Page 14 of Miss Devon’s Choice

Christian’s step faltered, he stopped walking and the earl with him. “How did you learn that?” The blunt question, the rudeness of asking such a thing, would’ve been offensive in most circles.

The Earl of Annesbury raised his blond eyebrows, amused rather than offended. “Your grandfather isn’t the only one with connections, Lord Easton. I know you were on a team at Eton and Oxford, and I believe I saw your name at least once in a book at White’s. I happen to enjoy rowing as well, though more for my own exercise than competition.”

Grandfather insisted the sport was a waste of time. He thought Christian ought to spend his leisure time in other ways. But being on the water, exerting himself physically, calmed Christian’s spirits more than any other pursuit. He missed being on rowing teams. Even at Eton, where he’d been an outsider from the beginning, they had realized his talent for rowing. He might’ve been derided on land, but with oars in his hands, he had been appreciated and respected.

He had been silent too long. Lord Annesbury raised those eyebrows again and took a step closer. “Both of us know why you are here, Lord Easton. Make no mistake of that. Miss Devon is well liked and cared for in this house. I hope you will keep that in mind during your stay.”

Christian responded swiftly. “I understand, Lord Annesbury.” He left it at that. The earl regarded him silently, then continued down the hall. Christian followed half a step behind.

They entered the parlor, the earl gesturing for Christian to precede him, and Christian’s eyes found Miss Devon at once. He hadn’t even thought to look for her, but once he saw her, he could look nowhere else.

Standing in the same room with his betrothed, his third time to lay eyes on her, Christian didn’t know if he ought to approach or remain standing as far from her as possible.

The coming days might be more difficult than he’d thought.

*

Rebecca couldn’t possibly pretend his entrance went unnoticed by her. Christian Hundley had nearly as much presence about him as Lucas. Where Lucas radiated a pleasant sort of energy, her intended reminded her of a storm cloud moving across the sky. What sort of a person could manage to hold all the crackling of lightning behind cool brown eyes and a disinterested expression? A man of temper, or of passion? Rebecca didn’t have time to ruminate further on that question.

The storm cloud moved across the room in her direction.

Rebecca swallowed down her nervousness. She stepped away from Miss Dunhill and Lady Felicity, daughter of the marquess, and moved to the window. If the viscount meant to speak to her, she’d rather not have their first conversation include two other young women.

He adjusted his course accordingly, his eyes boring into her. Rebecca turned fully to the window, trying to quiet her pounding heart. What cause had he to stare at her with such intensity? They didn’t know each other, for all that she would soon belong to him. Was that what his gaze meant? Was he possessive? Or intent to take stock of his new belonging?

I must not think like that. Just because he made the arrangement with Father doesn’t mean he is the same sort of man. Though it didn’t much speak in his favor, either.

I am choosing to love him. The reminder did little to calm her.

“Miss Devon,” he said, his deep voice wrapping around her like a cloak. “Good evening.”

Firming up her resolve, Rebecca lifted her eyes to his. “Good evening, my lord.”

Finally, she could study him, study the high lines of his cheekbones, the scar across his lips, the nose that had most assuredly been broken at least once. The idea of being connected with a man of violence sent a chill down her spine.

But then there were the dark-brown eyes, searching and deep, surrounded by black lashes that many a woman would’ve envied. What did those eyes see when they looked at her? A person’s face rarely gave an accurate accounting of their life.

And she saw the other scars, familiar enough to her from her acquaintance with older people, with merchants and the lower classes. Smallpox. It was rare to see the tiny scars on the faces of nobles, especially one as young as he. If he had the illness in childhood, she could well imagine how difficult his life would’ve been among the peerage.

Rebecca’s mother had ensured her daughters met with Doctor Edward Jenner himself to receive their protection from the dreaded disease. Her father had only agreed when he learned the elite members of society were all rushing to receive the treatment, an inoculation. Lucas had told her last year there was talk of making it available throughout the nation, even using government funds to pay for every citizen to gain the protection a simple injection could give.

Apparently, Christian Hundley had not been fortunate enough to receive the defense she and her sisters had enjoyed. The tiny marks upon his face likely caused many to ignore his other fine features, especially if his temperament was similarly damaged.

“Are you quite finished?” he asked, sounding bored rather than irritated.

Oh, bother. How long had she been staring at him? Who else had seen? Heat rushed up her neck and into her cheeks.

“I apologize,” she said, lowering her eyes to the level of his stick-pin. “That was very rude of me. But one does not meet their future husband every day.” She tried for levity in her words, but they fell flatly even to her own ears.

He said nothing, but the gloved hand at his side slowly curl into a fist. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears at the evidence of his displeasure.

“You—you were very good, to come all this way. You couldn’t have received the invitation very long ago.” She must look for the good in him, any praiseworthy action or trait. It would be easier to admire him, to come to know him, that way.

“I had little choice in the matter.”

His words doused the flicker of hope she’d tried to build upon.

“Oh.” Her shoulders fell and she dared to look up at him to see he was staring out the window into the darkness. It was raining again. Droplets splattered against the window, tapping out an irregular beat.