Nicole Jordan (46 page)

She could show Deverill that she was wholly committed to his cause. To the Guardians’ cause. That as his wife, she could be his helpmate rather than an impediment. If he had dedicated his life to saving others, then she would do the same.

She had always yearned to break free of the stifling dictums that society ordained for her gender and social station, and this was her chance. She had no desire to formally join the Guardians—she wouldn’t have the nerves or the skills or the passion for it. But she could contribute in her own way. She could take her father’s place as a patron of their order. Papa would have approved of such a course, she knew it.

She would have to write Sir Gawain at once to ask how she could help. Better yet, she could visit Cyrene. If Deverill left England for home, it would provide her an excuse to follow him.

If all else failed, Antonia thought, staring into the darkness, she could always hire Deverill’s services to protect Maitland ships. There were
some
advantages to being an heiress, after all. She would have to pay a call on Phineas Cochrane in the morning, to learn exactly what options were open to her. . . .

Yet that couldn’t be her sole plan. There had to be something more she could do to win Deverill’s love.

Perhaps, Antonia decided with a surge of renewed optimism, her second order of business in the morning should be to visit her friend Emily to ask her advice. Emily was much better versed in
affaires des coeurs
than she was—and would know better how to induce a man to surrender his heart.

Antonia drew a steadying breath, feeling as if she were girding her loins for battle. Deverill had seen her bent on seduction once before, but this time the stakes were far higher. She wanted more than his passion. She wanted his heart.

Somehow she would make him love her.

Her own heart lighter for the first time in days, Antonia shut her eyes and settled down among the pillows to sleep. Deverill might consider his obligations toward her satisfied, but he had not seen the last of her yet. Not by a long shot.

Deverill slept late the following morning, for it had been a long night at Bow Street, seeing Baron Heward safely incarcerated in Newgate and making certain the charges against his own good name had been expunged. It was nearly dawn before he returned to Macky’s lodgings, and nearly noon before he awoke.

He lay there for a time, savoring his feeling of elation. For the first time in weeks, he was a free man. Free to make choices. Free to decide about his future.

He knew what he wanted: Antonia.

He couldn’t break his vow to himself. He could never give up his personal mission. And perhaps his penance would never truly be satisfied. But he couldn’t lose her.

Antonia was more precious to him than the richest pirate treasure. More precious than his own life. And he could no longer deny the truth: that he hungered for an existence not driven solely by duty and sacrifice. One with love and warmth and laughter . . . perhaps children.

He had a vivid image of Antonia swollen with his child, her bright eyes tender with love. The vision made him ache inside.

Whether or not they would ever have children, however, he wanted a future with her. And perhaps he could have one. Just possibly Antonia was right—that he had punished himself long enough. If so, then he could allow himself to reach for happiness. . . . Happiness with her.

Deverill shut his eyes, a burgeoning hope welling inside him.

Of course, he first had to convince her to marry him.
And then?
Then he would do his damnedest to win her love.

Preparing to call on Antonia, Deverill was in the middle of shaving when he received an unexpected caller of his own: Phineas Cochrane.

Admitted by Macky’s manservant, the barrister was asked to wait in the sitting room. When Deverill finished dressing and joined him, Cochrane rose and offered a hearty greeting and handshake.

Deverill noted that the elder man looked bleary-eyed after being up most of the night, yet his demeanor was as cheerful and bright as the sunny summer morning when he expressed satisfaction that events had turned out so well last evening.

“But I am certain you are wondering the purpose of my call,” the barrister said once they were seated, “so I will come straight to the point. I am here on a commission for my client, Miss Maitland.”

“Yes?” Deverill prodded politely.

“Miss Maitland feels that she owes you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Deverill, and wishes to express her appreciation for your services to her. Thus, she intends to sign over to you controlling interest of Maitland Shipping. Half the company, plus one share.”

Deverill felt himself stiffen. Whatever he had expected from Antonia, this was not it.

“You do not look pleased, sir,” Cochrane observed, scrutinizing him shrewdly.

“Because I am not,” Deverill replied. Puzzlement and suspicion were his first reactions. He could think of only two reasons why Antonia wished to turn over nearly half her vast fortune to him. Either this was her way of ending any moral obligation to him, so she would no longer be in his debt for coming to her rescue. Or she still wanted him to assume the directorship of her company.

“I could not possibly accept such a generous gift,” Deverill said firmly. “Nor do I want or expect Miss Maitland’s gratitude.”

“It is not solely gratitude, I assure you. She is convinced that her father would have wanted you to have command of his empire, to use as you see fit.”

Deverill’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want Antonia’s blasted shipping empire. He wanted
her.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Cochrane, but I think I must have a talk with Miss Maitland before we pursue this matter any further.”

After another few moments of stressing the same reply, he courteously ushered the barrister from the apartments. Yet no sooner had Cochrane left than Deverill received an even more surprising visitor: Emily, Lady Sudbury.

The young countess sailed into the sitting room, presented her fingers to Deverill to be kissed, and smiled charmingly up at him.

“I know it is not at all proper to visit a bachelor’s lodgings, Mr. Deverill, but my maid is waiting out in the corridor, and I will only be a moment. You see, I am worried about Antonia.”

Deverill raised an eyebrow but kept his tone dispassionate when he responded. “May I be so bold as to ask why, Lady Sudbury?”

“Because she is considering accepting a proposal from her former suitor, Lord Fenton, and it would be a
highly
unsuitable match. Fenton is a marquess and heir to a dukedom, true, and quite handsome in a Byronic sort of way. But he is the veriest coxcomb, with scarcely a brain in his head, and not a feather to fly with. He is clearly after Antonia for her fortune—which would not be so lamentable, considering how old and distinguished his title is, except that his inane witticisms would drive her mad within a fortnight of the wedding.”

Deverill felt his blood run cold, even though he tried not to show it. He knew Fenton—a foppish young whelp who was barely Antonia’s age. But it seemed strange that Lady Sudbury would have come to
him
with her complaints. “So why are you telling me this, my lady?”

“Why? Because I want you to stop her from throwing away her life, of course! Please, Mr. Deverill, you must do
something.
”

“What would you have me do?”

“I don’t know! But you are reputed to be a man of inventiveness and action. I have every faith you will think of a plan. You might even begin this afternoon. Antonia will be driving with Lord Fenton in the park at five.”

A muscle working in his jaw, Deverill turned his gaze to the window, where sunlight streamed in, the golden warmth a stark contrast to the chill of panic he was feeling.

“No need to show me out, Mr. Deverill,” Lady Sudbury said pleasantly. “I can manage.”

He scarcely heard her let herself out. Instead, Deverill stood there a long moment, a scowl on his face as he contemplated his next action.

His first inclination was to wring Antonia’s slender neck for making yet another foolish choice of bridegrooms. His second was to abduct her again so she couldn’t complete her scheme to land a nobleman for her husband.

Yet one way or another, Deverill vowed, he intended to stop her from wedding that titled fop—or anyone else but himself.

Although many of the Quality had left London and repaired to their country estates for the summer, Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five was still the place to see and be seen. On this lovely afternoon, the wide graveled avenue called Rotten Row was congested with elegant equipages and dashing riders and handsomely garbed pedestrians, all pausing to gossip and preen and exchange social niceties.

Ensconced in Lord Fenton’s bright yellow, high-perch phaeton, Antonia valiantly endured the marquess’s inane chatter while frequently biting her tongue to keep from replying unkindly. Never, however, had she been so keenly aware of how
insipid
this entire aspect of her life was.

No wonder Deverill held such amused disdain for society and all its pretensions. Compared to his noble cause of the Guardians, the genteel observances of the ton seemed so shallow and pointless, Antonia admitted.

But Emily had insisted that she accept Fenton’s invitation for a drive this afternoon—in order to show the ton that she was not in the least crushed by Heward’s treachery—while Emily set her mind to the problem of how Antonia could win Deverill’s heart.

At the moment, the only thing on Antonia’s mind was how she might escape Fenton’s company. That, and how much she would rather be with Deverill—

Just then her heart gave a fierce leap, for she had suddenly spied Deverill’s tall, powerful form on horseback among the distant throng, as if she had somehow conjured his presence. He was heading directly toward her, riding through the park at an alarming rate considering how crowded the Row was, sending unwary strollers scurrying from his determined path.

When he reached Fenton’s phaeton, Deverill abruptly halted his horse and regarded Antonia with dispassion. He caused her heart rate to skyrocket, however, when he reached out without warning and hauled her onto the front of his saddle.

Lord Fenton loudly voiced his objections—“I say now, sirrah!”—and stood up in protest, which unfortunately startled his high-strung pair of bays. Flung back into his seat when the carriage lunged forward, the young nobleman barely maintained his precarious balance enough to keep from toppling to the ground.

Ignoring both the flustered fop’s plight and the spectators’ gaping shock, Deverill settled Antonia sideways before him and spurred his horse off the gravel path and into a brisk canter, heading toward the Serpentine Lake in the distance. Forced to cling to his neck to keep from slipping, Antonia was uncertain whether she was more indignant or elated that Deverill was acting like a pirate, sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her off without so much as a by-your-leave.

Still not speaking, he rode swiftly across a grassy stretch to the lake’s edge, where he plunged his mount behind a glade of willows so that he and his “captive” were shielded from prying eyes. Only then did Deverill rein to a stop and sit staring down at her, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

Breathless, her heart beating wildly, Antonia stared back at him, trying to read his beautiful eyes. “I suppose you mean to tell me why you are behaving like a barbarian,” she finally managed to say unsteadily.

“I am preventing you from making another disastrous mistake,” he retorted, his tone wholly unrepentant. “You won’t be marrying that fop.”

“No?” Antonia raised a haughty eyebrow. “Pray, why not?”

“Because you will marry me.”

Hope soaring inside her, she carefully removed her arms from around Deverill’s neck and slid down from the saddle. Compelling her trembling limbs to move, she took several steps along the bank before turning back to him. “You expect me to marry you? Why?”

“Because I love you, vixen. And I’m damned sure I can’t live without you.”

“You
love
me?” Antonia echoed hoarsely, her eyes going wide.

“Yes, curse it, I love you. And I want you for my wife. You had best resign yourself, Antonia, since I won’t brook your refusal this time.”

When she stared up at him mutely in heart-swelling wonder, Deverill held her gaze and swung slowly down from his mount. Yet he kept his distance, pausing there by the water’s edge, holding the reins in his gloved fingers.

“I know you’re determined to wed a nobleman to fulfill your promise to your father,” Deverill began gruffly, “but he was wrong to ask it of you. A man’s worth is not in a title. Heward proved that quite thoroughly. And I think your father realized it in the end. He knew that honor and principles were more important than any lineage.”

“I agree,” Antonia murmured. “I came to the same conclusion myself last night.”

Watching her, Deverill twisted the reins in his hands. “If you’re set on maintaining your vaunted place in society, I’ll do whatever I must to see you remain there. I’ll even reconcile with my family, if that would help.”

He looked endearingly awkward; she had never seen Deverill so uncertain. It made her heart melt, while tears gathered hotly behind her eyes.

Antonia shook her head. “It would not help, Deverill. I don’t care about my place in society the way I once did.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Well, you will have to settle for me, because I am not giving you up. You
will
marry me, Antonia, whether you want to or not.”

Too overjoyed to speak, she forcibly kept herself from running to Deverill and throwing herself into his arms.

“I believe,” he continued more intensely, “I could have persuaded your father to accept me, had he lived. The Treylayne name is centuries old, and I actually have noble blood in my veins. And our children would have noble blood as well.”

“Our children?” That made her jaw go slack. “You want to have children?”

Deverill’s mouth slanted in a humorless smile. “Yes, I want to have children, princess—as long as you are their mother.”