Page 13

London, 1808, six years later

M iss Tiffany Deveraux stood between two of the most sought after bachelors in all of England. Her guardian and cousin, Fane Deveraux, the Earl of Marlowe, flanked her left side, while Marlowe’s rakish best friend, Slade Ware, Marquess of Wolfarth, stood at her right elbow.

Every woman in Lady Rutherford’s ballroom envied her. The armor piercing stares were wholly undeserved and Tiffany took no joy in the attention.

What the envious debutantes did not understand was that she was all but invisible to both men. Marlowe’s mother had always insisted on Fane escorting Tiffany and his sister, Lady Claire Deveraux, to every ball, and where Fane went, Wolf followed.

Since Lady Marlowe was no longer living, the thought of her gone cut deep. Tiffany still felt the loss. It had been like losing a second mother. The absence of Lady Marlowe also meant the men would soon deposit Claire and Tiffany with Lady Vale, a society matriarch, before heading to the sanctuary of the card room. Tiffany could almost smell the men’s fear. Mothers with marriageable daughters were closing in. Like a well-planned military advance, every mother present was maneuvering to introduce their daughters to these two eligible gentlemen.

Tiffany pushed her glasses back up her nose, feeling more and more invisible as the two men talked over her head, while Claire, who stood behind them, was busy filling her dance card. Her cousin was popular with men looking for a wealthy and pretty young lady of quality to marry, and also with the young ladies, who were eager to befriend her in order to meet her brother.

Tiffany was not bitter or jealous of her cousin. She herself was neither wealthy nor pretty: a fact that could not be disputed. What she had, thank the lord, was intelligence. She did not need to marry, or marry well. Her gift with numbers saw to that. Soon she would not even need Fane’s charity. She hugged her smug secret to herself, armor against those who looked down their noses at the penniless orphan.

“I suggest we see the girls safely to Lady Vale’s side before Lady Rutherford has us roped in as dance partners.” Wolf’s words flew over her head since she stood no taller than his shoulder. “Are you listening, Fane?” he persisted in that husky, innately sensual voice that always shook her feminine sensibilities.

“You go along. I think I see Lady Saline Porter,” her cousin replied.

She turned in the direction the men were now staring and noted the beautiful young widow with a flock of gentlemen surrounding her. She was certainly not invisible.

“I thought your actress was enough woman for you,” Wolf said, then glanced sharply at Tiffany, as if he’d only just realized that she was in earshot.

Fane cleared his throat and smiled down at her. “Isn’t that Miss Valora standing with her mother? Look, she’s waving at you.”

Yes, Valora was standing next to her mother, Lady Vale. “I’m waiting for Claire,” she replied. Just then, Claire swung toward her.

“Tiffany, Lord Donahue was just saying that he’d love to beg a dance from you if you have any free?”

She inwardly sighed. Lord Donahue was a nice but dim and pimply young man who had taken a shine to her. Most likely because she’d been kind to him one night at the beginning of the season. He’d sought her company ever since.

He stammered over her hand, his face turning a mottled red. “Miss Deveraux, ma-may I have the pleasure of the f-f-first waltz of the evening?”

She could feel Wolf and Fane’s amusement without needing to look at them. “That would be lovely, thank you, my lord,” she said, holding out her card for him to complete.

Once Lord Donahue had taken his leave, Fane shook his head. “Why do you encourage the man, Tif? You can do so much better than him.”

Claire slipped her arm through Tiffany’s and squeezed her hand.

Anger made her bite when really she should have ignored him, but it didn’t help that Wolf was there as well. “Not all of us are blessed with looks or money, Fane. You do not know what it is like to go unnoticed. Most of us mere mortals make the most of what God has given us. Lord Donahue is a delightful man.” She looked away from the two men beside her. They had never had a moment’s doubt about how the world perceived them. Handsome and desirable were their middle names.

She shifted her weight, intending to set out across the room to greet her friend Valora, but before she’d taken a step, Wolf bent to whisper in her ear, “I think when God made you, he knew exactly what he was doing.”

She stiffened. What was that supposed to mean? Was it a compliment? Her heart hiccupped and she looked at Wolf and found herself pinned by his crystal blue eyes. They weren’t, as she’d expected, mocking her. Instead, they were filled with something much worse: pity. She wished the floor would crack open and swallow her whole. Lowering her gaze, she tugged on Claire’s arm and escaped around the edge of the ballroom before tears welled.

She knew Wolf was only trying to be kind, but she’d been infatuated with him since that day six years ago when he’d carried her into her new home. But Wolf was not for the likes of her. Love did not easily find women of her ilk. She didn’t inspire poets to write sonnets or artists to paint her portrait. Her heart clenched tight in her chest. Love—oh, how she wished for a man to find her worthy of love.

Yet that was only partly true.

She wanted one man to love her—Wolf. But she was far too intelligent; she realized that was but a dream. Wolf could have any woman he wanted. Why would he want her ?

“I could thump my brother. In fact, I should do so every morning until he learns to think before he speaks.”

She gave Claire a weak smile. “It’s not his fault. The world has always been easy for him. He does not understand what it is like for those not so blessed.”

Claire shook her head as she waved out to Valora. “No. That’s not it. He is shallow. He does not look deep enough. He is distracted by the beauty of a woman rather than what is in her heart, or in her soul. I’m hoping he grows out of it before he finds himself shackled to a woman who, when her beauty fades as we know it will, is empty and boring. Married for the rest of your life is a long time.”

Tiffany thought of the way the two men had drunk in Lady Saline. “We are shallow too,” she said. “You’re assuming a beauty like Lady Saline does not have a heart, yet I know she does.”

When Tiffany was a child, books were her best friends, as they were now. Tiffany read widely and because of that was worldlier than many of her age, and because she was one of those people who observed rather than partook in life, she had seen the way Lady Saline and her companion, Miss Murphy, interacted. The lingering of fingers as their hands brushed, the little smiles that only lovers understood, and the fact not one of the handsome gentlemen surrounding her, not even Tiffany’s cousin Fane, drew her complete attention away from Miss Murphy.

She snorted at the absurdity of life. “They think because we are younger, and female, that we don’t think at all. When in reality we see far more than they do.”

“What do we see?” Valora asked as they arrived at her side.

Tiffany pressed kisses to her cheeks. Valora would not understand, as she was beautiful beyond words. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that Fane annoyed me.”

Valora peered around her to stare at the men before they disappeared into the card room for the rest of the evening. “Well, something has upset them. Wolf is remonstrating with Fane rather vigorously.”

Tiffany glanced over her shoulder. The two men did appear to be arguing.

Valora soon lost interest and sighed. “I find most men are fairly annoying, especially those who insist on proposing when they are well aware I shall not accept.”

“You are getting quite the reputation for saying no,” Claire stated. “If you’re not careful, you’ll wake up one day and find that every man is too scared to ask.”

Valora sniffed. “Then he is not the right man for me. Anyway, you can talk.”

Tiffany privately thought that perhaps there was not a man alive who would ever be right for Valora. She’d turned down handsome rogues, attractive dukes, and wealthy lords. She glanced at Lady Saline and wondered if her good friend Valora was that way inclined. She hoped not, as Valora’s brother Lord Vale was hell-bent on seeing her wed this year.

“Oh, I say,” Valora exclaimed, tapping Claire’s gloved arm with her fan. “Your brother and Wolf are dicing with danger. They’re coming this way and Fane looks most put out.”

The soft hum of female mutterings and twitching fans rose until the sound was like a swarm of bees in a hive. The men were not seeking the safety of the card room this evening. What were they about? Women were jumping to conclusions—dangerous conclusions. Tiffany hoped they were mistaken conclusions. Wolf could not possibly be announcing to the ton that he was looking for a wife. She knew Fane wasn’t.

Lady Rutherford, seeing her chance, gathered her two daughters and shooed them in the men’s direction.

Wolf continued on with purposeful strides, while Fane looked as if he’d like to shove a dagger in his friend’s back.

“The Wolf looks as if he’s hunting,” Claire said.

Tiffany thought the description very apt. Wolf’s lips were curved in a sly smile. She could imagine a snarl taking its place at any moment. His black hair, cut short to frame his face, gleamed blue-black in the candlelight, and his broad shoulders cast black shadows on the walls as he strode the length of the room. As he drew nearer, the sharp contours of his face, the aquiline nose and the chiseled cheeks added to his predatory appearance. People around them took a step back. Wolf did look like he was hunting. His gaze was hard and focused and—her heart began to pound in her chest—fixed exclusively on her.

Her legs were suddenly made of jelly.

He stopped directly in front of her, took her gloved hand and, bending low over it, brushed his lips across the material.

Tiffany’s knees knocked.

“Miss Deveraux, I would be honored if you would allow me the next dance.”

Her eyes narrowed. What was he about? She couldn’t begin to imagine, but with everyone watching, she had no choice but to curtsy and find a reply. “How lovely to see you wish to dance this evening, my lord.”

His smile widened and she almost forgot to breathe.

Loud enough for all to hear, he said, “Only with you, Miss Deveraux. Only with you.”

Shock struck her dumb, and when the music started for the quadrille, the only thing that stopped her from panicking was Fane escorting a scowling Valora onto the floor so as to form a foursome. She pinned her gaze on Valora. Her friend merely shrugged and soon Valora and Fane were gliding across the floor, all the while snapping at each other, which was nothing unusual.

When Wolf’s arm came round her back to glide her over the floor, her stomach clenched. When he twirled her, she could smell his sharp woody scent, and it made her even more lightheaded. When he drew her close, she could see the perfect cleft in his chin, and his eyes, the palest of blue set off by long, black lashes, were mesmerizing. He was so beautiful.

She tried to think of something to say but he had her senses in a whirl. By the time the dance had ended, she could not think. She could only feel, and when she stepped away from him, she noticed the loss of his warmth, as if she’d stepped naked into the snow. Yet she knew her face was flushed, because heat radiated from her cheeks. She pushed her glasses up her nose and tried to get her brain to focus.

Before she could say a word, Wolf brought her gloved hand to his lips and whispered, “Thank you for the dance, Miss Deveraux. You’ll never go unnoticed again.”

With that he turned and made his way with Fane to the card room, guests parting before them like the sea parting before Moses.

*

“What on earth was that about?” Fane asked Wolf when they made it to the safety of the card room.

Wolf wished he knew. He had no idea what had prompted him to make such a public spectacle, least of all on Tiffany’s behalf. But there was something about the hurt he’d seen in her eyes earlier.

“Your asinine comment about Lord Donahue,” he replied.

“What comment?”

Wolf turned on his friend. “Sometimes you can be such an arse. Tiffany was right. Some of us have been blessed more than others in this life and we should not look down on anyone else because of it.”

“I don’t look down on anyone.” At Wolf’s raised eyebrow, he admitted, “Well, perhaps I do.” Fane paused before adding, “Tiffany could be a pretty girl if she didn’t dress her hair so severely and didn’t wear those glasses so often. I did wonder for a moment if you had decided to accept my offer.”

Wolf almost laughed. He and Fane had got drunk at a family gathering last year, and Dayton, Fane’s younger brother who was now in India, had casually suggested they marry each other’s sisters.

“Tiffany is not your sister.”

“No, she is my cousin and we discussed this. My poor cousin, and I am worried about her chances of making a match. She’s already three and twenty.”

“Hardly on the shelf.”

Fane sighed. “I cannot understand why she refuses to let me offer a larger dowry.”

Likely because she didn’t wish to be sold off like livestock. Wolf’s mind flashed to his two sisters. He wanted them to find a good match but he also wanted them to be happy. Ashleigh had already suffered heartache, and while Fane was his best friend, Wolf wasn’t blind to his faults. Ladies were toys to Fane, and he’d left many with a broken heart. So had he, if truth be told, but he hoped he was more of a gentleman than his friend.

“Let’s play cards and hope the ladies do not wish to stay too late tonight.”

“I don’t know what’s put you in such a mood.”

Wolf grimaced. “I apologize. I’m sure you have Tiffany’s best interests at heart.”

Fane broke into a grin. “I do. I like the girl. She’s a tad too perceptive, but at least she does not prattle on at the dinner table. I just hope she doesn’t think she has to settle for the likes of Lord Donahue.”

Tiffany did deserve someone much better than Lord Donahue.

He motioned for a servant to bring him a drink. A dead weight settled in his gut. He had never felt this disconcerted. He took a seat at the faro table but could not concentrate on the cards. He knew he should not have come out tonight. He’d rather be home painting. He only had three months to get a piece ready for the Royal Academy exhibition. He’d promised a painting that could be auctioned off to raise money to set up a Royal Academy scholarship.

He wanted to ensure the British Royal Academy of Art was the best in the world. Better than the French, in particular, for they had just employed a new director who had laid down a challenge. Another challenge, like the ongoing hostility with France, which surely was heading toward another war.

He was thankful Rockwell, his younger brother, had made it through the Irish Rebellion unscathed, or as unscathed as any man could be. He often heard the screams at night from his brother’s nightmares. The British had lost good men fighting in Ireland. Men like Viscount Furoe. He hoped there was not another war, especially with France. He would do everything in his power to ensure the French did not better them in the arts—or in anything.

As he lost yet another game, he admitted the truth. It was the news Rockwell had delivered this afternoon that saw him unsettled. Another creditor had come calling regarding their uncle, Lord Melville, and his latest debt. Wolf knew he’d have to do something to curb his uncle’s spending, but why did this have to occur when he had a painting to deliver?

He would have to cut Melville off and also advise his mother not to give her brother any more money. Handling his mother would be the difficult part. She loved her brother, faults and all. Wolf hated to upset her, but it wasn’t just his life Melville’s spending affected. If he didn’t rein in his uncle, the family would eventually be put in financial peril.

While his skills lay in the arts, he was thankful that Rockwell had a head for numbers. He also owed Fane’s father a great debt. The late Lord Marlowe had been his guardian after his father’s death. Wolf had only been eleven when his father broke his neck falling from a horse in the hunt. Lord Marlowe had honorably held his estates together until Wolf had been old enough to learn the skills to manage them.

His thoughts veered back to Fane’s offer. Marry Fane’s sister, Claire, or his cousin Tiffany. Why did Tiffany’s face, and not Claire’s, flash in his head? He did owe the Marlowes a lot, and whomever he chose would allow him to repay his debt to them. And he was reaching that age where a wife would be a wise move. Plus, if Ashleigh’s scandal could not be forgotten, then he could call on Fane as a last resort to marry his sister—if Ashleigh agreed.

Claire or Tiffany? Claire was the prettier of the two but her tongue was sharp. Besides, it would help Fane more if he offered for Tiffany.

A wave of heat washed over him as he thought about dancing with Tiffany earlier. He could not get the images of those enticing emerald eyes, full of spark and intelligence, and her soft lips, slightly open in invitation, from his mind.

He shook his head. Perhaps a match could be arranged. At least Tiffany, as a poor cousin, would not be expecting a love match. She would be sensible and calculated in her approach to marriage. As for him, after the tragedy of losing Margo, love was an emotion he would never indulge again. He had only one true love in his life now—his art—and it took all his focus.

Margo’s death had almost destroyed him. It had warped him, and the idea of sleeping with his future wife filled him with dread.

This time, when he married, it would be a marriage of convenience, and sleeping with his wife would be for the purpose of a child only.

One all-destroying love in a lifetime was more than enough.