Page 33 of The Devil to Pay

Selina stood staring at him, bosom heaving as she fought to breathe, to keep her dignity when she did not know whether to laugh hysterically at the ridiculous things he said or… or to weep with gratitude.

Neither held much appeal, and so the most dignified thing she could think to do was flee.

Chapter 12

Robert,

Having made some discreet enquiries, I believe you are right to be worried. Lord Haversham is set on suing Jules for Criminal Conversation with his wife. There have been some attempts to dissuade him, but all have failed so far.

As for his whereabouts, I have reason to believe he has gone to Goshen Court. I cannot advise you on how to proceed, however, as I do not know if I am doing right in letting Pip go his own way. I believe he is trying to make something of himself, to prove something, either to himself or to me, or both, and I have respected that and decided to wait for him to return when he is ready. It is not easy, however, when I could lift a finger and discover what is amiss, or simply turn up on his doorstep and demand to know. But Pip has always struggled to find his place. He has tried for too long to be me, for reasons I cannot understand. Not when I have tried so hard to show him he can be anything he chooses and that I am hardly an ideal role model, but they have a great weight on their shoulders, our heirs, and perhaps the idea that we must die to make way for them is a hard one to become accustomed to? But I have no devastating insight into how best to go on, as I have barely seen or spoken to my son in months. I miss him, and pray he will find his feet soon, or I will know I have miscalculated.

Fools indeed.

Yrs, etc.

―Excerpt of a letter to His Grace, Robert Adolphus, Duke of Bedwin from The Most Hon’ble Lucian Barrington, The Marquess of Montagu.

4th March 1845, Llun-y-mynydd, Monmouthshire.

“You utter pillock, Blackstone,” Jules groaned as the door slammed shut behind her. What in the name of everything holy had he been playing at?

It was a question he could not answer. Or perhaps was afraid to answer. For it had been unbearable to hear her speak of herself in such disparaging terms, to discover—as he’d suspected—that not only did no one here value her as they ought to, but she did not even value herself. It had made him furious, though why, when it was none of his affair, he could not say. He needed to tread carefully, though. If anyone had come in, they would have seen her in what had been tantamount to an embrace, with her hair all undone, and come to inevitable conclusions.

Davenport was no lightskirt, nor a neglected wife with an eye for a bit of fun. Selina Davenport was that most dangerous of creatures, an unmarried lady of quality, and the kind of female he usually avoided like the plague. If they’d been seen in that position together, she would have been ruined, and he would have been honour bound to marry her. The idea made his blood run cold.

Married.

To Davenport.

Jules sat down before his knees gave out. He felt a little unwell.

“You bloody fool,” he told himself, rubbing a hand over his face. “Get a grip of yourself.”

But the words married to Davenport kept circling his brain and sending little shivers of terror over his skin. He ought to leave. The sensible thing to do would be to pack up his things and return to Goshen Court, except that did not seem far enough away. He didn’t dare go back to London though and there was still the blasted library to finish, and he’d promised to help. Jules smothered a groan as he looked around the room and at the endless piles of books. Well, the sooner he got the job done, the sooner he could leave. Determined now, for escape seemed like his best and only option, Jules got to his feet and set about returning the books to the shelves, following the plan that he and Davenport had agreed to before she’d had her little meltdown the day before.

He tried to concentrate on the work, but the scent of chamomile seemed to have infiltrated his brain, and he could not stop thinking about the silk of her fiery red hair against his lips. Irritated, he reminded himself that he could end up married to the dreadful girl if he wasn’t careful. Much as Jules admired her, he had no desire to marry yet, and certainly not a woman who wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace. But the feel of her slender waist beneath his hand kept returning to him. It had taken considerable willpower not to let his touch wander. He wanted to know what lay beneath all that whale bone and petticoats. A splendid bosom, certainly, and legs that must go on for miles, for she was far taller than any other woman of his acquaintance. He’d not have to break his neck to kiss her, which would be… terrible! A dreadful decision, he reminded himself severely. Determined to terrify his disobedient libido into submission, he tried to imagine being married to Davenport.

No doubt she would rile him every morning by discussing his previous day’s work and telling him everything he’d done wrong. He could just imagine the rows they’d have, when he preferred a peaceful morning—well, afternoon—to linger over his coffee. Mind you, that was usually because he was hungover. That would have to stop too, naturally. If he went out of an evening with his usual opera dancers and belles of the demi-monde, he’d probably discover just what damage she could do with that blasted umbrella. He shuddered. As for the marriage bed… a vision of Davenport in his bed, naked and sprawled in a wanton pose, with all that glorious red hair spilling out over his sheets made his breath catch, desire hitting him so hard and fast he felt giddy with the shock of it.

“No,” he told himself, shaking his head. “No, no, no.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jules spun around to see a boy staring at him in consternation.

“Er…” Jules said, momentarily lost, for the lewd vision of Davenport had melted his brain and it no longer seemed to work.

“Who are you?” the boy demanded, frowning at him.

That was an excellent question, and one Jules had no idea how to answer.

“A friend of your sister’s,” he said, hoping the child would leave it at that. Being Davenport’s kin, that was too much to hope for.

“But weren’t you a gardener?” he demanded, wrinkling his nose.

“Um, yes,” Jules replied cautiously. “But not really. It was just… a lark. I er… was just—”

“Oh! You were playing a trick on her?” the boy asked guilelessly.