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BOOK: Maggie MacKeever
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“So!” Clio stared at her sister, who sat cross-legged on Sir Morgan’s bed, with the Wicked Baronet’s head in her lap, feeding him grapes from a fruit basket while he regaled her with details of his past love-life. “Tess, have you lost your mind?”

“Hallo, Clio!” The countess calmly selected an apple. “Or I should say, Your Grace! I make you my compliments, child. There is no need to wish you happy: you will be.”

“Yes, I have married Giles.” Clio glared at Sir Morgan, who appropriated the apple and took a bite of it. “You will come and live with us, Tess! We shall put around some tale to explain your presence here, for it cannot go unremarked. Drusilla will spread it about, you may be sure!” Tess looked sublimely unconvinced, and Clio wrung her hands. “You must listen to reason!”

“My dear Duchess,” interjected Sir Morgan, settling himself more comfortably, an act that necessitated that his pillow should sprawl in a most reprehensible manner upon the bed, “you must not request my Tess to behave sensibly. It is a great deal too much to ask of her.”

“Your
Tess!” shrieked Clio. “Never, you evil man!”

“Don’t tease yourself, child,” soothed the countess, reclaiming the apple. “Sir Morgan’s intentions are entirely honorable.” She smiled at the duke, who was watching his bride with a sottish expression. “Let us drink to your happiness! Giles, there is brandy on that sideboard.”

No whit disgruntled to be addressed as if he were a lowly footman, the duke filled four glasses and handed them around. “To your long life and continuing felicity!” declared the countess and disposed of her brandy in one swallow. “Now,” she added, setting down her glass, “I fancy some explanations are in order! Morgan, tell Clio about the necklace.”

Sir Morgan did so. Sapphire eyes huge in her pale face, Clio sank down abruptly on a velvet-covered ottoman. “The man downstairs,” concluded the countess, before her sister could speak, “was the last of the lot, and the necklace has been turned over to Bow Street. The danger is over. I vow I shall miss it!”

“I, too, must confess,” said Giles. “Clio let it be known, Morgan, that you were romantically involved with Drusilla.” He looked contrite. “I fear Drusilla’s conduct bore her out. I further fear that I also dropped a hint or two.”

“You
what?”
roared the Wicked Baronet, sitting up abruptly. Clio quickly averted her gaze from his undraped torso. “Damn you, Giles!”

“I know. I should have denied the tale.” The duke smiled sheepishly. “It was for Tess’s sake that I refrained; I did not wish her to be caught unawares by your legendary charm.” Warily, he eyed Sir Morgan’s irate countenance. “Consider,” he begged, “all the unfortunate females whom you have heartlessly cast aside.”

“That’s torn it!” groaned Sir Morgan, and sank back against the pillows.

“Have you?” inquired the countess with interest. “Cast those poor creatures off? I suppose they bored you, so it’s entirely their own fault.” Neatly she disposed of the remainder of the apple, then looked up at the Duke of Bellamy. He was regarding her with utter fascination. “It doesn’t signify, Giles! I wasn’t for an instant taken in. Where
is
Drusilla, by the by? Evelyn told us she had accompanied you.”

“Drusilla,” replied the duke wryly, “is on her way to Bow Street, having been mistaken by the Runner for an accomplice to the robbers.
Maman
has decreed that a few hours in gaol are just what my sister needs to take the wind out of her sails.” He looked fondly upon Clio. “My entire family may go to the devil in a handbasket for all I care. I will not allow my wife to be plagued by any one of them.”

Happily for Clio’s sensibilities, which were greatly pulled by these remarks, the dowager duchess, leaning heavily on Delphine’s arm, sailed at last into the room. Her dark gaze went unerringly to the bed. Tess sat transfixed, clutching the apple core. “Baggage!” pronounced the dowager. “Bachelor’s fare! The merest straw damsel to boot, not even fit to be called a demi-rep!”

Naturally neither Clio nor Delphine could accept such hideous insults without protest. The battle was quickly joined, with such strife that the countess winced and covered her ears, and with such loudly voiced recriminations that Evelyn came running to observe the fray. “Cripes!” said he, and cast an anxious eye at Sir Morgan. “I told them you didn’t wish to be disturbed, honestly I did!”

“Quiet!” roared Sir Morgan, with such violence that even the dowager duchess paused mid-speech. “I’ll have you know, Sapphira, that the lady of whom you are speaking in such unattractive terms is to be my wife! Nor do I intend to sit here quietly and allow you to further abuse her.”

“Oh, Tess!” sobbed Clio, as the dowager gaped. “How
can
you?” Delphine surveyed her mistress through narrowed eyes. So the Wicked Baronet’s intentions were of the most honorable?
“Ma foi!”
said she.

“I don’t recall,” Tess interjected serenely, “that I said I would.” She smiled kindly at her sister. “You would have been quite taken with Sir Morgan’s manner, child! He expressed himself with the greatest propriety.”

Sapphira’s temper, which at its best was unbenign, had been greatly frayed by her laborious ascent of the staircase. She leaned even more heavily on Delphine’s arm, scowling ferociously, and nicely throttled by her own rage.

“Tess, you must not!” Clio hastened across the room and grasped her sister’s hand, determined to make one last attempt to save Tess from a terrible fate. “A man of his reputation—he cannot but betray you, again and again!”

“He has said he will not,” retorted Tess, ignoring Sir Morgan’s stifled oath. “Besides, Clio, even were he extremely unfaithful, he would be irrepressibly funny about it.”

“You cannot mean that!” Clio was rapidly coming to consider her sister a raving lunatic. “Tess, the man is a rakehell!”

“I rather think I do mean it,” Tess replied thoughtfully. “Yes, I know my sense of humor is reprehensible, but there it is! And,” she frowned, “I very much think I would rather be married to Morgan, with all his potential peccadilloes, than to any other man in the world.”

“Oh, Tess!” wailed Clio. Delphine looked increasingly contemplative. “Hussy!” snapped the dowager duchess. “My darling!” Sir Morgan breathed.

“I have not,” interrupted the countess, “said I
would
marry him. Indeed, I think I should not.” She disentangled herself from Clio and turned a somber countenance to Sir Morgan. “After all these years of unfettered bachelorhood, you can hardly wish to saddle yourself not only with a wife, but with one who is lame.”

The Wicked Baronet was so greatly moved by this wistful little speech that he pushed Clio off the bed and took her place. “Why don’t you just say straight out that you’re in love with her?” complained Evelyn from the doorway. “It would be much more simple.”

Thus reminded of his audience. Sir Morgan cast an enraged glance around the room. “Out, the lot of you! You are making mincemeat of the only proposal of marriage I have ever wished to make.”

“More fool you!” snorted the dowager.

“Do you?” breathed Tess, oblivious to all but Sir Morgan’s voice and the hand that rested on her arm. “Truly wish to marry me?”

“Sweet Christ!” uttered Sir Morgan wrathfully. “What do you think I’ve been trying to tell you these past weeks?” He rose with agility from his sickbed to personally usher out the gawking spectators and behind them slammed the door.

“Oh, Morgan!” the countess said baldly. “I do love you.”

Lady Terpsichore Mildmay wed Sir Morgan Rhodes on a bright summer morning in St. George’s, Hanover Square. The
haut ton
was in attendance and Mr. Brummell served as the groom’s best man. So blissful was the union that Mr. Brummell was used to remark in later years, to those visitors who sought him out in Calais after his disgrace, that his sole claim to heavenly favor was the arrangement of the match. Perhaps the Beau exaggerated his small part in the affair, but this much is fact: they lived happily ever after, Tess and her Wicked Baronet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 1979 by Maggie MacKeever

Originally published by Fawcett Crest (0449239020)

Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part,

by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any

other means without permission of the publisher. For more

information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San

Francisco, CA 94117-4228

 

     http://www.RegencyReads.com

     Electronic sales: [email protected]

 

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are

fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

BOOK: Maggie MacKeever
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