Dair Devil (46 page)

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I want to assure you I have every intention of taking my marriage vows seriously, for what is the p—”

The old man waved a hand in dismissal at Dair’s assiduousness.

“Young men mean well, but let me tell you from experience, it rarely, if ever, happens that we remain faithful. It’s not in our natures to do so. Frankly put, why should we? Females bear the burden of growing our seed and so it is they who need to be damn well faithful to us! It’s the way God made Adam and Eve, and there’s an end to the argument.”

“Sir, that is not the sort of marriage I intend to have. The Duke of Roxton is a faithful husband, like his father before him. They are my yard stick for what constitutes a good husband, a good father, and a marriage worth having.”

Shrewsbury was dismissive.

“Aberrations, both! And let me tell you, before he fell under the spell of that divine creature he married, old Roxton was a libidinous goat! There was a reason he was called the noble satyr, my boy, and I should know. He was mounting every pretty skirt that caught his eye since our Eton days.” He leaned forward in his wingchair, as if not wishing to be overheard, and chuckled knowingly. “From what I’ve heard of your bed sheet escapades, you easily fill old Roxton’s breeches. So unless you’ve found yourself a rare and magnificent beauty such as your Cousin Antonia to marry, which I very much doubt, I’d not lose sleep over a trifle of a thing as fidelity. Trust me, neither will your bride.” He sat up. “So who is the lucky creature? An heiress, I don’t doubt. One of the Spencer girls, or a Cavendish relative of Deborah Roxton? Or have you preempted my advice and gone and got yourself a fertile young widow. No need to prove yourself, is there? How many brats has that mistress of yours given you now? Four or is it five? All healthy sons, too. Knowing your luck, you’ll have the new wife pregnant before the sun rises on the night before!”

“I have one natural son, sir,” Dair said in a measured tone, tips of his fingers digging in to the upholstered arm of the wingchair to maintain calm. He was furious. “His mother has been faithfully married for almost nine years. Her four younger sons belong to her husband.”

“Yes. Yes. If you say so, my boy. I’m not one to quibble over bastard offspring. If it gives her husband comfort to think the brats are—”

“Sir! My lord! Mrs. Banks is no adulteress, and I am no liar!”

Dair had shot to his feet. It was only the esteem in which he held the Spymaster General that had kept his anger in check for this long. He had not wanted to offend him. Now, he could not care less.

“I did not come here to be lectured on the institution of marriage, or how I should conduct myself as a husband. I don’t need your advice, nor do I care greatly for your good opinion, because it seems you have no good opinion of my character as it is!

“I was an eyewitness to my parent’s hell on earth, so I am well versed in how
not
to conduct myself as a husband and a father. But I also know a loving union when I see it, and with the help of the woman I love, I intend to have the sort of marriage, be the sort of husband and father, that will make my wife and children proud. I love your granddaughter with my whole heart and I would never do or say anything to ruin her happiness, or our marriage. There is your assurance. I give it honestly. It is for Rory’s sake I seek your blessing to our union. I hope you will give it freely and make her happy. She is waiting outside in the hallway. Shall I fetch her in so you can tell her so yourself…?”

Lord Shrewsbury slowly rose out of his wingchair by the fire while Dair was in the midst of his earnest discourse, surprised by the young nobleman’s uncharacteristic fit of temper, but prepared to forgive him for the same reason; the boy had never before been so discourteous. But what he was not prepared for was to hear Rory’s name trip so familiarly off the Major’s tongue, and he fell back into his wingchair, in shock.

Not in a thousand years would he have suspected his granddaughter to be romantically linked to
any
man, least of all this man. Why had he not seen this coming? Why had he not been wary of the warning signs of a clandestine attachment? Why had none of his servants, his agents, her own brother, seen it too, and warned him? The only person who had hinted at Major Lord Fitzstuart’s interest in his granddaughter was William Watkins, and stupidly he had dismissed the man’s insinuations as ridiculous, and fueled by jealousy.

He was incredulous and disbelieving.

Why would a man of action, a decorated soldier and a spy, a man who risked his life as if it meant nothing to him—a man whose masculinity had the effect of causing some females to faint at the sight of him—why would such a man be interested in his granddaughter? His beloved Rory was a naïve cripple who had rarely strayed beyond her family’s garden gate. She was pretty in her own way, with her mother’s Norwegian fair hair and his deep blue eyes, but she was not so beautiful as to catch the roving eye of the hot-blooded Major Lord Fitzstuart. She was no Antonia Roxton Kinross, no voluptuous beauty who could heat a man’s blood with one look.

It just didn’t make any sense to him, and so he told Dair in as many words, though his speech was halting and garbled at times. Nonetheless his incredulity was blatant, as was his opposition to the couple’s betrothal. He forbade it. He would not give it his blessing. As far as he was concerned, Rory was not mentally or physically capable of marrying. The idea of this lusty lothario bedding his innocent granddaughter made him feel physically ill. As far as he was concerned, Rory would remain a virgin, spend the rest of his days as his companion, and would die an old maid.

Dair was just as incredulous by Shrewsbury’s violent opposition, not only to his granddaughter marrying him, but to the very idea of Rory wedded at all. It soon became apparent the old man had suffered such a severe shock that it was pointless arguing any further with him that night. But he expected Shrewsbury to put on a brave face and not disappoint his granddaughter. Regardless of what he thought of the betrothal, Dair was going to marry Rory, with or without his blessing.

“After all, she’s two-and-twenty and doesn’t need your consent,” Dair stated flatly. “We can marry without your blessing, but for the sake of her happiness, I would rather have it as not.”

Shrewsbury was not to be appeased. Shock gave way to anger and resentment. He thumped the arms of his wingchair and shot back up to his feet and stayed there this time.

“I’ll not give it! Now or ever. You can’t seriously expect me to believe you want to marry my granddaughter? Ha! This is some sort of joke! A damned awful one, but a joke nonetheless! How much money have you got riding on the outcome of seeing me bamboozled? Aye?” When Dair pulled a face of revulsion at the idea, Shrewsbury let out a harsh laugh. “That’s your best piece of acting yet, Fitzstuart! But I’m not fooled! I know all about your revolting wager to tup a cripple. Watkins told me—”

“I beg your pardon? I never—”

Dair stopped himself. He could not refute Shrewsbury’s outlandish claim because it was true. He had accepted such a wager, but he had been blind drunk and it was years ago. He tried to recall the exact circumstances under which he had accepted such a despicable dare. He was with a group of fellow officers at a Covent Garden bordello, or was it a Turkish Bath? Was he nineteen or twenty years old? No matter, all he remembered was they were so idiotically debauched he would have accepted any wager put to him, no matter how devilish and unlikely. All because he could not disappoint his army fellows. Somehow it had got written up in White’s betting book. He suspected William Watkins had something to do with that. But it was all so long ago…

“That has nothing to do with the here and now,” he blustered. “I deeply regret having agreed to such a preposterous wager, but if you knew the circumstances—”

“Don’t make a fig of difference. You bragged about it before witnesses and that’s all that matters. Whether you meant to carry it out is neither here nor there to me. I could care less, but it will mean a great deal to my granddaughter.”

Dair was too horrified to speak.

Shrewsbury looked supremely smug at his response.

“Call off this ridiculous betrothal and she’ll not hear about the wager from me…”

Dair made one last attempt to make Shrewsbury see reason.

“Sir, I love Rory with every fiber of my being. I want to marry her, take care of her, cherish her for the rest of my days…”

The old man was unconvinced. He did not understand couples marrying for love. His wife had been chosen for him by his father, and he had chosen who his grandson would marry. Parents knew what was best in a mate for their children. His son had foolishly married for love and that had been a disaster for everyone concerned. Rory was the most precious thing in the world to him and he would never subject her to the pain and heartache of a love match, nor would he give her up. And so he told Dair, unmoved by the young man’s open and honest declaration of his feelings.

Dair sighed his incomprehension and threw up a hand impatiently.

“One day I will be Earl of Strathsay, and she my countess. Surely, that must mean something to you, even if nothing else I’ve said does?”

“It does. That, too, works against you. She is not equipped to take the stage in Society as the wife of a nobleman. Enough heads turn as it is when she limps into a room, and not in a good way. Imagine her on
your
arm. What a spectacle! What a-a
farce
. She can’t even dance, for God’s sake! You’ll make her a laughing stock and I won’t have it. It would break my heart, and hers.”

Dair shook his head in disbelief.

“You have so little regard for her, and of what she is truly capable, that you fail to see beyond the obvious. She is not some flawed diamond to be kept in a velvet box for fear a tiny imperfection is all that will be noticed. She is a magnificent unique jewel whose true worth should be allowed to shine. Let her take her place at my side, and watch her sparkle. She deserves nothing less of life. And that life is with me.”

Shrewsbury was incredulous at this young man’s presumption. To be lectured to about the most precious thing he owned turned his face purple with rage.

“Shine? Poppycock!” the old man spat out. “She won’t shine, she’ll wilt and die as sure as you’ll return to your whoring and your devil-may-care ways once you’ve had your fill of her! God knows what perverted lust demon drives you to want to marry a creature who can no more climb the stairs on the other side of that door, as fly! I know about men like you. No one suspects but deep down there are unnatural desires, inclinations and urges that if allowed to bubble to the surface wreak untold damage that can never be repaired! I won’t let that happen again, and not to her. Find yourself a lame female elsewhere. There’s a cathouse in Covent Garden that caters to such perversions—”

“Enough!” Dair growled, spinning away from the fireplace, where he had his head lowered, gripping the mantel to force himself from grabbing Shrewsbury by the throat. “I’ve heard enough of your salacious drivel! If you weren’t her grandfather, I’d shut your foul mouth with my fist!”

He took a deep breath, reminding himself Shrewsbury was seventy years of age, and it was the love he had for his granddaughter making him lash out with irrational and absurd statements. In such an emotionally charged state, it was fruitless to continue arguing with him. He decided the old man needed time to come to terms with his proposal. He hoped that with the dawn, Shrewsbury would see that what was best for Rory’s future happiness was to give his blessing to the marriage. If the old man proved immoveable, then the marriage would take place without him, and the sooner the better.

There was nothing left for him to do here tonight. Yet, the thought of walking out of the study and seeing Rory on the stair, smiling with happiness, blue eyes full of expectation, was almost too much for him to contemplate, and he wished he could scramble out a window and make off across the park, like a thief in the night. Still, he was no coward. But how was he to allay her natural distress when she learned her grandfather had rejected his proposal? He must give her a word or a look before being shown the door, so she knew he was determined to marry her, and would brook no opposition.

“I’ll say goodnight,” he said calmly. “But I will return tomorrow morning—”

“That would not be wise or welcome.”

“I will come anyway.”

“No. You won’t.”

“You cannot stop me.”

Shrewsbury sneered his superiority.

“No? Some time ago I requisitioned that particular betting book from White’s in the national interest. I will show Rory the offending wager if necessary. But I hope it does not come to that. You must understand I will do whatever it takes to preserve her innocence and her happiness. If that means locking her up, I’ll do it. Regard me, Fitzstuart: I am deadly serious.”

Dair believed him. But two could play his game, and he fully intended to return at sun up and kidnap Rory if need be. With nothing left to say, he bowed civilly to the old man and followed him out of the study and into the hall, where the butler waited by the front door.

And there was Rory, curled up on the stair, head resting on her arm, blonde hair falling across her flushed cheek, asleep.

Dair took a step forward, to go to her, but a hand on his linen sleeve forestalled him. It was Shrewsbury. He brushed past him and, like a sentinel, stood between the couple, blocking Dair’s view of her. He jerked his powdered head at the butler and the front door was opened on the night air.

Dair hesitated, hands clenching and unclenching in frustration. As much as he wanted to go to her, take her in his arms and leave this place with her, he could not do so, knowing the old man was fully capable of creating a distressing scene. So he turned on a heel and left.

He calculated there were less than eight hours until dawn.

T
WENTY-EIGHT

W 
HEN
A
NTONIA
finally reappeared from behind the paneled screen, Alisdair Fitzstuart was no longer there, and the Duke was perched on the window seat looking out on the view. She had splashed cold water on her face and tidied her hair, catching up the waist-length tangle of fair curls with a cream silk ribbon. When her attendants followed her across the room, she waved them away, a nod to Michelle to also leave her alone with M’sieur le Duc. She then resumed her seat on the chaise longue as if there was nothing untoward in her behavior, a sideways glance at her silent son before saying conversationally in French (the language they always used when alone),