The Wagered Widow (36 page)

She was shaking visibly. Mrs. Boothe thought, “Poor girl, she has been through too much these past few days.” “You are tired, love,” she said gently. “Go and lie down upon your bed and rest. 'Twill make you feel better.”

Rebecca went to her room, but not to her bed. Sitting by the open window, gazing across the verdant grounds, she sought a peace of mind that eluded her. Peter Ward had looked at her with deeper admiration after the ball. He would offer now, she was sure of it. And his offer would mean security, a luxurious future, and no more worries over bills for either her or Anthony. But insidiously came the recollection of de Villars weaving into the ante-room. Of his gallantry, so opposed to Ward's— Desperate, she cut off that thought, but she could not banish the memory of de Villars, hurt and helpless; of that dauntless grin; of the awed worship in his eyes when he had looked up at her from his pillow. Tears blurred her own eyes. She bowed her head into her hands and wept. And when the storm was over, she was too exhausted to evade the truth any longer. She loved. For the first time in her life, she really loved. But she loved the wrong man. It would not
do!
If de Villars offered again, as he very well might, she could not accept. She
must
not accept!

Sighing, she glanced at the distant loom of the great house. That could be her future home. Anthony's future home. No, she would not think of Trevelyan de Villars anymore. She would concentrate on her future—a serene future with Sir Peter to stand ever between her and a sometimes cruel world. De Villars' voice rang in memory. “I was hoping a vulture might captivate him.” She laughed brokenly and then again burst into tears.

She did not see de Villars again that day, but Lady Ward whispered that he was uncomfortable and troubled of his wound. Rebecca's fears for him mounted. They would not dare to summon an apothecary, for Hilary or that miserable captain would learn of it. Treve must be suffering miserably. Suppose the wound became putrid? Suppose he was feverish? Suppose he
died
—before she could see him again? Frantic, she sought out her brother. Boothe scolded that she was fretting needlessly. “Old Treve” was made of steel and doing splendidly, by what Letitia had been able to tell him. He would be fine as fivepence by tomorrow. Later, a solemn and tired-looking Letitia told her that her cousin was at last asleep but had passed a miserable day and would probably be confined to his bed for at least a week.

The evening dragged past. The Monahan and Kadenworthy chattered brightly. The Streets, innocently unaware of the tense undercurrent to the easy conversation, contributed their joint observations in such a way as to amuse all and were never in the least offended by that amusement. Sir Peter looked at ease again, and his usual distinguished self. He carefully divided his attentions among Rebecca, Rosemary Monahan, and an unusually subdued Lady Ward. Snowden spent most of the evening hovering about Letitia Boudreaux and her brother. On the one occasion Ward dared to broach the subject of their ordeal, he was showing Rebecca a superb engraving of a pheasant, and being safely removed from the rest of the company, murmured softly, “You seem weary, dear ma'am. I trust you do not worry unnecessarily over de Villars. Have no fears on that score. I shall see to it that he gets safely away, I promise you. And very soon.”

“Soon?” she asked anxiously. “Is he well enough?”

“Oh, assuredly. The sooner the better!” He met her rather shocked eyes and added a hasty, “For all our sakes! Indeed, he himself is desperate to be gone. The poor fellow is plagued with guilt and keeps telling me he bitterly repents his foolishness.” He smiled. “As though I would blame him. I'll own that when I told you I would not fail any friend claiming sanctuary here, I never dreamed you would so bravely aid me.”

Speechless, Rebecca stared at him, and was not a little relieved when Lady Ward called testily that they must come and make up another table for cards.

Sleep was long in coming that night, and Rebecca awoke feeling listless and worried. The final touches were being applied to her toilette when Evans came up to announce that ma'am was wanted in the parlour. Before Millie could discover who waited, the abigail's cheerful countenance was whisked away.

“Birdwit!” snorted Millie, threading a riband through Rebecca's curls.

Going downstairs, Rebecca decided that her early caller was probably Kadenworthy, his nose out of curl because Sir Peter had outmanoeuvered him last evening and led her back to the cottage whilst his lordship was lost in a game of chess with Fitz Boudreaux. She went smiling into the parlour and halted with a shocked gasp. Trevelyan de Villars, booted and spurred, stood by the mantel.

“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “You should not be so soon up, sir!”

He spun to face her, his eyes brightening. He did not carry his arm in a sling, but of course he would not dare, and perhaps there was not the need, for he looked surprisingly well, and there was in fact a good colour in his face. Nonetheless, she crossed to him, saying anxiously, “You cannot be thinking of riding out?” Polite phrases, yet her heart was pounding madly, and her earlier resolution to give him no encouragement had vanished in the first instant of seeing him. She knew very well why he was here. He had come to thank her for saving his life. He had come to beg her to forgive his earlier naughtiness and plead with her to be his wife. And the anticipation of hearing those dear words was causing her pulse to flutter ever more wildly, her breathing to become erratic, and such a soaring joy to take possession of her that she dare not think what she would say when he asked her.

De Villars, noted Corinthian and whip and man about town, had not been at a loss for words any time these past ten years. He was at a loss for words now. Looking into this girl's bewitching face, he felt like an inexperienced youth again and said clumsily, “Oh, I am perfectly fit, never fear. But I must—must leave at once, for I've an—er, prior engagement, you see, that— I mean—there are certain claims upon me that I cannot—ah, neglect.”

Rebecca stiffened. How nervous he was; how unlike the suave, self-assured man she knew. “A prior engagement?” A woman, no doubt! What a fool to have supposed that he meant to offer! She stepped back. “You should be laid down upon your bed for at least a sennight, Mr. de Villars.”

He sensed that he had offended. The concern in her eyes had been replaced by storm clouds. His own fault, of course. In an effort to banish the vexation from her face, he said with his easy grin, “There was a time, ma'am, when I would have voiced a most improper response to such a remark.”

She blushed and turned away. This was more in his usual style, to be sure. But it was scarcely the speech of a worshipful swain. It would seem that if the gentleman intended to offer her anything, it was a slip on the shoulder, not a marriage ring! She felt bruised and hurt, and said, “I am quite sure you must know many places where such remarks would be well received.”

De Villars bit his lip. He was bungling this badly. If only his confounded head did not feel so completely detached from the rest of him. “I felt I must come and thank you,” he said, absently taking up his whip from the sideboard.

That movement convinced Rebecca that he was in a passion to be gone. She glanced outside. His coach stood waiting on the drivepath, a groom holding the spirited horses. A woman's hand rested on the open window, and on that hand was a ring shaped in the form of a golden dragon. Rosemary Monahan's ring. Feeling as though she had been struck, Rebecca stared at that white hand.
She
had saved The Wicked Rake's life! And at considerable risk to her own. And he could scarce be bothered to thank her, so eager was he to be off with his bird of paradise! At any other time she might have openly taxed him with it, but the tensions of the past few days had wrought more havoc with her nerves than she knew. Tears of mortification stung her eyes as she recalled her earlier hopeful idiocy, and she could only pray he would not have the satisfaction of knowing what a fool she had been. She swung around and said airily, “Oh, pray do not refine on such a trivial thing, sir. I would have done the same for any hunted creature.”

Shaken, de Villars tried again. “I have no doubt you would, ma'am. Still, there is—is a custom in some lands, you know, that—if you save a life, that life belongs henceforth to you.”

How charming. His life belonged to her. Unless he chanced to have a “prior engagement” with the enchanting Mrs. Monahan! A lump rose in her throat. And it was silly, downright
stupid
to be so devastated! She had known what he was, for heaven's sake! Whatever else, however, she must not betray herself. “Indeed?” She crossed to a side table and straightened the fruit that had been set out in a large bowl. “In that event,” she said with superb disdain, “it would behoove one to take care lest all kinds of undesirables might hang upon one's sleeve.”

De Villars whitened. “I came here to thank you,” he began grimly.

“So you said.”

He stepped forward to grip her wrist with his right hand, and although she averted her head, he grated, “You saved my life.…” The memory of that intrepid action, combined with the sweet scent of her, the nearness of her warm loveliness, conspired to overpower him. With a folly his friends would have found astounding, he burst out, “How can I ever repay you? Marry me!”

Rebecca's mouth fell open.
This
—from an accomplished lover? A renowned rake? This crude excuse for a proposal, lacking all tenderness and polish? This vulgar reward for services rendered? Why, he must feel the most utter contempt for her not even to have tried to pretend affection! Infuriated, she wrenched away. “You are much too generous, sir! So
grand
a payment is not necessary!”

“I know! I know!” He ran a hand through his hair in distracted fashion. “God! I did not mean it!”

How well she knew! The villain! The savage! “One would hope you did not, indeed. I had fancied to have made my future plans sufficiently clear. There was no call for you to come here and insult me, Mr. de Villars!”

So an offer from him was an insult. Scarcely to be wondered at, after all. He should apologize, but his head was so muddled—he could not even think.… Words failing him, he reached out to her imploringly. Had Rebecca seen that tremblingly outstretched hand, so much might have been changed. But in an attempt to hide the tears that welled over, she stood with her back turned. “Perhaps,” she said icily, “it would be best if you went upon your way, sir.”

It would have been best had he not come. By heaven, what a frightful mull he had made of it! Well, there was no undoing it now. He said quietly, “Yes. Forgive me. I had no thought to insult you. But I owe you— I must make amends—somehow. And I will—I swear it. If—if you still want—Peter, I—I will help. In any way I can.”

He would help her into marriage with another man! Oh, but here was a lover
par excellence!
One who could scarce wait to be rid of her! The tears cold upon her cheeks, she said, “You are too kind. But pray do not trouble yourself. It is neither asked—nor necessary.”

De Villars walked blindly to the door and closed it gently behind him.

CHAPTER
15

“Peaceful?” Snowden Boothe reined back his rambunctious steed so as to stay more or less beside his sister's polite gelding. “A
cemetery
is peaceful, yet I'd as soon not dwell there as yet! I wonder all this peace has not sent you riding
ventre à terre
back to Town!”

“Oh, no,” said Rebecca, stifling a sigh.

Slanting an oblique glance at her, he thought that no matter what she said she was not happy. He knew her too well not to suspect that she had thrown her heart over the hedge, and, knowing also for whom she nourished a
tendre,
reached over to pat her gloved hand. “Cheer up, lass. Your dashing beau will return on Friday. I take it you mean to wait for him?”

Alight with eagerness, her eyes flew to his face. “Are you sure?”

“'Tis what he told me when he rid out to take his grandmama back to Cornwall.”

“Oh.” The glow faded from Rebecca's eyes. “Well, yes, I shall wait, of course. I—we promised Sir Peter we would stay a month, and that will be up next week.”

“Just as well. It will— Blast and damn this glue pot! Becky, I cannot talk while he persists in standing on his tail. Can we walk?” And when he had swung from the saddle and handed down his amused sister, they walked on together while he went on more evenly, “It will give me time to get our rebel to London and gone before you come back. He's much restored already, and well able to travel can we only elude that damned Hilary Broadbent. Lord! Who'd have thought a boy we've known since childhood could turn so curst treacherous?”

“Oh, never say so! Hilary is but doing his duty. Indeed, I have often thought that if Captain Holt had been in the ante-room that night…” She shuddered. “Hilary means us no harm. It is this—this loathsome Rebellion!”

“If he means us no harm, why does he continually lurk about with that revolting sycophant of his?”

“You
know
why! And you should not even attempt to—” She bit the words back. He must attempt it, of course. In his shoes she would do the same, if she had as much courage. And so she finished lamely, “Snow—do
pray
be careful!”

“I shall, never doubt it.” He glanced at her fondly. She was a good chit. Not once had she suggested he let the fugitive take his chances, yet how many women would have flown into the deuce of a pucker over this nasty business? He thought, “And how many women would have had the courage to conceal a hunted man beneath their skirts?”

“Perhaps,” Rebecca worried, “I should come back with you. It might look less—”