At the Bride Hunt Ball Page 4

  For a moment his mood darkened at this intrusion into his private world, but it was of his own making and simply had to be done. He reminded himself he’d predicted the sense of invasion, the orderliness teetering on a peak of chaos. However, what he did not anticipate, Gabriel mused, was the sense of impending dread settling in his bones as he stared at Miss Haywood stepping down from the Greenes’ carriage.

  He didn’t believe a bloody word she said about not wanting to marry his brother. A young woman of moderate means and full possession of her sanity would never run from an invitation others would do anything short of murder to obtain. Indeed, her aversion to being a Devine bride could be part of a marital strategy, he thought. Perhaps she had hopes Tristan wouldn’t be able to resist such a challenge.

  Hell, he was scarcely able to stop himself from pulling her against him in his garden in London and brushing his mouth against hers. Strikingly beautiful, she was not. However, he had to admit she was adorable in such a beguiling way he had half a mind to say it astounded him.

  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he remembered that evening and how her rich, burgundy locks tumbled from the pile atop her head. Certainly, she wasn’t the most graceful of creatures. In fact, she was wholly unacceptable. And full of flaws. If she were his ward, he’d hire a team of finishing governesses and lock them all in Wolverest’s tallest tower for months, maybe even a year.

  Gabriel reached back, massaging the back of his neck in frustration. Miss Haywood had a reputation scattered with clumsy happenings at public functions, which he had begrudgingly deemed permissible, and a bold stepmother who nearly had her ward compromised a number of times. “She is a shameful, vexing creature who cannot dance or even play,” his Aunt Eugenia had declared—repeatedly. By those accounts Miss Haywood’s name should not have remained on the list. But Rosalind insisted the chit be placed there, claiming to admire a frank openness in her gaze and an intriguing sense of the unexpected, and, by God, his sister was spot on.

  Gabriel shook his head in bemusement. Why the hell did he give in to Rosalind? Miss Haywood did not belong here.

  He took a step closer to the tall window, heat from the afternoon sun warming his face through the glass. Miss Haywood stood there on the cobbled drive, a serene smile upon her lips, her round, dark eyes giving the impression she hid a deeply sensual nature. It was unintentional, for sure. Had the silly chit known she possessed such a bewitching gaze, he was sure she would have learned to use it by now to gain numerous advantages in life.

  With his back to the study door, he heard his brother enter, the sound of his footsteps telling him Tristan headed straight for the fireplace.

  “Let us review our agreement,” Gabriel threw over his shoulder.

  “Spare me the idiocy of details,” Tristan remarked from his position in front of the gilt-framed mirror above the mantel. He stood dusting imaginary lint from his shoulders, but Gabriel knew what his little brother was actually doing: Tristan Everett Devine was inventing things to do that would award him more time to admire his own reflection.

  “I realize I cannot foist maturity on you, but damn it all, stop using your banal criticisms as a crutch to keep from taking a bride.” Gabriel frowned at his ridiculous brother, who was now examining his teeth.

  “I only base my scale of judgment by your example. Every man has his own preferences.”

  “Preferences? You find a flaw with every marriageable woman who crosses your path. This one too chatty, too pale, too skinny, too plump, too short, too tall,” Gabriel finished, nearly running out of breath. “You agreed to be less discriminating.”

  “Come, come,” Tristan drawled. “That’s certainly no way to talk to the man who agreed to give up a life of content debauchery to make certain the title remains in our grasp. Besides, if you will recall, there always seems to be a stunning beauty by your side. You are as guilty as I.”

  Gabriel’s scowl deepened. “I do not mislead them with inane flummery.”

  Tristan gave a short bark of laughter. “No. You drop them like a fireplace poker left to close to the hearth should you spot a freckle.” He dug in his waistcoat pocket, but came up empty-handed for whatever it was he was looking for.

  “I don’t like freckles,” Gabriel grumbled, remembering the ones on Miss Haywood’s nose. And the pale, tiny one just above the corner of her upper lip.

  “Do you have any more of those peppermint drops?” Tristan asked.

  Without answering, Gabriel turned to his massive mahogany desk and opened the top middle drawer. He grabbed a handful of the candy and tossed it atop his desk. One rolled off and fell soundlessly to the rug. He shook his head, then remembered his task and turned back to the set of windows overlooking the front lawn.

  The Marquis of Fairbourne was handing down his flaxen-haired twin daughters from their carriage. As three servants rallied around a second conveyance laden with trunks, Fairbourne linked a daughter to each arm, puffing out his chest with apparent pride.

  Gabriel smiled grimly. The man obviously thought he had this thing already won—he did have double the chances. Indeed, and double the worry.

  “Ah, the twins,” Tristan remarked from behind Gabriel’s shoulder.

  “Remember your gentlemanly manners,” Gabriel warned in a slight mocking tone.

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Both,” Gabriel muttered as he stared past the twins. Miss Haywood was in the peculiar process of removing pins from her bonnet. What the devil was she doing?

  “They are rather delicious looking, aren’t they?”

  Gabriel nodded absently, answering a question he wasn’t listening to. A footman moved, obstructing his view. Impatience pricked at his nerves. Finally the robust man stepped aside revealing a cheery looking Miss Madelyn Haywood patting the locks tumbling from the loose bun atop her head. Didn’t she know a lady wasn’t to remove her bonnet in public?

  But the disapproving furrow in his brow gradually relaxed. In the daylight, her dark red hair looked positively glorious. The very shade of a glass of claret held up to firelight. Ah, hell. He decided to forgive her. They were in the country, after all.

  Finishing her task, she stood with one gloved hand shielding her eyes from the sun, the other resting on her hip, the yellow ribbons of her bonnet entwined within her fingers. The bonnet swung back and forth in the breeze, batting against the sky blue muslin of her dress as her assessing gaze took in Wolverest Castle.

  “I’ve heard they’ve a particular fondness for Frenchmen.”

  “Who?” Gabriel asked, the word mostly air. He suddenly had no idea what his brother was talking about.

  “Who else? The Fairbourne twins.” Tristan popped one of the peppermint candies into his mouth. “If they like zee French accents, I think I weel ’ave to indulge them, non?”

  Gabriel closed his eyes momentarily, shaking his head. Tristan, on occasion, could be downright absurd.

  His brother chuckled at his own jest, swaggering away from the window. As he passed a glass-paned bookcase, he paused to use the reflection it provided to smooth his dark hair away from his face. “Where’s that French poetry book Rosie was reading last night?”

  “I have no idea,” Gabriel answered. With any luck, Rosalind anticipated Tristan’s ploy of seduction and threw it in the pond.

  “Pity,” Tristan said ruefully. He swept his fingers across his forehead. “I do know, however, that I don’t envy you and the unsightly mark on your face.” The bruise had faded to a hideous shade of chartreuse. “How’d you come about that again?”

  “I had a…a mishap in the garden back in London,” he answered distractedly. He continued to watch Miss Haywood.

  “Brother? If you haven’t noticed, the house is rapidly filling with women who desire my attention and I must be on my way,” Tristan said, straightening. “Quite a striking bunch, the whole lot. My only regret is I must choose only one.”

  Gabriel turned to find Tristan now leaning inside the door frame. “Use you
r head,” he began. “Do not show favoritism. Do not insult anyone. Make your preferences and aversions known only to Rosalind and me. If you happen to make your choice before midnight on the night of the ball, you would be wise to keep it to yourself. Again, there is to be no indecent behavior, Tristan, no fake French accents, and for God’s sake show some restraint.”

  “I will if you will,” Tristan remarked casually as he inspected his fingernails. “Are you done? I’d like to get a head start and seek them out, you know.”

  “Seek them out?” Gabriel chuckled. “You just might have to hide.”

  Tristan stood, straightening his coat. “Well, thank God you’re not choosing a bride, Gabriel. With all your rules of manner and dress, no doubt you’d kill her with boredom.”

  Gabriel’s smile froze, then fell into a scowl. His little brother had no idea of the gravity of his flip comment.

  With an exaggerated bow, Tristan quit the room with a jaunty step into the hall. And a good thing he left when he did, Gabriel thought—just before he was about to throttle him.

  But it would have been wrong to blame his brother for his poorly chosen words. Tristan was too young to remember the happy, vibrant woman that was their mother…and how their father changed everything with his thoughtlessness.

  A high-pitched shout pulled Gabriel’s attention back to the window. He looked to the grounds for a dog, for it certainly sounded akin to a canine’s yip.

  But it was no dog. It was Miss Haywood.

  Her pretty little bonnet went aloft as she ran to and fro, flapping her gown as if it were on fire. Miss Greene tried desperately to keep up with her friend’s mad dash, but Miss Haywood was just too quick.

  “What the bloody hell…” Gabriel took a step closer to the window and blinked a few times after he thought the crazed woman accidentally afforded him—and the small crowd forming about her—a view of her shapely calves, not to mention her knees.

  She continued to flap about the drive in such a frenzied manner, she crossed the short expanse of lawn, attracting curious onlookers who began to follow.

  She was headed straight for the pond. He watched her edge closer to where the lawn sloped toward the water. If the girl wasn’t careful, she’d fall in.

  And given what he’d heard had happened at the Montagues’ garden soiree last spring, she didn’t know how to swim.

  He swore, running his hand through his already tousled hair. “Doesn’t that woman ever stay put?” Turning away from the window, he strode out the door. He had wanted to divulge her of his true identity privately before she embarrassed herself by addressing him improperly in front of everyone. But he couldn’t let the chit drown either.

  In the hall, Gabriel spotted his butler standing like a marble sentinel by the open front doors. Trunks and bags of every size and shape were heaped in a pile across from him as servants rallied to take them up to the correct rooms.

  “Your Grace,” the butler intoned, his face expressionless. “There seems to be a disturbance on the lawn.”

  “Yes, Gerard. I’m aware of it.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Order a bath to be readied for Miss Haywood.” When the tall, silver-haired butler acknowledged the order with a slow nod, Gabriel strode out the front doors, down the multilevel steps of the terrace and onto the drive.

  An image of Miss Haywood lounging in the hip bath, water lapping against her glistening skin, rose unbidden in his mind.

  With a shake of his head, he pushed the thought out of his head. If he didn’t curb his imagination, he’d need a dunk in the frigid pond as well.

  One moment she was admiring the lavender-lined path snaking around the castle—the long, grayish-purple sprigs bouncing up and down as heavy bees collected their fragrant pollen—and in the next she was jumping about like a madwoman because one of those pesky little creatures found its way under and up her gown.

  “A bee. A bee. There’s a bee,” Madelyn cried in a frantic whisper, rushing about.

  “Where?” Priscilla spun about, looking. “There’s no bee.”

  “Under my gown,” Madelyn cried, flapping at her skirts. “It’ll sting me.”

  “Well—then let it,” Priscilla said through gritted teeth. “Better to stand still and comport yourself as a lady than to flail about like a loon.”

  “Are you jesting?” Madelyn asked in disbelief, shaking and swatting her gown as she crossed the lawn. “The last time I was stung, my hand remained swollen, red, and painful for five days. There isn’t a salve in existence to save me.”

  “Stand still so I can help you,” Charlotte urged, following Madelyn.

  “The Fairbournes are looking at us,” Priscilla whined, trailing behind them. She looked over her shoulder. “And following us.”

  “I say, young lady!” Lord Fairbourne called out. “What is the matter?”

  The baroness smiled tightly. “Not a thing, my lord.” She whipped around, growling through her teeth. “Madelyn, I demand you stop this instant.”

  And Madelyn did—directly at the top of a gentle slope.

  “Wait, wait…” She stood perfectly still for the barest of a second. “I think…it’s gone.” A sigh of relief poured out of her. “It is.” Her shoulders easing down, she turned around, only now noticing how the lawn slanted sharply to a large pond. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t fa—Yeeow!” An acute jab stabbed her left buttock.

  She whipped around, swatting at her bottom, then mistakenly stepped on her hem. And then she fell, or rather, rolled, directly into the lake.

  Priscilla screamed. Charlotte gasped. And Madelyn, dragging herself out of the knee-deep water, tossed herself upon the grassy bank and broke into a laugh.

  “Oh, Maddie!” Charlotte skidded down the hill. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Madelyn sputtered, wiping at a swag of hair that had fallen into her eyes. “C-Cold. But f-fine. At least the water wasn’t very deep over here.”

  “I should have known you’d do something like this,” Priscilla hissed. “You clumsy cow.”

  “I’ll get help,” Charlotte said in a quiet voice, throwing a disapproving glare at the baroness.

  Madelyn looked up, noticing the small crowd forming on the crest of the slope. The Fairbourne twins smirked down their noses at her—though she had to admit they had no choice, as they were standing above her. And their father, the ruddy-faced Lord Fairbourne, blinked at her as if she were a newly discovered bug specimen.

  Standing, Madelyn gathered handfuls of sopping fabric in her hands and began to ring herself out. She looked up from her task to see a young footman start down the hill. He took one look at the front of her gown and turned on his heel. “If—If you’d like, miss,” he said with his back to her, “I’ll fetch a blanket.” And then he took off running.

  “Thank you,” Madelyn replied, a question in her eyes. She wondered what made the servant so uncomfortable. Of course, it probably wasn’t every day that a silly woman jumped in their pond. Or…she looked down. The water had plastered the gown to her skin, making the pale blue fabric appear wholly see-through. Each rib bone, each breast, was shockingly visible in startling detail to anyone who would care to notice.

  Wrapping an arm across her chest for modesty’s sake, she began to trudge up the hill, her sopping skirts clinging to her thighs and hampering her progress.

  She realized that any normal young lady would be perfectly mortified to have fallen in a pond after such dramatics in front of a half-dozen people. And really, she expected to be more embarrassed tomorrow than she felt right now. But somehow she couldn’t summon the humiliation. Maybe it was because she didn’t care what these people thought. Or perhaps it was because after an exhausting ride in a carriage for four days with her stepmother and her wealth of criticisms, the splash in the pond felt downright revitalizing. Or maybe…she wasn’t surprised. From an early age she had accepted the fact that things just happened to her. Yes. That was it. Now if she hadn’
t fallen into the pond, that would have been a surprise.

  She stopped short when a rather large-sized pair of polished Hessians came into view.

  Her gaze traveled up the length of the man’s legs, from his knees to his athletically toned thighs covered in fawn-colored breeches—which were sinfully snug—and stopped somewhere around his lean hips and flat stomach.

  “Why is it, Miss Haywood,” came a familiar deep voice, “that every time I meet you, you’re quite damp and speckled with mud?”

  Never the one to be shy, Madelyn raised her head to meet Mr. Devine’s beautiful stare, which promptly stunned her to silence. He was so remarkably handsome. How in the world did his acquaintances manage to concentrate on anything in his presence? She couldn’t say anything. Her mouth just opened and shut like a fish. She probably smelled like one too, now that she thought of it.

  After a moment longer than she would have liked, she managed a wobbly smile. But the effect she hoped it had on him was ruined when the same wet swag of hair fell again, covering her face. He chuckled softly, smoothing it out of the way for her.

  She had half expected to see him here, as he was related to the Devines and they were certainly going to invite more than the potential brides and their families to even out the numbers, but she would have preferred he didn’t observe her so…so soggy.

  His eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter. “What exactly was the problem, dear lady?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Was there a problem? Or did you just feel like going for a swim?”

  “Y-Yes—I mean no. There was a bee.”

  The footman appeared, saving her from further stuttering, and handed her the blanket. Mr. Devine pulled it from her loose hold and wrapped it snugly around her shoulders.

  “I’m angry with you,” she declared, suddenly remembering he had tricked her with the invitation.

  “And why is that?” he asked after he finished wrapping her up.

  “You snuck the invitation into my grasp.” She sniffled. “Did you think I’d forgotten?”