Page 63 of Miss Devon’s Choice

Knowing that her gowns were not in the style or colors she would choose for herself, Christian had started noticing them more. Had he been a different sort of man, he might’ve teased her about them. Today, she looked rather like a green stalk of vegetable, especially given the excessive green silk flowers decorating her straw hat.

Upon helping her into the gig, he’d given her hand a gentle squeeze. “You look lovely, Rebecca.” Seeing a little color return to her otherwise pale face had heartened him. He still had an effect on her.

It was also immensely satisfying to know that he had a box in his possession of a gown that Rebecca had chosen for herself. He hadn’t looked at it, of course. Looking at her clothing in such a way would feel too intimate. But he planned to make certain she had the gown soon. The parcel had been delivered by a Gilbert servant with a note from Mrs. Gilbert, expressing her gratitude for his intervention.

“Here is the lane,” Rebecca said, nodding toward a turn-in flanked by white pillars, stylized to look like the trunks of trees. He guided the horse between them.

His eyes swept across the view before him. There were no tall, elegant trees standing sentinel here. The house stood in full view, upon a hill, with a green lawn rolling out before it. The house faced southward, with tall white columns stretching from the ground floor up past the first floor and to a second, where Christian noted much smaller windows in evidence. The house was wide-set, of brick construction, with stone lions on either side of the large front door.

“My grandfather built the house,” Rebecca said as they approached, her voice trembling slightly. “His father was a seaman and a merchant. Father likes to pretend it wasn’t the money of a tradesman that built all of this.” She snapped her mouth shut quickly, paling still more.

The maid cleared her throat in a noisy, and obviously unnecessary, manner.

When Christian pulled the horse to a stop, he leaned forward. “Excuse me. Miss—Hettie, is it?”

The young woman’s face turned red. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Hettie. Before we go inside, I would like to remind you that you are Miss Devon’s maid. Miss Devon is to be my viscountess. Please behave according to your station.” He raised his eyebrows at her, giving full weight to his words and his doubt that she could manage such an auspicious position.

She blanched and nodded hastily. “Of course, my lord.” Then she let herself down on the opposite side of their gig.

He glanced down at Rebecca and froze. She stared at him, her lips parted and her eyebrows arching nearly to the brim of her hat. She closed her mouth and, to his great shock, her eyes filled with tears.

“Your viscountess?” she squeaked.

He checked to be sure Hettie was out of ear shot, then bent toward Rebecca, nudging her shoulder with his. “What else would you be called, as my wife?”

Her shoulders dropped and she leaned away, looking at him askance. “After the way we’ve argued these last days, I was certain you no longer wished to—” She broke off and busied herself brushing at her skirts.

Guilt smote him. He shouldn’t have left their reconciliation for so long. But he’d wanted to be sure before he spoke to her again. The feelings she inspired in him, the hope she stirred in his breast, made him want to be a better man.

His grandfather still hadn’t written. And would it be so terrible to be husband to such a beautiful, kind-hearted woman?

Christian stepped down and raised his hand to assist Rebecca. She took it, and gifted him a shy smile, still a touch uncertain. His heart pounded at double the usual tempo when she smiled at him like that.

“We will discuss matters between us soon, Rebecca. For now, we shouldn’t keep your father waiting.”

Her eyes went to the door of her father’s house, her tiny smile vanishing. He watched her square her shoulders as she took his arm.

“It cannot be that terrible,” he said softly as they stepped forward.

“Oh, it can,” she said from the side of her mouth as the door opened.

The butler bowed them inside. Christian took off his gloves and hat, handing them to the waiting servant, and took in his surroundings with some interest. This was the house that had shaped Rebecca, after all, even if she dreaded seeing the man who owned it.

The hall was not as grand as some he had been inside, but it reached upward a story, all the way down, with banisters lining the opening on the floor above. The floors were well-polished wood instead of stone and mostly covered in fine Oriental rugs. The walls were covered in patterned fabric, in shades of blue and silver. The decor was expensive, but tasteful enough.

The whole of the house made it clear the Devon’s were a family of wealth.

He gave Rebecca his arm again as they were led upstairs, the staircase floating, making the entry feel far more open, and then down another well-carpeted hall. The butler leading them opened an ornately carved door and stepped inside to announce them.

“Lord Easton and Miss Devon, sir.”

After Christian bowed, he realized they were in a study instead of a room more suited to taking tea. And Mr. Devon was behind his desk.

“Welcome,” he said. “Refreshment and my son will be here in a moment.” He stepped around the desk and gestured to the other side of the room, where a large leather couch and two high-backed chairs waited for them. “Please, sit.”

Christian steered Rebecca to the couch, opting to sit next to her. The woman’s face had paled and she pressed her lips together so tightly they had turned white, too. Was she afraid of her father? She’d become a shadow of her usual vivacious personality.