Authors: Nadine Miller
“And you, madam, are no lady—and doesn’t that present interesting possibilities for the future!” The earl’s laugh had a wickedly suggestive sound to it that literally set Moira’s teeth on edge.
“But you were right about one thing, lovely temptress,” he added softly. “We were never destined to be merely friends.”
M
oira fled the earl’s sickroom, his final taunt ringing in her ears. “Never again,” she vowed, would she be fool enough to find herself alone with the rake. He was everything he had been purported to be by the London gossips—and worse.
Then why did his touch not repel her as Viscount Quentin’s had? How could she, who had always prided herself on her strength, be so weak-willed as to long for a man who made no secret of the fact that he considered women mere playthings put on earth for his amusement?
She took the precaution of informing Elizabeth that she must accompany her whenever the earl summoned her to his chamber from then on, since it would not be at all proper for her to be alone with him now that he was on the mend.
Elizabeth agreed, as Moira had known she would, but hastened to add, “Not that I would expect such an honorable man to do anything ungentlemanly.”
“Nor would I,” Moira declared tongue-in-cheek. “But still a woman in my position must observe the proprieties.”
In truth, she had as much faith that the “honorable earl” would refrain from ungentlemanly conduct as she had that one of her gypsy cousins would refrain from stealing a farmer’s chicken if he found a coop unguarded. It seemed all too evident that once Devon St. Gwyre had convinced himself the passionate kiss they’d shared had not been a dream, he had begun to think of her as his own private chicken ready for plucking.
Long after the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece in her bedchamber struck midnight, she lay staring up at canopy over her bed, reflecting on the strange turns her life had taken in the past few years.
Once, not too long ago, her only concern had been whether she would go to sleep each night with a full stomach or an empty one. But that was before she became the Duchess of Sheffield and before Devon St. Gwyre took over her dreams. Now she sometimes wondered if she would ever have a good night’s sleep again.
If it were not for Charles, she would shed her title, and the wealth and obligations that went with it, as quickly as she shed her hated
gauja
shoes. The shoes only pinched her feet; her life as Duchess of Sheffield pinched her soul, and unless she found a way to put her foolish longing for Devon St. Gwyre behind her, she feared her heart would suffer a mortal wound as well.
As it turned out, Moira was too caught up in the affairs of others to spend much time worrying about her own aching heart in the week that followed.
Cook was the first to mention the problem to her. “Miss Elizabeth’s mooning over that marquess fellow like she hasn’t a brain in her head,” she said out of the blue when Moira stopped in at the kitchen to discuss the week’s menus. “You’d best do something about it, your grace, afore the poor little thing gets her heart broken.”
Not an hour later, John Footman said essentially the same thing, albeit a bit more diplomatically.
“I’ll have a talk with her,” Moira promised, hoping it was merely the usual servant’s gossip. Elizabeth was much too calm and levelheaded to be swept away by passion. Wasn’t she?
The next time she was alone with her companion, she made a point of mentioning the marquess. It was obviously a subject dear to Elizabeth’s heart. “He is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met,” she said and proceeded to list the marquess’s countless virtues. “I know nothing can come of my regard for him,” she added plaintively. “A marquess cannot ally himself with a country vicar’s daughter. But even a marquess needs a friend. Especially one who has suffered as this one has. I intend to be that friend for as long as he needs me.”
Her words sounded logical; her actions during the following days were anything but. At five and twenty, Elizabeth Kincaid was suffering the pangs of first love, and the sight was a painful one to behold.
The boys’ lessons suffered. Instead of conjugating verbs and studying Greek history, they ran riot in the schoolroom while Elizabeth gazed dreamy-eyed out the window at the Marquess of Stamden conversing with the head groom in the stable yard below.
She talked about him constantly, extolling his virtues to Moira, to John Footman, and Cook and the housekeeper. She even praised him to Devon when she accompanied Moira to his chamber to ask permission to buy a pony for Alfie so the two boys could ride together.
She shamelessly hunted him out when he walked in the garden each morning, chatted like a magpie when he took tea with Moira and her in the afternoon, and ogled him with frank admiration across the dinner table.
Oddly enough, the marquess didn’t seem to mind in the least, but her infatuation with him was so obvious and so excessive, it soon became the main topic of gossip in the servants’ quarters.
Moira knew she should do something to save her naïve companion from the certain heartbreak of fixing her affections on a man who was both a battled-scarred war veteran and a jaded London sophisticate. But what? All things considered, she was the last person in the world qualified to tell another woman how to handle her life—especially a woman who was three years her senior and technically an employee.
In the end, she decided to leave it in the hands of the gods and hope for both their sakes that the earl would soon be well enough to leave for Langley Hall and take the marquess with him.
Devon freely admitted he was the last man on earth who should be telling another man how to conduct his affairs of the heart. But someone had to do something and it appeared he was that someone. Elizabeth Kincaid had been his friend since childhood, and she was making a cake of herself over Stamden—something everyone but the object of her affections found highly amusing, if Ned’s version of the White Oaks servants’ quarters’ gossip was to be believed.
He could hardly discuss it with Elizabeth, so that left Stamden. He tackled the problem one evening when the marquess arrived for their usual after-dinner chess game. “I need to speak to you,” he said feeling decidedly uncomfortable in the role of counselor.
“Of course. You know I am always at your service,” Stamden replied, setting up the chessboard on the small capstan table next to the chaise longue where Devon reclined.
Devon glanced toward the chamber door, which stood partially open wondering if he should suggest it be closed. He shrugged the idea aside. Everyone in the household knew this was the time for their nightly game. The chances of their being interrupted were slight.
“The matter is somewhat delicate. I scarcely know how to begin,” he said hesitantly. Stamden was the most private of men; Devon wasn’t certain how he would take to interference in his affairs.
Stamden’s expressive gray eyes widened in surprise. “The subject matter must indeed be a touchy one. I’ve never known you to hesitate speaking your mind about anything that concerned you.
“True, but quoting the Prince of Denmark, ‘there’s the rub,’” Devon said, casting about for a tactful way to word what he had to say. “This particular problem concerns you, not me.”
“Me?” Stamden looked surprised. “What have I done?”
“Well for one thing, when the duchess and Elizabeth visited me this morning, her grace mentioned that you have been spending a great deal of time with Elizabeth Kincaid.”
“I suppose I have.” The ivory king slipped through Stamden’s fingers and landed on its head. Stamden righted it and stared at Devon in obvious amazement. “Good Lord, don’t tell me my friendship with Miss Kincaid is the ‘delicate matter’ you’re finding so difficult to broach.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose I should apologize to her grace for taking her companion away from her duties. I forgot the lady was gainfully employed.”
“The duchess wasn’t complaining, merely stating a fact,” Devon said quickly.
“She wouldn’t. Miss Kincaid says she is a true friend as well as a considerate employer, and I find the longer I know her, the more I admire her.”
“Perhaps you and Ned should consider forming a Duchess of Sheffield Admiration Society,” Devon said sourly, placing the onyx king on his proper square. “He hasn’t stopped talking about her since the moment he discovered she was his benefactress.”
“Which is understandable since he owes her his life.” Stamden placed the ivory queen on the board. “But back to the subject at hand. I’m glad you brought it up, for I see now I have been remiss in taking up so much of Miss Kincaid’s time. It is just that it has been so long since I have had the privilege of conversing with a young woman so charming, so intelligent, so kindhearted, so…”
“Innocent,” Devon finished for him, looking everywhere except at this friend’s face. “Elizabeth is all those things. And having spent most of her life as a country vicar’s daughter, I doubt she has ever before met anyone as worldly and sophisticated as you.”
“I don’t imagine she has.” Stamden searched Devon’s face with narrowed eyes. “Why do I have the feeling that somewhere in this inane conversation you are trying to make a point that is escaping me entirely? If you have something to say, my friend, say it.”
“All right.” Devon cleared his throat. “Elizabeth may be five and twenty, but she has had less social experience than most of the seventeen-year old chits who will make their comeout in London this spring. She is, therefore, very vulnerable and could be deeply hurt.”
“If you are implying I shall contaminate the lady with my unholy worldliness simply by carrying on a conversation with her, I take that as a personal affront. I may look like a monster; I never remember acting like one.”
“Devil take it, Peter, how could you think that I, of all people, could be implying such rot?” Devon scowled. “I feel like an absolute fool, but there is no other way to say this: Elizabeth is obviously head-over-heels infatuated with you. If your intentions toward are anything but honorable, I would hope you would do the decent thing and end the association before her affections are even more seriously engaged.”
“Her affections?” Stamden sputtered. “Is this your idea of a jest? For if it is, I must tell you I find it in exceedingly poor taste.”
“I am perfectly serious, Peter.”
“Then I suggest you have yourself fitted for spectacles posthaste. Or do you think me such an idiot I am unaware that any woman would run from me in horror should I attempt to touch her.”
Devon cringed at the look of untold pain and humiliation he saw in his friend’s bleak eyes. “Elizabeth is not just any woman,” he said with firm conviction. “She is a gentle, loving creature whose warm heart blinds her to what a more superficial female might judge unsightly.”
Stamden took a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair in which he sat. “What are you saying?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“I am saying Elizabeth Kincaid does not see you as you apparently see yourself. She idolizes you. Shall I recount how she described you to the duchess and me this morning?”
The color blanched from Stamden’s face, making the cruel scar twisting his left cheek appear even more vivid than usual. “Please do,” he said.
Devon collected his thoughts, determined to quote Elizabeth accurately. “Her exact words were, ‘He is like a wondrous medieval castle I once saw when Papa took me on a walking tour of Leicestershire. It was still so beautiful and so magnificent, one scarcely noticed the crumbling turrets and rusty portcullis.’ ”
He gave Stamden a telling look. “In short, my friend, the lady is a hopeless romantic and you are her knight on the white charger. She is also a woman who has never before given her heart to any man; I would hate to see her give it to one who does not want it.”
Stamden’s face was utterly blank. “My God, if I thought…if I even suspected…” He swallowed hard. “I am deeply grateful to you for telling me this, though I find it difficult to believe. I thought she merely looked on me with the same compassion I have seen her show a wounded bird or a lame dog.”
“You sell yourself short, Peter. The glow in Elizabeth’s eyes when she spoke of you this morning was not occasioned by pity. You have much to offer any woman who has the sense to see beyond the scars of war you carry.”
“I assume you refer to my title and estates.”
“You assume wrong, my friend. I doubt your material possessions mean anything to Elizabeth. She admires your courage and wit and if I am not mistaken, she desires your heart. If you cannot give it to her or if you feel she is too far beneath you socially to make her your wife, then say goodbye and let her find solace in another. For if there was ever a woman meant to be a wife and mother, it is Elizabeth Kincaid.”
The marquess rose, walked to the window, and stood looking out at the courtyard below. Only his right side was visible to Devon and for a moment, looking at his profile, it was possible to imagine him whole and handsome and full of the devil-may-care spirit that had once made him the most sought after young bachelor in London. Then he turned around and the happy illusion was destroyed.
“I know I promised I would stay with you until you were up and about,” he said gravely. “But I think I must break that promise. I need to spend some time at my estate in Northumberland.”
“Are you certain this is what you want?” Devon asked feeling as if a great weight had landed on his heart.
Stamden smiled his painful, twisted smile. “The only thing of which I am absolutely certain at the moment is that Elizabeth Kincaid is the sweetest, most gentle woman I have ever met. She deserves happiness—and until I am certain it is my heart and not merely my deplorable loneliness which draws me to her, I dare not let myself take advantage of her generous nature.