Nicole Jordan Page 7

  For Heward’s sake, she was glad when Deverill finally excused himself to mingle with the other guests at the assemblage.

  He proved remarkably popular. During the next hour, Antonia couldn’t help but notice how the ladies fluttered their eyelashes at the tall, ruggedly handsome newcomer. And the gentlemen, rather than turn away, actually seemed to hang on Deverill’s every word.

  Yet it was absurd that when he eventually took his leave, the sparkle seemed to fade from Antonia’s evening.

  To her further dismay, that same pattern was repeated often in the succeeding week. Deverill appeared at many of the same social functions she attended—first at Drury Lane Theatre, then a musicale, then a rout party, and finally another ball.

  His behavior toward her was everything that was proper, but the frequency of their meetings began to seem more than mere coincidence; they were downright suspicious.

  Even her friend Emily noticed. “I wonder if Mr. Deverill is making an effort to turn respectable,” Emily said as they stood watching him a short distance across the ballroom.

  Antonia gave an unladylike scoff of amusement. “Deverill? I hardly think so. A black sheep doesn’t readily change his hue.”

  Emily turned curious brown eyes on Antonia. “Then perhaps you are what draws him. He seems very interested in you, dearest. If I didn’t know better, I would say he might even be courting you.”

  “He knows I am betrothed to Heward.”

  “Not officially. Not until next month. So until then, you are fair game.”

  Antonia shook her head. If Deverill was pursuing her, she was certain it was only because he was trying to come between her and Lord Heward.

  And at the moment Deverill wasn’t showing her any interest at all. Instead he was being fawned over by a half-dozen young ladies who were gazing up at him adoringly, obviously hoping to be chosen for his dance partner. But then, Antonia was well aware, the dangerous edge of his appeal was enough to make most women go weak in the knees. It simply annoyed her that she could be counted among their number.

  It disturbed her more that Deverill might deliberately try to ruin her brilliant match. And as she stood watching him, she silently vowed to withstand any efforts he made to break up her betrothal, and almost as importantly, to resist being bowled over by his powerful personality.

  Her resolve was tested within the hour, for he approached her just as she finished a set of country dances with Lord Heward.

  Heward had rarely left her side all evening, as if he was keeping guard on her. And when Deverill asked his permission to waltz with her, the baron firmly refused.

  “I hardly think it good for Miss Maitland’s reputation to be seen standing up with you, Deverill,” his lordship observed. “Particularly the waltz.”

  Antonia felt herself stiffen. Given the chance, she would have refused Deverill’s offer on her own, but her betrothed’s proprietary air was beginning to fray her nerves.

  She smiled sweetly at Heward, even as she placed her hand on Deverill’s arm. “I believe my reputation can withstand a simple waltz,” she said, before allowing Deverill to lead her onto the floor.

  He evidently noticed the tightness of her jaw, for the corner of his mouth crooked with satisfaction. “I didn’t think you would take kindly to Heward ordering you about.”

  Antonia kept her glance cool as she looked up at Deverill. “I don’t take kindly to your effrontery, either. You are deliberately attempting to provoke him.”

  “How did I provoke him?” he asked, all innocence. “My request to dance with you was perfectly unexceptional. Any number of ladies have stood up with me this evening.”

  “Perhaps because they mistake you for a gentleman.”

  Deverill’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Not everyone has your discernment, love.”

  Trying not to respond to that appealing gleam, she glanced around them to see that, once again, they were the focus of intense curiosity. Wincing inwardly, she returned her attention to Deverill. “You seem to be developing the annoying habit of appearing uninvited everywhere I turn.”

  “But I have been invited. Believe it or not, I’ve been inundated with invitations since my return to London.”

  “I suppose hostesses do enjoy having you for the novel value,” Antonia remarked. “That, and to partner the wallflowers at their balls.”

  “Not only the wallflowers.” The mocking deviltry was back in his eyes. “I am considered fairly eligible, you know.”

  She did know. Deverill came from an excellent family, despite his long-term quarrel with them, and the size of his fortune would make him a matrimonial prize, no matter his lack of title or his questionable reputation.

  The music began then, so Antonia was required to wait until they were settled into the rhythm of the waltz before speaking again. “I see why you would be invited everywhere. What I don’t understand is why you accept. You told me you don’t care for London society.”

  “I don’t. The shallowness grates on me. My family gave me an aversion to superficiality and pretentiousness at an early age. Actually, I much prefer the American perspective, where a man’s worth is not measured by his origins or his rank in the peerage.” He paused, then said pointedly, “Your father was a prime example of that.”

  Antonia wrinkled her nose at him, knowing it was a jab at her determination to wed a nobleman. “Yet you seem to be on excellent terms with Lord Ranworth.”

  “Ranworth is a man of substance, despite his title.”

  “How do you know the earl?”

  “I performed a service for him once.”

  She raised an eyebrow, remembering Deverill saying the same thing about her housekeeper. “Did you save his life, perhaps?”

  “Nothing so exciting. Ranworth is a heavy investor in the East India Company. He petitioned the Company to commission my services this past year, to protect their valuable convoys of merchant ships from a resurgence of piracy.”

  “Mrs. Peeke told me how you saved her husband from a press gang.”

  Deverill leveled a disapproving look at her. “I never would have credited Mrs. Peeke with having a loose tongue.”

  “I persuaded her to tell me. She also said that you are a hero, that you have saved countless more lives from corsairs over the years. I wondered if that is how you came by your—” Antonia broke off abruptly, realizing how insensitive her curiosity was.

  “Wondered what?” Deverill pressed.

  “Never mind. I should not have mentioned it.”

  “Come now, Miss Maitland, are you turning missish on me?”

  “Very well, then, I wondered about your scars. Mrs. Peeke said you were captured by vicious Turkish corsairs and they . . . hurt you.”

  Antonia felt the abrupt tightening of Deverill’s grip around her hand, while a sudden darkening of his eyes further betrayed him. For an instant, she glimpsed the unmistakable flash of devastation in the green depths.

  Then just as swiftly, Deverill’s expression turned impassive. “You are damned inquisitive about something that is none of your affair, Miss Maitland.”

  Antonia remained silent. She had finally found the means to get the upper hand with Deverill, yet she didn’t like to use it. Not when it was so obvious that the subject caused him great anguish.

  “You are right,” she finally said. “Your past is none of my affair. Just as whom I marry is none of your affair.”

  That made his eyes kindle. “On the contrary, it is my affair. I am making it so. I respected your father too much to let you throw your life away on a man of Heward’s ilk.”

  “But then,” Antonia retorted archly, “you are hardly an expert on happiness in marriage. If I recall, you intend to remain a confirmed bachelor.”

  He smiled back at her with lazy, mocking eyes. “True.”

  “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “Emily thinks you are courting me, but I was certain you intended nothing of the kind.”

  The slash of dark eyebrows lifted. “No, I am not courti
ng you, sweeting. Until recently I never even thought of you as a woman.”

  “Thank you very much,” she said wryly.

  Deverill’s grin was very male. “What I meant was, four years ago you were far too young for me. And now . . . your father would turn over in his grave if he thought I was making a bid for your hand.”

  “Then why do you appear to be following me? You mean to break up my betrothal, don’t you?”

  “I admit I want to sway your opinion of Heward. To make you comprehend that you’re making a grave mistake. You’re an intelligent woman, Antonia. You should be able to see how badly you are deluding yourself. Heward isn’t worthy of you. And he isn’t being honest if he claims he doesn’t want you for your inheritance.”

  She pressed her lips together, striving for control. “Speaking of honesty, I believe you failed to mention that your cousin was a privateer in the recent war.”

  Deverill’s gaze narrowed. “How does that matter? Brand spent the war running the British blockade—which, I might add, practically bankrupted the American shipping industry—protecting his own and other American ships. His actions were fully sanctioned

  by the American government. And his privateering doesn’t change the fact that his ships were illegally confiscated by your director.”

  “I agree, which is why I asked Heward to see that they are turned over to your cousin.”

  “And your account books?” Deverill asked probingly.

  “I’ve spoken to Phineas Cochrane, and he has agreed to review them.”

  “You didn’t mention your concern about running slaves to Heward?”

  Inwardly Antonia squirmed uncomfortably, knowing she was being disloyal to Heward by not trusting him. “No, I didn’t mention it. I am certain he will be vindicated, but you will only believe his innocence if it’s proven by an impartial observer.”

  When Deverill didn’t reply, she realized he was unlikely to ever believe in her betrothed’s innocence.

  They both fell silent. And when the waltz ended, both left unsatisfied with the conversation—Deverill more so.

  He had made little progress, he was aware, in raising doubts in Antonia’s mind about her betrothed. With her advantages of beauty and fortune, she could have any man she wanted. It didn’t have to be Heward. There were far better candidates, Deverill was convinced.

  He himself certainly didn’t fit the bill, with his lack of title and his notoriety. And marriage of any kind was not in his plans.

  He had a seaman’s need for freedom, an explorer’s sense of wanderlust, a Guardian’s claim to duty. And his own, deeply personal mission that required his complete devotion; a sworn vow that could not be fulfilled by half measures.

  There was simply no place in his life for entanglements. He couldn’t afford to be shackled by the demands of a wife. In truth, the last thing he wanted was to settle down tamely with a proper, genteel lady who would need to be handled like fine porcelain and who would reluctantly perform her duties in a passionless marriage bed.

  Antonia would be different, he expected, but that hardly mattered. He had dedicated his life to the Guardians, and his responsibilities would keep him far from England. And she, of course, must marry a nobleman.

  That didn’t prevent him from craving her, though, nor did it ease the fierce stab of desire he felt every time he saw her. He wanted her, in spite of everything. When she turned that cool, disdainful expression on him, he longed to give in to his primal urges, to turn her pretense of ice to fire.

  Acting on his urges was out of the question, Deverill sternly reminded himself. He couldn’t have Antonia. But he damned sure wouldn’t let Heward have her, either.

  This past week he’d had his own people investigating the baron, asking questions of servants and employees and business acquaintances. And he’d solicited the help of three other Guardians in London, all peers of Heward’s, to subtly interrogate his lordship’s friends.

  What he’d discovered thus far was highly disturbing. On the surface, Heward appeared the picture of refined elegance and suave charm, but that charm was apparently deceptive, for it concealed a vicious temperament and a proclivity for brutality.

  Deverill had already personally seen one instance of it several years ago, against a beggar lad, but now he’d begun hearing tales of Heward’s cruelty to his servants, as well as several even more unsavory allegations about his dealings with the lightskirts he patronized.

  Where once Deverill had wanted to make Antonia see how boring and stuffy and pretentious a husband Heward would make her, he was now determined to show her the baron’s dark side. If Heward could be provoked into losing his temper in front of her, his display of rage would at least raise suspicions in her mind about his true nature.

  Eventually, Deverill swore, he would succeed in his goal. He was more resolved than ever to pry her away from Heward.

  He had to be clever how he went about it, though. Antonia would have to decide on her own to break their betrothal. He couldn’t push her. She was just stubborn enough to dig in her heels and do the opposite of what she was being pressed to do. But he had no intention of giving up.

  If necessary, he would find her another noble husband, Deverill thought without enthusiasm, even with distaste.

  His next opportunity would come the day after tomorrow at a Venetian breakfast. Mrs. Peeke kept him informed of Antonia’s social plans. The only difficulty was securing his own invitations from the hosts after so many years of shunning London’s Beau Monde.

  For this particular event, Deverill easily managed to secure an invitation, since it was hosted by the Duke of Redcliffe. The duke’s only son, Viscount Thorne, was a close friend of Deverill’s, as well as a fellow Guardian. At the moment, Thorne was still on the Isle of Cyrene with his brand-new bride, Diana, no doubt enjoying the start of their blissful union.

  A Venetian breakfast was misnamed, since it was actually an afternoon feast in the open air, and Deverill was only one of nearly four hundred guests in attendance. The duke had somehow arranged a perfect summer afternoon at his palatial estate in Wandsworth on the Thames River, and even Deverill was impressed by the spectacle that boasted myriad sounds and colors and scents.

  Three huge marquees, erected on the rear lawn in view of the river, bustled with an army of servants preparing a banquet fit for royalty. An orchestra played to one side, while ladies dressed in pastel muslin and sarcenet, gentlemen in tailored coats and pantaloons, strolled though the gardens and wandered out under the trees, listening to the music, sipping refreshing fruit punches, and nibbling on ices.

  And after the guests had feasted, the company turned to various games provided for their entertainment—bowling and cricket and Pall Mall, and for the more experienced competitors, an archery competition.

  It didn’t surprise Deverill in the least to find Antonia participating in the contest, and he eagerly took up a position beneath an alder tree to watch.

  She made a fetching sight. She wore a high-waisted, short-sleeved lavender gown of Swiss muslin that showed her tall, elegant figure to advantage, while her dark-flame hair had been tamed in a chignon beneath a low-crowned bonnet.

  A half-dozen gentlemen and several ladies were competing with her, and a score of spectators had congregated beside the range to observe, Lord Heward included. Deverill also recognized a small, bespectacled, silver-haired lady as Antonia’s companion, Miss Mildred Tottle. Antonia’s close friend, Emily, Lady Sudbury, was there as well to cheer

  her on.

  Deverill remembered Antonia saying that archery was her chief talent and one of the few sports allowed women, and her incredible skill was apparent from her first shot. Arrow after arrow found the bull’s-eye a hundred yards away.

  Deverill thought her performance amazing. What struck him most, however, was her fierce concentration and her quiet delight each time her aim struck true.

  This, he knew, was the genuine Antonia Maitland displaying her true colors—her obvious joy in life, h
er enthusiasm, her competitive spirit. Deverill felt his jaw tighten. The devious, savage-tempered Lord Heward bloody well didn’t deserve her.

  The competition really was no contest. Antonia won handily, to fond applause from the audience. As she accepted her prize of a silver cup, Deverill stepped forward, determined to make his point.

  Seeing him approach, Antonia felt her stomach leap. She had been keenly aware of Deverill all afternoon, first because he was the center of female attention, which absurdly roused pangs of jealousy in her breast. Then because for the past half hour, he’d lounged a shoulder carelessly against a tree trunk as he watched her win the competition.

  He wore a faint smile on his face now as he congratulated her on her impressive victory.

  “I had plenty of time to practice during the year I was in mourning,” Antonia answered honestly, “since I could not go out in society.”

  “Of course,” Deverill commented, “a straw target is not much sport. In former eras, the aim of archery was to defeat enemies in battle or to bring down live game. It would prove more challenging if you had to deal with an animate target.”

  Antonia eyed him with puzzlement. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m proposing a further test of your skill.”

  “A test?”

  Many of the guests had begun to stroll back to the tents, Antonia saw, but Lord Heward, Mildred Tottle, and Emily remained. All three of them turned to look at Deverill, Heward’s expression the least amicable.

  “I’ll wager that you couldn’t hit the hat off a man’s head,” Deverill asserted. “Say, Lord Heward’s head?”

  The baron’s countenance immediately darkened to a frown, but Antonia kept her tone light when she replied. “I expect I could, but I would never risk ruining his lordship’s expensive hat.”

  Deverill’s amused glance skimmed over the baron’s stiff form. “In any case, I doubt his lordship would agree to be your target. He would think it too dangerous.”

  Was he trying to make Heward appear a coward, Antonia wondered, or simply to get under the baron’s skin?