him, moving just as slowly. “Lord Easton,” he said. “I appreciate your attendance to our party, especially given the short notice of your invitation.” He spoke with sincerity.

  Christian closed his gloved hands, forming the politest response he could. “I thank you for the invitation.” He ought to say more, but what? He neither wished to indicate his grandfather had forced him to come, nor that he was grateful for the opportunity to lay eye on his future bride. Nor did he wish to lie and act as though he looked forward to any part of the two weeks of torture awaiting him. “I have never been in this part of the country.” That was safe, at least.

  “Indeed. I hope you will be able to enjoy some sport while you’re here. I understand you enjoy rowing.”

  Christian’s step faltered, he stopped walking and the earl with him. “How did you learn that?” The blunt question, the rudeness of asking such a thing, would’ve been offensive in most circles.

  The Earl of Annesbury raised his blond eyebrows, amused rather than offended. “Your grandfather isn’t the only one with connections, Lord Easton. I know you were on a team at Eton and Oxford, and I believe I saw your name at least once in a book at White’s. I happen to enjoy rowing as well, though more for my own exercise than competition.”

  Grandfather insisted the sport was a waste of time. He thought Christian ought to spend his leisure time in other ways. But being on the water, exerting himself physically, calmed Christian’s spirits more than any other pursuit. He missed being on rowing teams. Even at Eton, where he’d been an outsider from the beginning, they had realized his talent for rowing. He might’ve been derided on land, but with oars in his hands, he had been appreciated and respected.

  He had been silent too long. Lord Annesbury raised those eyebrows again and took a step closer. “Both of us know why you are here, Lord Easton. Make no mistake of that. Miss Devon is well liked and cared for in this house. I hope you will keep that in mind during your stay.”

  Christian responded swiftly. “I understand, Lord Annesbury.” He left it at that. The earl regarded him silently, then continued down the hall. Christian followed half a step behind.

  They entered the parlor, the earl gesturing for Christian to precede him, and Christian’s eyes
found Miss Devon at once. He hadn’t even thought to look for her, but once he saw her, he could look nowhere else.

  Standing in the same room with his betrothed, his third time to lay eyes on her, Christian didn’t know if he ought to approach or remain standing as far from her as possible.

  The coming days might be more difficult than he’d thought.

  *

  Rebecca couldn’t possibly pretend his entrance went unnoticed by her. Christian Hundley had nearly as much presence about him as Lucas. Where Lucas radiated a pleasant sort of energy, her intended reminded her of a storm cloud moving across the sky. What sort of a person could manage to hold all the crackling of lightning behind cool brown eyes and a disinterested expression? A man of temper, or of passion? Rebecca didn’t have time to ruminate further on that question.

  The storm cloud moved across the room in her direction.

  Rebecca swallowed down her nervousness. She stepped away from Miss Dunhill and Lady Felicity, daughter of the marquess, and moved to the window. If the viscount meant to speak to her, she’d rather not have their first conversation include two other young women.

  He adjusted his course accordingly, his eyes boring into her. Rebecca turned fully to the window, trying to quiet her pounding heart. What cause had he to stare at her with such intensity? They didn’t know each other, for all that she would soon belong to him. Was that what his gaze meant? Was he possessive? Or intent to take stock of his new belonging?

  I must not think like that. Just because he made the arrangement with Father doesn’t mean he is the same sort of man. Though it didn’t much speak in his favor, either.

  I am choosing to love him. The reminder did little to calm her.

  “Miss Devon,” he said, his deep voice wrapping around her like a cloak. “Good evening.”

  Firming up her resolve, Rebecca lifted her eyes to his. “Good evening, my lord.”

  Finally, she could study him, study the high lines of his cheekbones, the scar across his lips, the nose that had most assuredly been broken at least once. The idea of being connected with a man of violence sent a chill down her spine.