Regret Not a Moment

REGRET NOT A MOMENT

A NOVEL BY

NICOLE McGEHEE

First published in the United States and Canada 1993 by Little, Brown and Company

First published in Great Britain by Warner Books in 1994

Copyright © 1993 by Nicole McGehee

Copyright © 2013 by Nicole McGehee, revised and electronic edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may he reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Revised and electronic edition

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McGehee, Nicole.
Regret not a moment : a novel / by Nicole McGehee. —1st ed.
p. cm.
Print ISBN O-316-55853-2
I. Title.
PS3563.C36373R4 1993
813’.54—dc20 92-41732

eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for
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To my mother, whose dreams for me have no limit, and my husband, who helps make the dreams come true

No More Lonely Nights

Readers should contact Nicole through her website
nicolemcgeheefiction.com

Praise for
Regret Not a Moment

“A sparkling story, a luscious setting, a memorable heroine.”

—Janet Dailey, author of
The Calder Saga

“You will never forget the captivating Devon Richmond and her dramatic story. It is a bewitching book!”

—Iris Rainer Dart, author of
Beaches

“The story is as warm and spirited as its Southern background – a tale rich with insight into the enduring nature of love and desire. I enjoyed it immensely.”

—Jennifer Blake, author of
The Italian Billionaire
series

“Passionate romance spanning three continents and three decades…Readers won’t regret a few hours spent with [this book].

—
Kirkus Reviews

“This light, entertaining novel holds reader interest until the end…Recommended where Danielle Steel is popular.”

—
Library Journal

“This well-researched novel holds a wealth of detail which makes characters and scenes come alive…Fascinating…”

—
Romantic Times

nicolemcgeheefiction.com

Book One
:
Fauquier County, Virginia, 1930

Book Two
:
Cairo, Egypt, 1942

Book Three
:
Willowbrook, 1957

FAUQUIER COUNTY, VIRGINIA

1930

DEVON hopped off the lathered black stallion and handed the reins to a groom, then scurried up the flagstone path from the stables to the main house. As she approached the Georgian brick mansion, she cast a glance up at the balcony outside her bedroom window and cringed. As she expected, her maid, Alice, was standing there, ready to scold her for being late. Devon was sweaty, dirty, and smelled like a horse. Worse, she and Alice had only one hour to prepare her for the dinner party at the Magraths’.

A hectic fifty-five minutes later, Devon was ready.

“Not bad, if I do say so myself,” said Alice, her proud smile a contrast to her matter-of-fact tone. But then, she was used to Devon looking well turned-out. If she had not, Alice would have been disappointed in herself.

Devon studied her reflection in the mirror and gave Alice, who was putting the finishing touches on her upswept hair, a smiling nod of approval. Devon’s dark hair was artfully interwoven with pearls. It created a striking contrast to her vivid, aqua eyes. Her skin—roses-and-cream satin inherited from her mother—was luminous against the sapphire velvet gown she wore.

“Not bad… for an old maid,” Devon said, giving Alice a conspiratorial look in the mirror. “I would bet… let’s see… a box of those chocolates you’re so fond of that my parents are downstairs right now discussing my spinsterhood again.”

“I don’t believe in gambling, miss, as well you know,” Alice admonished. “And it wouldn’t hurt you to listen to your parents’ advice.” But she could not prevent a smile from appearing at the corners of her mouth. She loved the elder Richmonds, but she knew that Devon’s marital status was a matter of choice. Devon was independent. Happy with her life. Still, Alice sometimes shared the Richmonds’ disquiet as Devon turned down one proposal after another. And this year, there had not been as many. Of course, there were few bachelors left among Devon’s friends in Virginia. And the Richmonds did
insist
on living most of the year at Evergreen instead of their town house in New York.

“Well,
I
believe in gambling. It’s one of life’s great pleasures,” declared Devon.

“Well, you needn’t poke fun at your parents’ concerns, miss. One day you’ll wake up to find all the young men who were pining after you have married, just like Mr. Hartwick.”

“Then I’ll have to content myself with my horses and my greenhouse,” said Devon cheerfully, ignoring the remark about her former beau. She had not been in love with Brent and she was not sorry he had married her neighbor Helena Magrath. Devon was not the sort of woman who kept men dangling when she was not interested in them. She was too straightforward for that.

“Anyhow, I know Mother and Father are hoping that tonight I’ll pass muster with the gentleman from New York… what is his name…”

“Mr. Alexander, miss. And you could do worse. They say he’s very handsome and that he comes from one of the finest old New York families. I haven’t heard one word against him. And you know the tongue on that Annie Sparks,” she added, referring to Helena Magrath’s lady’s maid.

“Well, if he doesn’t have even one flaw, then he must be perfectly awful! I’m determined to dislike him,” Devon said, only half joking. “Dinner parties become really tiresome when one has the impression that all the guests are holding their breath to see if the old maid will finally reel in a fish.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Miss Devon! I hope you don’t say things like that in public.”

Devon let out a peal of laughter and reached back over her shoulder to pat her maid’s hand. “Of course I do! That’s why I’m an old maid!”

“Ha! That may not be the joke you think! Lord knows, there’s nothing wrong with your looks or your brains. It’s only that tongue of yours.” Alice meant to scold Devon, but she could not keep a note of affection out of her voice. She had loved Devon the minute she had laid eyes on her, almost twenty-five years before. How could she help but be proud of her charge when she was so lovely, in spirit and in body?

“Well,” Devon said, her laughter bubbling over as she spoke, “perhaps this visitor from New York won’t mind so much. Yankee girls are so much more outspoken.”

“They say he’s very charming, so I’m sure he won’t appreciate poor manners,” said Alice with mock severity.

“He sounds like a paragon. I shall hate him. I know it.”

Devon had guessed correctly the topic of her parents’ discussion as they waited for her in the library downstairs.

As Devon approached her twenty-fifth birthday, her parents were beginning to worry that she would never marry. Although the 1920s had changed the world, it was still true that once a young woman had passed the age of twenty-three, it was taken for granted that spinsterhood was a distinct possibility. At age twenty-five, it seemed a foregone conclusion.

“Maybe she is
too
sharp-tongued,” Laurel said, looking up from the fine embroidery that was rarely out of her hands.

At the sound of Laurel’s voice, her husband, ensconced in a leather wing chair in front of the fireplace, looked across the top of his newspaper. His wife sat in the matching chair opposite him, the light reflecting off her fine blonde hair. As a young woman she had been remarkably pretty. At age fifty-three, her prettiness had given way to elegant grace. But to her husband, the lines around her eyes and mouth, the luminescent white strands in her hair, served as mementos of their many happy years together.

“Who’s that, dear?” he asked.

“Devon. Maybe she speaks her mind too openly. Maybe her remarks are sometimes too… pointed. Do you suppose that is why she hasn’t married?”

Chase lowered his paper. At least once a week he and Laurel discussed the possible reasons for Devon’s unmarried state. Although Devon seemed happy as she was, the Richmonds both wanted to see her married. They did not like the patronizing comments their friends made about Devon’s spinsterhood. They did not like to see the less attractive, less intelligent daughters of their friends pluck off eligible young bachelors one by one while Devon remained obstinately single. But most of all, they believed that Devon’s future happiness depended upon her being married. Without marriage, her place in society would be that of an onlooker. And they wanted their daughter to experience the happiness of connubial love.

“I shouldn’t think so, Laurel,” said Chase after carefully mulling over her comment. “After all, I remember when she and the young Hartwick chap used to laugh the evenings away. Why, he was a great admirer of her wit.”

“Well, there’s a good example, Chase!” said Laurel, sitting forward in her chair. “Brent Hartwick liked that at first, but do you suppose he grew tired of it? Do you suppose she showed too much…” Laurel’s sentence tapered off. She did not like to use the word
intelligence.
It was 1930, after all, why should a young woman have to hide her intelligence?

“Nonsense, Laurel, you and I have always been progressive. We taught Devon to ride and hunt as well as any man. We taught her to be honest and speak her mind. She even went to college! And I hope we have provided an example of marital fulfillment. If she’s not married, it’s by choice. After all, her sister is married.”

“You can’t think she wants to stay an old maid, like the Chapman girl. Why, no one invites that poor girl anywhere, except as a chaperone!”

“Of course she doesn’t want that! But Devon claims she hasn’t found a man who suits her,” Chase said, with a helpless shrug.

A man who suits her, Laurel thought. It had seemed so easy for her and Chase to find each other. They had grown up as neighbors, made mud pies together as toddlers, taken piano lessons together as adolescents. They had always been inseparable. She gazed at her husband now. She supposed he could be called portly, despite his still-broad shoulders and strong arms. His balding head had once sported thick, dark waves, like Devon’s; the hair that remained was now mostly gray. But to Laurel he was the most attractive man in the world. Why was it so difficult, then, for her own daughter to find the same contentment?

LIGHT spilled festively from the long windows of the Magrath mansion. The sight made Devon’s heart beat a little faster as the tires of her parents’ Cadillac crunched on the circular drive. Parties always filled her with anticipation, and the Magraths’ parties were among the most sparkling.

Built to resemble a French chateau, the lavish three-story Magrath home was a departure from the Georgian-style and antebellum structures that sprinkled the Virginia countryside. The architecture, a romantic fantasy of Helena Magrath’s Francophile grandfather, was complemented by a houseful of valuable antiques gathered over the course of seventy years.

As Devon entered the richly gilded Louis XIV-style salon, an arm through one of each parent’s, she searched the room for their hostess. All the faces she saw were familiar and she smiled at those closest to her. Then a circle of young people parted, and in their midst Devon saw a stranger.

Her scan of the room stopped at once and her gaze fixed on him. He was one of those rare people who, for no clearly definable reason, immediately drew the eye. He didn’t blend into the crowd, he stood above it. His charisma was due to something beyond good looks; something beyond self-confidence. It was a combination of eloquent gesture, carriage, expression—a magnetism that absorbed the attention. Though John Alexander was completely unaware of Devon, she found her eyes locked on his profile.

He looked no older than many of her friends, but he moved with utter self-assurance. He was no taller than the other men in the room, but his manner of carrying himself made him appear more powerful. He had the look of an athlete, with wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. He gave the impression that he was extremely capable—no… indomitable. His face was all male angularity, with a strong, almost stubborn jaw. His nose was slightly larger than average and had a small hook in it, which gave his face a keen, somewhat hard look. To Devon, the men standing beside him looked callow in comparison.

The Richmonds’ hostess, Rosalind Magrath, spotted her guests and moved toward them. As she greeted the new arrivals, she looked over her shoulder to see what was so enthralling Devon. The young woman looked hypnotized. When Rosalind saw the direction of Devon’s gaze, she smiled to herself. Giving Laurel Richmond a knowing look, Mrs. Magrath led the family across the vast room to meet the guest from New York.