The Dangerous Viscount (25 page)

Another fan, she guessed. In the period of their betrothal he’d surprised her with any number of elegant, though inexpensive trifles. As an affianced husband he’d turned out to be attentive, even affectionate. Much more so than his unromantic proposal had prophesied. She had all his gifts gathered in a box, ready to return to him.

“Please sit down. Shall I ring for tea?”

“No thank you.”

“Wine? Brandy?”

“Diana. It’s not even eleven o’clock in the morning. Are you offering me a sop in advance of a scolding? I do have news. My father is in town. I shall call on him today.”

“Knowing how little you look forward to that, I can at least relieve you of the necessity.”

“What’s this? Are you suggesting we marry without his blessing?” He grinned. “The notion is not without appeal. We could go to Gretna Green and shock the world.”

He’d probably do it, and she was tempted. Then ashamed and horrified at herself for even contemplating the deception. She couldn’t foist another man’s child on him. Careless as Blakeney appeared in many ways, he’d object to the dukedom of Hampton passing to a cuckoo. A cuckoo sired by his despised cousin.

She stood up, walked over to the fireplace and took a deep breath. “Blake,” she said, turning to face him, “I can’t marry you. I’m breaking our engagement.”

He gawked at her. Even through her anxiety and embarrassment she couldn’t help a twinge of amusement at seeing the all-powerful Marquis of Blakeney’s shock at being jilted, not something he’d have expected in a decade or a hundred years.

“Why?” he asked finally. “What have I done?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I have decided we shan’t suit after all.” She might as well get it over with. “I’m to wed someone else. Your cousin. Lord Iverley. Sebastian.”

She watched a parade of emotions cross his face:
shock, disbelief, scorn, and finally mirth. “Owl? You are marrying the Owl instead of me?” He burst out laughing, making her feel a lot less sorry for him.

“And why should I not wish to marry Lord Iverley? He is a man of superior intellect and solid fortune.” Having seen his house, she wasn’t sure of the latter, but he was certainly reputed to be a wealthy man.

“Oh, please, Diana. I know you too well. You are a woman of the world. You want the fashionable life. Owl may have tidied himself up but he’s still the same odd fellow underneath. I don’t understand you.”

Eventually he’d guess the truth, when the child was born seven months after the wedding, but for the moment she wouldn’t admit it. Not only did she distrust Blake’s discretion, she didn’t want to own that the wedding was a forced one, for the sake of her own pride, and Sebastian’s too.

“When we made that bet, I got to know Sebastian and since then I have come to value him. I wasn’t aware until yesterday that he shared my sentiments. Indeed I hardly knew my own heart. I owe you a sincere apology but it isn’t as though our betrothal was a formal one. No one knew about it, including Sebastian, or he would never have spoken to me.”

Blake shook his head in bafflement. She could tell he didn’t entirely credit the little romantic fiction she’d woven, yet there was little he could do but retire from the field.

“My dear Diana, I can only wish you every happiness in your future with my Cousin Owlverley.”

“Why do you persist in calling him that idiotic name?” she demanded, irritated by his smirk.

“Just a childhood habit. I suppose you’re going to
spoil my fun and insist I refer to your new betrothed with respect.”

“Why don’t you like each other?”

“I don’t know. We never have.”

“He never talks about his family but Minerva looked him up in Debrett and found he’s the last of the Iverleys. Your family are his only living relations.”

“My father thinks the world of him. He was always telling me to be more like him.” This was the first indication Diana had that the aversion on Blake’s part derived from anything more than the scorn of the sportsman for the intellectual.

“And that upset you?”

“When he visited Mandeville we were both about ten, I suppose. The duke droned on about how much more advanced Sebastian was, how he spoke Greek like Aristotle and Latin better than half a dozen popes. I never could get very interested in languages spoken by a lot of ancient fellows dressed up in sheets. The Owl—excuse me, Sebastian—couldn’t do anything I liked.” Blakeney scowled. “Somehow he learned to ride.”

“Not as well as you.”

“Not quite, but almost. I have to be fair about that. My sisters and I used to tease him about how he sat on a horse like a sack of potatoes.”

“Did he dislike girls then?”

“He quite liked them at first, used to trail after them. They laughed at him. He was such a scrawny fellow with funny clothes and those big glasses over his eyes.” He gave a rueful laugh. “We played a trick on him. Hadn’t thought of it in years. I got Amanda, m’youngest sister, to promise him a kiss.”

Diana felt a chill that had nothing to do with the early winter weather. “What happened?”

“When the nurse was out of the room she lured him into the nursery closet where I was waiting with the older girls. We took away his spectacles and locked him in.”

“That was unkind.”

“That’s not all.” Now Blakeney sounded distinctly sheepish. “We removed some of his clothing, too. We knew the duke and my mother were coming up to the nursery, which wasn’t something that happened often.”

“Good heavens.”

“He yelled to be let out and the nurse came back and opened the door just as they arrived. I can still remember his face when he had to greet his uncle and aunt without his breeches.”

“That was a horrible thing to do, Blake.”

“I know. But it was a long time ago. We all got over it.”

Diana wasn’t sure Blake had got over it and she was certain Sebastian hadn’t. At least it explained his reaction to their wager about a kiss. Blake and a girl plotting to make a fool of him, all over again.

T
wo carriages waited at the door, Diana’s luxurious chariot, familiar to Sebastian from the highwayman imbroglio, and a plainer vehicle, which a footman was stowing with luggage. Two large cloak bags and several boxes still awaited loading. The horses snorted, expelling their breath into the cold morning air. A small woman dressed in black descended from the house, carrying an expensive green leather dressing case and a hat box. He recognized the maid who had accompanied Diana to his house.

“Another one?” asked the footman with an air of disbelief Sebastian could appreciate. Was it possible for two smallish women to require this much baggage for a couple of weeks in the country? He apologized mentally to Minerva, whose contribution was likely modest. Diana, on the other hand, rarely appeared in the same garment twice. And nothing better illustrated the carnage she’d wrought in his peaceful life than the fact he’d noticed.

“Mamzelle Chantal,” said the coachman, stamping his feet on the pavement. “How much longer will my lady be? It’s too cold to keep the horses standing long.”

Mademoiselle Chantal shrugged off the requirements of mere animals. “Milady will be ready when she is ready.” She addressed Sebastian. “Will you wait inside, milord?”

He dismounted and commissioned a crossing sweeper to walk his horse for a few minutes, wondering if married life was going to entail a great deal of waiting around.

The hall contained a number of servants running back and forth and Minerva, dressed for travel, seated on a bench reading a book.

She looked up and a guarded expression crossed her pretty face. “Lord Iverley.”

“Please, Minerva. We are to be brother and sister. You used to call me Sebastian.”

“That was before.” She looked at him with such disappointment in her eyes he felt the veriest scoundrel. “I helped you by not telling her about the highwayman. You used me.”

A lump rose in his throat. “I’m afraid I did.”

“And that night, I drew off Lord Blakeney so you would be alone with her. I thought I was helping my sister and instead I allowed you to hurt her.”

Nothing had made Sebastian feel worse. Diana and he were adults and both had engaged in antics that were more or less reprehensible. Minerva, for all her intelligence and air of sophistication, was barely out of childhood, an innocent who hadn’t deserved to be drawn into their conflict.

“You mustn’t blame yourself.” The words seemed inadequate.

“I wanted you to marry her,” she said sadly.

“And that is just what is going to happen.”

She shook her head. “Not like this. This isn’t right.”

They’d spoken softly, though the bustling servants were too busy to attend them. Sebastian got down on his haunches and met her eye to eye on the same level.

“I promise you one thing, Minerva. I will do my best to take care of your sister.”

She gazed at him, hers eyes bright with anxiety and hope. “Do you swear?”

“I swear to God.”

He had the uncomfortable feeling she examined not just his face but his soul. After a few moments she nodded. “Thank you, Sebastian.” And leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“You’re here, my lord.” Diana reached the bottom of the stairs, an empress swathed in velvet and sables. “Well, you two. What are we waiting for? Let’s be on our way.”

Sebastian and Minerva got to their feet as Diana swept out of the front door.

Minerva pulled a face. “She always takes hours to get ready so we’re late,” she said. “And then she blames me.”

For two days Minerva was grateful for her foresight in bringing three books with her. Diana spent much of the journey sleeping, and when awake tended to be querulous. Though life at Wallop Hall had given her a detailed knowledge of the habits of pregnant horses and dogs, Minerva had no firsthand acquaintance with increasing females of the human variety. Still, she’d kept her eyes and ears open over the years and
had a very good idea what ailed her sister. But she acquiesced in the fiction that she had no notion why Diana had suddenly broken her engagement to Lord Blakeney and was to marry Sebastian in a week.

The former fact pleased her. She didn’t believe Diana would ever be happy with a self-centered idiot, however good-looking and ducal. About Sebastian as a husband for Diana, she had her reservations. Before he revealed his feet of clay she’d thought him perfect for her sister. Now she suspended judgment and hoped for the best. It was all she could do since the marriage was inevitable, indeed essential.

The third and last day Diana’s stomach and mood improved and the weather worsened. Driving rain persuaded Sebastian to join them in the well-heated carriage where Diana proposed they pass the time playing games.

As Minerva set up the carriage’s clever folding table, she began to have serious questions about her future brother-in-law’s upbringing. He displayed total ignorance of the simplest childhood word and card games.

“You don’t know Pope Joan?” she asked. “You must.”

“Everyone knows Pope Joan,” Diana and she said in perfect unison.

“Aristotle’s Beard!” they yelled, also together.

“Shakespeare!” Minerva said, a fraction of a second before Diana.

“Bother,” said her sister. “You beat me. That means you’ll get a letter tomorrow.”

Sebastian stared at them as though they were talking gibberish. “You’re talking gibberish,” he said.

“Aristotle’s Beard is the phrase we use in our family when two people say the same thing at the same time,” Diana explained. “What do you use?”

“Nothing. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“But you must have!” Minerva said. “Everyone has one. Our neighbors the Loaches use Robert the Bruce because their mother is Scottish. Our mother’s family uses Oyster Stew which is quite common in Essex where they live, but she adopted Aristotle’s Beard from the Montroses.”

“What does Shakespeare have to do with it?”

“The first person to say Aristotle’s Beard wins, but if we say it together, as Di and I just did, we move on to Shakespeare. The first person to say it is sure to receive a letter the next day.”

“What happens if you say Shakespeare at the same time?”

“We both get a letter.”

Sebastian shook his head in wonderment. “Does it work? Do you always get a letter?”

“Always,” Minerva assured him.

Diana laughed. “Sometimes.”

Minerva was about to argue because, though she knew Diana was right, she still liked to pretend that Aristotle’s Beard was an infallible presage of correspondence. Then she realized she had lost the attention of her companions. Sebastian was gazing at Diana as though he’d never seen anything so amazing in all his days and Diana returned his look with a smile on her lips that Minerva could only describe as naughty. Had they not been closed in a moving carriage she would have discreetly withdrawn from the room. Instead she looked out of the window.

“Let’s teach Sebastian to play brag,” Diana said after a little while. She pulled a pack of cards from a compartment under the seat.

The Montroses took their games seriously and didn’t believe in letting considerations of sportsmanlike behavior get in the way of total conquest. They cheered when they won, cursed at every reversal, and when all else failed argued about the rules. Neither Diana nor Minerva had ever received a minute’s consideration from their brothers because of their sex or youth. They’d never been allowed to win a single hand until they earned it by beating the older boys fair and square. Diana had been a little kinder to Min when she was very young, but there was no need anymore.

Sebastian might not know any card games but he learned fast. In a remarkably short time he was lying like a Montrose born in pursuit of vast sums of imaginary wealth. While not quite as noisy in his triumphs and despair as the others—Diana had a special crow of victory like a demented rooster—he more than held his own, displaying an appropriate sense of brutality when taunting his opponents as losers destined for a sad lifetime of indigence and madness. Minerva’s eyes widened in respect. Sebastian might even surpass Rufus in the art of the insult. Of course Ru’s invective was delivered in several languages, including Turkish, Greek, and Coptic. But Sebastian demonstrated enough imagination to challenge the acknowledged family champion.