Page 12 of Miss Devon’s Choice

How long would it take the ton to eat Miss Dunhill alive?

Rebecca’s mind scrambled to right itself. She must make proper conversation. But all she could think on was the rather formidable form of Lord Easton in the entry hall. With a brief struggle, she managed a polite response.

“I hope everyone enjoys their time for the fortnight we have together,” she answered as diplomatically as she could. “You must look forward to your coming season. Have you planned your wardrobe yet?” Rebecca’s gamble paid off. Miss Dunhill was precisely the sort of woman to enjoy talk of clothing. Indeed, she discussed the lace on the collar of one of her gowns until Virginia called the room to order.

“Good evening, dear friends,” she said, bringing all conversations to a close. “The earl must see to business for a moment and has asked that we not keep our guests waiting. Let us go in to dinner and he will join us shortly.”

Aunt Jacqueline sniffed disdainfully. “No propriety at all,” she muttered.

The Marquess of Francillon stepped forward to offer Virginia escort, and with the house bursting with guests it took a few moments for the proper order to be established. Finally, all were in the procession to go in to dinner, only Rebecca and Miss Dunhill unpartnered and at the rear of the party.

Would Lord Easton appear at dinner? After arriving late, and in the rain, no one would blame him for taking a tray in his room. Virginia hadn’t said they were expecting another guest.

Before long, everyone was seated and partaking of the first course. Rebecca could hardly find the will to eat. Her stomach fluttered and dipped, behaving more like a bird than a necessary part of her anatomy.

“Miss Devon?” The young Lord Sharpeton, eldest son of the marquess, brought her attention away from the dining room door and to him. He smiled at her, the expression boyish in his round face, so different from Lord Easton’s square jaw. She blushed and nearly missed Lord Sharpetone’s question in her flustered state. “How do you like Kettering?”

Rebecca’s grip on her spoon didn’t relax. Why did he insist on making conversation? She could hardly put together enough words for a polite response as she laid her spoon down. “I like it a great deal. I grew up not far from here, after all.”

“Oh, really? I had not realized! This must be something of a homecoming for you, then.” He beamed at her. “How delightful.”

Not entirely. Rebecca hadn’t stepped foot in her father’s house since he forced her to London with his sister. She doubted she would be permitted an opportunity to visit this time, either. “Yes. Delightful.”

The doors opened and Rebecca nearly fell out of her chair. She hadn’t realized how near the edge she had been sitting. She quickly corrected her seat, her eyes flying up to see Lucas enter.

“Good evening.” He stepped aside and gestured slightly behind him. “I’m pleased to announce the arrival of our last guest, Lord Easton.” The gentlemen in the room stood to bow as Lucas made introductions, but Rebecca’s ears refused to hear anything. All her energies went to her other senses as her eyes studied the man she was going to marry.

He was taller than Lucas. But not by much. That was a small comfort. She wouldn’t tower over him as she did some gentlemen. And where her cousin’s husband shone like a golden-haired Adonis, her betrothed struck her by his bearing and coloring as closer kin to Hades. Would he be cold where Lucas was warm and kind? He wore black, and a silver-embroidered waistcoat, with a snow-white cravat held in place by a red-jeweled stick-pin. His hair still appeared damp, though it certainly no longer dripped. It waved to just below his ears.

The unconventional haircut suited him, she realized, serving as a contrast to the sharp lines of his face.

His eyes were dark, a shade that reminded her of rich earth. And they were looking anywhere but at her.

A bump on the bridge of his nose led her to believe it had been broken. In the fight Mr. Gardiner had told her about, or another? A scar ran across his face, jaggedly going from just below his nose to his bottom lip. She swallowed. The other scars mentioned by the Gardiners were present as well; it appeared Lord Easton had contracted small pox at some point in his life.

“And you know Miss Devon, of course,” Lucas said smoothly, which would keep the other guests from speculating on the newness of their acquaintance, but it also reminded her of the first glimpse of him she was trying so hard to forget.

His eyes were on her. She swallowed and tilted her chin upward, striving for a politely neutral expression. “My lord,” she said.

He didn’t smile. He had bowed to each member of the company, as expected. He nodded slightly to her. “Miss Devon.”

Merciful heavens. His voice was deep.

He went to the chair left open for him, near the marquess, at Virginia’s end of the table.

That was all.

He didn’t so much as glance her way again. Said not a word.

Eyes of the other guests flickered her way, curious. Had they expected a warmer reunion between them? Should she have risen and gone to him? Preposterous. She didn’t actually know him. What would he have done?

Lord Sharpeton leaned toward her, his intrusion into the air she breathed startling her from her thoughts. “He’s a somber chap.”

She pushed away her irritation. “A difficulty with his carriage necessitated he arrive here late and in the rain. I suppose that would make anyone a trifle put-out,” she said, trying to keep the words light.

Lord Sharpeton agreed with her and, in another moment, was chatting with Miss Dunhill at his other side.

Rebecca looked down to Virginia’s end of the table. Rebecca sat in the middle of the table, as one of lower rank would. The formal setting hadn’t bothered her until she realized it meant she could not even see her intended from her location. He was on the same side of the table as she, but Lord Sharpeton’s eldest son and Lady Mostyn sat between them. She would have to lean very far forward to catch a glimpse of him.