At the Bride Hunt Ball Read online

  Madelyn forgot to breathe. No wonder the Devines were so sought after. Up close, whilst this particular Devine studied her untidy curls with his beautiful face, logical thought did not process. Truth be told, if he bent down to kiss her, she might do the unthinkable and go limp within his arms like a wet goose.

  Distant thunder rumbled like a boulder rolling down a hillside. She knew she should act more demure, that her gaze shouldn’t be so direct, only she was quite certain he meant to tell her something but thought better of it. He shook his head, barely, and the spell cast between them broke.

  “The invitees will be announced shortly,” he said quietly. “Once they’re publicly declared, there’s no turning back.” He looked away, a muscle working in his throat as he swallowed. Taking her hand, he linked her arm with his and led her toward the back of the mansion.

  To Madelyn’s relief, the clouds waited until they reached the door before soaking the earth again.

  Mr. Devine turned to bid her farewell as soon as they stepped inside. Gently, he took hold of her fingertips and kissed the air above her knuckles. His smile was tight, polite. As if she were already dismissed.

  Using the light from the bright fire in the kitchen hearth, Madelyn discerned the color of his eyes—an uncommon shade of sparkling blue, offset by an outer ring of dark blue. How did anyone manage to concentrate under his attention? They were quite utterly…mesmerizing. Thinking of her own brown eyes, she was almost envious.

  “Thank you,” she said, finally.

  His smile fell away, his gaze serious, distant. “No, no,” he said, his pensive gaze caressing her face, his mind clearly in another place. “Thank you for being so…refreshing.”

  Blinking, she jolted out of the heady enchantment. He thought her refreshing? A greedy swallow of cool lemonade after eating a dry biscuit was refreshing. Had she gone around the bend? What had she expected? That their shared glance was akin to love at first sight? The man was simply being courteous. Was she such a green girl to consider any show of kindness from a handsome man to mean he was enamored of her?

  Annoyed with herself, she broke into a polite grin of her own. At her smile, he turned, gesturing to a young maid whom he introduced as Anne. He proceeded to bark a few orders to the staff about what was to be done for Madelyn’s comfort. Catching the cook by a tap on her elbow, he pulled her aside, murmuring in her ear. At the cook’s nod, he turned and left the room.

  If the servants were at all surprised to find Mr. Devine in the Duke of Wolverest’s kitchen distributing orders, they made no mention of it. They bustled about placing glasses of wine on silver trays and arranging various sugared cakes on plates and three-tiered servers.

  Others folded linen napkins far from where the cook stood merrily rolling dough onto a large worktable. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman looked perfectly happy to have all the organized chaos zipping around her kitchen.

  Anne urged Madelyn to sit on a stool at one end of the table so she could take care of the wounds to her palms.

  “Oh, miss! I see you’ll be leaving in a sennight.”

  Madelyn returned her attention to Anne. “Pardon?”

  “Wolverest Castle, miss,” Anne replied. “You’ll be sure to have a grand time, if I may say so. The grounds are quite lovely.” She unfolded the handkerchief Mr. Devine had pressed into Madelyn’s palm in the garden. “There’s an orangery, a splendid topiary garden, and a gleaming ballroom fit for a…”

  Anne continued to speak, but Madelyn was no longer listening. Glancing down, she groaned. Tucked inside was the invitation Mr. Ashton had failed to present himself. Exasperated, she shook her head. “Oh, that Mr. Devine.”

  “Mr. Devine?” Anne asked, wide-eyed.

  “Yes,” Madelyn said. “’Twas his name, no?”

  “N—” Anne gasped as the cook bustled past, elbowing her in the ribs. “Y-Yes, of course, Miss Haywood, Mr. Devine he is,” she rasped, rubbing her side.

  Trailing her fingertip across the red wax seal, Madelyn whispered to the now blushing maid, “He’s as sly as a fox.”

  “Aye, miss. That he is.”

  Chapter 2

  “You’re throwing me to the wolves?” Madelyn’s heartbeat tripped as she swallowed past a lump of panic.

  With a thump and a lurch, their modest carriage rumbled down Grosvenor Square, away from the speculative glances and hissing whispers of the Devine dinner party guests and on toward the Haywoods’ decidedly less opulent residence across town.

  “Calm your nerves, child,” her stepmother replied from the seat across from her. Priscilla’s short gray and blond curls bounced with a forgotten youthfulness as a carriage wheel found a loose cobblestone in the road. “Certainly, I’ll not throw you to them.”

  A relieved sigh whooshed out of Madelyn. “Thank the good Lord…”

  “More like…dangle you in front of their gaping, salivating mouths.”

  Madelyn eyed the carriage door and contemplated jumping out.

  “Don’t look so panicked,” Priscilla advised. “It’s not a flattering look for you.”

  Madelyn closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Priscilla’s insults never penetrated. Or rather, she’d like to think they didn’t. “But I do not wish to attend,” she managed calmly.

  The baroness waved away her plea. “You should count yourself fortunate I intercepted you before you had a chance to rejoin the party. To think you ran from an invitation,” Priscilla said, giving a condescending huff of laughter. “Do you realize what a great honor it is even to be on the list, much less invited to Wolverest?”

  Madelyn looked down in her lap, folding the invitation Mr. Devine had smoothly tucked within her palm into another small, thick square. Maybe if she kept folding the thing it would simply disappear, she thought with a grim smile.

  “Your behavior was atrocious. You should count yourself lucky His Grace missed the entire episode. He arrived for the formal announcement of invitees sometime after you had disappeared. I’ve no doubt had he or his sister witnessed your outlandish behavior our invitation to Wolverest would’ve been withdrawn.” She folded her slim arms across her chest, studying Madelyn with a cutting glare.

  A decade ago, when her father titillated the ton by marrying his lover, her new stepmother was known as a striking beauty who slinked across ballrooms with provocative grace. Blessed with beauty, but cursed with a sour demeanor, Priscilla grew into a resentful, envious creature in the years after Jonathon Haywood’s death. Never satisfied with her lot in life as an aging widow with depleting funds, bitterness ate away at what youthfulness was left. Though her shiny blond hair had dulled with gray and the wrinkles of a frown never left her face no matter her mood, Priscilla still dressed and arranged her hair like a woman half her age.

  “Just look at yourself.” She indicated Madelyn’s hem with a sharp nod of her head. “Must you forever be such an impetuous creature? Look! You’ve ruined my gown. You’ve even managed to burst the seam under your bosom…”

  As her stepmother droned on, Madelyn blocked out the steady stream of her inadequacies. Looking down, she absently noted the gaping tear just under her breasts. It must have started out as a mere slit for her not to have noticed it before and then grew from the strain—the borrowed gown was too small for her curvy figure. She remembered how Mr. Devine’s eyes had drifted there.

  “…and to think I lent it to you with the hopes you’d make a fine impression,” the baroness finished, turning to stare out the window. “How are we ever to compete with the likes of you as our bait?”

  “Bait? Me? How can you expect—”

  “How can you refuse? You would be a laughingstock to shun an invitation such as this. To be sure, the scandal sheets would read heavy with your antics again. I cannot withstand any further ridicule. Money is dwindling, Madelyn. We cannot expect to be ever fully enveloped within the bosom of the upper crust. We’re simply tolerated as it is. However…” She turned, pinning her cool gaze on Madelyn. “…I can and sha
ll use you.”

  “What of our agreement?” Madelyn asked, dreading her stepmother’s answer. “Father had said I was to return home to Willowbrooke.”

  “It was only a suggestion. If you recall, as the cottage wasn’t entailed to his estate, your father had presented it to me years ago on our wedding day. And I have no intention of allowing you to stay there.”

  The carriage floor seemed to drop away from Madelyn’s feet. “But you…you said this was my last Season. That I could live at the cottage.”

  “I changed my mind. I might even sell the pokey old thing.”

  “It holds no significance to you and means everything to me.”

  “You’re barely twenty. I’ll not waste your potential by letting you fade into spinsterhood. Is that really what you want? To hide away in high country with no company except for servants while you spend your afternoons cutting pictures for the bourgeois?” She made a snipping motion with two fingers.

  “I’m a profile miniaturist,” Madelyn corrected.

  “Whatever you want to call it.” Priscilla shrugged. “No one has become rich from being one.”

  Since her coming out, Madelyn had been mercilessly thrown in the path of every available nobleman in the peerage. Her stepmother even hinted she should allow certain “liberties” with men of substance to entice them to propose. She refused, of course, but Priscilla had assured her that this behavior was normal, that even she had approached the marriage mart at the time of her own debut with the same unprincipled tenacity. This, however, did not comfort Madelyn in the least.

  “Really, Madelyn,” Priscilla said, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk. “What woman of good sense would refuse an opportunity to snare a Devine?”

  “Me,” Madelyn answered matter-of-factly. “You might find me completely out of my head, but I would prefer a safe man, perhaps a country gentleman, who just might fancy my company to that of his mistress.”

  Priscilla shrugged, clearly unmoved by Madelyn’s declaration. “Well, I have a plan. Whilst the other girls are tripping over one another, vying for the attention of the younger pup, you’ll pull the rug from underneath them all when you snag the duke himself!”

  Clearly the woman had stepped out of reality and into a realm of her own making—one that inspired title-hungry stepmothers into thinking a big nobody such as she could attract a fastidious, ill-tempered duke.

  Madelyn shook her head in disbelief. “It is Lord Tristan who is choosing a wife. The duke cannot make his intentions more plain. He means not to marry.”

  “Humph. We will endeavor to change his mind. Honestly, I don’t see why this comes as such a shock to you. A chance of landing a duke is every young girl’s dream. A veritable happily-ever-after.”

  “I can hardly see how luring a man into an unwanted marriage could bring happiness for either party.”

  “Maybe so, but just think, you have a chance to be a duchess! Think of the prestige and respect it will bring us! And the money. Oh, just think of the gowns!”

  It took great strength to sit still and not lunge across the carriage, grab her stepmother by her perky little nose and squeeze until she admitted her insanity.

  Instead, she sat forward, staring intently into Priscilla’s eyes, hoping simple logic would set her stepmother on the path of good sense. “I must ask you,” she started, her voice low, “have you seen the sort of women the duke consorts with? Utterly flawless. They smile, laugh, and pout with precision. Thin, upturned noses, cold eyes always patronizing. I daresay, the immaculate creatures probably all employ bejeweled chamberpots—”

  “Yes, but you were chosen. I can’t believe our luck myself, but the fact remains. Someone overlooked your inelegance and believed you might interest the younger Devine.”

  Shoulders slumping, Madelyn swallowed hard, startled by the sting Priscilla’s words brought forth. Her stepmother was indeed a fool if she believed she would go along with her twisted plan.

  Besides being a practical, sensible woman, Madelyn was well aware that she didn’t possess the physical attributes to lure a confirmed bachelor into an urgent desire to be wed. She was clumsy, graceless, and known throughout society since the year of her debut for making hasty decisions often resulting in bodily pain—hers or someone else’s. Not all of them were her fault, of course. Sir William’s ankle wouldn’t have been sprained had he believed her when she informed him that waltzing wasn’t her forte.

  “I will take my rightful place in society,” Priscilla announced bitterly. “I deserve it. And if I must use you or withhold things from you to get what I want, so be it. If you want to return to the cottage, you’re going to have to do as I please and snare that duke. At least try, Maddie.”

  “You’ve inflated hopes,” Madelyn said on a loud sigh, which made the tear under her bosom rip a bit farther. She should have known that Priscilla would use her attachment to Willowbrooke as clout for her own personal gain. It left her with little choice. If her presence was needed to secure a residence at the cottage, she’d go to Wolverest, only she wouldn’t be happy about it. She knew very well that Priscilla could go back on her word, but she simply had to take the chance. She had been born there, grew there, lived and loved there, far from the society that snickered behind their silk fans about her American mother’s questionable comportment. In fact, her Yorkshire home carried all her memories of her beloved mother.

  She looked up from her lap to find her stepmother watching her closely—which was never good.

  “You owe me,” Priscilla nearly growled.

  “Whatever for?” Madelyn asked, her tone incredulous.

  “For refusing Lord Rothbury’s suit. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered you gave away what was your best offer as of yet. The man is an earl.”

  “The man is a cad.”

  “They all are. And now this opportunity falls into our lap and you fault me for it? Just think of what we could accomplish!” Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “With my help, I’ll turn you into quite the tempting treat for the duke. His Grace shan’t be able to keep his eyes off of you!”

  A thought popped into Madelyn’s mind. She knew who the other six invitees were: the Fairbourne twins, the infamous flaxen-haired daughters of a powerful marquis; Miss Laura Ellis, another blond, dainty in all respects; Madelyn’s cousin Harriet Beauchamp, a beautiful brunette with lovely eyes the shape of almonds; Julienne Campbell, a raven-haired beauty with untitled parentage, but from a wealthy, respected Scottish family with lineage almost as ancient as the Devines’. And she herself, the seventh and final invitee. But she had skipped one. Who was the sixth?

  She vaguely remembered discussing who it could have been with Charlotte just before Mr. Ashton…

  Her mouth fell open. Opening her palm, her eyes narrowed as they settled on the folded invitation. She recalled her friend’s tight-fisted grip around the same crumpled white shape back in the Devines’ ballroom.

  “Who was the sixth invitee? Do you know?” Madelyn blurted out the questions.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Priscilla shook her head in a patronizing manner. “I can’t wait to tell you for you shan’t believe the name tumbling from my lips!”

  “Pray, tell me,” Madelyn said, suspecting she already knew the answer by her stepmother’s response.

  “Miss Charlotte Greene! Who would have ever thought? Now there’s one to stump the betting books at White’s!”

  “That’s not fair,” Madelyn said quietly. “She has the same chance as anyone.” She closed her fist around the invitation again and inwardly groaned. Charlotte actually liked Lord Tristan. The sweet girl was probably in raptures upon receiving her invitation, but instead of seeking her out to share her excitement, Charlotte felt compelled to restrain her enthusiasm because of her own obvious dislike of the whole affair. Now she had to go to Wolverest. Someone had to protect Charlotte. Sweet, trusting Charlotte. Those wolves would gobble her up in one bite.

  For reasons unknown to Madelyn, the i
mage of Mr. Devine kneeling before her in the garden entered her wayward thoughts. With the wind tousling his black, rakish locks as trees swooped and dipped behind him in the wind, she thought he had quite the handle on his own wolfish charms. And he had tricked her. It seemed that an untitled Devine was equally as dangerous as a titled one.

  Although, she thought with a pensive tilt of her head, he did seem genuinely concerned for her wellbeing. Attentive…

  Oh dear. What sort of backbone did she possess? He was just another scoundrel and they were all the same. She had come to that conclusion after Lord Rothbury. She had vowed then to never allow herself to entertain the idea that she—or anyone, for that matter—could reform a rake.

  Madelyn closed her eyes for a moment, inwardly cringing. She couldn’t secure her dearest friend’s safety from hundreds of miles away. There was no way around it; she simply had to attend the ball. She couldn’t sit back and let Charlotte make a dreadful mistake.

  Settling into her seat, she leaned her head against the frame of the windowpane, her traitorous mind sinking into the blue depths of a daydream—a shade remarkably similar to the eyes of Mr. Devine.

  Chapter 3

  Yorkshire

  One week later

  Gabriel took one look at Miss Haywood and instantly regretted inviting her.

  From one of the tall windows of his private office that overlooked the front terrace, he had surveyed the relentless procession of carriages pass through the two-story gatehouse since the hour of ten. Their guests were arriving one atop another within the inner courtyard, making him suspect they all had considered it a veritable race to be the first welcomed into his ancestral home.