Page 4 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“Thank you, Grandfather.” He stood and bowed. “Will you excuse me? I ought to ready myself for dinner.”

“Of course, of course.” His grandfather waved him away, a concerned expression replacing the triumphant smile. “But don’t you wish to know her name?”

Christian made it to Ajax and reached down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. He considered the question, wondering what it would change to put a name to the woman who would change his life.

He looked up, meeting his own gaze in the polished shield his grandfather kept on the wall. Knowing what people saw when they looked at him made it difficult to ask for information about a woman who would share his home. The shield blurred his image, but he knew it well enough to imagine the disgust of women of the ton. Gently bred young ladies always made it a point to look as though they were not staring at his face, though he knew well enough they must. Apart from the scar given him by that idiot Blanding were the scars from his childhood, when he’d contracted smallpox.

“Very well.” He put his hand to the door, forcing himself not to clench the wood, desperate to finish the conversation and be left to himself. “What is her name?”

“Rebecca Devon. Reminds me of that old Bible story, actually. Where the father sent a servant to find a suitable wife for his son. That woman’s name was Rebecca, you know.” He laughed, though Christian found nothing humorous in the statement.

Christian remembered the tale from his studies and nodded. “Fitting. I will see you at dinner.” He left the room, Ajax at his side, turning over the name of his bride in his mind. He made it to his room but did not ring for his valet. Instead, Christian found the old Bible in his shelves and pulled it down, searching through it to find the story of the ancient Rebecca and her husband.

It did not take him long to locate or to skim the tale. He sat before the window in his room to read, his eyes darting across the pages rapidly. His heart fell when he came to the meeting of the bride and groom. He read it aloud, causing Ajax to lift his head from the rug before the hearth.

“Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife; and he loved her…”

He shut the leather-bound book and held it loosely in his hand, his eyes on the sky outside his window. His story was nothing like Isaac’s. His wife was not found in a distant land to fulfill a love story. She was the daughter of an Englishman, a woman who agreed to marry him sight unseen in order to obtain his title and wealth.

And love? He nearly snorted out loud. Avoiding that destructive emotion was one of the very reasons for this match. This arrangement was meant to be mutually beneficial to their families and nothing more.

Would she think the deal worthwhile when she finally saw his face? Could he live with someone who held him in disgust?

The papers were all be in place, and Christian must bear the thought of wedding someone who would not see past society’s regard for him.

Ajax nuzzled his master’s hand with his nose and Christian looked down at the dog, his only companion for far too long. Ajax whined quietly. At least someone had sympathy for Christian’s situation.

Bending to scratch behind the dog’s ears, Christian released a deep sigh. “It’s for the best, and we will make the most out of the situation.”

Chapter Two

Mourning her fate did not last long. As horrid as the situation was, Rebecca refused to sit and wallow in her fears. A woman of sense must act. She knew well enough by now, through her observations of the world and her extensive reading, that no person ever improved their lot in life by sitting in a corner and weeping. Her fate had been decided but that didn’t leave her helpless.

The morning after her father’s announcement, Rebecca woke early and went to her writing desk. With the early sunrise of August, and a candle in the sconce above her desk, she wrote three letters. The letters went to her elder sisters, Julia, Christine, and the third to the Countess of Annesbury, her cousin Virginia, to whom she made a very bold request. That task completed, she set the letters aside and pulled forward smaller squares of paper. On these she wrote hasty invitations to her most connected London acquaintances, asking them to tea.

She did not intend to confide in any of the young misses, or the gentleman, she addressed the cards to, but she meant to gather information. If she could understand the manner of man she was about to marry, learn something of his character, it would help her plan her next steps.

Rebecca lost her mother when she was but eleven years old, and it largely fell to her elder sisters to bring her up, but they spoke of Mrs. Devon often enough that Rebecca knew their mother had not allowed an arranged marriage to dampen her spirits. Perhaps Rebecca could follow her example.

Rebecca passed the rest of the morning and early afternoon in impatient agitation.

Aunt Jacqueline noted it. “Rebecca, stop fidgeting. An elegant young woman about to become a viscountess ought to remain decorous, no matter the circumstances.”

Her aunt had likely never been indecorous a single day in her life. In fact, Rebecca could not even imagine a circumstance in which such a thing could be possible.

“Yes, Aunt.” Her response had become an ingrained habit after two years of correction. When she’d first come to live with her aunt in London, Rebecca described herself as an obedient, pleasant sort of person. Soon she’d realized her ability to be pleasant in general came from never being confronted with someone who constantly criticized her. The more her aunt censured her, the more Rebecca bit her tongue against sharp retorts.

Any assertion of independence she attempted, whether in choosing her own fabric for a gown or bringing a book home from the subscription library, had been met with disgust and squashed with her aunt’s acidic tongue. If reports went back to her father of her inability to conform to Aunt Jacqueline’s image of a proper young lady, the punishments were immediate and distressing.

“I will send Hettie to sit in the room during your gathering,” her aunt said, taking in Rebecca’s gaudy pink gown with pursed lips. “We ought to have more items of that color made up for your wedding trousseau.”

I will burn every stitch the moment I am free of you and your spy. Rebecca kept her expression bland and gave a slight nod. “If you think that is best, Aunt.”

Aunt Jacqueline stood and swept out of the room in a regal manner. Would the queen herself be subject to her aunt’s criticism if she were present?

Hettie appeared not three minutes later, and she took a basket of mending with her to the corner. Rebecca narrowed her eyes at the maid’s seeming lack of attention.

Voices echoed up the stairwell, alerting Rebecca to the first of her guests’ arrival. Rebecca stood, fluffing out the ridiculous ruffles at the hem of her gown. Her aunt insisted on dressing her in unbecoming frills and puffs of fabric, despite Rebecca’s taste for the simplest lines.