Page 78 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“No, Aunt. Hettie worked very hard to create this masterpiece.” Rebecca smiled at her maid, who looked ready to be sick. “Thank you, Hettie. That will be all.”

The young maid curtsied, her eyes large and round, and darted out of the room. The door did not shut all the way behind her, but Rebecca hadn’t time to worry about that.

“How dare you,” Aunt Jacqueline said, coming closer. “Your insolence will not go unpunished, child.”

“Child?” Rebecca scoffed, though inwardly she cringed. She’d tried to stand up to Aunt Jacqueline once, years ago, but the cold formality and the woman’s complete control over her life soon squashed Rebecca’s inclination toward argument. “I am to be married in two weeks. The banns have been read once already. I am not a child.”

“Your father will hear of this.” Aunt Jacqueline glared down her nose at Rebecca. “Two weeks may not be long, but it is enough to be certain you understand the consequences of your actions.”

“Consequences? What could you possibly hope to do to me, to threaten me with, when I will be out of your power? Father has no title, no sway with anyone who will hold power over me. Lord Easton will be my husband and protector. It may also interest you to know that he has already made it very clear that I am no longer my father’s concern.”

“That remains to be seen. Your father has expectations of this union, and Horace is still at home.” Aunt Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed and her thin mouth turned downward. “You must realize because of your actions there will be ramifications for your brother.”

Rebecca shook her head, incredulous. “Because I wear a dress you do not approve of?”

“Because you put this entire alliance in jeopardy by refusing to conform to society’s standards,” her aunt snapped, raising her voice. “We knew, after Julia and Christine’s marriages, that our plans of marrying you to the right man would be nearly impossible. It took months for your father to find someone with a title who would have you, and the only reason we found anyone was because the bridegroom was even less desirable than the bride.”

Cold fury suffused her, Rebecca nearly took a step back. But retreating in the face of Aunt Jacqueline’s tirade would not accomplish anything. Not this time. “I don’t know what you mean. Christian is a viscount, and heir to a title and wealth. He is to have a seat in Parliament.”

“He is a scarred, half-peasant from Italy,” her aunt snapped. “And no one would have him. His grandfather was overjoyed at the prospect of marrying him off to a nobody from Kettering.”

The door swung open behind her aunt, slowly and quietly, revealing Christian standing beyond it. Candlelight from the hall danced across his face, but a righteous anger burned in his eyes.

“I have been called worse things,” Christian said, his rich, low voice startling her aunt.

Aunt Jacqueline paled beneath her face powder and appeared as though she might be physically ill. She closed her eyes tightly and turned, showing Rebecca her ramrod straight back.

“My lord,” the woman said, “Forgive me.”

“Not at all, my lady,” Christian said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. That energy Rebecca always felt around him, like the thrum of thunder in a summer sky, filled the room. “I have found that there are very few members of the English nobility who are gracious or well-mannered. It is a distinct failing of English schools, I must suppose, to turn out tyrants instead of gracious lords and ladies. Thankfully, my Rebecca has avoided that undesirable fate.”

He really has such a way with words, Rebecca thought, not even bothering to conceal her grin.

“You will be pleased to know, of course, that Rebecca will no longer require your services as chaperone and guardian. I have spoken with Rebecca’s family, and she will remain in the Gilbert house until our nuptials. This must be a great relief to you, my lady. You need not delay your return to London any longer. You may leave first thing tomorrow.” There was an edge to his voice, one that Rebecca had only heard once before, when he spoke to her father. Lord Easton had issued a command, thinly veiled as a suggestion.

It was interesting to see what he might be capable of one day, with his powerful presence and influence. How had anyone ever dared insult him in the past? Rebecca wasn’t frightened of him in the least, but she saw her aunt’s expression change from one of mortification to near terror.

It seemed someone was capable of discomfiting her aunt after all.

Rebecca watched her aunt curtsy and then leave the room, carefully sliding by Christian without so much as allowing the hem of her gown to brush his shoes. He remained leaning against the doorframe, facing into the room.

Rebecca sighed, wrapping one arm around her waist. She went to him, standing upon the threshold, her eyes seeking his. “Christian. I must apologize for her—”

“It is of no concern, mi amore. As I said, I have been called terrible things before. My hope is that she has not spoiled your evening.” Christian’s eyes took in her appearance when she stepped into the hall. His expression gentled and turned almost appreciative. “You are elegance itself, Rebecca.”

“Your Rebecca,” she corrected him, unable to conceal her delight. “And you are exceedingly handsome tonight, my lord.” He wore a black coat and a deep burgundy waistcoat, embroidered with silver thread. The dark colors on his tall, strong frame only made him look more authoritative, more mysterious. Indeed, he was an intimidating sight.

When he smiled down at her, his lips pulling at the scar upon them, Rebecca’s first instinct was to stand on her toes and kiss that very spot. But she busied herself adjusting the fan at her wrist instead, a blush flood her cheeks. “Thank you for escorting me downstairs. Your timing is perfect.”

“I understand it is something of a tradition to slay dragons in England,” Christian retorted, his expression entirely pleasant once more. “That is not the only reason I have come, however. There is something else. I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?” she echoed curiously. “I have no need of gifts, Christian.”

He pushed away from the wall at last and took her hands up in his. “My Rebecca, this is something very precious to me. It belonged to my mother, and I would like you to have it.” He reached into his jacket and produced a small velvet pouch and slipped it into her cream-colored glove.

Rebecca regarded him with understanding, compassion for his loss squeezing at her heart. She loosened the strings of the bag and carefully poured its contents into her hand. A tiny gold cross, studded with red rubies, on a thin gold chain slid into her palm. She held her breath, examining the exquisite piece carefully.

“Do you like it?” Christian asked, stepping closer, the warmth of his breath against her cheek.