Authors: Alicia Rasley
"But I never wanted to be a general," Michael protested, entirely sincere. "I just wanted to do my part to liberate Spain. Then I expected to come home and be a dairy farmer, or whatever it is I do on that neglected estate of mine. It's no dazzling career I'm sacrificing."
"Just your sense of duty. And that is why—" She recalled that terrible moment in the Tower when she let go all her hopes. "Now I can hardly demand that you must, after all, dispense with that sense of duty when there isn't the slightest need to do so. Why, it wouldn't be sensible. And it's enough to know you love me enough. But I swear to you, Michael Dane, if you die, I will—"
"You will kill me. I know," he said with a low laugh, drawing her against him. "Are you sure? Because the hardest part was making the decision, you know. I won't go into a decline now.”
"I am sure." She infused a bit more certainty into her voice. "I shouldn't love you so well if you weren't so dedicated. And at least I know that when it comes down to cases, I am more important to you than General Wellington is."
"There was never any contest, my love. For Wellington hasn't that enticing dimple, which has from the first been my downfall." He teased her into smiling with a kiss, then pressed another against the side of her mouth. Finally he tweaked her nose. "Once again, my sweet, you have truly surprised me. I never expected you to be so cautious about loving me." Serious now, he held her at arm's length and warned, "Don't you ever be cautious again, Tatiana Nicolevna."
"One of us has to be," she retorted, gathering up his gloves and slapping them into his bare hands. "For you have behaved like an impetuous fool, riding here out of the snow like young Lochinvar and doubtlessly giving yourself lung fever. You haven't my Russian resistance to the cold, you know. Now come let's get you warm."
As they strolled back toward the house, she pointed with a laugh to the scene in the pavilion. The caterer had collapsed on the floor with his head in his hands. He would probably shoot himself when he learned his guest of honor had other plans for the weekend.
But the thought of another's reaction sobered her suddenly, and she clung to Michael's arm in supplication. "Promise me you will come with me to tell the countess I'll have no need for a lady-in-waiting. Cumberland, I shan't deign to address, for he hadn't even the courtesy to propose in person."
Then, as she watched in fascination, Michael jiggled the blade of his penknife in the lock on the nearest set of French doors. After a little manipulation, he unlatched the door and met her admiring sigh with a grin. "Another useful skill I picked up in debtors' prison." He led her into a warm library, then stopped her with a hand on her arm. "I must get back to London tonight to get a special license from the bishop. You do want to be married soon, don't you? Before I go back to Portugal? Or will you lament the royal wedding you might have had?"
"Not at all," she answered brightly, refusing to let his mention of Portugal cast her down. In fact, why don't we elope? Imagine how exciting it will be, to run off to—where is it?"
"Gretna Green," he answered ironically. He drew her closer to the fire and stood behind her, holding her hands out to the warmth. She felt the length of his hard body against hers and wished they could be married this very moment. "No, thank you. It's nearly a week's trip in a carriage north, and we'd have no time for—for being married." Tatiana thought he flushed a little, but that might only have been a reflection of the flames on his straight jaw. "Besides, Prinny has offered to give you away, and we have your uncle's permission, signed and sealed, so let's do it properly."
She wrinkled her nose at the thought of doing anything so important so properly, then thought to ask, "But how could you have gotten my uncle's permission? There hasn't been near enough time, and he would never have granted it!"
Against her back, his chest swelled with pride. "Not knowingly. But you'll be glad to know I tampered with an official royal contract in a most improper way. I inserted my own name instead of Cumberland's on the guardian's document."
"Oh, Michael." She twisted in his arms, and gazed up at him with admiration. "Forgery! I am so proud of you."
Modestly he accepted her compliments, and then her kisses, and it was only the impatient slamming of doors in the hallway that recalled him to his purpose. "I think we are about to be attacked by the Lioness of Sherbourne." He caught the princess back in his arms and laughingly pleaded, "Give me one more kiss for courage and we'll beard her in her den." Generously she complied, and he added, trailing kisses across her cheek to her tender neck, "Ah, one more, please. My heart never pounded so in battle. I must be truly terrified. Another to let me catch my fleeting breath, and one more to straighten my spine, and only one more to—"
This might have gone on until Devlyn pronounced himself ready to take on all Napoleon's armies bare-fisted, had not the door been flung open and the countess marched in. "You!" she cried to the major in tones of utter loathing, her arm outstretched and finger pointed like an avenging angel. Her martial glare would have cowed Wellington himself, but Devlyn and Tatiana stood firm, their arms about each other's waist. Finally Lady Sherbourne's prowlike bosom sagged in defeat. "There is no hope for it now, I suppose. You've ruined your chances, Princess, and mine too, and if you prate to me about love, either of you, I shall cast you out into the snow. See if that love of yours keeps you warm then."
"Oh, it already has," Devlyn said gravely, gazing into Tatiana's radiant eyes. "And it always will."
Chapter Twenty One
Before he opened his eyes, Michael Dane oriented himself in the universe. He was in Cavendish Square, not Portugal; in his own bedroom, not a dusty tent along the Tagus River. He was a civilian again, at least for a few weeks, and the war's tedium and terror were far away.
It was the sixth of December in 1811, and he was alone.
But not really alone, ever again.
He reined in the desperate impulse to see Tatiana. Lady Sherbourne and Buntin had made it clear they needed at least one full day to prepare the bride for her impromptu wedding. "Besides, it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding," the countess had warned, crossing herself superstitiously. She was already convinced of her own bad luck; once hostess to a future royal duchess, she had been diminished in an evening to the hostess of a future viscountess. But she took it in stride, for she had come to care for her royal charge, and wanted the best for her, which included a handsome wedding and only good omens.
So after he sent notes round to Dryden and a few other friends, Devlyn took himself off to White's for lunch, recalling that it was in this comfortable masculine retreat that his life had been so radically altered. He should have known, when Wellesley showed him the miniature of the mischievous princess, that he was utterly lost and would never find his way back—and would never regret it.
His happiness was such that he simply could not keep it to himself. So when Jordy Tregier greeted him in the entry hall with an offhanded "How goes it, Devlyn?" the captain got more than he expected.
"Rather well, actually." Devlyn was glad of a chance to discompose the exquisite Tregier, whose golden curls the December wind had disarranged only poetically. He wished briefly that he hadn't invited Tregier to his wedding. But he decided Tatiana would only be amused by a man who looked like an angel but smiled like a devil. "I gather you haven't got my note yet. I'm getting married tomorrow."
"Never say it!" Tregier stepped back until he met a door frame, where he angled himself gracefully. His slender hand went to cover his mouth as if the very air might be contagious. "Why would you want to do a fool—I mean, I wish you happy, lad. Who is the blushing bride? Do I know her?"
Devlyn gave in, as he had done so frequently of late, to a spirit of mischief. With an embarrassed cough, he admitted, "I think not. You don't really travel in the same circles."
Tregier might have been disowned a decade ago, but he was a duke's son nonetheless and had been warned throughout his youth about such girls. "A mesalliance, is it? Well, at least you haven't any family to cut up stiff about it, so I guess you may marry as you wish." His tone conveyed a certain surprise that a man would wish to marry at all, but then Jordy's motto had always been "So many women, so little time." As Devlyn had always lacked that essential spirit of conquest, Jordy was inclined to release him from the ranks of bachelors. "Never mind. I won't cut you. I am a democrat when it pleases me."
Devlyn accepted the assurance and clap on his shoulder in the spirit they deserved. "Thank you, Jordy. I knew I could count on your egalitarian principles."
Tregier took Devlyn's bent head as a sign of shame, and asked sympathetically, "So how bad can it be? She's pretty, at least, isn't she? Well, of course she is, or you wouldn't be in this mess—I mean, this situation. That makes up for a host of lesser sins. Rich too, I hope?" he prompted. Disowned second sons of even the wealthiest dukes developed a healthy appreciation for well-dowered damsels.
Devlyn recalled the sapphires, the diamonds, Peter the Great's mama's emerald ring. "We shan't starve. She's got a lot of jewelry that we can pawn if need be."
"Well, come on, Michael. Tell me the worst." Tregier chucked him bracingly on the chest with the back of his hand, then peering closer, turned one of Devlyn's buttons so the army insignia was properly aligned. "Now you look more the thing—I told you I would still acknowledge you no matter what. Hell, I'll even kiss the bride, if you insist. Just tell me what to expect. Is she the granddaughter of a fish merchant?"
"Granddaughter of a king, actually. Great-grandniece of an empress—Maria Theresa, to be precise." Devlyn bestowed a kindly smile on his comrade. "And, let me see now, great-great-granddaughter of a tsar. Yes, it's a mesalliance, all right."
As comprehension dawned, Tregier's hand flashed out and closed on Devlyn's wrist. He dragged the laughing major to a private dining room and slammed the door. Then he flung him into a chair. "Damn you, Devlyn. You're marrying the princess!"
Devlyn rubbed his bruised wrist. "The very one."
"Damn it!" Tregier stalked across the room, then turned on his heel in perfect parade cadence and stalked back. He stopped threateningly in front of the major's chair. "I knew you were up to something when you put that ridiculous bet down—five hundred pounds!"
Devlyn sighed, wondering what his illicit winnings would have amounted to. "I expect the bet will be nullified now."
"You'll be lucky if they don't throw you out of the club! Damn!" Tregier threw himself onto the leather settee but immediately rose and advanced on Devlyn. "I should have known you had something up your sleeve. Ned was right—you'd never bet less than a sure thing. And I have a year's pay down on Cumberland—" He stopped with his hands inches from Devlyn's throat. "I heard the contracts were going to be signed today. I've already spent half of my winnings, and you're telling me you are going to marry her?"
"I did invite you to the wedding," Devlyn offered, but Tregier was hardly mollified.
"Don't try to cozen me, you scoundrel. You've always been a crafty one, haven't you, despite your innocent airs. Just tell me how you managed it. It was all arranged, that's what I heard, and now— How did you do it?"
"She succumbed to my fatal charm, I gather," Devlyn answered, prudently rising and edging toward the door in case Jordy was siezed with another fit of rage.
"I don't mean her. She's a woman, I can't expect any consistency from her." Suddenly Tregier's concern was all for his comrade-in-arms. "Those others—Prinny, Wellesley—damn it, Michael, you're not running off with her, are you? You could be cashiered! I know you're Wellington's favorite this week, but even he—"
"We're not running off. In fact, the wedding will be at Carlton House. The regent is giving the bride away. And I imagine Wellington won't raise any more of a fuss than he does whenever one of us tries to live life without his permission."
A slow smile broke on Tregier's face. "You're a rogue, Devlyn, for all your saintly ways. Did you blackmail Prinny?"
"Not at all," Devlyn replied with great dignity. "I'm sworn to secrecy about my tactics. I will say, however, that Destain provided me with the key to extricating the lady from her engagement, though I think I would have come up with something eventually. You should have had more faith in me, as Ned did," he finished, more in sorrow than in anger.
"Not fair! You had inside information. You knew your own intent, and I daresay you had some inkling of hers. You could have told us while there was still time." Tregier was prowling the periphery of the room, his head down, his sword banging against his leg in his agitation. "Still time." Then his attention snapped to Devlyn. "You sent notes out? When?"
"Whenever the footman got back from his other errands. I wrote 'em an hour ago perhaps." Devlun watched with professional interest as Tregier's struggle with his conscience played out on his noble features. Predictably, the conscience lost.
"Don't tell anyone else. Give me an hour, that's all I ask. I belong to three clubs; I can get round to them in an hour. Just an hour, Michael, if you love me. For all we've suffered together. For all we're going to suffer together. What's an hour against all that?"
Devlyn shook his head. "I don't know, Jordy; it doesn't seem sporting,"
"Fine words from a belted scoundrel, abductor of princesses and blackmailer of princes." Tregier's response was appropriately abusive, but his grin was forced. Devlyn wondered suddenly if Jordy was staring ruin in the face. Stupid, he'd been, to wager a year's pay on the whims of a princess, particularly this princess. But, as usual, Devlyn felt responsible.
"No blackmail." He kept his tone light. "Only superior strategic ability—not that you'd be able to appreciate it."
Tregier swallowed this insult without a murmur. "Just an hour."
"What will Destain and the rest say?"