Barbara Metzger (7 page)

Delia could not help being impressed by this man’s generosity, and his strength of purpose. Nothing, it seemed, could force him down a road not of his choice, nor deter him from the path he had selected. She supposed those must be excellent traits in an officer, if not a husband. “What about your youngest brother?”

“Nonny was intended for the clergy. He is a natural farmer, but Stivern decided that estate management was beneath the dignity of an earl’s son, so he kept him nearly cloistered. The boy turned out to be a hell-raker, of course.” He held up his hand. “And do not say good for him. When he was permanently sent down from school, Nonny fell into bad habits, with a bad crowd of London bloods. Now he is about to make a bad connection. He is too young and too useless to make his own way, and, frankly, too expensive for me to support, despite the easy competence I currently enjoy. Nonny is part of the reason I hurried here. The gudgeon swore not to do anything rash, like fly to Gretna Green, before I returned.”

“So you would all have fled your father’s authority? You to the army, one brother to the Colonies and the other to a too hasty wedding?”

“We do not sound like dutiful sons, do we? Nor men of steadfast character, either.”

She did not answer. “What of your sister?” she asked instead.

“I could do least for her, having no legal authority. My father betrothed her to the widowed duke, the one whose daughter I was to wed, on the night of Ann’s come-out ball. They were wed a month later.”

Delia was horrified. “The duke must be ancient!”

“Young enough to have hopes for a male heir off an eighteen-year-old girl.”

“Your father forced her
...
?”

He snorted.

“Of course. No girl would willingly pick a man more than twice her age.”

Ty was thinking of that Baron Dallsworth, Miss Croft’s erstwhile suitor. He was trying not to think of the father of the child, and if he were worth killing. He was no Sir Snoop, though, not like his hostess. He’d ask Mindle.

“Forgive me,” she was saying now, “but he does not sound like a pleasant man, your father.”

The earl was as pleasant as an asp. “Oh, we’d never have to see him, if that is what you fear. Stivern has not left Warwickshire in ages, and I have a few bits of property in my own name.”

Ignoring the viscount’s litany of estates, hunting boxes, and unused town houses, Delia was thinking that she did not fear meeting the Earl of Stivern at all. In fact, she’d love to give that martinet a piece of her mind, for ruining his children’s lives. No, what she did fear was that this already commanding officer would turn into just such a domestic despot. He was large and loud, and used to giving orders. He’d make some poor woman an awful husband. Some other poor woman, thank goodness.

“Tell me,” she asked. “Did your parents have an arranged marriage?”

More personal questions? The woman was relentless. At this rate, they’d be here till next August, while she asked about his favorite color! Ty could think of a few traits he’d like less than incessant curiosity in a wife–very few. A vaporish female would be horrid, a giggler almost as bad. He did not think he could tolerate a fashion plate, a flirt, or a screeching soprano. Miss Croft was none of those, thank heavens.

Ty knew little of women’s styles, but he knew Miss Croft’s sack-like black gown fit no fashion. It did not even fit Miss Croft. Beyond the gown she was passably pretty, if one did not mind red hair and a scattering of freckles across her cheeks. She was too pale and too thin, but he supposed those defects could be altered, while an argumentative nature could not be. Her voice was soft and pleasant, though, when she was not harping on matters that did not concern her.

“Your parents?” Delia repeated.

“Oh. Yes, theirs was an arranged marriage. Most were, in those days, more so than now. It was deemed an advantageous match by both families, I understand.”

“And were they happy, your mother and father?”

Ty could see that Miss Croft was steering them toward dangerous waters. He merely shook his head no. “From what I recall. She died early.”

“No, I would not have assumed so, from what you said of your father. My parents, however, married to please themselves, without being concerned with property or power. They enjoyed almost every moment they had together. That is the kind of marriage I wish for myself.”

Ty knew it. He just knew the female was going to start nattering on about true love and grand passion. He thought he might manage to enjoy some of his time with Miss Croft, if she kept her mouth shut. “We cannot always have what we want,” he answered in a repressive tone, hoping to halt any more romantical drivel.

“No,” Delia agreed, “but we can avoid, sometimes, that which we do
not
want. I can think of nothing worse than being trapped in a loveless marriage.”

“Respect is a worthy bond.”

“I respect the archbishop, yet I have no wish to be wed to him.”

Ty started chewing on the inside of his lip again, blast the woman. “Affection can grow, with time.”

Delia feared she might indeed grow fond of this handsome hero—right before he left for another battle. “What if affection did not follow the nuptials?”

“Then we could maintain separate residences. Lord knows my parents did. They spent so little time in each other’s company, it is a marvel they had four children. I would never force my presence on you, I swear.”

“Then what about that heir you seek?”

“As I said, we cannot always have everything we wish for.”

Delia gathered her sewing and stood to leave. “No, my lord, we cannot. And so I wish you a good morning and a speedy recovery.”

That was it? She was refusing his offer out of hand because Ty did not profess eternal devotion? Hell and damnation. “Halt! Ah, that is, please wait.” When she paused, one hand on the door, which had been left partially open for propriety’s sake, he tried a different tack. “Will you at least consider my offer for a day? That’s how long before I can get a message to the man I left in Canterbury with my baggage, to hire a carriage and come fetch me here.”

Delia hovered where she was. “I shall not change my mind.”

“Have you a better option? I could leave more easily knowing your future was secure. Baron Dallsworth ... ?”

“How do you— That is, I do not believe that my future is any of your concern, my lord.”

Dash it, Ty swore to himself, his dastard of a father was none of her affair, yet Miss Croft had not hesitated to probe that wound like a surgeon for a pistol ball. When they married, she would have to learn that a man kept certain matters private. But they were not going to marry, were they?

Of course they were, Ty assured himself. Delia Croft was a reasonable person, for a female. She seemed a tad given to flights of fancy, but this had to be an emotional time for her. Given a day’s reflection, George’s sister would come to see that his was the best offer she was likely to receive. Ty knew he was Miss Croft’s finest chance of seeing the child well situated, and her other dependents, her old Nanny and Aunt Eliza, comfortably fixed. He thanked providence for those minor properties of his, where he could lodge any number of bothersome relatives and retainers. George’s sister was sure to see the benefits of his proposal, too, with time. That would be another day wasted while Miss Croft came to her senses, and who knew what mischief Nonny could get up to in the meantime, but Ty felt he had no choice.

“Please,” he repeated. “Just think about my offer. I cannot walk away until you do. My honor will not permit me.”

Delia still held the doorknob, hoping the viscount could not see the white knuckles of her hand. The devil take him and his offer! “This is all about honor, isn’t it?”

They’d been over this ground. “Without honor a man has nothing.”

“What does a woman have, then?”

“A woman’s virtue is her honor. She wears her reputation as a man wears his sword. With the protection of my ring and my title, your good name is restored.” He let his gaze drift to the sewing bag she held and the infant’s gown it contained.

“I do not accept your reasoning, my lord. I care little for my reputation, but much for my sense of fairness. My principles, my own understanding of right and wrong, will not permit me to inflict myself and my burdens on a man who did nothing more than live through a battle others did not survive. No,
my
honor will not permit me to accept an offer made out of obligation.”

Ty could taste defeat. No, that was the blood, from him gnawing on his lip. “What of my debt to George, then?”

“Ah, your debt. I would consider every iota of it repaid in full if you hurry to get well, and remove your wretched horse from my stable.”

“What, has Diablo been a bother?”

“A bother? Now, how could you think that?” she asked with a smile. “He’s only cost me two bonnets, one groom who resigned, a parasol, a fortune in sweets from the apothecary, and Cook’s services. No bother, my lord.”

She’d smiled at last. Not for him, but for the damned horse, yet Ty felt as if he’d defeated Napoleon single-handedly. The smile transformed Miss Croft’s whole face, making her seem younger, more like the carefree lass she should have been, a sunbeam to warm a soldier’s heart. And she did have a tiny gap between her front teeth, a charming, saucy space. Ty wondered what that opening would feel like against his tongue.

Now where had that thought come from?

Chapter 9

In the end, Delia agreed to consider Viscount Tyverne’s offer, in light of the light in his light blue eyes. Besides, she was not going to be thinking of anything else but his preposterous proposal anyway.

Delia was not going to change her mind. No matter how many advantages she could see in the match, she would not accept a suitor in scarlet regimentals. She was still dealing with the detritus of the last dashing soldier in the neighborhood.

Aunt Eliza was weeping, of course, having already counted the benefits of the connection, and recognizing none of the drawbacks. She knew of her niece’s rejection of Tyverne’s offer as soon as Tyverne, what with Mindle stationed outside the partially open door. Even the valet-turned-butler was giving Delia reproving looks. Of course. Their futures with the viscount would be rosier than the bed of thorns Sir Clarence was apt to offer.

Escaping her minions’ disappointment, Delia went out to the stables to visit Diablo. She thought that one creature, at least, might understand her affront at being handed along from man to man, as if she were ... a horse. Perhaps Diablo could not comprehend her dismay at being considered part payment of a debt, just another bit of George’s bequeathal to be administered, but the horse did not frown or whimper. He was too busy shredding her least favorite bonnet, the one she was too embarrassed to donate to the church needy box. She’d brought it along in case the horse was bored with bonbons, now that he had one less groom to terrorize.

His ears flickering to the changes in her voice, Diablo was a good listener. He only kicked the wall once, when Delia pounded her fist into the gate, recalling the viscount’s calm assurance that he was the answer to this maiden’s prayers.

He was well-off if not wealthy, and generous with his funds, it seemed. From a prominent family, with an eminent career, he was attractive, educated, and honorable to a fault. The man was most likely a certified hero, by Jupiter, and Delia still wanted none of him.

She had never sought title or
ton,
wealth or recognition. She certainly never aspired to become a viscountess, much less a countess with countless houses and chests full of jewels. All Delia wished was the loving comfort of a family of her own, something Viscount Tyverne could never offer, if he knew such a thing existed. Perhaps he did not, with his upbringing. But Delia did. She was twenty-one years old, and she still had her dreams. George had never given up. Why should she?

She tried not to consider that Aunt Lizzie might have dreams, too. Even Mindle might have aspirations for his old age. Cousin Clarence and his wife would never keep the aged retainer, though. His stooped gait and spectacles would not suit their new self-consequence. Nor would they feel duty-bound to pension him and Nanny off. George, the cabbage-head, had thought he’d live forever. There was no will that Delia could find, to prove that he’d made provision for any of them.

“If that jackanapes hadn’t gone and gotten himself killed,” she told his horse, “I would be tempted to murder him myself.”

Well, she’d just have to figure something out when this other mess was done. Granted, she had not come up with a decent solution yet, but she would, and it would not involve a marriage of convenience that was sure to be deucedly inconvenient.

When the sweets and the hat were equally demolished, Delia knew she had to return to the house. She would much rather go for a ride, a fast ride, astride, in George’s old britches, the way she used to, but she was older now, in mourning, with heavy responsibilities resting on her shoulders. She could never outride her problems, no matter how fast the steed. Besides, the room she’d given the viscount overlooked the stable yard, and Delia did not wish him to think her a graceless hoyden. Furthermore, she was out of brandied sugar cubes.

Reluctantly heading back toward the house, Delia thanked her lucky stars that she had not given into temptation, for a carriage was pulled up in front of the door. She recognized the coach easily, as well she might since the vehicle had belonged to Faircroft House not three months past. The carriage still did, of course, but Cousin Clarence now owned both. The furor that would have erupted if he and Gwen had espied her in britches did not bear contemplating. Neither did the reason for their visit.

She should not be surprised to see her relatives, Delia told herself, not once news of the viscount’s arrival reached their ears. A titled gentleman in the vicinity, a respectable, rich gentleman, was sure to bring them running like ants to a picnic—or vultures to a wounded beast.

The viscount was resting, Mindle reported, sparing Delia the embarrassment of having to present two of the biggest toads in the Hillsdale-at-Hythe pond. Fortunate man, she told herself. Or wise on the butler’s advice.