"Nonsense." He helped her to her feet and began to escort her out of the conservatory, walking past Rebecca and Aunt Grace without so much as a single backward glance. "All I ask is that you feel well enough to attend dinner this evening."
"Oh, yes," she replied. "I'm sure I will be better by then, thanks to your gentlemanly assistance. And I will count every minute."
"As will I." He exited the conservatory with Letitia on his arm, while her mother trotted merrily along behind them.
It was becoming dreadfully apparent to Devon as he mingled through the drawing room reception before dinner, that Lady Letitia and her mother were conniving shamelessly to attract his attention, and to prevent any opportunity that might arise for him to speak to any of the other young ladies in the room, most notably the flame-haired Helen of Troy.
Devon's father was not helping matters either, for he was the one who encouraged Blake to escort Lady Rebecca into dinner, leaving Devon with no choice but to offer his arm to Letitia.
As if he weren't already being maneuvered enough into his future as it was.
Nevertheless, he did not wish to act too hastily in either direction. There was his father to consider, and his inheritance. He had to keep the old man happy.
They took their places at the table, and the meal was served. All the while, Letitia continued with her bold tactics to win his favor. She managed to boast about everything from her beautiful singing voice to her superb skills at archery, while her mother openly supported every narcissistic word that spilled out of her pretty mouth.
"And don't you agree, Lord Hawthorne," she said, when her dessert was set down in front of her, "that any lady of good breeding must have superb conversational skills? That she should have some experience moving about in society? A good hostess cannot hide away in the country, after all."
God help him, her chattering voice was like some kind of nightmare from which he could not awaken.
"You are quite right," he replied. "A lady of true accomplishments must possess some measure of charm."
"Oh, yes. That is how a lady can best serve the needs of her husband."
She gazed across the table at him with amusement in her eyes, as if they were sharing a private intimacy.
After dinner, the ladies retired to the green drawing room for coffee while the gentlemen enjoyed their cigars in the smoking room. Later they all converged in the blue saloon where one of the matrons took a seat at the piano and began to play for an informal country dance.
Devon was not in the mood for dancing, however. Nor did he have any desire to laugh and joke with the gentlemen or spend any more of his time with Lady Letitia, listening to her go on about her first-rate education and awe-inspiring travels to Paris and Rome. He was exhausted from all that had occurred over the past two days-the tension he had come home to, his father's madness, Vincent's hostilities, and his promise that he would be the first to marry. On top of it all, he was experiencing a persistent, aching desire to converse with another woman tonight. He'd had enough interruptions.
At that moment she entered the saloon in a yellow silk gown and pearls, her scarlet hair swept into an elegant twist adorned with sparkling combs. She looked like a welcome ray of sunshine in a room full of thunderclouds.
Their eyes met. She smiled with genuine warmth and crossed to the window, not far from where he stood. He took the liberty of approaching.
"Good evening," he said. She turned and smiled again, as if she had been waiting just for him. "Permit me to say, you look ravishing."
"Shameless flatterer." Her green eyes glimmered with teasing.
A footman strolled by with a tray of sherry, and Devon picked up two glasses and handed one to her. He leaned a shoulder against the wall and slowly sipped his drink, savoring the potent flavor and the pleasant effects of the vision before him-Lady Rebecca, in all her feminine glory.
"Did you enjoy the poetry reading this afternoon?" he asked.
"Yes. I found it very moving."
"You must not be referring to the comedy, then," he whispered, "which took place, stage left?"
"My lord?"
He leaned his head a little closer. "Just so you know, my father hasn't always had a penchant for leafy ferns. That is a recently acquired taste, I'm afraid."
She sipped her sherry and took a moment to consider her reply, then gave him a quiet smile. "I thought I was the only one who noticed."
"I hope you were."
They both shook their heads to refuse the offerings on a tray filled with chocolate cookies and squares, brought round by another footman.
"May I presume your father is experiencing some symptoms of old age?" she asked, as soon as the footman moved on.
"You presume correctly."
"It is not uncommon," she assured him, "but difficult for the family nonetheless."
Taking another sip of sherry, she looked away and watched the duke for a moment, while he warmed his hands in front of the fire. Devon saw compassion in her eyes, or was it melancholy? He wished to observe everything about her with great care.
"If there is anything I can do while I am here," she said, "I would be happy to assist. I quite enjoy your father's conversations actually. He is very passionate about his gardens, and I admire his spirit."
"That is most kind of you, Lady Rebecca."
"Well…My father has not been well either," she explained. "Though his ailments are more physical. He suffers from rheumatism, which has made life difficult for both of us. It has always hurt me to see him endure the pain." She paused and lowered her gaze while she took a deeper sip, then spoke in a low, somewhat defeated voice. "I am afraid he has not been himself lately."
Could it be she understood exactly what he was going through? Devon felt a connection to her suddenly, and wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything. "I am sorry to hear that."
She lightened her tone and lifted her gaze again. "I am sure it gives your father great comfort to have you home again, Lord Hawthorne. It was good of you to return."
After all his own self-inflicted punishment over the past few days-for all the ways he had not lived up to his responsibilities in the past-her plain assurance was like a balm to his senses. "Those are generous words."
"They are not generous," she said. "It is simply the truth. Your family is fortunate to have you among them."
Before he had a chance to reply, his sister Charlotte joined them, and Rebecca's whole face lit up.
"Lady Charlotte," she said with a warm smile, "I cannot tell you how moved I was by your reading this afternoon. Your voice carried so well, and you read with such confidence and emotion. Your poem was my favorite of the day."
He studied his sister's expression. He had not seen such a smile on her face since before he had left for America. Not even his gift of a pearl bracelet had evoked such joy in her eyes.
"Oh, Lady Rebecca, you are so thoughtful," she replied. "I worry I might have sounded too tragic."
"No, not at all. I mean, you did sound tragic, but that was what made it so special. There was such sincerity and integrity in your voice. It moved us all and reminded us of the beauty in the world, even when life seems grim."
Charlotte took hold of both her hands. "Thank you, Lady Rebecca. You have made me very happy."
Devon watched the two women, so close in age, as they discussed the other readings, and recognized an immediate connection between them as well. It pleased him to see it, for Charlotte was the only daughter among four sons in this family, and she had not often had a female friend to confide in. She had surely needed one in recent years.
He glanced across the room at Lady Letitia, who had been watching him with a frosty look on her face, but she smiled the instant their gazes met.
Lord Faulkner's son approached and asked Charlotte to join him in the next dance, which left Devon alone with Lady Rebecca again.