A Season To Remember Read online

  “Yes?” Louisa prompted.

  “I plan to marry each of them off as quickly as possible.”

  Just like Grandfather! Why did gentlemen think the best way to deal with an unmarried lady was to simply marry her off as if that solved everything? Well, he may be a handsome, interesting devil, but he could be someone else’s. With a huff she stood. “Good day, Lord Marston.”

  Devlin watched Miss Whitton stalk off. “What did I say?”

  “I have no idea,” muttered Elizabeth. “That is not like my sister at all. She is always the perfect lady.”

  “It is rather odd,” John agreed.

  Devlin turned back to his friends after Miss Whitton disappeared into the house. When had John and Elizabeth fallen in love? He wanted a lady who would look at him with the same emotion, but it was not to be. He couldn’t even think about taking a wife for himself until his sisters were settled and a new bride was a distraction he could not afford.

  He cleared his throat. “I am glad I found both of you.”

  They broke eye contact and looked over at Devlin.

  “Savary has issued an arrest warrant for the two of you, and a reward.”

  John chuckled. “That man has power in France, not England.”

  “He is still trying to repair his reputation,” Devlin explained. “He holds you to blame for his failed plan to have us all arrested in December.”

  “Me?”

  “You and Lisette,” Devlin clarified. “Because of the two of you, the rest of us were warned in time.” He grinned. “Thank you.”

  John simply shrugged. “Still, I don’t see why this should be a concern.”

  Of course he didn’t. Devlin hadn’t told him everything yet. “Two men have come to England to find you. I don’t know if they intend to kill you here or take you back to France for public execution.”

  Elizabeth straightened. “Surely they don’t know who we are.”

  Devlin grimaced. “They have learned Jean’s true identity. They don’t know yours, yet.”

  “How do you learn of this?”

  “One of the men was apprehended four days ago. I was sent to warn you and then locate Lisette, if necessary. They didn’t tell me you had married.” Devlin paused for a moment. “Surely they knew?”

  “They did.” John grinned.

  “You expect the man to come here?”

  “Yes,” Devlin answered. “It was easy enough for me to learn you were at your family estate. I assume it will be just as easy for the man who is after you.”

  “Thank you for coming here,” Elizabeth offered.

  “Will you be staying?” John questioned.

  “Until the other man appears here or I have to meet my sisters in London.” Devlin groaned.

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you really so concerned about this one man?”

  “No,” Devlin chuckled. “I would rather deal with a dozen men and Savary himself than be responsible for my three sisters during any type of Season.”

  Louisa stood to the side of the deep red curtains in the small sitting room watching Marston converse with her sister and brother-in-law. They weren’t that far away from her space by the open window, but she couldn’t hear a blasted word, so she kept her eyes focused on his face and firm lips. It really was a handsome face and his hair was a lovely deep auburn in the sun. She’d never been partial to redheaded gentlemen in the past, but Marston’s wasn’t really red.

  “What has you so upset?” Madeline asked from the settee where she had been reading a book.

  “Why is it that gentlemen believe that every unattached woman above the age of seventeen should simply be married off to the first person who comes along?”

  She could hear Madeline close her book and then the rustle of skirts as she rose and walked toward her. She paused beside Louisa and looked out the window. “When did Devlin get here?”

  “Not long ago. He came up behind me in the garden and thought I was you.” Though it was rude to not look at her friend when speaking to her, Louisa didn’t dare take her eyes off of Marston’s lips. She might miss something if she did. Who was Savary?

  “Did he insult you?” Madeline asked with a chuckle.

  Hardly that. “I think he was trying to charm me.” Louisa finally looked at her friend. It was too hard to figure out what Marston was saying anyway.

  “Trying?” Madeline arched an eyebrow. “Usually it is very clear when Marston is trying to charm a lady, which is always.”

  Louisa tilted her head, and the space around her heart tightened. Had Madeline set her cap upon him? “You like him?”

  This time, Madeline laughed. “Oh, I like him very much, in a brotherly fashion, of course.”

  The tightness released. Why was she relieved Madeline did not want Marston for herself? Louisa certainly didn’t want the rogue. She wanted nobody who could lie as easily as her brother-in-law. One would never know when the truth was being told. That would never do in a marriage.

  “Tell me about him.” Louisa turned back to the window and focused again on Marston. If she could see John or Elizabeth she would have a better idea of the discussion, but she could only view the back of their heads. It was far too frustrating.

  “There isn’t much to tell, other than the two of you would never suit.”

  Louisa abruptly turned to study her friend. “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

  Madeline narrowed her green eyes and tilted her head. “I’ve never seen you so fascinated with a gentleman before.”

  That is only because I am trying to figure out what he is saying and it has nothing to do with how handsome he is. “I’m just curious.” She shrugged. With one last glance at the window, she moved to a chair. She’d missed too much of the conversation, and trying to concentrate was giving her a headache. “Out of curiosity, why wouldn’t we suit?”

  Madeline laughed and settled across from her. “You are calm, level-headed, disciplined, and always behave properly. You deserve a respectable man who will never give you a moment’s concern.”

  “And marry a vicar?” Why did everyone think she wanted to be a vicar’s wife?

  “Yes.” A grin pulled at Madeline’s lips. “I once thought you and Matthew would be a perfect match.”

  While Madeline’s older brother Matthew was a nice gentleman, living with him would be about as exciting as living with Louisa’s father, which she refrained from saying. On second thought, perhaps she should start speaking her mind and acting the way she wished, and then maybe people would stop trying to marry her off to vicars, and maybe she would attract the notice of an interesting gentleman.

  Better yet, she should try to find a way to bring notice to herself in society. It had worked well for her friend Moira last spring, when her name ended up in White’s infamous betting book. But first, she would have to come up with something scandalous. “That’s it. I will write to Moira.” If anyone had spent years planning on how to escape a parent or a mundane life, it was Moira.

  “Who is Moira?” Madeline asked, a curious look upon her face.

  Oh dear, had she spoken out loud. “Moira attended my father’s church when she wasn’t in school. We grew up together. I just remembered something I needed to ask her.” Louisa quickly excused herself before Madeline could prod any further. How long would it take for a letter to be delivered to Scotland?

  Devlin stood just inside the doorway of the sitting room. This was where he had been told the family would gather before dinner. Miss Whitton sat alone in a deep blue chair by the window, embroidering. She did not yet know he was here, and Devlin drank in her appearance. Golden hair caught the reflection of the early evening sun and shone like a halo about her head. Ringlets cascaded and one curled seductively around her breast.

  A modest gown of moss green revealed only her neck and lower arms. The skirt was hitched slightly, bunched on her lap with the material she was embroidering. This left her feet, which were encased in slippers dyed to match her gown, ex
posed, as well as the ankles adorned with embroidered silk stockings. They were lovely, trim ankles. Her head was bent over her stitches, and she hummed quietly. It was a song he remembered from church, but he could not recall the name. Her lips were full and pink, and far too kissable and should be kissed often, in his opinion.

  Desire shot through Devlin, and he tried to quash the heat. He should not be the one kissing Miss Whitton. No. He couldn’t. To do so, he would have to be betrothed to her, and he couldn’t marry anyone. Not yet. Not until his sisters’ futures were dealt with. Besides, she was a respectable miss whom he should not be lusting after—a vicar’s daughter, and one did not desire daughters of vicars, or granddaughters of powerful dukes either.

  Miss Whitton glanced up and paused in her work. A slight smile came to those delectable lips. “Good evening, Lord Marston. Did you need anything?”

  He shook the earlier thoughts away. “No.” He must look like a fool simply standing in the doorway, staring at her. He took a step inside. Then another, in her direction and ordered himself to quit thinking about her ankles, hair and lips. “How are you, Miss Whitton?”

  Her smile widened. “Very well. And you?”

  “Well.” He resisted the urge to pull at his suddenly tight cravat.

  “Would you care for some tea? I could ring for another cup.”

  He glanced at the service for one on the table beside her. “No thank you.” Too bad she wasn’t drinking brandy. That was something he would welcome.

  “Would you care to join me while we wait for the rest of the family?” She indicated to a seat across from her.

  “Thank you.” Devlin settled into the matching blue chair and tried to think of something to say.

  “Tell me of your sisters.” She tied off a thread, then folded the fabric and put it in the basket beside her chair before straightening her skirts. Blast, she just covered her ankles.

  “My sisters?”

  “Yes, you said you had three?”

  She reached forward and picked up her cup of tea. The movement caused the fabric to tighten across her breasts, and Devlin had to shift in his seat to become more comfortable. It had been years since a woman had caused such a reaction without even a touch and it was most disconcerting. Maybe he had simply been without a woman for too long. Yes, that was it. The last time he had enjoyed the intimate company of a female had been in Paris. That was nine months ago. No wonder he was as randy as a green lad.

  “Are you sure you don’t wish for some tea, Lord Marston?” She arched an eyebrow as she brought the cup to her lips.

  Heat crept up his neck. He hadn’t answered her question. Thank goodness Miss Whitton didn’t work for the French, or he could envision divulging every secret just to place his lips where that damn delicate cup pressed. “No, thank you.”

  “You don’t wish to talk of your sisters?”

  Yes, his sisters, she’d asked about them. “I have three.”

  “I know.” She smiled and set the cup in the saucer and held both on her lap.

  “The oldest is Calista.” He could feel a smile come to his face. “Always quiet and a bit shy.” Sometimes, one didn’t even know she was in the room. “Thoughtful too. I wish the other two were more like her. The most levelheaded of the three, that is for certain.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Two and twenty.”

  Miss Whitton’s eyebrows rose. “And she hasn’t been married off already?”

  There was an edge to her tone that he couldn’t quite understand. But Miss Whitton was correct. Calista should have been settled long before now. If Father had insisted on a betrothal instead of simply accepting an understanding, his sister would be wed by now. “I intend to rectify the matter.” If anyone, Calista needed a kind gentleman, and hopefully she could forget about that scapegrace Ellis.

  For a fraction of a moment, Miss Whitton narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. He may have missed the reaction had he not been watching closely, as she quickly looked down and lifted the teacup to those full lips once again.

  “And the other two?” she asked after taking a drink.

  “Miranda.” He sighed heavily after her saying her name. The bane of his existence.

  Miss Whitton quirked her lips. “I take it you and Miranda don’t get along.”

  They did actually, for the most part, or had at one time. “Miranda is secretive and it scares me, to tell you the truth.”

  “And you don’t have secrets from her?”

  A smile pulled at Miss Whitton’s lips and her eyes narrowed, as if she had her own to keep. He would dearly love to know them. “That’s different. I am not a young miss. I worry that she’ll take unnecessary risks.” Devlin would have to be a fool to believe they’d had their last argument over a certain volatile topic. “Unlike Calista, Miranda doesn’t think of potential consequences before she acts.”

  Miss Whitton simply nodded. Did her eyes hold compassion?

  “How old is Miranda?” Miss Whitton asked before she took another sip of her tea.

  “She is ten and nine.”

  She nodded. If he were correct in his estimate, Miss Whitton and Miranda were about the same age. Yet, Miss Whitton held an air of maturity his younger sister lacked. There was also something calming about Miss Whitton, relaxing and trusting that made him want to release all of his burdens and embrace her serenity. Maybe she and Miranda would become friends during the Season, and Miss Whitton could be a steadying influence on his sister. If she were close to his sister, then Miss Whitton would be close to him and he could watch them both, but for two entirely different reasons.

  “The youngest, at ten and eight, is Penelope.”

  “Your sisters all have interesting and lovely names?”

  Devlin chuckled. “Their mother, my step-mother, was from Greece. Unfortunately, all three sisters inherited her beauty, with dark hair, olive skin, and light eyes.”

  She chuckled. “I think I begin to understand your real concern.” She paused as if recognition dawned. “I met two of your sisters, though briefly, the Season before last. They are very beautiful.”

  The three of them could not go anywhere without catching the eye of every living, breathing man in their vicinity. That was what scared him the most. How could he protect his sisters from the wolves clothed as gentlemen in London? “In that, you are correct, Miss Whitton.”

  “Tell me about Penelope.” She set her saucer and now empty cup on the table.

  “Penny is spoiled, and she is by far the most talkative. She would drive me to Bedlam on her own, except what says is of import.”

  Miss Whitton settled back in the chair and folded her hands on her lap. “How so?”

  “She can’t keep a secret. Her own or anyone else’s, for that matter. That is usually how I find out what the other two are up to.”

  Miss Whitton chuckled.

  “Did you keep your sister’s secrets when you were young?”

  I keep them now, and she doesn’t even realize it. “Yes,” Louisa responded. “Not that we had many.”

  “You and Mrs. Trent must not have given your father much difficulty as children.”

  “Vicars’ daughters are expected to behave a certain way, as are granddaughters of dukes.” In other words, they had the most boring childhood anyone could imagine, unless her cousin, Edgeworth was visiting.

  She needed to take the subject away from her and Elizabeth, however. Louisa was never comfortable talking about herself, not that there was anything to say anyway. One learned more from encouraging others to talk. “Coming into the title so unexpectedly must have been very difficult. What did you do before that?” she asked, hoping he would tell her about being a spy, but knowing that he wouldn’t.

  “I led an unexceptional existence. No different than any other second son, I suppose.”

  She nearly snorted at the way he dismissed his past as unimportant, as if all second sons worked for the Home Office? “So you spent your time in society, at gaming hells,
flirting with young misses, and collecting your quarterly? I assumed you would have had a profession?”

  “I did not frequent gaming hells!”

  “Yet you don’t deny flirting with young misses?” Was she flirting with him now? Goodness, she had never been so bold. But she wanted to be bold. Desperately wanted to for a change.

  “Only the ones worth flirting with,” he said with a wicked smile.

  Heat crept through her veins. “Yet I don’t recall you being present during a Season before.” If he had been in London, she would have remembered him.

  “I didn’t go into society last spring, other than taking up my seat at the House of Lords.”

  “But I don’t recall you from the Season before either.”

  Marston furrowed his brow as if he were trying to think. More likely he was trying to come up with an excuse she would accept, since the truth was probably something he couldn’t tell her.

  “I was traveling, I believe.”

  She simply nodded. “I’ve not had much opportunity to travel. You must tell me where you have been and what you have seen.”

  Marston shifted in his seat, crossed, uncrossed, and crossed his legs again. Goodness, the man really wasn’t prepared with lies, apparently.

  “My travels weren’t all that exceptional.”

  “Well, since I’ve only traveled as far as Yorkshire and London, yours would be exceptional to me.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  His question surprised her. She expected him to tell her a tale of some foreign city, omitting the real reason he had been there, of course. Nobody ever asked what she wanted. They simply assumed. Where would she like to travel to? “I think the first place I would like to go is Scotland.”

  He tilted his head and studied her for a moment. “To run off to Gretna Green?”

  Heat infused her cheeks. Of course he would think that a miss of her age would be thinking only of marriage. “No.” She chuckled. “My dear friend, who married last spring, now lives in Scotland and it would be nice to visit with her again.” Ever since she had penned the letter to Moira, she had longed to talk to her friend.