“It has,” Morleigh said. He set his cue aside and straightened. “Langley’s ultimatum was not given in jest. Marry her or quit her company for good. It is a fair offer, and a generous one—the night at Bellamy’s considered.”
“Ah yes. That most unfortunate misunderstanding.”
The duke ignored him. “If you mean to make her your wife, Deverell, you had best act with some haste. By the end of this week, Miss Tolliver will be betrothed. The only question is whether it will be to you or some other hapless fool with less charm and greater sense.”
Jasper let out a breath that was half a laugh. “It is no simple endeavour, Your Grace. The lady has made it perfectly clear she has no wish to marry.”
Morleigh’s gaze remained steady. “Then persuade the lady otherwise.”
Jasper glanced up. “Is that your idea of approval, Your Grace?”
“It is as near as you shall ever have it.” Morleigh crossed his arms. “Go after her, Deverell. Before you lose her altogether.”
For once, Jasper found no clever answer. He placed the cue down, nodded his thanks, and departed.
And here, dear reader, we must pause to acknowledge the irony of the moment, for while the Duke of Morleigh’s counsel may have been wise, it was also precisely the sort of masculine authority Miss Tolliver so passionately despised. One man granting another permission to pursue her was, of course, thevery injustice against which she railed. Alas, neither gentleman seemed the least bit aware of it, fools that men often are.
Nor, indeed, were they prepared for what awaited them next—for an unexpected guest was already en route to Lady Malverne’s country house, and, to the delight of all who revel in the most wicked of fantasies, Mr Deverell had yet to claim the personal forfeit Miss Tolliver now owed him. I, of course, as your shamelessly obliging author, shall indulge you soon enough—though really, my dearest reader, patienceisa virtue.
Chapter 33
We return now to Lottie Tolliver—who, at the precise moment our tale resumes, was descending the terrace steps with fury untempered in her veins.
She had meant to humiliate him—that utterly insufferable, maddening Mr Deverell—but instead had found herself the object of laughter before a room full of amused spectators. The night air was cool and sweet, and most unjustly wasted upon so violent a temper, for she would have gladly set the lawns of Malverne aflame if it meant erasing the memory of that wretched scene.
The gardens stretched before her, silvered in moonlight and strewn with the remnants of gaiety. Lanterns swung from the trees like watchful eyes, and her slippers crunched against the gravel path as she stormed towards the rose garden.
“Freedom, indeed,” she muttered. “If the man thinks he can talk me into marriage with billiards and bravado, he is gravely mistaken. The audacity of it!”
She rounded the hedge in full tirade, only to be seized without warning. An arm caught about her waist and a hand covered her mouth. She was drawn back hard against a broad chest.
For a dreadful instant, she was nowhere near Lady Malverne’s garden. It was Marchmont. Surely, it was Marchmont.
“Shh,” came a low whisper at her ear.
The world narrowed to the black terror of a man deciding that her will need not matter. She struck.
Her heel came down upon his boot; her elbow drove back; and he released her at once with a muffled curse in a voice she knew too well.
She whirled and shoved both hands hard against his chest. “JasperDeverell!Have you entirely taken leave of your senses?”
He staggered back, one hand braced upon his knee and the other clutching his earlier injury with a pitiful groan. “For the love of—stop attacking me, woman!” he managed, ducking as her fist came close to connecting with his head.
“Well perhaps,” she snapped, “you mightannounce yourselfbefore pouncing upon ladies in the dark like some common ruffian!”
“I thought it would be an efficient way of gaining your attention,” he managed. “I see now that I wasgravely mistaken.”
“Efficient?” she repeated, lunging again. “You assaulted me, you greatidiot!”
“Gently, Miss Tolliver, I am wounded!”
“You will be mortally wounded soon!” she warned, advancing another step.
He straightened at last, wincing, and caught her wrists before she could strike again. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice low now, the humour barely restraining itself beneath his composure. “I mistook capture in the night for the most direct means of gaining your attention.”
“Well, you have my attention,” she snapped. “And it isn’t humorous in the least! Do not ever seize me in the dark!”
He looked at her oddly. “I beg your pardon. I shan’t do it again.”
