Midnight Marriage: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series) (8 page)

“If you feel I must acknowledge your boring brother then I suppose we will have to invite him to dinner upon occasion. But I put my foot down at having him to stay over a weekend. I loathe trencherflies as much as you do.”

“Will you be serious?” she demanded.

“I’ve never been more so. Drink your coffee, or do you want a fresh dish? That one you’ve let go cold.”

Deb decided it was impossible to talk to a lunatic. She put his silly mood down to the effects of the medicinal drugs he’d been given to dull the pain of his injury. He was obviously an outrageous flirt who was not to be taken seriously. She suspected that he was being familiar with her because she had come to his rescue and thus was deserving of his attentions for the moment. Yet there was no denying that for the briefest of moments the prospect of accepting his outlandish offer of marriage exhilarated her. Of course she banished the thought as soon as she had conjured it up. And mentally upbraided herself for allowing this handsome stranger to so easily put her off-balance.

Why couldn’t she control the heat in her face?

Martin Ellicott saw her heightened color as he stepped out on to the terrace from the French windows. He had been hovering in the back parlor, awaiting his opportunity to join the Marquis and his guest, and as he sat down at the table he wondered what his godson had said to make the young woman blush and look coy. But he kept his thoughts to himself and his face suitably blank and signaled to Fibber and two lackeys to bring out the breakfast things.

“Back from Paris so soon,
mon parrain
?”

“A minor disaster in the kitchen,” the old man lied. “
Excusez-moi
,
mademoiselle
. I hope my godson has kept you suitably entertained in my absence? Try one of these excellent rolls.”

“Thank you, M’sieur.
Entertained
, yes,” Deb answered, an eye on the Marquis who was plying his plate with roast beef, eggs, slices of bread and a sliver of pie. “A roll and perhaps a little butter.
Merci
.”

Julian glanced up from inspecting the contents of a covered dish. “Fussy appetite, eh?”

“Not at all! I usually eat a good breakfast. It’s just that I—I seem to be drowning in coffee.” His sad shake of the head goaded her into retorting, “I see you possess a bottomless pit for a stomach!”

“Yes,” he answered with a laugh and devoured a slice of roast beef.

Martin Ellicott listened to these exchanges, saw the looks that passed between his godson and Miss Cavendish, and felt a stranger at his own table. The two young people spoke with a familiarity of long standing, which pleased him more than he cared to admit. Miss Cavendish might maintain a semblance of decorum in her demeanor but her replies to his lordship’s playful banter stripped away her façade of indifference. As for his godson, he was enjoying himself hugely, no doubt because he had the upper hand in this meeting. The old man was of the opinion that Miss Cavendish’s exceptional beauty was the reason his godson had the appearance of a well-satisfied cat who has discovered that the bowl of water put before it is in fact a dish of fresh rich cream.

“Martin will vouch that
mon père
refuses to sit down with me at the breakfast table. He positively shudders to watch me tuck into a hearty meal such as this at so early an hour. Is that not so,
mon parrain
?”

“Your father must be a gentleman of infinite sensibility,” Deb teased.

“M’sieur le du—” Martin began, stumbled on the name and immediately corrected himself. A sharp, open look from the Marquis warned him to be on his guard. “M-My godson has an appetite beyond his father’s comprehension.”

Julian finished off the pie with the last of the coffee, an appreciative wink at his godfather that did not go unnoticed by Deborah. “Maman blames herself. She has a sparrow’s appetite, yet when she was pregnant with me she craved all this. Rather an omen. Poor
mon père
,” he laughed, “how he must have suffered.”

Martin Ellicott thought such intimate conversation unfit for the ears of a young lady and his whole being stiffened. Yet he needn’t have concerned himself Miss Cavendish would take offense. She barely heard a word Julian had said for she had fixed on her host’s quickly corrected slip of the tongue and the wink of secret understanding that had passed between the two men. Her gaze flew across the table to the Marquis, who was looking at her intently, before she lowered it to the contents of her coffee dish.

“Ah. Apologies,” he said as he pushed back his chair to stand. “Martin will be appalled at my lack of manners.” He made her a short bow. “Allow me to introduce myself: Julian Hesham Esq.” He glanced at the old man. “Miss Cavendish and I have been discussing our marriage—”

Deb’s eyes immediately lifted from her coffee dish as a ready blush of embarrassment seized her throat and cheeks. It was one thing to jest of marriage with her in private conversation, quite another to continue the jest in front of her host who, one swift glance in his direction told Deb the old man was in utter disbelief at his godson’s pronouncement.

“You must stop this nonsense at once,” she demanded in a low voice, up on her feet.

“—and how I put my foot down at inviting her brother Sir Gerald to stay overnight,” the Marquis finished off, both men instantly on their feet the moment she scraped back her chair.

“It wouldn’t have mattered to me one jot had you been an adventurer,” Deb continued, napkin cast aside. “But to tease a girl you have only met once and in-in trying circumstances, a girl you know not the first particular about and who knows nothing about you, with an offer of marriage, an obligation you have no intention of fulfilling, is beyond
forgiveness
.”

Julian appealed to Martin Ellicott. “Tell her I am in earnest,
mon parrain
.”

“I do not know what circles you mix in, Mr. Hesham, if that is in truth your name, but in the society to which I belong, your actions would not only be considered heartless but unconscionable! And—and those of a-a
lunatic
.”

“Please, Miss Cavendish, if you would—”

“Why do you smile? Do you think it amusing? Do you see me as an object of fun, sir? To a gentleman of your address, adventurer or no, I suppose a spinster nearing her twenty-first birthday must amuse someone used to the attentions of—oh! a dozen females at every ball and rout. Well, I assure you, yours is not the only marriage proposal I’ve ever received! In fact, the ones I have received were in earnest, not made as a cruel jest! Indeed I had one this morning. And from a gentleman who would never make me such an offer unless he truly meant it!”

“I repeat:
I
am in earnest.”

“To think I went to the trouble of bandaging you up!”

“And a very good job of bandaging you did too. May I know the fellow’s name who proposed to you?”

“No. You may not!” she breathed indignantly and then opened wide her brown eyes at his look of amusement. “Oh, I see. You don’t believe me, is that it?”

“Of course I believe you, Miss Cavendish,” he assured her, following Deb to the low wall, a handkerchief at the ready. “It’s just that I wonder why you have not accepted one of these proposals before now…?”

Deb rounded on him then and he found it hard to keep a straight face because she was scowling at him and it brought back a flash of vivid memory, of a thin shouldered barefoot girl in an over large nightgown. It amazed him to think he had not recalled her before now.

“I will not take offense at that remark because you do not know my history,” she said in a low voice, the scowl deepening spying the handkerchief in his hand. “If you must know Black Cavendishs do not receive many marriage proposals. Certainly not from respectable gentlemen! I dare say you are not respectable or I wouldn’t have found you bleeding to death from a sword wound and you certainly would not have offered me marriage.”

He quickly put away the handkerchief. “I assure you, it was not my object to offend you, Miss Cavendish. I am merely curious to know of any potential rivals for your hand.”

“Is that so?” she said, tongue in cheek. “As my hand is not engaged there is little point in divulging the names of my suitors to you. Now you must excuse me, M’sieur,” she said politely, addressing the old man who stood woodenly by the table transfixed by the conversation between the couple, “I have packing to do. Thank you for the breakfast. I hope to see you in the Pump Room before I leave for Paris.
Au revoir
.”

“Leaving for Paris soon, Miss Cavendish?” Julian persisted, following Deb down the terrace steps to the pebbled path that led to the stables.

Deb stopped and turned on him, the scowl returning. “If you must know, I am taking my nephew to Paris within the next few days, where, undoubtedly, I will receive more marriage proposals from dashing adventurers. Good day, sir!”

“Not if I can help it,” Julian muttered, returning to the terrace. He propped one leg on the low wall and took snuff, maintaining a face of polite indifference under his godfather’s steady gaze. “Cousin Mary is in town,” he said conversationally. “I hope dull Gerry isn’t. I must pay her my respects. I’ll drive the chariot. Do you have any errands for Frew?”

“Julian…” the old man said and faltered, trying to collect his thoughts. “Miss Cavendish isn’t the… She couldn’t possibly be…
Mon Dieu
. What a coincidence! It is quite a shock. I had no idea she ventured into the woods to play her viola. As for a loaded pistol… I cannot believe I did not discover these things before now.”

The Marquis snapped shut his snuffbox, a hard brilliance to his emerald green eyes. “Don’t let it worry you, Martin.” He dared to smile to himself as the image of the thin shouldered girl in the overlarge nightgown faded, bringing into sharp relief a young woman straddled across his thighs in a transparent cotton chemise that failed to adequately cover her exquisite breasts. “You may leave the discovering to me…”

F
OUR

‘
C
OME TO KEEP
an old lady company, Deb?” asked Harriet, Dowager Marchioness of Cleveland, shifting her heavy satin petticoats and her bulk to the end of the settee to allow Deb to sit beside her. “You won’t see much from back here. That Reigate creature, with her turban and plumes enough for a whole bird, is blocking everyone’s view of the floor. I’ve a mind to have Waverley shoot the thing to put it out of its misery!”

General Waverley leaned across from the next settee and inquired calmly, “Bird or beast, my dear?”

“Ha! Ha! I believe you’d do it too if you had your pistol,” laughed Lady Cleveland and gave his lace covered knuckles a playful rap with her fan. “Say hello to Deb, you rogue.”

“How are you Miss Cavendish?” asked the General, kissing the gloved hand extended to him.

“Better for escaping to the back of the room. I left Lady Mary talking to Lord Orminster. He pounced on us as soon as we entered the vestibule and insisted on finding us seats in the front row.” Deb peered over her fan, out across the sea of powdered heads. “Poor lamb; he’s still with her.”

“Fred is a bore,” said Lady Cleveland. “I don’t suppose little Mary Cavendish will think so.”

“Because she is married to one, my lady?” Deb inquired.

Lady Cleveland looked about in alarm. “She didn’t bring him with her, did she?”

“No.”

“Knows a thing or two about horses,” opinioned the General with firm nod.

Lady Cleveland and Deb exchanged a significant look, the ancient Marchioness rolling her eyes heavenward, causing Deb to laugh. “We missed you at cards this afternoon, my dear. I hope it wasn’t on account of Thistlewaite’s win on Wednesday last?”

Deb shook her head and leaned toward the Marchioness so as not to be overheard, their bare shoulders touching and Deb’s fan up to hide her words. “If Gerry comes to hear of it, poor Mary will carry the burden of my lost guineas. He actually sent her to keep an eye on me. As if he doesn’t get a surfeit of gossip from Saunders already.”

Lady Cleveland’s eyes bulged. “Your butler spies for your brother?”

Deb nodded.

“Good God! That’s monstrous. Get rid of him at once!”

“For Gerry to set another in his place? No, I thank you. The thing is, Saunders doesn’t know that I know what he’s up to. And he is good at his job.”

“How did you learn of his treachery?” asked the Marchioness, her fan waving in agitated movements across her bejeweled ample bosom; all interest in her surroundings momentarily forgotten. “You didn’t catch him spying through a keyhole or-or scribbling notes on his cuff? Horrid man.”

“Nothing quite so exciting. Joseph always suspected Saunders was less than loyal. I hate to think what methods he employed but he found a sheet of paper, part of a letter addressed to my brother. Joseph says it was a discarded copy. Somehow I don’t believe him.”

“Who cares where or how he got it. He did. But why must you be spied upon?”

Deb lowered her fan and shrugged. “All that comes to mind is that Gerry’s life is so dull that reading Saunders’ accounts of my paltry existence in Bath is an improvement on his own. Poor Mary.”

“P-poor M-Mary indeed!” blustered Lady Cleveland, her double chins bouncing with laughter. “Don’t the gal amuse him?”

“Can one amuse the dead, my lady?”

This sent the old lady into such whoops of laughter that several heads turned in her direction. That Deb Cavendish sat between Lady Cleveland and General Waverley surprised no one. That she was the cause of the old Marchioness’s coughing fit was taken for granted. Wherever Deb Cavendish was there was sure to be some scene or other. She never disappointed the disapprovers.

“I said it would be Deb Cavendish,” breathed Mrs. Dawkins-Smythe. “I said, if there is a disturbance trust her to be at the center of it. Sitting up there with the likes of Harriet Cleveland, who should be at home in bed at her age. Flaunting those diamonds. Do you think they are real, Sarah?”

“Harriet Cleveland wear paste?” exclaimed Lady Reigate, craning her squat neck to better view Deb Cavendish. “The woman is merchant born and bred. She knows the value of a good investment. And she made certain her third and last husband had a title into the bargain. Vulgar creature.” She turned away, annoyed at herself for staring too long at Deb Cavendish’s flawless complexion.