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“We are all indebted to you,” said Lady Deveraux softly.

Leona felt heat rise in her cheeks. She didn’t know what to say.

Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth.

Fortunately, the butler arrived to announce dinner.

She felt an awkward moment when Deveraux courteously offered her his arm to lead her into the dining room.

His face was again carefully polite. The change between the smiling, teasing man she’d glimpsed this evening and the man who greeted her at the door was too much for her to comprehend.

Regardless, remembering the wild flutterings that flew up from her stomach to her throat when she saw his genuine smile, she thought it might be safer to prefer the cold, arrogant gentleman who stood at the door.

The dining room was formally appointed with a red damask wall covering that matched the chair cushions.

Gilt-edged plasterwork framing a ceiling painting of cherubs offering food to the gods, and large pastoral paintings by Turner, Constable and Reynolds adorned the walls.

Despite the room's elegant formality, the diners—much to Leona’s surprise—were not formal.

Conversation flowed freely around and across the table. It was a lively, casual affair.

Very quickly, Leona and Maria were asked to call members of the family by their first names, the Dowager Countess of Nevin explaining that she detested aristo formality because she herself, she candidly admitted, had not a drop of blue blood in her veins.

She’d been the widow of a French physician, who fled France during the reign of terror because his patients were all aristocrats.

She came to Castle Marin to care for Brandon, the 5th Earl of Nevin’s infant son, following the death of the earl’s wife.

“Of course, quite soon, Papa wanted to care for her !” her daughter added with a roguish twinkle in her eyes.

Lady Nevin frowned and wagged an admonishing finger at Lucy, then continued her explanation. “I do follow the conventions when in London and admonish my incorrigible children to do likewise. Sometimes they listen. . . .” She shrugged lightly, implying the rest.

Laughter sounded throughout the large room. Deveraux raised his wineglass in silent salute to his mother.

“Bah!” she said dismissively before turning to address Leona. “It is tres convenable, your visit here at this time. Lucy’s betrothal ball is in less than a fortnight!”

“Ball? Oh, no, I?—”

“You shall both be our special guests. I have longed to reward you for helping my granddaughter, but my son says you refused a reward. Well, now I may offer what you cannot refuse! Please give me the pleasure of giving you ball gowns. That would be tres convenable, non?"

“Lady Nevin, I must refuse?—”

“I, too. It is quite beyond me. Most improper,” said Maria, though there was a trace of a quiver in her voice.

Leona looked across the table at her friend. Maria Sprockett had never attended a ball or even a country assembly in her life. That realization sent a pang of regret through Leona.

“There is so much to do before the ball!” Lucy said. “I depend on you to help me. Maman dislikes balls.”

The Dowager Countess nodded. “I find them tedious affairs. All the planning and worrying so that people can gather like a herd of vaches to see each other’s clothes and chew over the latest gossip like a cow’s cud. Bah! But to the young, ahhh, such things are important.”

Deveraux laughed. “Do not let my mother fool you. This ball she is avidly looking forward to, even if she doesn’t care for the preparation.”

“You cannot wish for visitors at this time,” protested Leona, weakening. She noticed the slight look of hope growing in Maria’s eyes. “If I had known?—”

“You would not have come. Quite foolish,” drawled Deveraux, a faint smile on his lips.

“Oh, do not say you do not wish to share our happiness, you who have done so much to give us happiness,” protested Lady Veronique.

Leona laid her spoon down by her plate. “I beg your pardon. It is not that, of course not. It’s just. . .”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Deveraux—” she began sternly.

“Nigel. Remember our informality.” The smirk on Deveraux’s face was more pronounced.

Leona sighed, struggling with her temper. She knew he was provoking her, but she would not succumb to a fit of temper at the dinner table. That would be unfair to the others. “Might I address you as Deveraux? My respects to you, Lady Nevin—I mean Lady Veronique, but that is how I think of him.”

“I’m flattered, Leona, that you should think of me,” he said, stressing the use of her first name.

“When I do,” snapped Leona, goaded, “it is not fondly!”

Lady Lucille and David Fitzhugh laughed.

Lady Nevin shook her head, struggling against humor. “Nigel, do not tease. You must forgive my son, Leona dear. He must always be the tease. But what has my scapegrace son done to warrant your displeasure?”

“Your pardon, my lady, but our first meeting did not begin auspiciously. He thought me in league with the kidnappers.”

“What?! Nigel?—”

“Then he scolded me for risking Chrissy’s life when I rescued her, accused me of not knowing what the word duty means, and finally coerced a promise from me when I was too ill to think clearly regarding what I was promising!

Then, the day before yesterday, he sends a coach to fetch me—for which I was not ready—and the minute I walk in the door, drenched from the sudden rain, he yells at me for being late!

I ask you, is there any reason why I should think of him fondly? ”

Everyone laughed, and Leona saw to see a telltale dark red creep up above Deveraux’s stock.

“Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t call him far worse!” David Fitzhugh said.

“Oh, I do, but not in polite company,” she assured him with a sly smile in Deveraux’s direction.

“I don’t understand,” said Chrissy. “Why did he think you were risking my life to rescue me? You wouldn’t let me climb down the vines you came up, and we were oh so careful.”

“I believe he thought that after finding you, I should have climbed back down the vines and gone to the magistrate.”

“But you said they were too weak. You might have been hurt—or killed, even!”

“I know. But it is a sad fact of life that men do not often think as clearly as we women.”

Lucy giggled. “I believe, dear brother, you have met your match. Leona, you must stay for the ball. I insist! Never in memory have I seen my brother so thoroughly routed. As the poor sister who has tried and failed often to get the best of Nigel, I salute you! What joy! Stay, for I can see we shall be fast friends.”