Devall's Angel (7 page)

He shook his head at the way she had confronted that vendor – in the middle of a public thoroughfare before the eyes of the world. That the gossips knew nothing of her escapade was blind luck. And talking to him was the height of folly. She had known his identity and reputation, yet had sparred with him in a bookshop patronized by all of society, meeting rudeness with rudeness, oblivious to who might have overheard.

A lingering hint of heliotrope teased his nose. An unusual scent for an unusual lady.

But a far different image emerged from his reports on Atwater’s inamorata.
That
Miss Warren was shy and demure, rarely raising her voice above a whisper and seldom meeting any gentleman’s eye. She was exceedingly proper and promised to make a biddable wife.

He shuddered. Her society behavior matched that of the first Lady Atwater, though Lydia had been a blue-eyed blonde.

Stupid!

A wave of disappointment engulfed him – and fury at himself because he’d forgotten that she was one of society’s daughters, and Lady Forley’s daughter, at that. The opposing images meant nothing. She was putting on an act, mimicking Atwater’s first wife to attract the earl’s attention. And her reason was obvious. Title and fortune. It was what every chit wanted. She would be the Countess of Atwater, a big step up for Viscount Forley’s impoverished sister. Her delayed come-out could only be blamed on failing finances. She was conventional, all right – greedy, selfish, determined, and willing to employ deceit and manipulation to improve her position in society.

How could he have been crazy enough to like her?

Collecting his own pile of books, he added a copy of the educational treatise and headed home, swearing profusely when that animated face stuck in his mind. She was far too enticing when enraged.

Chapter Four

A week later, Devall leaned against a building in New Bond Street, watching the door of Grafton House, the linen draper’s across the way. Miss Warren should exit at any moment, for she rarely wasted her time on idle browsing. It was further proof that her public image was a ruse. Conventional chits adored shopping.

Why are you following her?

The question surfaced daily despite his constant guard, but this time he couldn’t suppress it. Ignoring the latest cuts – these from Ladies Horseley and Stafford – he considered his motives.

It was true that he hated pretense, but that was no reason for stalking Miss Warren – which he had been doing for a week now. She employed no more deceit than other young ladies.

He sighed. Atwater was a big reason, and not just because Devall despised the man. Miss Warren and the earl did not suit. Despite her greed, she deserved a husband who would appreciate her, but she was too naïve to recognize that Gabriel did not qualify. Somehow he must convince her that many gentlemen prized the traits she was hiding. By revealing herself as an Original, she could have much of society at her feet, including some who possessed the title and fortune she craved.

She emerged into the morning sunshine. Today’s costume fit the role she was playing – an elegantly restrained but fashionable morning gown, a charming bonnet that completely concealed her fiery curls, and a mask of mindless
ennui
to hide her passions from the world. A very proper maid accompanied her.

Deceitful wench! Fury engulfed him. He hated charades. He hated dishonesty. So why did she insist on both?

Catching her eye, he bathed her with his most scathing stare.

Within moments, she abandoned the meek facade. Good.

Or perhaps not. She countered with a glare that knifed into his head, sending shivers clear to his toes. Naturally she spotted that faint ripple. The corner of her mouth quirked in satisfaction.

This wasn’t the first time they had silently fenced, but she was becoming too adept at probing deep into his mind. Thickening the armor that protected his darkest secrets, he deliberately fed his fury, hoping to divert her attention.

She was a deceitful wench. Greedy. And stupid, if she thought to manage Atwater after marriage. Inevitably her trickery would be exposed, but Devall doubted that she understood the consequences. His eyes bored into hers in warning, but she was too stubborn – or too ignorant – to heed him. He ought to wash his hands of her, but revulsion forced him to abandon the idea.

“Miss Warren,” he mouthed silently, nodding in greeting. The clatter of hooves and wheels on cobblestones drowned out sound at this distance, so speaking could only draw unwanted attention. Approaching her openly would ruin her, but he must make her understand. “Be yourself. Stay away from Atwater.”

She straightened, anger animating her face.

Ignoring the voice cautioning him to tread warily, he let his gaze travel over her body – and a very nice body it was. His eyes lingered on the best parts.

She returned the favor, flooding him with heat. Then her lips moved, and he flinched. Surely she hadn’t just called him a lecherous rogue! But the satisfaction sparkling in her eyes confirmed it. She added something else that looked like
conceited ass
.

“Baggage!” he mouthed, stifling a laugh.

Pompous popinjay! she responded.

A carriage passed between them, blocking his view. By the time it was gone, she was ducking into a nearby shop.

 “Damnation,” he muttered as he strode away. His hands were trembling. What the devil had gotten into him? If anyone had noticed that exchange, she would be ruined. Fortunately, society always cut him, which required that they avert their eyes. But she lacked that protection. He must avoid further indiscretions.

* * * *

Angela stared at the crowd packed into Almack’s and sighed. Despite warnings from both Cassie and her mother, she had not expected the days to be so ruthlessly filled with activities. Balls, routs, theater, opera, drives in the park, picnics, morning calls, at-homes, shopping… The list went on and on. Some nights they took in four events. Lady Forley was ecstatic.

Angela was not. In this rush for quantity entertainment, quality got lost. As did enjoyment. Hundreds of events were scheduled during a Season that lasted only three months. And that didn’t include the daily round of calls, the fashionable hour in the park, the theater, or the opera. No one wanted to miss anything, so they all scrambled to attend everything.

But the pace was so frenetic that she accomplished nothing, exchanging meaningless pleasantries at each stop before rushing on to the next. Despite spending most of her time with other people, she rarely talked to anyone – really talked; parroting gossip didn’t count. The purpose of all this socializing was to find a husband, yet she knew little more about her suitors than their names and ranks.

Lady Jersey was watching, so she widened her smile and suppressed another sigh.

She had acquired a regular court, much to Lady Forley’s delight. Most of the gentlemen who were seriously shopping for wives had already begun to narrow their choices, which reduced hers to those currently dancing attendance on her. One day soon she must bring one of them up to scratch. But which?

Not everyone was serious. Captain Harrington would return to the Peninsula as soon as his doctors declared him fit – probably next week. Several young sprigs just down from school occasionally hovered around her, indulging in small doses of polite society between visits to green rooms and gaming hells. Others flitted from one court to another, enjoying the variety.

Sir Alan was a different story. Lady Forley despised him, for he was only a baronet, her diatribes so obnoxious that Angela had seriously considered him for several days. But he was not a man she could live with in comfort. He cared for little beyond clothes and horses, his shallow mind incapable of original thought. If they wed, Angela would soon dominate him – not a situation she approved. She hoped her husband would consider her suggestions, but how could she respect a man who allowed her ride roughshod over him? So it was time to hint Sir Alan away.

Garwood was another whom her mother disapproved despite encouraging him to remain in attendance – a large court enhanced one’s credit. Angela had actually managed a reasonable conversation with him at the Clarkwell picnic, finding him intelligent and dedicated to his estate. And he made her feel comfortable enough that she had mentioned one of Andrew’s agriculture experiments. Though surprised, he had accepted her knowledge, indulging in a lively debate.

Yet two questions remained. Could their relationship grow beyond idle friendship? And was he in the market for a wife? No one seemed to know.

She couldn’t doubt Atwater’s intentions. He made no secret of them. Surprisingly, he had narrowed his choices to herself and Miss Hanson, a baronet’s daughter, abandoning both an earl’s daughter and a duke’s. The gossips favored her, both because of her higher rank and because Lady Forley enthusiastically approved a match.

Her mother’s pressure annoyed Angela, as did people’s assumption that she would automatically accept him because he was the most desirable
parti
in town. More than one girl had feigned friendship with her solely to fawn over Atwater. The gossips’ sly innuendo was even more irritating than her mother’s admonitions.

But Angela could never relax with him. Perhaps it was his incessant flattery, which had grown even warmer since her ball. Perhaps it was the way he hovered, bringing her cool drinks when she was hardly aware of a dry throat and maneuvering her near the doors before she noted a heated ballroom. Or perhaps it was his disdain. His credit was as high as Brummell’s, and he used it in the same way – raising or lowering others’ consequence by bestowing or denying his favor. She hated the way these arbiters of fashion played with people’s lives. And knowing that he could destroy her on a whim increased her tension, for she was terrified of revealing her inadequacies. She couldn’t converse with him beyond one-word responses to direct questions.

That must change. If she could not hold a rational discussion with him, then she must leave him to Miss Hanson – who clearly doted on him – and concentrate on bringing Garwood up to scratch.

But avoiding him would be difficult, she realized when Atwater arrived and headed directly to her side, passing Lady Jersey with only the barest nod. That easily insulted matron merely smiled.

“You dance divinely, my dear,” he said as they took their places for a cotillion.

She said nothing.

The figure parted them, but he kept his face turned adoringly to hers instead of smiling at his new partner. It was clear to everyone in the room that he had made his decision and would court only her from now on. Miss Hanson seemed on the verge of tears. Lady Jersey’s lips formed the words
young love
as she looking smilingly on.

Angela shivered.

Yet her reaction was silly. Now that he had singled her out, surely they would discuss serious subjects. Perhaps she could even figure out why Atwater terrified her while Blackthorn did not.

It was a question that had puzzled her for days. Blackthorn was the most dangerous man in Mayfair. Yet she had argued with him, insulted him, revealed interests that society would abhor, and not once considered herself in danger. And her instincts had been right. No hint had surfaced of their meeting. Yet his silence arose from neither prudence nor affection. He obviously loathed her.

She had spotted him several times since their encounter in Hatchard’s – on Bond Street, in Hyde Park, and again near Hatchard’s. Always he had caught her eye. Even from afar, he radiated anger. His appearances were too frequent to pass off as chance, so he must be watching her. Yet her reaction was inexplicable. His most ferocious glares failed to intimidate her, while Atwater’s affections invariably did.

The movement of the dance brought her back to Atwater’s side.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, staring warmly into her eyes.

“Thank you, my lord,” she managed.

“Call me Gabriel.” He deftly avoided a couple who were so engrossed in each other that they had drifted out of their own set.

“I cannot, my lord.” She could not consider such closeness. He was too much an enigma.

He nodded, looking even more pleased. “Of course not. So quiet and proper a lady must balk at unseemly familiarity. Society prefers that we wait.”

You don’t understand!
But no words emerged.

Was that good or bad? Every exchange strengthened her impression that this man would not make a comfortable husband. His very presence prevented her from conducting a normal conversation on even innocuous subjects.

But she could not accept that as truth any more than she could believe society’s facade of gaiety. He might not be at fault. Lady Forley’s pressure was mounting.
You must snare Atwater … flirt with him … all it will take is a few lures … fortune and title are essential in a husband … he is the catch of the Season … you will be the envy of all society … don’t waste any chances…

Her discomfort might be no more than rebellion against her mother’s manipulation. And it
was
manipulation. Lady Forley was being downright rude to Sir Alan and quite stilted toward Garwood. Yet she fawned over Atwater to the point of embarrassment.

But changing her mother’s behavior was hopeless. The only way to halt her antics was to accept an offer – which meant sounding out Garwood’s intentions so she knew whether she had a choice.

She stifled a sigh. Almack’s was no place for serious discussions – or even for planning serious discussions. The patronesses watched everyone like hawks, frowning at any indiscretion.

When the dance concluded, Angela found Lady Forley engulfed in righteous indignation. “Are you implying that Lord Cloverdale did not die of natural causes? Lady Sefton swore he succumbed to a chill.”

“What rubbish,” said Lady Debenham with an audible snort. “Though it has never been general knowledge, I refuse to hide the truth now that
that man
is creeping back into society. He actually accepted what must have been an erroneous invitation to Lady Chartley’s soiree last evening. The gall of the scoundrel!”