Between the Devil and Ian Eversea (4 page)

Polly slipped away to do His Grace’s bidding.

“What brings you to our humble pub?” This came from Colin.

“I was out for a stroll and when I saw the Pig & Thistle, I seized upon it as an opportunity to see my brothers-in-law in their native habitat.”

They all laughed politely, giving him the benefit of the doubt that it was meant to be a joke.

“Chase has been promoted,” Ian told him.

“Congratulations, Captain Eversea,” the duke said. “Rising in the ranks there, are we? Aiming for a governorship?”

“I don’t think my wife would like to live in India, but it’s not out of the question.”

“I don’t think they have any puppets in India, so it’s safe,” Ian reassured him, and Chase kicked him under the table.

The duke either didn’t notice or chose to ignore this non sequitur.

“And Ian has been offered a promotion as well,” Chase said. “You did know his rank is Captain, Falconbridge?”

“Ian,” Ian said, “is taking a trip around the world, and will be booking passage very soon. And will be gone for quite some time.”

“Ah. Around the world you say,” the duke mused. “Coincidentally, we have a guest lately arrived from across the ocean. I’m not certain whether Genevieve has told you about my young ward, Miss Titania Danforth, and her imminent arrival from America.”

She had. But they’d all forgotten until now. A relative of the duke’s, who was to be married off apace to a title approved of by the duke. Something of that sort.

“Miss Danforth arrived yesterday.”

“Safely and well, I hope?” Colin said politely.

“Quite safe and well. And a more unspoiled, well-bred, impressionable young woman you’ll never meet. It’s my sincere hope that, while she’s here, you will consider her welfare in the same light with which you consider Genevieve’s, and treat her accordingly.“

No matter how obliquely stated, Ian knew at once it was a warning.

The man had a lot of bloody nerve. As if he couldn’t resist mounting any female in his vicinity. He had
criteria.

There was a silence at the table, roughly akin to the sort that follows an invitation to duel.

Don’t say it, Ian. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“Or you’ll . . . what?”

Colin and Chase were motionless. He knew they were each holding a breath. In the silence that followed, Ian imagined he could hear the condensation trailing the glass of ale.

The duke said nothing.

“I would die for Genevieve,” Ian added into the silence. Grimly.

It was only what was true. He’d put his life on the line for others more than once. And it was one of the reasons his sleep, for years, had hardly been a peaceful one.

He didn’t do it lightly.

The duke finally moved, lifting and sipping at his ale leisurely.

“Well,” he said, “let’s hope you won’t need to die for Miss Danforth.”

He drained his ale in a final gulp, then raised his eyebrows in approbation. “Excellent brew. Perhaps I’ll have to visit the Pig & Thistle more often.”

And with that horrible threat he bowed and took his leave.

“She must be magnificent if the duke thought he needed to
warn
you.” Colin was thrilled.

“Nonsense. She sounds dull,” Ian said idly. “The innocent ones generally are.”

Chapter 4

T
HE DUKE SENT FOR
Tansy that afternoon, and she smoothed absurdly clammy palms down her skirts before hurrying to a room with a large polished desk in it. He sat at it as though it were a throne, but then, nearly everywhere he sat would seem that way, she thought.

“In all likelihood I don’t need to remind you of the terms of your father’s will, I’m certain, Miss Danforth, but I’ll state them thusly: the entirety of your fortune will be released to you upon your marriage to a man of whom I approve.”

Why did he sound like a lawyer? Perhaps that was why her father had entrusted her fate to this man. Perhaps he was capable of communicating only in orders, or by flicking that formidable eyebrow. It was difficult to argue with that eyebrow.

“Thank you. I’m aware of them.”

There was an awkward little silence.

“The last time I saw you, you weren’t any taller than . . .” He held his hand a few feet above the floor. “You hid behind your mother’s skirts. It was at Lilymont.”

She smiled politely. If she’d hidden behind her mother’s skirts, it was, in all likelihood, the last time she’d ever been shy. He’d probably been intimidating even then. His wife—he’d had a different wife then—had been so pretty, she’d thought. She’d laughed so easily. She’d loved the sound of her mother and the duke’s wife laughing together in the garden.

The very word “Lilymont” had started up an ache again. She could see it clearly: the walled garden half wild, colorful and surprising and tangled, like something from a fairy tale, at least from her perspective at three feet tall.

And then she remembered the duke had lost that pretty, merry wife quite some time ago. Which was how he had come to be married to Genevieve.

She stared at him curiously, as if she peered hard enough, she might see some sort of give, something that might indicate that life had battered him a bit. She saw nothing but a sleek, older, inscrutable duke.

“I’m given to understand that you
would
like to marry.” He said this somewhat stiffly.

“Yes, thank you.”
Of course
, she almost added. She felt herself begin to flush.

When he paused, she saw an opportunity to intervene.

“I thought it might be helpful to make a list of qualities I should like in a husband.”

There was a pause, which she thought might be of the mildly nonplussed variety.

“You’ve made a list,” he repeated carefully.

She nodded. “Of qualities I might like to find in a husband.”

Another little hesitation.

“And . . . you’d like to share this list with me?”

She couldn’t tell whether he was being ironic. “If you think it might be helpful.”

“One never knows,” he said neutrally.

“Very well.” She carefully unfolded the sheet of foolscap and smoothed it flat in her lap, then cleared her throat.

She looked up at him, and he nodded encouragingly.

“Number one: I should like him to be intelligent . . .”

She looked up again, gauging the result of her initial requirement.

He gave an approving nod. “Half-wits can be so tedious,” he sympathized.

“. . . but not too intelligent.”

She was a little worried about this one.

“Ah.” He drummed his fingers once or twice and seemed to mull this. “Do you mean the sort who goes about quoting poetry and philosophers? Waxes rhapsodic about works of art? Uses terms like ‘waxes rhapsodic’?”

It was precisely what she meant. She hoped the duke wasn’t the sort who went about quoting poets and philosophers. She rather liked the term “wax rhapsodic,” however. She silently tried it in a sentence.
Titania Danforth waxed rhapsodic about the balcony man’s torso.

“I think I prefer him to be . . . active. To enjoy the outdoors, and horses and shooting and such. I enjoy reading. But I’d rather not pick apart what I read. I’d rather just enjoy the pictures stories make in my head.”

And now she was babbling.

She hoped he didn’t think she’d sounded ridiculous. It had, rather, in her own ears.

“Do you?” She couldn’t tell whether he was amused or thoughtful. “I’m not one for reading a good deal myself. My wife, on the other hand, enjoys it very much. I tolerate the habit in her.”

Genevieve did have the look of the sort who would enjoy reading very much, Tansy thought glumly. He did, however, sound a little ironic.

“What’s the next item on your list, Miss Danforth?”

“Ah. Number two: I should like him to be of fine moral character.”

In truth, she’d added that one because she hoped it would impress the duke. She wasn’t entirely certain how he would interpret fine moral character. She wasn’t even certain how
she
would interpret it or whether she in truth possessed it. It sounded dull, but necessary.

“Of fine moral character,” he repeated slowly, as if memorizing it. “This is helpful in terms of narrowing the field,” he said gravely. “Thank you.”

When he said nothing more, she looked down at her foolscap again.

“Number three: I should like him to be handsome.”

She said this somewhat tentatively. She glanced up.
He
was handsome. Even with the frost of gray at his temples. But perhaps he’d think looks were unimportant when moral fiber was critical.

“Rest assured, I wouldn’t dream of binding you to a gargoyle, Miss Danforth.”

Excellent! She smiled, relieved. “I wasn’t terribly worried, since all of the men I’ve seen so far in Sussex have been so . . .”

Gorgeous
, she’d nearly said, in her rush of enthusiasm. Thinking in particular of the balcony man.

“. . . pleasant,” she completed, piously.

He was silent a moment. She thought the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. Was he combating a smile?

“Many of them are,” he said somewhat cryptically. “The next item would be . . . ?”

“Ah, yes.” She returned her eyes to her list. “Number four: Enjoys . . .”

Damnation. This was another delicate one. She looked up at him again. The duke had fine lines around his eyes, which made her think that he might
occasionally
laugh. She’d seen no evidence of it yet. She wondered if he actually enjoyed it when he did, or if he felt it was a social requirement, like bowing and the like.

“A good brandy? Brisk walks at the seaside? Embroidery?” he prompted. She could hear the barely contained patience. A speck, she thought. I am an irritant, a speck, and he is scarcely tolerating me.

“. . . laughing.”

She said it faintly. Almost apologetically.

“Ah,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, I fear we may have a conflict between requirement number two and this particular requirement. I’m afraid I’m going to need to ask you to choose only one of them.”

Her lungs seized so swiftly she nearly coughed.

Bloody hell. Well, she had only herself to blame for this.

A fraught silence ensued, her breathing suspended as she mulled the consequences in her mind.

And then he brought his palm down with a smack on his desk so hard it made her jump and burst into laughter. He threw his head back and laughed with it.

“Oh, Titania. You look so
stricken
! I am
teasing
. You see, I, too, occasionally enjoy ‘laughing.’ But I do believe I now know what you would choose if you had to.”

His laugh was marvelous, so infectious that she rapidly recovered from being incensed and found herself laughing, too. Though she hadn’t quite forgiven him for shaving a year or two from her life with his little joke. She’d imagined her doom a little too vividly.

“Your father was a good laugher,” he said when they were both quiet again.

“The best.” She dug her fingernails into her palm when she thought tears might prick at the corners of her eyes. They came at the oddest times. Even on the heels of laughter.

“He had a remarkably nimble mind, too. He could debate me into a corner on occasion. We enjoyed it, rather. And I’m very difficult to defeat, mind you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said sincerely. But she was half teasing, too.

He smiled.

The laughter seemed to have loosened him, and Tansy recognized something: he was simply a bit stiff, as uncertain of her as she was of him. And he’d experienced a loss, too, when her father died. Someone to whom he’d been close, and she doubted the duke had many bosom comrades. Knowing this aroused her sympathy. She suddenly felt—and this seemed ridiculous, and yet there it was—protective of him.

“He called you ‘Titania’ in his letters to me.”

“The name was his idea, and Mother never could refuse him anything. Then again, it was Mother who persuaded him to return to America. I always thought my name was a bit cumbersome. A bit much to live up to.”

“I think you’ve quite grown into your name.”

“Thank you. I think. It was Mother who called me Tansy. Father eventually capitulated.”

He smiled again. And it looked so natural, she was relieved to believe he did it often, and not just because an occasional smile was expected of everyone. “But you certainly look like your mother.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

A silence, an easier, softer one, ensued.

“I always hoped to see all of you again,” he said gently. As if he knew too much discussion all at once would be unwelcome.

“I do remember you,” Tansy told him, a bit shyly. “Just a very little. You were married to someone else then. I remember thinking she was so very pretty, like someone from a fairy tale. And she had such a lovely voice.”

“Oh, she was
.
She
was
pretty. She passed away some years ago.”

“I know. I am so sorry.”

He nodded shortly.

There had been a baby, too, she recalled, and now she was sorry she’d mentioned it. She remembered her father receiving the letter from the duke. He’d told her mother about it in a few short, devastating sentences, and then repaired to his study, closing the door. As if by being alone he could share his friend’s grief.

“But you should know, Titania, that I cannot recall ever being happier than I am now.”

She knew it was true. There was really no mistaking it. She would never be able to describe happiness in words, she thought. It was something one witnessed.

And he’d said it because he wanted her to know she could be happy, too.

“I’m glad,” she said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

He cleared his throat. “Do you have any more requirements on your list?”

She did.

“Number five: I should like him to be kind.”

She looked up, a little worried about that one, too, but less worried than she had been when he first entered his office. She knew now, no matter what was said about him, that the duke was kind. Impatient, perhaps, more than a bit arrogant, perhaps, but one rather expected that of a duke. She felt he was fundamentally kind.

“And that’s all I have for now.”

He smiled faintly. “Is the list a work in progress?”

“I haven’t yet decided.”

“Do keep me apprised of critical changes in its content,” he said somberly.

She suspected he was teasing her again.

“I shall.” She smiled.

“I think we have an excellent chance of finding a match meeting your requirements. Your father was one of the most sensible people I’ve ever known, and he trusted my judgment. I imagine you’ll be spoiled for choice. But I will know which young men are worthy of you, Titania . . . and which ones most definitely are not. But if you have any questions, you may feel free to confide in me.”

“Thank you,” she said, while thinking,
Good try
. He might be kind, but she also suspected he knew how to curtail fun, and she wasn’t
that
naive.

“I’d like to chat a bit again, if you’re amenable to it,” he added, as he stood, signaling for her to stand, too.

“I would like that.”

This, she found to her surprise,
was
true.

T
HE INTRODUCTION OF
Miss Titania Danforth into Sussex society was to begin with a dinner, a little aperitif of a party before the ball—a
modest
ball, is how the duchess described it—to follow that evening. The most amusing people in Sussex had been invited, Genevieve had assured her, and a portion of London, too, and then she’d recited a list of titles both major and minor, both married and unmarried. When Tansy pictured them, they were all attractive. Funny the sort of magic the word “lord” could confer upon a person when it preceded a name. Privately she was now convinced the only way her own name would ever sound anything other than cumbersome would be if the word “duchess” came before it. Duchess Titania. Countess Titania? Lady Titania?

It was only a matter of time, she told herself stoutly.

The modest ball would be followed in a month or so by what Tansy was tempted to call an immodest ball, but which Genevieve referred to as a Grand Ball.

Tansy had been told she needn’t do a thing but emerge from her chambers looking beautiful, “which you could accomplish wearing only sackcloth, if you preferred,” Genevieve said with her usual generosity and graciousness. “Not that wearing sackcloth is a custom in Sussex.”