Page 44 of Dangerous Illusions (Dangerous #1)

“I do not think she lied at all,” Daintry said, holding her temper now on a slender thread. “I have said that all along.”

Davina sighed. “Men are very difficult, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Daintry said, but the image of a tall, broad-shouldered one leapt to her mind’s eye and she knew at once that she was equivocating. Men were loathsome creatures.

Davina said, “Well, I do know. Your brother is a puzzle, Daintry, and that is plain fact.”

“Charles?” Daintry was astonished.

“You needn’t sound as if I had just said something absurd,” Davina said crossly, “for it was nothing of the kind. He seems to expect me to know what he is thinking, as if I had a crystal ball. Can you tell when he is angry, Daintry? I promise you, I cannot—not until he explodes, at all events.”

“And has he exploded?” Daintry asked, thinking she knew now where the conversation was leading.

“Twice in a fortnight,” Davina said with another sigh.

“At Mount Edgcumbe because I smiled more than once at Lord Aston, and two days ago at Cothele just because I borrowed a few rouleaux from Alvanley. It was no great thing, so do not look at me that way. I won on the next turn and paid him back. At all events, I do not know how Charles thinks I can live on the pittance he gives me each month—as if a woman did not require a new gown from time to time, not to mention money for trinkets and loo.”

“But it is not just loo, is it, Davina? At Mount Edgcumbe you were plunging rather deep.”

“And what else was there to do, with Charles playing cards himself or drinking himself into a stupor? I wore a brand new dress that I thought he would particularly like, and he just demanded to know what it cost. Right in front of everyone, too. I wanted to sink through the floor. And if I so much as smile at anyone, he sulks, but he has no romance in him, Daintry, and I like to be courted and made much of. Is that so dreadful?”

“I suppose not, but would it not be better to tell him how you feel, rather than me?”

“I did tell him but it was as if I spoke a foreign language. I said I wished he would recite poetry to me, and he quoted some nonsensical thing about a flea on a lady’s bonnet on a Sunday.”

Daintry laughed. “It was a louse, not a flea. Charles has always liked Mr. Burns’s poems.” The frustrated look on Davina’s face caused her to add quickly, “I beg your pardon, but I cannot imagine him reciting any other type of poetry, you know. He is not a romantic man. He’s sensitive, but he tends to be like Papa and bluster when he’s angry, and he loathes strife.

At all events,” she went on, too tired to be tactful, “you don’t really want my advice. You just want me to agree with you.”

Davina looked angry for a moment, but then she smiled ruefully and said, “I suppose you are right, but can you imagine what it is like for me, Daintry, living here where everyone is on Charles’s side and no one ever takes mine?

If I had to stay here all year, I’d go mad.

At least Susan, with all her problems, has a home of her own. ”

“Is that what you want?” Daintry asked, thinking it would not be if Davina truly understood what Susan’s home was like.

Davina hunched a shoulder pettishly. “Oh, how does one know what one wants? What one thinks is desirable generally turns out to be nothing of the kind. I just never realized Charles would want to bury me alive in Cornwall, that’s all.”

“But he doesn’t. You just returned from Cothele, in fact, and are you not leaving tomorrow for Wilton House?”

“Yes, although Charles has been complaining that it is too far to go for only four days. If I had my way, we’d not come home till Christmas, but perhaps if you tell him you want to go to Wilton with us …” She paused hopefully,

“I already sent my regrets,” Daintry said.

“Moreover, I promised Melissa that both Aunt Ophelia and I would see her home again tomorrow, and it would not do to disappoint her. And, in point of fact, Davina, you will go whether I do or not, and so will Charles. He nearly always does what you want him to.”

“I suppose he does, but he would do it more gracefully for you,” Davina said.

Daintry wondered if Deverill would be at Wilton House, but told herself it did not matter in the least, and soon managed to be rid of both her sister-in-law and Nance.

Once she was in bed with the quilt pulled up to her chin, however, thoughts of Deverill’s anger that afternoon came flooding back to haunt her.

She did not know what to make of him. He intrigued her and he fascinated her.

He had been kind to her; he had certainly flirted with her; and, at one point, before she had known he was not Penthorpe, he had even said he wanted to marry her.

No doubt that had been but part of his play-acting, but he had certainly wanted to get to know her better, and he certainly had a knack for stirring her passions.

He had shown her consideration and warmth.

He had even pretended to respect some of her opinions.

All in all, it was no wonder that she had finally come to trust him, though she had certainly been foolish to do so.

It had been amazingly easy to ignore the fact that he had begun their acquaintance with a deception, that he had all too clearly decided after that to see if he could steal a kiss—or worse, heaven knew—but even when she had taken his measure, it had proved nearly impossible to keep the man at arm’s length—witness the speed with which she had agreed to help him put to rest the ridiculous accusations Seacourt had made.

And now, when he had betrayed her beyond all chance of forgiveness, she still could not seem to banish his image from her thoughts.

She remembered her last view of him, standing on the castle green.

He had not spoken another word to her, nor she to him, although he and Sir Lionel had lingered, chatting with Lady Ophelia until both ladies were safely in the carriage.

Deverill had been particularly charming to her aunt, almost as if he had meant to engage her support.

And judging by Lady Ophelia’s conversation in the carriage, or lack of it, he had succeeded.

After Daintry had replayed the events of the afternoon in her mind’s eye several times more without being able to fix upon the exact cause of his anger, she finally realized that her own wrath had stirred his.

He had thought her anger irrational, outrageous, even shrewish.

But had his accusations been justified? And why was it, she wondered, that women who lost their tempers were shrews, while men who did—like Seacourt—were reasonably angry?

If angry men were compared to members of the animal kingdom, they were generally compared to bears or dogs—dangerous animals—not to small, pestiferous rodents.

The fact was, she had somehow made herself believe Deverill was different from other men, more understanding, more sensitive to the difficulties faced by women, more willing than most men to listen and to comprehend female frustrations, and even, perhaps, willing to love a woman on her own terms. In fact, she had begun to think she had found a man whose feet were not made of clay.

She had been wrong, and she began to see now that her anger had not been directed at him but at herself.

She had let her guard down again, only to be brought up short by reality.

Previously, once she had discovered flaws of character in her suitors, it had been easy to dismiss them from her thoughts.

But that night, each time she told herself that enough was enough and turned over again, determined to clear her mind and go to sleep, the unbidden image of Deverill would rise up to unsettle her.

It did not seem to matter if she saw him smile or frown.

Either way, he filled her thoughts and murdered sleep.

One moment she wanted never again to see the man or speak to him; the next, she wanted to explain matters so he would understand and agree with her.

Sometime in the middle of the night, it occurred to her that perhaps she did not know him at all, that she had attributed characteristics to him based solely upon her own needs and wishful thinking.

Nonetheless there had been something about him that led her to believe it was safe to trust him, to believe in him, and remembering his touch brought an unexpected wave of desire such as she had never experienced before, that stopped her train of thought cold in its tracks.

Was it possible that she had talked herself into trusting him simply because he stirred feelings that had never stirred before, because he could make her knees weak by looking into her eyes, or send flames shooting through her body just by kissing her?

Was it possible that a mere physical attraction could influence her to such a point that she would forget all that experience had taught her about men, or was it merely part and parcel of what her aunt had called the lure of forbidden fruit?

Remembering what Lady Ophelia had said reminded her of the feud, and believing that a far safer subject for contemplation than the other, she managed to fix her mind upon it.

She had been distracted for a time by Susan’s predicament, but if any good might be said to have come of its resolution, it was that Jervaulx’s decision had made St. Merryn think the better of him.

Outrageous as that was, there could be no better time to ask her father about the feud’s origin.

And this time, she would keep her temper.

One did not want to be thought a shrew, after all.

Moreover, the next time she lost her temper, she would put the fear of God into someone or know the reason why.