Deverell's Obsession: A Risqué Regency Romance (12 page)

The snort he got in response was to be treasured as a unique sound.

“You’re right.” He reached for Léonie’s hand as she sat next to him on the sofa. “We shall announce our engagement of course. In the papers.”

Her fingers twitched within his grasp.

“And that’ll tell everyone that Mademoiselle Girard is now in London.” Mary nodded. “Clever.”

“Also that she’s under my care and protection. And that she has Aunt Bertie’s support and name to give her countenance. She is no longer wandering the docks alone. She’s amassed an entourage and that will grow as we begin to show ourselves to the
Ton
.” Dev spoke soberly. He hadn’t betrayed his concern, but it was there nonetheless. This single announcement was going to put Léonie in jeopardy, but it was the only way they could see to lure whoever was hunting her out into the open.

He would feel a lot better after discussing it with McPherson, which he planned on doing after he took his fiancée home and locked her up tight.

It was early afternoon before he had the chance to play jailer. Mary and Eileen now had an order for dresses that had made their faces glow with excitement, Léonie couldn’t wait to see what they produced, and Dev had begun to pray that this would all be short-lived, since he never wanted to hear the words
lawn
,
dimity
, or
Valenciennes lace
again in his entire life.

They said their farewells, and Léonie sighed as she leaned back in the carriage and looked across at Dev.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this morning. For consenting to ordering so many clothes without a blink. For sitting through what must have been a boring time without complaint.” She grinned. “There has to be something wrong with you, but I have yet to find it. Nobody is perfect, so I shall wait with bated breath for the terrible personality weakness you doubtless have hidden from me thus far.”

Dev grinned back. “There’s nothing wrong with me, my dear. At least I don’t think so. Of course, now that we’re engaged, things may change…”

She looked interested. “What things might those be, Mr. Deverell?”

“Oh, many things, Miss Girard. Many wonderful things that might—just
might
—make you cry out. Or even scream.”

“Really.” The color in her cheeks bloomed. “A good scream, I hope?”

“A
very
good scream.”

“And will you scream too?”

Dev chuckled at the impertinent smile on her face. “One never knows, darling…”

She did her best to conceal it, but Dev caught the tiny shiver of arousal that made her tremble and hardened her nipples to tight buds beneath her bodice.

He leaned back in the carriage, content with a job well done.

Chapter Thirteen

Léonie couldn’t deny that she missed Julia and Lucius. They had returned to Gordonstone, and she knew they must miss their son. She couldn’t ask them to stay, but she felt their absence.

Both she and Dev, and Aunt Bertie—not to mention McPherson—had discussed the obscure message over and over again. They’d turned it inside out, upside down and talked it to within an inch of its life.

But still there had been no brilliant breakthrough, no moment of enlightenment when all became clear.

In other words, they still had no clue about the clue. Dev was being cavalier about it, joking in that dry way he had. But she was in no doubt that he was as frustrated as she was at their inability to make sense of the odd words.

Where would the shoreline be stitched? It made no sense whatsoever. They had to work that out first, since there would be no chance of finding a star at sunset if they were standing in the wrong place.

Léonie prided herself on her control. She’d been raised to believe that was the ultimate achievement –
never reveal your thoughts or feelings
. She’d learned that from both her father and her mother, at an early age. But at this point, in the privacy of her room, she could have let out a shriek and ripped some hair from her head.

Then there was the engagement ring on her finger. It fit, of course, but it felt different on
that
finger, since she’d been used to wearing it on her right hand, not her left.

It made sense, of course. A lure to whoever was out there causing havoc, perhaps the one who attacked her. She tried not to feel like bait, but knew in many ways she was. And it was indeed the best way to clear up all the confusion and guesswork that currently swirled around her.

She had immediately understood the significance of his suggestion. It took care of any issue concerning the proprieties and advanced their quest for answers. By revealing her presence, those who had attacked her would know she had survived, and was now in London. She was, in many ways, bait. But that was not a major consideration, since it was a logical move.

The true difficulty was in gauging how Dev felt about the engagement. His manner was warm, funny and teasing on a level that was often close to inappropriate. She loved it. But how much was play and how much was from his heart? She had yet to make an accurate assessment.

She realized that the same could be said for herself. She was hesitant to make an accurate assessment of her own feelings.

Being engaged to him gave her a trembling sensation around her heart and an urgent sense of need in other parts of her body. She refused to admit that some tender emotion might be the cause. No, it was simple desire. They wanted each other. Once they’d satisfied that urge, it would probably fade away.

Maybe. She sighed.
Damn it, it’s confusing.

Hence the urge to remove more than a few curls and throw them out the window.

She sighed and returned to her previous occupation, which was surveying the three gowns provided for her by the astounding team of Mary and Eileen. They must have recruited more than a few helpers, because each gown was unique, perfect for her, and in a style which was just a shade ahead of current.

Or so Julia had informed her before she left.

“You cannot do better, not even on Bond Street.” Julia had nodded with approval. “They made the gown I wore to my first ball. It helped. It really did.”

Léonie understood. The value of being sure one looked one’s best could not be overestimated.

And tonight she needed to look her best.

She had none of Julia’s trepidation about such events, of course. Her upbringing had schooled her well in every possible social situation. She could dine with royalty, flirt with roués, or dine in their kitchens.

She could dance almost every dance that might be played this evening, and could converse comfortably in both French and Russian, while making herself understood in Italian. She even had a smattering of Spanish, thanks to a friend she’d made in Vienna. Her maid’s family had fled the violence to end up in Austria, and the young girl had been happy to teach Léonie some of the basics as they spent time preparing for the next grand occasion.

No, it wasn’t the fact that this was her first ball in London, it was the matter of her attending as Dev’s acknowledged fiancée.

She had seen the correct notice in the paper announcing the betrothal of Mr. Delaney Deverell of London and Lower Deeving to Mademoiselle Léonie Girard, daughter of Colonel Anatole Girard, noted diplomat, late in the service of Lord Castlereagh.

It had given her an odd feeling around her heart to see the words in black and white. Not to mention knowing that those same words graced the breakfast tables of so many prominent families. More than a few of them had daughters and cherished hopes in Dev’s direction. He was so charming and handsome, how could they not?

And yet here she was, a nobody arrived less than a week ago in England, and already engaged to one of the most eligible bachelors.

She sighed. It was quite likely that the job of disposing of her would be completed by the many disappointed young ladies of Almack’s.

Well at least she would meet her end looking as fine as fivepence. The three gowns were all lovely, but her eyes kept drifting back to the blue one. Although to call it blue was doing it a great disservice.

Certainly the undergrown was blue. The same shade as the sky on a fresh morning in Vienna. Pure and clean and clear. The silk was overlaid with lace, and where Mary and Eileen had found this particular fabric, Léonie couldn’t begin to guess.

Created in a blend of blue and silver thread, there were flowers worked throughout, and in the center of each flower—a tiny sapphire blue bead. There were crystals sewn here and there into a petal or two, not a lot but enough to make the entire creation shimmer like dew on a field of bluebells.

The style was simple—something Léonie loved—and striking at the same time. The high waist was implied rather than gathered, delineated by a small ribbon beneath the bodice.  The square neckline would frame her décolletage to its best advantage and the sleeves were puffed and frilled in silk ruffles with matching ribbons.

Simple, yes. But once having seen the gown, nobody would be able to forget it. And if she had to be center stage this evening, the cynosure of all eyes when she entered the ballroom on Dev’s arm…well, then, this was the dress she would wear.

“Have you decided?”

The man himself walked into the room and came to stand by her side.

“The blue, I think. Although it’s not an easy choice.”

“Hmm.” He stroked his chin. “With your eyes, I would have chosen the green. But…” he glanced from the gowns to her and back again, “I think you’re right. The blue is going to bring out new colors.”

“So it will be acceptable? I do not believe I have met Lord Gallunder or his lady, so I am uncertain as to their style or position here in London.”

“The Gallunders are stalwart members of the
Ton
, with lineage that they take pride in tracing back to a Henry. I’m not sure which one, but I expect it was one of the famous ones. The third, maybe. Or the fourth.”

“A Tudor perhaps?”

Dev rolled his eyes. “My knowledge gets a bit rusty if you go back further than the eighth, to be honest. And the only Henrys I know are from Shakespearean performances, which—since they’re histories—I find incredibly dull.”

Léonie chuckled. “Not a fan of the bard, I see.” She pulled a reticule with silver beads from a drawer and lay it next to the blue dress. She nodded. Yes, that would do quite well.

“He did have an admirable way with words, I’ll admit.” He picked up a fan and ran his fingers over the silk. “O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.” He put the pretty thing down again. “I always rather liked that phrase.”

“Most people will prefer ‘to be or not to be’…” She looked at him as she put the other dresses to one side.

“Trite, my dear. Everyone knows that one. I deplore conformity. Give me something unique.”

She sighed.
I wish I could.
He came up behind her as she idly ran a ribbon through her fingers.

“That’s pink. It won’t do at all.”

“I know.” She couldn’t turn. He was too close and she could feel his heat. Especially when his hands landed on her waist.

They burned.

“Léonie.” The force of his fingers made her move, and he pulled her around to face him. “We should talk about this.”

She was distracted by the feel of his hands, the strength of them as they curved around her body. Her thin gown was no protection against the warmth or the shiver of something sizzling that came from his touch.

She gulped. “Talk about what, Dev?” She looked up into his face. And realized she’d made a mistake.

“
This
.”

He lowered his face to hers and before she could catch her breath, he kissed her.

*~~*~~*

He didn’t know what possessed him. He’d made a plan. The engagement had been a sound strategic move, and included time to persuade Léonie that they should make it genuine.

He was going to gently woo her, court her, and encourage her to think of him as a trustworthy friend. Then he would move to the stage of light flirtation and perhaps from there to the point where she would be ready to accept him as her husband.

They had something between them, a look or a smile, or a saucy comment—enough to make them both laugh and turn the air into something that tingled and buzzed with a great deal more than just pleasant companionship. He knew that, of course. But he’d hoped to build on it, take his time, and eventually claim what he knew was destined to be his.

But she’d turned into his arms and looked at him, her eyes mysterious and beautiful, her lips parted and ripe for the taking.

So he took.

He touched her reverently at first, then more firmly, letting his fingers tighten around her slender body as he drew her against his chest. His mouth caressed hers, and the wonder of it, the softness of it, the sensations shook him to his toes.

He hungered and couldn’t help parting his lips; devouring her would be so easy at this moment.

To his surprise, she parted hers and her tongue slid forward to find his, and begin a sensual duel that brought a moan to his throat. The kiss turned hot in the blink of an eye, overflowing with needs and desires and a yearning to be closer, closer to this woman who clung to him and met his every caress with one of her own.

He lost track of time as her heart beat fast against his, her breasts pressed to his silk waistcoat. She made a sound, a tiny whimper, and clutched at his shoulders, letting a hand slide around his neck as she rose on tiptoe to reach even more of him.

Dev’s control failed. He picked her up, both hands around her waist, and walked her to the loveseat that occupied one corner of the room. He sat and pulled her onto his lap where she landed with a whoof.

“Sorry.”

He wasn’t, of course, because now he had her closer than close, sprawled across him, her skirts a tumble of fabric and lace.

She wasn’t sorry either, it seemed, because she shifted a little, settling herself into his embrace, and then reached for him once more.

“Dev.” His name was a caress as she whispered it. “Dev, touch me?”

Her eyes were green fire and her cheeks glowed. She looked beautiful, desirable and eager—a palette of emotions that caught at his heart. She was opening to him in more ways than he could have expected in so short a time, and he couldn’t have been happier.

So he obeyed.

He touched her by claiming her lips, drifting his down over her neck and to the soft skin of her décolletage as it peeped above the lace of her bodice.

She sighed with pleasure at his touch, murmuring words in French and Russian that he knew were encouraging. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled his head back to hers, seeking his kiss once again, sucking at his tongue and giving him back breath for breath.

That breath hitched as he found her leg and ran his hand above her knee to the bare skin of her thigh.

She froze, her eyes closed, poised as if waiting for more.

And a knock at the door sent them both slithering onto the floor.

“Bloody hell.” Léonie cursed beneath her breath. “Come in.”

Dev was standing, barely, helping her up.

“Good gracious, are you all right, my dear?” Aunt Bertrand hurried over. “Is is your head?”

“No, no, I’m quite well. I simply tripped over the carpet as I was tidying the dresses.”

Dev marveled at her composure. Less than sixty seconds before he’d had his hand up her skirts and now she was as calm as ever, with only a slight tinge of color in her cheeks to show for their passionate moments.

“Hmm.” Aunt Bertrande frowned at the perfectly flat floral design beneath her feet. “I must be careful then.” She shrugged. “Did you pick a gown?”

“I did.” Léonie gestured to it. “I decided on the blue, and Dev concurs.”

Bertie nodded. “Excellent choice.”