The Black Widow (29 page)

She tilted her head back far enough that she could look into his eyes, and in her eyes he could see such anguish, such pain, that he began to doubt that he knew anything at all. Could he actually compel her to marry him if she truly did not wish to? Was he such a brute that he could force a woman into a distasteful marriage?

“Do you truly wish to marry me?” she asked, and he mentally cursed himself for having made such a botch of things that she did not even know how deeply he loved her.

“I cannot ride, and I know nothing about horses,” she continued, “and my needlework is only adequate for hemming sheets, and I do not sing or play the pianoforte, and ... and all I am really good at is growing plants—”

He stopped her with a kiss—a very long and deeply satisfying kiss. “I have been such a fool,” he said. “Please forgive me. I should have told you long ago that I love you, but I was too witless to recognize what I was feeling. It was only when I thought you might be gone forever that I realized how deeply I love you.’’

She was beginning to look a bit more cheerful, but there was still anxiety to be seen in her eyes. Wanting more than anything in the world to reassure her of his eternal devotion, he said recklessly, “If I had to choose between you and my horses, I would give them all away without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Oh, I would never ask you to do a thing like that! You must not even think for a moment that I would entertain such a notion!”

Which was one only of the many reasons he loved her so much, and he was about to tell her that when there was a knocking at the door and Collier stuck his head into the room.

“I hate to interrupt,” he said with a smile that revealed not the slightest trace of reluctance, “but I have been nominated to be the one to inform you that betrothed though you may be, still the proprieties must be observed. In short, you must leave off your cuddling for another week. The cook has laid out a splendid repast in the morning room, and the rest of our guests are already assembled there. But if you can postpone breaking your fast for a few more minutes, Demetrius, there are one or two things I wish to discuss with you.”

After one last quick kiss, Meribe obediently went to join the others, and as soon as she was gone, Collier began to present his case.

“I know you have made it clear that you disapprove of my spending money I do not have, but I fear I must again ask you to advance some of my next quarter’s allowance. Stevens and I did our best to persuade him, but Rudd adamantly refused to pay us a penny in advance. As things now stand, I am afraid he is not likely to reimburse us for the rent of the coach, nor does he show any sign of wishing to fork over the usual fee that Stevens charges per day.’’

Demetrius clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You know very well, nodcock, that I shall pay all the charges and count myself lucky that you showed such clever initiative.”

Collier grinned. “Actually, I was counting on you to offer to do so. And now we come to my second proposition, which unfortunately I am not as sure you will approve of.’’

He paused, but Demetrius merely waited without saying anything, even though he was ninety-nine percent sure he knew exactly what his little brother was going to ask for.

“I still wish to be a soldier,” Collier said bluntly. “I shall not make any idle threats about taking the king’s shilling, but I do want you to know that if you still refuse to buy me my colors, I shall live here at Thorverton Hall like a monk and save every farthing of my allowance until I have the required sum.”

“That will not be necessary,” Demetrius said. “On your birthday I shall purchase your commission for you. But,” he added as his brother began to grin, “I shall not intercede with our mother.’’

“Are you saying that I must gain her permission before you give me the money?’’ Collier asked dubiously.

“Not at all,” Demetrius said, and this time he was the one grinning broadly. “All I am saying is that you must be the one to tell her what your intentions are.”

“Well, at least if—that is to say, after—I manage to face her tears and reproaches and recriminations, not even Napoleon himself will be able to frighten me.”

* * * *

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the Reverend Mr. Goodman Thirsk intoned, and immediately such a vast sigh of relief went up from the crowd of friends and servants assembled in the chapel that Demetrius realized they had all, each and every one of them, been secretly afraid that a fatal curse might still strike him down at the last minute.

As he had always insisted, he himself was not a superstitious man, but looking down at the radiant face of his bride, he had to admit that he had done nothing to deserve such a marvelous wife, such a delightful companion, such a joy and treasure.

It was sheer good fortune that had brought them together, and he acknowledged himself to be the luckiest of men.

About to leave his room, Thomas Hennessey paused in the doorway and watched with lifted eyebrow as Humphrey Swinton tapped gently on the door of Miss Phillipa Prestwich’s room.

It was none of his business what the older couple was up to, and he shouldn’t—he really should not—meddle. But he knew he was going to. Closing the door until it was open only the merest crack, he deliberately minimized his chances of being seen.

Now that the murderer had been taken back to London to stand trial, Devon had become a rather boring place to be, and Thomas was resolved to take his amusement wherever he could find it.

“You!” Miss Phillipa barked out with loathing upon opening her door. “How dare you even approach me!”

“I want to talk with you privately,” Swinton said with more resolution than Thomas had given him credit for having. “Now that your niece has married my nephew, it is time for us to bury the hatchet—or at least, if you are not willing to forgive and forget, which
I
am fully prepared to do for their sake, then we should be able to pretend that we have reached some measure of tolerance for each other.’’

“You are asking me to pretend to like you? You, the person I most loathe in all the world?”

“All I am asking is that you be a little more civil when we are in public,” Swinton replied firmly. Then, much to Thomas’s delight, voices were heard approaching along the corridor, and with a look of dismay, the older man pushed his way into Miss Phillipa Prestwich’s bedroom, closing the door behind him.

The possibilities inherent in this situation were so delightful, Thomas waited only until the two chattering maids had gone by before he slipped along the corridor and pressed his ear against the panel of the door. Whatever Swinton and Miss Prestwich were saying, they were speaking too low for him to hear, but it mattered not. They were about to be “discovered in a compromising situation,” and the ensuing scene was bound to be amusing if not enlightening.

Boldly opening the door, Thomas so startled the older couple that they did not even think to ask what business he had bursting into a lady’s room unannounced.

“Ecod,” he cried, feigning total astonishment, “Swinton, what the deuce are you doing ... but I beg your pardon, madam, you and ... that is to say, are you? ... is he? ... oh, my ... oh, dear ... oh, this is dreadful!”

Quickly putting distance between himself and Miss Prestwich, Swinton tugged at his waistcoat, looking as miserable as if he were facing a firing squad. “Now, see here, Hennessey, it is not what you think. My intentions are strictly honorable.” Turning to his longtime nemesis, he gulped, then blurted out, “Miss Prestwich, willyoudomethehonorofmarryingme?’’

She looked at him with undiluted loathing. “Almost, you had persuaded me you had reformed, but now you are at it once more. Your persistence in forcing your suit does you no credit, I’ll have you know. Do not ever, ever speak to me again.” With a last glare for Thomas, she stalked out of the room.

“‘Once more’? Have you perhaps offered for her before?” Thomas asked with unfeigned interest.

“Of course,” Swinton replied with a scowl, “and that is why that wretched woman—that contemptible spinster—has hated me all these years. Thirty years ago I laid my heart at her feet, and she ... she did not even do me the courtesy of refusing politely. No, not that despicable female. From the way she acted on that fateful day, you would have thought I was offering her a slip on the shoulder, and ever since then she has acted as if
I
was the one who did something wrong.”

“She’s obviously touched in the upper works,” Thomas commented cheerfully. “Otherwise she would have jumped at the chance to nab a fine fellow like you. And then where would you be?”

Straightening up, Swinton began to grin himself. “Married is where I would be—and doubtless living under the cat’s paw.” He strolled over to the door, then turned to wait for Thomas to catch up. “Do you know, Hennessey, as much as that woman hates all men, it’s me she hates most of all. Now, what does that tell you?”

For what was surely the first time in his life, Thomas could not think of a single clever reply.

“Why, it tells you that I am more manly than other men,” Swinton explained proudly.

“Just so,” Thomas agreed. “I could not have put it better myself.’’

§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §

This book is dedicated to my father,
Weldon Nicholas Baker,
who always believed I could do
whatever I set out to do.

Charlotte Louise Dolan attended Eastern Illinois University and earned a masters degree in German from Middlebury College. She has lived throughout the United States and in Canada, Taiwan, Germany and the Soviet Union. She is the mother of three children.

Copyright © 1992 by Charlou Dolan

Originally published by Signet [ISBN 0451173538]

Electronically published in 2013 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

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.