The Heiress In His Bed Read online

  “This from the man who said to me not five hours ago, ‘Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you, girl!’ If that is not proof of a barbarous nature, Mr Pope, then I don’t know what is. Your behavior was infamous. Admit it.”

  “That was very wrong of me, to be sure,” he promptly admitted.

  “Oh! But look at you now,” she teased him. “Here you sit beside me on the sofa, perfectly tame, with your cup in one hand and your macaroon in the other. And all this I accomplished in just two minutes! Imagine what I might make of you in five. Now be a good gentleman and drink your tea.”

  Julian discovered, to his chagrin, that he could think of no clever reply. Miss Andrews was too fast for him, which only proved her inexperience. A more accomplished flirt would stoop to conquer, and allow her prey the illusion that he was wittier than she.

  Unable to comprehend that the young people were merely talking in jest, Mrs Dean had become alarmed by Viola’s banter. “My dear Mary,” she said breathlessly. “Mind how you talk to Mr Pope! He is a rich man. You must not go on so wildly! Mr Pope, I do apologize! My niece has a lively sense of humor, but she means no disrespect, I’m sure.”

  “My aunt seems to think you need rescuing, sir,” Viola laughed. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Terrified,” he replied, chuckling. “See? I’m drinking my tea for fear of you.”

  “Yes, all men hate tea,” she said, growing more pleased with him by the moment.

  “Here I thought it was just me.”

  “No. All,” she insisted. “Only think…if men did not despise tea so much, there would be no glory in forcing them to drink it every afternoon! Would you like another cup, Mr Pope?”

  “Have I not been punished enough?” he wanted to know.

  “I’m not punishing you, Mr Pope. I’m making you better,” she explained, filling his cup.

  “I see. And tea will perfect me?”

  “Oh, I hope not,” she said softly. “Perfection in a man is an unforgivable fault! It leaves a woman with nothing to do. On the other hand, you are terrible—with so much to do, a girl doesn’t know where to begin. What a dilemma! I almost wish Mrs Dean had not introduced us. Then you would be some other girl’s problem.”

  “But I particularly wish to be your problem, Miss Andrews.”

  “And something must be done about you—you’re practically feral. Perhaps I’d better take you on, after all. You might be too much of a trial for the next girl.”

  “But will I be too much for you, Miss Andrews?”

  “It is possible,” Viola admitted. “You are the worst case I have ever seen. But someone must take charge of you, Mr Pope. You’re an absolute menace.”

  Julian did not want to talk anymore. It was only the presence of her aunt that prevented him from acting on the desire to take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both exhausted.

  For her part, she seemed pleased to have rendered him speechless yet again. It was short-lived, however, and, when he recovered, they spoke at length on a variety of subjects. Julian found her to be wholly ignorant of economics, which was his chief interest in life, and surprisingly well-informed about politics, which he despised with all his heart.

  “And so you have bought your ticket to the auction,” Viola remarked presently, sensing that he did not care a straw about the latest shakeup in the Cabinet. “To own the truth, Mr Pope, I have entered into a dark conspiracy with the other bidders,” she confessed. “They have all promised to give her to me, should they win the auction. Will you promise the same?”

  “I will make you no promise of the kind, young woman,” Julian said sternly. “That sort of chicanery may be all well and good in Yorkshire, but where I come from, we frown upon all trickery and deceit.”

  Her smile threatened to take his breath away. “And where are you from, sir?” she asked playfully. “Suffolk, did you say?”

  “Sussex.”

  “Sussex. How strange that we should meet in London.”

  “Not very strange. My business is in London, and so is your aunt.”

  “Even so, it is a very big place, is it not? Two people could live here a hundred years and never meet.”

  “My dear Mary,” interrupted Mrs Dean. “The time!”

  Viola looked at the clock. Leaving the dog on the sofa, she extended her hand to Julian. “I’m so glad you came to tea, Mr Pope. It has definitely made you a better man.”

  Julian looked at the clock, too. “Has it been twenty minutes?” he asked in surprise. Twenty minutes, as all the world knew, was the proscribed length of a social visit. Even in London, to go beyond that was considered bad form.

  “I’m afraid it has, Mr Pope. But we will meet again tomorrow at the auction,” Viola added as the front doorbell rang. Julian got to his feet.

  “That will be Lord Simon,” Mrs Dean trilled excitedly, jumping up. “Hurry, child! You mustn’t keep his lordship waiting. Go upstairs and put on your bonnet, there’s a good girl. Lord Simon Ascot,” Mrs Dean clarified for Julian’s benefit. “The younger son of the Duke of Berkshire. He’s taking Mary for a drive in his high-perch phaeton. Of all your admirers, Mary, I believe I like his lordship the best.” She flung open the doors and ran out.

  “Shall I envy him for being Auntie’s favorite?” Julian murmured.

  “By all means,” Viola answered, laughing. Then, almost before she knew what was happening, he had slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. His voice was deep in her ear, saying urgently, “You’re in grave danger, Yorkshire. Meet me tonight at nine o’clock at the lamppost across the street. I’ll explain everything then. Yes?”

  Viola drew back, scoffing. “Danger! What on earth can you mean?”

  “Please, you must trust me,” he urged. “I am concerned for your welfare.”

  “I was born in Yorkshire, Mr Pope,” she said coldly, “but it was not a recent event. You must think me a fool! Will I meet you? I’ll meet you in China in twenty years, if you like.”

  She flung his arm from her, saying, “Good day to you, sir!”

  “But I just got here,” said Lord Simon Ascot, striding into the room. Attired in the full dress uniform of a Horse Guard, he looked like some strange cross between a medieval knight and a special messenger. Being wholly preoccupied with Viola, he took no notice of the other man. “As you can see, I come to you straight from the parade ground, Mary. Am I not a fine fellow, and a credit to the Blues?”

  Viola had to concede that he was indeed a fine fellow. His face was, perhaps, a little too harshly featured to be handsome, but it was a strong, attractive face nonetheless. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore his uniform with distinction. His steel cuirass gleamed like a mirror. His white leather riding breeches clung to him like a second skin. His thigh-high black boots, complete with jingling spurs, had been polished to such a high sheen that when Viola drew near him, they reflected her striped dress as truly as a mirror. His sword was buckled at his side, and he carried his tall silver and brass helmet under one arm. The helmet’s crest, composed of a horse’s long tail which had been dyed blood red, trailed almost to the floor.

  Viola cleared her throat. “Lord Simon, may I present Mr Pope?”

  The big Guardsman whirled around to see Julian for the first time. “I beg your pardon, sir!” he said angrily. “I did not see you there.”

  “It’s this cursed invisibility,” Julian kindly explained. “It comes and goes.”

  “Mr Pope!” Viola rebuked him. “Have some respect for your betters. This gentleman is Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Simon Ascot of the Royal Horse Guards Blue.”

  Lord Simon smiled at her warmly. “That’s very good, Miss Andrews,” he congratulated her. “Most females get my ranks and titles hopelessly muddled. Just the other day, a viscountess introduced me as ‘My Lord-Lieutenant Ascot.’”

  When he looked at Julian, Lord Simon’s smile grew colder and did not extend to his eyes, which were pale green, in contrast with his bronzed skin and
dark hair. “You should have made your presence known, sir,” he said crisply.

  “Mr Pope was just leaving,” Viola said firmly. “Weren’t you, Mr Pope?”

  “On the contrary,” said Julian. Parting the tails of his plain black coat, he sat down again on the purple sofa. “You were just about to ring for more tea, weren’t you, Miss Andrews?” Viola glared at the smiling young man. Audacity, she was discovering, was a quality best admired in theory. In real life, it was vastly annoying when men did not do as they were told. “You are confused, Mr Pope,” she said angrily. “I was not about to ring for more tea. I was about to go for a drive in the park with Lord Simon, and you were on your way to–to China, was it not? I understand there’s plenty of tea there!”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t leave England just yet,” Julian replied smoothly. “Not until I know the Mall is quite secure,” he added, turning to Lord Simon with mocking concern. “No fatalities in today’s exercises, I trust, my lord? No one injured on parade?”

  “Injured? Don’t be ridiculous,” Lord Simon sniffed. “Go and put on your bonnet, my dear,” he told Viola. “Wait until you see the cunning little ponies I have just bought.”

  With infinite care, Julian selected a macaroon from the plate. “I’m glad no one was hurt,” he said. “It’s almost impossible to replace a Guardsman, you know. Real soldiers just aren’t pretty enough to put on parade.”

  Viola gasped at the brazen insult, and Lord Simon saw at once that could no longer ignore the other man if he meant to keep the young woman’s esteem. Anger flashed in his green eyes. “And what was your regiment, sir?” he sneered.

  Julian told him.

  “Ah, yes. Infantry,” Lord Simon sniffed. “Out of Sussex, I believe.”

  “That’s right. Nothing succeeds like Sussex.”

  Viola could not help but smile at such an arrogant motto.

  Lord Simon’s eyes narrowed as he studied his opponent. His lips curved in a thin smile. “I know you, don’t I?” he said suddenly.

  “No,” said Julian, frowning.

  “Yes, I do,” said Lord Simon, still smiling his thin smile. “Someone pointed you out to me in White’s Club. You were dining with the Duke of Fanshawe. You’re the blackguard who broke Lady Jersey’s bank. Can you deny it?”

  For the first time, the young man seemed discomfited. Lord Simon smiled triumphantly. “You are no better than a thief, sir. If there were any justice, Miss Andrews, this upstart would be in prison, but there is a loophole in the law, or so I understand.”

  Viola had larger concerns than justice. “Are you acquainted with the Duke of Fanshawe, Mr Pope?” she demanded.

  “His name is not Pope,” said Lord Simon. “It’s something like ‘Devilish’ or ‘Devious.’”

  “Devize!” Viola exclaimed in dismay. Her legs felt unsteady, and she was forced to sit down. “You are Mr Devize? You told me your name was Pope!” she accused him angrily.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Julian. “I told you my brother’s name was Pope.”

  Her dark eyes blazed. “And from that I should have inferred that your name was, in fact, Devize?” she cried, outraged. “Oh! How stupid of me!”

  Julian had the grace to look ashamed. “Miss Andrews, I can explain,” he began.

  “No, don’t, please,” she said quickly. “Don’t explain.”

  Viola did not believe in coincidence, or even in fate. There could only be one reason for Mr Devize’s presence here: Dickon must have sent him to find her.

  Viola blushed hotly as she recalled Mr Devize’s voice in her ear, urging her to meet him later that night. She had thought he was attempting to seduce her, when, of course, all he had in mind was restoring her to her brother’s custody. She had protested just like the heroine of a melodrama. What a conceited little fool he must think her!

  “I understand perfectly, Mr Devize,” she said as calmly as she could. “There’s no need to explain. Please don’t say anything more.”

  To her grateful relief, Mr Devize did not expose her true identity.

  “All the world knows of your crimes, sir,” said Lord Simon, his lip curled in scorn. “Even Miss Andrews, who has not been in London a week, has heard of your infamy. Indeed, Miss Andrews, this cad has imposed on you most grievously. Mr Devize is not a gentleman. You’ve got a bloody cheek, man, imposing on this young lady.”

  Julian frowned. “Miss Andrews will not be accustomed to such language as this.”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Andrews,” Lord Simon muttered. “I did not mean to swear. I was provoked.”

  “Mary!” cried Mrs Dean, bustling into the room. “Don’t just stand there gawping! Go and put on your bonnet! All the fashionable people are about, taking their exercise in the park. Hurry, child! You are in excellent looks, is she not, gentlemen?” She beamed at the two men happily. In her view, having two or more interested parties locking horns was good for business.

  “I was not gawping,” Viola said, scowling. “I wouldn’t know how.”

  “Madam,” said Lord Simon. “I must inform you that this man is an impostor. He is not Mr Pope. He is, in fact, the infamous Mr Devize. He’s not even a gentleman. He’s nothing more than the Duke of Fanshawe’s stockjobber. He should be ejected from this house at once.”

  The effect on Mrs Dean of Lord Simon’s revelation was not what he had hoped. Mary’s aunt seemed strangely pleased. “Oh?” she said, wriggling with pleasure. “The Duke of Fanshawe! Why, Mary, you sly thing! You said you only knew his grace a little! It would seem you have made a conquest of him, after all.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say such foolish things, Mrs Dean,” Viola murmured, not daring to look at Mr Devize.

  “I beg your pardon!” Lord Simon said sharply. “How, exactly, is Miss Andrews acquainted with the Duke of Fanshawe?”

  “’Twas the duke who gave Mary’s father the living at Gambolthwaite,” Mrs Dean explained proudly. “His grace was her father’s patron.”

  “I see,” Lord Simon said, glowering at Mr Devize. “Then you will be attending the auction on his grace’s behalf, and bidding, too, on his behalf?”

  “How else could I afford to do so?” said Julian.

  “But why lie about your identity?” Lord Simon pressed him.

  “I daresay, the duke values his privacy, milord,” Mrs Dean answered. “Rest assured, Mr Devize, not a word about the duke’s interest will cross my lips.”

  “But how did the duke know that I was here, Mr Devize?” Viola asked. “That part I can’t understand. I certainly did not inform him of my plans.”

  Julian smiled at her. “It is my duty to keep the duke informed, Miss Andrews.”

  Her dark eyes widened. “But how did you know I was here? I told no one in London. How did you even know I’d left Yorkshire?”

  “I keep myself informed,” he arrogantly explained. “As your father’s patron, the duke is, of course, most concerned about your welfare, Miss Andrews. As am I.”

  “That is very good of his grace,” said Mrs Dean dreamily. “But now, Mr Pope—or Devize or whatever your name is—it is Lord Simon’s turn to enjoy Mary’s company. You are most welcome to attend the auction on the duke’s behalf, of course, but now you must go.” She held out her hand, and Julian had no choice but to take his leave. Before going, he strolled over to the sofa and ruffled the bichon’s ear.

  Viola extended her hand to him. “Good afternoon, Mr Devize. Indeed, the duke is very fortunate to have such a capable young man working for him. You may be certain that I—”

  “Nine o’clock, Mary,” he murmured for her ears alone as he kissed her hand.

  “Impossible,” she breathed.

  Viola was not in the habit of blushing, but a blush crept into her cheeks as he lifted his impossibly blue eyes to hers. The shock of attraction startled and embarrassed her, and, as he left the room, she felt a sense of loss quite out of proportion to the relationship. What a pity he is not Lord Bamph, she thought as he went out.

&nbs
p; As if pulled by a string, she moved to the window, hoping for another glimpse of him. Oblivious to everything else, she heard the front door close, and Mr Devize came into view as he stepped into the street. He had no walking stick or gloves, and he had not yet put on his hat. The wind ruffled his short hair into spikes, then smoothed it down again like an invisible hand.

  As he turned into Oxford Street, Viola had the most ridiculous impulse to leave the house and run after him. And then he was gone.

  Lord Simon was beside her, glowering. “Come away from the window, my dear,” he urged, taking her arm. “Are we to have our drive or not?”

  Viola went to the sofa to collect the puppy. “You must forgive me, Lord Simon,” she said absently. “I have the headache. I’m going upstairs to lie down. I look forward to seeing your lordship tomorrow at the auction,” she added, extending her hand to him.

  Anger flashed in his green eyes, but he bent over her hand like a gentleman. “Good afternoon, then, Miss Andrews.”

  “Good afternoon, Lord Simon,” she replied with well-bred politeness, but it was clear to him that her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Chapter Six

  Despite regular improvements, Castle Devize in Sussex had maintained through the centuries the appearance of an ancient, neglected Norman ruin. Upon close examination, one was surprised to find all its ivy-covered stone walls in good repair, its roof sound, its staircases sturdy enough to support a stampede of elephants. And yet one was left with the feeling that a sudden storm might blow it all down into an ignominious heap of rubble. Thus it had appeared since the days of William the Conqueror, when the first Devizes had roasted oxen in the enormous fireplace of the Great Hall.

  George, Lord Devize, was sitting comfortably before this same fireplace playing chess with his physician when he heard the rumble and squeal of the drawbridge being let down. Still vigorous at sixty-one, he jumped nimbly to his feet, clapped his big hands together, and barked, “Standish! It has begun.”