A Most Unusual Match (7 page)

T
hea sneaked sidelong peeks at Devlin as they strolled along the waterlogged path toward the entrance to the park. He moved with the unselfconscious power of a man comfortable enough in his own skin to not have to make an impression on others. Yet it was that unassuming confidence that had captivated her heart.

The tug drawing her to him strengthened every time they talked. She wanted to pursue their discourse about God; for months her hunger for meaningful conversation had remained unsatisfied because her thirst for justice was insatiable. But Devlin's caution about not tempting God, however well-intentioned, had effectively muzzled her mouth. For all of her life Thea had struggled with a feeling, however irrational, of inferiority. All right, so shaking a fist at God might result in eternal rejection. Until this moment, she hadn't really cared; the compulsion to avenge Grandfather had been her only solution to the ever-present memory of his gaunt face behind those iron bars.

Still, for a moment or two back in the gazebo Thea had almost yielded to the stronger-than-ever temptation to blurt out the entire sordid story to the only man other than Charles Langston who really
listened
to her.

“What is it?” His deep voice interrupted her melancholy; his warm hand pressed briefly at the small of her back, steadying her. “You're too quiet, and you look almost…” He halted on the path, stepping in front of her, his gaze searching her face, then lifting to scan the dripping shrubbery and trees. “I can't describe it,” he finished slowly.

“Not frightened, or angry, but something in between. It's a baffling expression. The first time I saw you, it was this expression that grabbed my attention.”

Before she could frame an answer he shook his head and resumed walking. “It's Edgar Fane, isn't it? What has he done to you, Thea?”

“At the moment, he's done nothing. Devlin, I wish I could explain, but it wouldn't be fair to you. It means more than you can possibly understand, to have shared what I could, and that you…you've listened to me.” She drew in a hard breath. “I'm having dinner with Edgar Fane tomorrow night because I have to, not because I want to. I'm telling you the truth, Devlin.”

“You have to? Is he threatening you, Thea? Holding a gun to the head of someone you love?”

Shocked, before she could collect herself Thea laid a hand on his forearm. His head whipped around, scrutinizing her face with scorching intensity. Beneath her fingers and his damp tweed jacket, the muscles were hard as wrought iron fence posts. “Devlin—” her throat burned, and she passed her tongue around lips gone dry as dust “—I'm in no danger from Mr. Fane.” It was the other way around, but she could not afford to confess. Not yet. “I'll explain, after Tuesday night. If you still want to hear.”

Once again his hand covered hers, only unlike that brief instant in the gazebo, this time the fingers crushed hers in a bruising grip. “I'll want to hear. But if he hurts you, Thea, he'll have to answer to me.”

The light eyes had turned dark as charcoal, with diamond-bright chips hard enough to shatter a bone—or break a heart.

“You mustn't talk like that,” she managed unsteadily.

“I don't want you to make an enemy of this man. He… Devlin, his family is one of the most powerful in America. He could ruin you.”

“And you're immune?”

“He thinks I'm just a pretty new toy. A novelty to entertain him, assuage the boredom. If I'm careful—and I have been—he'll have no reason to think anything else.”

Devlin's nostrils flared, and for a moment Thea wondered if his dark glower would turn her to a pillar of salt. Then he released her and folded his arms across his chest. “You're lying,” he snapped. “You despise the man, and you're afraid of him.”

“I haven't had a spell. How can you
know?
Nobody else—”

“Your eyes. The way your chin tilts upward, how your nose crinkles when you talk about him. That's the contempt.” Without warning his arm whipped out and he snagged her hand again, holding it up in front of her face. “Cold hands, which you twine together to try and control the fear. Listen to me, Thea!” A single tug brought her close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Whatever you feel compelled to do, it's not worth your reputation, or your self-respect. Remember the lake, and stay away from Edgar Fane.”

“What would you know about it?” she flung back, stung. “Or is it…you still think I'm a—a floozy. I shared my heart with you, I actually trusted you enough, I believed you'd changed your mind about me.” Her voice rose; biting her lip, she hurriedly glanced about the rain-soaked park.

“Great glory, woman!” Devlin Stone muttered. “You don't know anything.”

Suddenly his free hand cupped her chin, tilting her head back. Rough-tipped fingers stroked down the line of her jaw, brushed over the pulse throbbing in her neck. “You don't know anything,” he repeated in a growling undertone. Then he dipped his head and kissed her.

Thea gasped against his lips, closing her eyes as a firestorm of startled wonder consumed her. Her hands fumbled for purchase until they found Devlin's shoulders, muscles rippling with an entirely different strength from the day he'd found her helpless in the bushes. He'd offered her tenderness then, a pallid shadow of the intense response she'd unwittingly provoked now.

His mouth slid a breathy path beneath her jaw, then trailed fleeting kisses to her eyes, her forehead. Goose bumps raced over Thea's skin. A soft sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, blew into her ear. “You taste of rain, and flowers,” he whispered, and pressed his lips against her temple. “And temptation.”

Then his head lifted, his hands curved around her waist and he firmly set her at arms' length. In the golden mist rising from the saturated earth he loomed over Thea like an ancient Greek warrior in a gentleman's clothing. Emotion throbbed between them, beating time between each labored breath. Finally Devlin passed a hand around the back of his neck, and heaved an explosive sigh.

“I won't apologize, because I wouldn't mean it.” A crooked smile flickered. “Don't look like that. I might give in and kiss you again.”

“All right. But I'm still eating dinner with Edgar Fane tomorrow night.”

He groaned and flicked a glance heavenward. “Thea…is
that why you think I kissed you? As a diversion? Seduction as the weapon of choice to bend you to my will?”

“Well, how would I know?” she threw back crossly. “Nobody's ever kissed me like that before. I mean, I'm not a naive schoolgirl, I've been courted by several gentlemen….” A blush burned. “See what you've done? You've rendered me a featherhead.”

“That makes two of us. I've broken every rule in every book, so I may as well do a thorough job of it.” Grabbing her hands again, he lifted them to his mouth and pressed a kiss against the knuckles. “Tomorrow night? I'll be watching as well as waiting, Thea. Don't worry. Neither you nor Edgar will see me. You're not alone anymore, all right?”

“There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Did you think you were the only one with secrets?” He gave her hands a final squeeze, then released them. “I'll be watching,” he repeated, then swiveled and loped off between a hedge of boxwoods.

Thea stood in the middle of the deserted path, one hand fisted at her midriff in a vain attempt to calm her stuttering heart, the other pressed against her mouth, in an equally vain attempt to hold the warmth of his lips against hers.

“T
ake them into the room at the end of this hall,” Edgar ordered the sweating laborers. “Carefully, my good fellows! The contents of those crates are invaluable to me.” Chuckling to himself, he followed the two men down the rabbit warren hallways of the old house, noting the way they took care to lower the crates to avoid hitting the antique sconces on the walls.

After unpacking the crates, the laborer mopped his sweating brow and glanced at Edgar. “Where you want us to stack these frames, Mr. Fane?”

“Against the empty wall, to the right of the doorway. You'll see where I've rolled up the carpet and moved the furniture?”

“Yassir.”

Unobservant dunderhead,
Edgar thought. But then, most people were. After the workmen departed he rang for the butler. “Dodd? Please inform the housekeeper that I need a key for the door to the study down this hall. Tell her—what's her name again?”

“Mrs. Surrey, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Tell Mrs. Surrey to instruct the housemaids to stay out of that room for now. I'll be gone for the night.
If Simpson arrives tomorrow before I do, direct him to the morning-room office. I've left the correspondence on the desk there.”

“As you wish, Mr. Fane.”

An hour later, when the house was empty of everyone but Edgar, he strode down the narrow hallway and into the study. The frames had been stacked, most of them carefully, against the wall. Smiling in satisfaction, Edgar ran his fingers along heavily ornate gilt edges, polished cherry…ebonized wood that gleamed in the gaslight.
Which one?
he thought, in his mind's eye filling out the frame with a picture. A fruit study, perhaps for the cherry. An African village for the ebonized wood. Quietly amused, he turned off the wall lights and left, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Now he could focus all his attention on Tuesday evening, and the surprise he'd planned for Miss Pickford.

 

“Don't know why ya turned so particular,” Mrs. Chudd grumped as she and Thea waited in the lobby for Mr. Fane's carriage. “M'rheumatism's acting up. And he better not serve shellfish. You know I don't eat shellfish. Gives me hives.”

“You know quite well I can't go to a strange house, for a private dinner with a gentleman unknown to the family, without you,” Thea repeated, not for the first time. “Some proprieties are common sense, even here in Saratoga Springs.”

“Humph. No need to get on a high horse. I know my place.” Her double chins quivered. “Your grandpapa ought to be 'shamed, agreeing to this twaddle.” The heavy walking cane she'd produced to aid her with her “rheumatism” thunked dourly on the tiled floor. “But you needn't fret. My mouth won't be catching any flies.”

By the time the shiny black coupé drew to a smooth halt in front of a large rambling house, Thea's nerves had dissolved into a gummy mess lodged beneath her breastbone. Light ripples of dizziness washed over her at odd moments, but she was able to ignore them, offering Mr. Fane a dazzling smile when he opened the carriage door himself to help her out.

“I appreciate your keeping our dinner engagement, since I was unable to obey my marching orders to pick you up myself.” He greeted her with a bow. “An unavoidable telephone call. May I compliment you on your lovely costume? That shade of pink—mauve, I believe they call it—suits you.”

His deft compliment flustered her. Evil villains weren't supposed to be so amenable. “Thank you. This is my companion, Mrs. Chudd.”

“You are both welcome.”

By the time dinner was served, Thea had almost relaxed enough to taste some of the food. Mr. Fane made no untoward remarks, instead offering almost courtly discourse devoid of sarcasm or scandal; after several attempts to include Mrs. Chudd in the conversation, however, he left her companion alone, giving Thea a conspiratorial wink.

“You say this house belongs to friends of your family,” Thea ventured toward the end of the meal. She glanced around the cluttered dining room, suppressing a shudder. Pictures hung on every inch of wall space, and the massive table could have accommodated thirty guests. The walls were papered a dark red color that reminded her of calf's liver.

Edgar laughed. “Monstrous, isn't it? I believe the furniture in this room hasn't been moved in a hundred years. Don't worry, we'll have dessert in the morning room. It's
one of my favorite spots, tucked away at the back of the house. Lots of windows, with a peaceful view of a pond, complete with ducks. The sun sets directly over it. I've been meaning to paint the scene. Perhaps,” he added, idly tracing his index finger around the rim of his water glass, “you'll provide me with sufficient inspiration.”

Thea almost choked, and hastily lifted her napkin to dab her mouth. Apparently the wolf had decided it was time to discard the sheep's clothing. “Everyone talks about your paintings—when you're not around, of course. But I've never seen one of your efforts. Does that mean you're a serious artist, or a dilettante, Mr. Fane?”

“When I decide, I'll let you know.” Shifting, he scooted his chair a little closer to Thea's. “What about you, Miss Pickford? While pining for your English aristocrat, how do you entertain yourself, aside from reeling in gentlemen with your fishing pole?”

Thea wondered if this was how a fish felt, when the shiny bug gave way to a sharp hook. She laid the napkin by her plate, and ordered her face muscles to smile. “I enjoy fresh air and vigorous exercise, Mr. Fane, so I go for lots of walks. Back home I own a safety bicycle. I also enjoy meeting and talking with people.” Always tell the truth whenever possible, she'd learned. Worming in a lie or two between made them more believable. “And I share everything I do, everyone I meet, with my Neville, in long weekly letters. We're thinking of spending every season in a different spa resort. How about you, Mr. Fane? Do you have any preferences as to locale? I've heard Newport has become a fashionable destination, with first-class beaches. Have you ever been there?”

“Several times.” Toying with his earlobe, he leaned closer and continued in a lowered voice, “If you plan
to extend your season there, perhaps I could change my itinerary.”

Shock almost made her jump. Boys had teased her, gentlemen had flirted, a few here at Saratoga had been a trifle forward. But Mr. Fane was neither a boy, a boor, nor she well knew, a gentleman. Given the circumstances, she should have anticipated such remarks.

“How flattering, Mr. Fane. But you're a little more forthright than I'm comfortable with, even with the presence of a chaperone.”

“Agreed.” He quit fiddling with his ear, studying her for a moment before he rose lithely to his feet. “I have just the solution. Mrs. Chudd? May I show you to the library? There's a comfortable chair, with a gout stool, which will be more comfortable for you. The Daubneys have wide and varied tastes. I daresay we can find you a good book to read while Miss Pickford and I stroll by the pond.”