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“And what purpose would that serve, my Lord? He was an impetuous schoolboy, and I wouldn’t put him in any danger by telling tales. Let me promise you that if he tries anything of that nature again, then you shall be the first to know in order to warn him off.”
He seemed about to persist, but his manservant was clearing his throat nervously from the doorway, reminding him that he needed to be at St. Margaret’s Church shortly. Deveril waved him away before reaching down draw Jemima her out of her chair and into his arms to press his lips against hers. To brand her as his.
“Our last kiss before I’m a married man, eh?” He chuckled as he let her go.
“You will be kind to your wife?” Jemima felt anxious on the girl’s behalf. Miss Elizabeth appeared so young and ingenuous. Much like Jemima had been before her initiation into the cruelties of life. And when it came to cruelty, Deveril excelled when he had a mind to it. She’d never experienced the behavior he meted out to those who displeased him, and she hoped she never would, but she’d heard about it.
“She’ll be my little lapdog, grateful for every crumb of attention I pay her and more than happy with her lot; I promise you.” As if that would satisfy Jemima. “But I’ve decided not to take you to Griffith’s house party. It’s too soon after the wedding, and it could cause trouble.”
She nearly choked on her dismay as she rose and clung to his lapels, pretending her dismay still stemmed from the fact he was leaving her to be married. “I could stay at a lodging house nearby. You could visit me there.”
“You sound quite forlorn.” His mood was considerably gentler now as he mistook her devastation as intended.
“I am. It was to be a…a test of your promise to me that your marriage would change nothing between us.” She was grasping at straws, and he was smiling as if she were the most dependent and servile of creatures, posturing to be kept his slave when if she only had the means to secure her freedom, she would do it.
“You don’t need me to prove my love when you have my word of honor as a gentleman.” Now he was terse.
And there was nothing more Jemima could say. Pretending acceptance, she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “The most honourable gentleman I know,” she whispered. But she was thinking of Sir Richard whose fatherly care and courage had been a safe haven before she’d descended into her hated life of vice. Sir Richard had ensured the safety of her person and her reputation in every respect.
Lord Deveril offered her safety at the cost of her body.
If she could have had one wish in the world it was that she be transported back to her days of innocence.
If that were not possible, she wished she was in a position to barter her wares for someone who didn’t fill her with disquiet with his veneer of violence beneath the surface of his boyish charm.
If she had to give herself to anyone, she wished it could be to a man who inspired at least some feeling of desire; a man she did not actively fear as she did Lord Deveril.
No, if she had to be a gentleman’s whore, she wished she could have been Lord Ruthcot’s.
She smiled, inclining her head as Deveril blew her a kiss from the doorway, before he ran a hand through his modish
ly chopped blond curls.
That was one thought she’d have to keep to herself.
Deveril was less cautious, Miles noticed, as he watched the man carousing at his club. No doubt his young wife was industriously working at her stitching and believing her husband engaged on matters of importance.
The wedding was over; no doubt Deveril was pleased with such a pretty, well placed young wife, satisfied that her curiosity posed no problems. No doubt, he was contemplating the pleasures of seeing his mistress once again but in a safe and unexciting venue. Which is why Miles proposed a dare that would have everyone trying to best each other.
“There’ll be a few of us at Griffith House, but not so many as bold as old Daniel. He’ll be bringing his ‘light o’ love’ and his wife.”
Miles’s tone was calculated to sound admiring before he turned the tables, shaking his head as he delivered his warning. “Fools, all of you!” he declared. “You’d be wise to follow Lord Deveril’s lead. He is taking the cautious approach now that he is newly wed.”
This was met by guffaws and good-natured lambasting. Throwing back the last of his brandy, Miles shook his head on a laugh. “Like I say, it’s not possible to carry off such an undertaking without getting caught.”
Cautious was not how a young buck—or no longer so young—liked to be described, and Miles suspected Deveril was no exception.
Immediately, others were proposing wagers that neither Daniel nor Dillinger could succeed in keeping a wife and mistress under the same roof without exposure during a house party of four days. Elaborate plans were devised. Dillinger’s mistress would parade as a housemaid and bring her protector tea—with benefits, as the men salaciously quipped—in the morning while his wife was absent for her regular dawn ride. Daniel proposed that his mistress could be introduced as Lord Griffith’s ward. She was an actress. She could ape a passable accent, particularly if she’d supposedly been brought up in rural France. Lord Griffith, they believed, could be persuaded to enter into the charade. Especially with a little inducement.
Miles had his own plan. He was taking a second carriage packed with some of the treasures his lordship had evinced a particular desire to see and might want to procure.
They meant nothing to Miles, who acknowledged that being entirely ignorant of their origins and value, he may be letting a fortune slip through his fingers in a poor transaction. Though if it secured him Miss Mordaunt’s gratitude and affections, he considered it well worth the financial loss.
Deveril, though, proved a tougher nut to crack than any had believed. Despite Daniel and Dillinger’s boldness, he would not be drawn.
Finally, Miles felt honor-bound to communicate his disappointment to Miss Mordaunt via a brief message. One consolation might be that she’d meet him in person for a fuller explanation so he wrote that his lordship continued to be unyielding in the matter of bringing his mistress on this particular expedition, but Miles hoped she might contrive to be at Gunther’s where he intended indulging in an ice at three in the afternoon the following day. Such a meeting could surely be put down to coincidence.
Jemima had no sooner dispatched a hasty rebuttal via the boot boy, than Deveril swept into her boudoir that night, her fears that he harbored any anger toward her put to rest when he threw her backward onto the bed, caged her body with his, and growled into her ear, “When Lady Elizabeth and I attend Griffith’s Yuletide festivities, there will be another carriage following behind, and do you know what it will contain? A lustrously crowned little package…” he tapped her on the nose to indicate herself “…who will be in charge of the dusting and polishing of the artifacts and other valuables I shall be taking to show off to Lord Griffith. A little maid with the most irresistibly sweet rump that no one except ourselves will know about, who will be ensconced in a lovely boudoir—or attic, though that surely doesn’t matter, my love—amidst a bower of feathers. Feathers for dusting, feathers for preening. I should like nothing more than to see you decked out only in feathers for my enjoyment. In fact, that will be the order of the day. Do you not think it vastly amusing?”
