The Devilish Duke, page 16
Reluctantly, she dropped her hand. “Well, I would not want to be responsible for that.” A part of her marveled that she could affect him so.
Devlin laughed before he took in a few deep breaths of air. “Perhaps you should go ahead first. I need a minute.”
Sophie was more than happy that for once, it was he who was slightly discomposed. Stepping out from the alcove, she walked up the remaining steps to his box. The curtains were already pulled back with a satin sash, and a bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket on the side table.
Mabel hadn’t arrived yet. Just as well. Sophie did not think she would be able to keep the blush off her face if her aunt asked her where Devlin was. Goodness, even she couldn’t believe what they’d just been up to. She snapped open her fan and began to wave it somewhat vigorously in front of her.
Her eyes skimmed across the theatre, noting that the boxes were all filling up, and a great many eyeglasses were trained her way. Lovely. Speculation would be even more rife once everyone read the paper tomorrow. Which reminded her, Devlin never did explain why he had posted the notices without even a mention to her.
A minute later, he confidently strode inside and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the two footmen waiting on the inside of the doors. He looked at her and grinned.
Folding her arms across her chest, she scowled back at him.
“Now what have I done?” he asked, sounding highly amused.
“I think you were trying to distract me out there.”
“My dear, I tried to stop.” He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You were the one begging for more.”
The man’s very presence was doing odd things to her powers of concentration, particularly when his breath brushed across her earlobe. She stepped away from him. “Did you really post notices of our engagement in tomorrow’s paper?”
“Yes,” he said, walking across to the side table. “You agreed to marry me within the month. I saw no need to further delay the announcement.”
“Well, it would have been nice to discuss it with me first.” Sophie walked to the front of the box as Devlin picked up the bottle of champagne. “For your information, I have not even told my brother yet.” A discussion she had been hoping to delay as long as possible, considering Daniel was annoyingly overprotective and certain to vehemently oppose a union between herself and such a notorious rake as Devlin. “I was hoping for a little more time to at least inform my family of the situation.”
Popping the cork, he began pouring the liquid into a crystal flute. “Did you still wish to attend Lord Crowley’s house party?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“You shall not be attending unless everyone there knows you are engaged to me,” he said with certainty. “Are you wavering on the deal we made?” He finished filling the second flute and placed the bottle back into the chilled silver bucket.
“No, I am not,” Sophie replied in a harsh whisper, mindful of the eyes and ears still trained on them. “I merely would have liked to have been consulted first. That is what a marriage is all about, you know, as sharing a life with one another general involves discussing things.”
Devlin swiveled around to face her. “How was your visit with the Earl?”
“There was no visit. He had to cancel.” She could not be sure, but she thought she saw a flicker of satisfaction flash across his eyes. “Did you have anything to do with that?”
“What a devious mind you have. Here, have a glass of champagne.” Shaking his head, he handed her a flute and picked up the other for himself.
She accepted the glass from him. “So you did not have anything to do with the Earl having to cancel his visit?”
“I told you I did not wish for you to see him.”
Sophie felt her temper begin to rise. “And I told you that you could not dictate to me whom I see or do not see.”
“You are to be my wife. I did not think it appropriate for another man to visit you.” He sounded extremely calm. “I did what I had to.”
“And what exactly was that?”
“Actually, I did nothing. I believe Lord Penderley urgently requested the Earl’s presence at the War Office.”
“At your behest, no doubt?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Of all the devious things,” Sophie ground out. “How dare you act so presumptuous with matters concerning me?”
“Here, I think it best if you give me your glass,” he said, reaching across and plucking the flute of champagne from her hand. He placed both glasses on the side table. “There, now at the very least you cannot do something you might regret.”
“Such as smash the flute over your head?” She placed her hands on her hips.
“Actually, I was thinking you would throw the contents in my face. Must admit I had not thought you would consider doing such an unladylike thing as hitting me with it. Rather violent of you, is it not?” He winked at her.
If there had not been hundreds of people with their opera glasses trained on Devlin’s box right that instant, Sophie thought she might very well have carried out her threat, simply to get rid of that annoying grin.
“Well, you had best get used to not knowing what I might do,” she said. “And you’d do well to remember that you do not know me as you seem to think.”
“True,” he conceded, “there is much about you I am beginning to discover, and do let me say that I am enjoying the process immensely.”
“Well, I am so glad to be of some amusement to you. But know this, Huntington,” she said. “I will not allow you to dictate my life to me. You may very well not like whom I associate with, but if you interfere in an engagement of mine again, simply to prevent me from speaking with someone you do not wish me to, trust me that you will rue the day that you decided to ask me to marry you!”
“Something to look forward to, no doubt.”
“I am serious,” she said. “You meddle again like you did today, and I give you due warning that you will not like the consequences.”
Chapter Nineteen
Devlin watched Sophie’s face in fascination as she stared intently at the stage, totally entranced by the performance below. The animation lighting up her features and the clear delight she took in watching the rendition of Don Giovanni was deeply satisfying, filling a place inside him that he had not known was empty. He’d never seen anyone so expressive of their enjoyment in watching the opera.
The other ladies he had brought with him in the past always seemed to have an expression of ennui carefully plastered over their features. But not Sophie. No, she seemed completely captivated by the performance below.
The music reached its crescendo, and the crowd burst into applause. Sophie jumped up and vigorously started clapping, too, and he followed suit.
“That was simply delightful,” she enthused, her earlier annoyance at him plainly forgotten in light of the performance.
“I have never enjoyed myself more,” he replied in complete honesty.
“Watching the story of a notorious Lothario getting dragged to Hell by demons due to his wicked ways? Who would have thought?” She fairly sparkled with mischief. He was about to respond in kind when Lady Winthrup leaned forward from the seat behind them.
“Yes, yes, it was a good production,” the older woman interjected. “Though I would have preferred it to have been sung in English rather than Italian. We are in England, after all.”
“But Aunt,” Sophie began, “that is part of its beauty and very essence. The rhythm of the Italian language is what gives the entire performance that hint of romance and mystery.”
“Yes, well, listening to Italian for hours has my mind in a muddle,” Mabel said.
The footmen turned up the wall sconces, shedding more light on the small space.
“I could have watched for hours more.” Sophie laughed. “And what of you, Huntington? Did you think it was too long?”
“Actually, like you, I would have been content to watch for a great deal longer,” he replied in all sincerity.
She regarded him with skepticism—and her earlier sense of mischief. “But I thought you did not particularly enjoy the opera? A bit uncomfortable, perhaps?”
“Ah taci, inguisto core,” he murmured good-naturedly—ah, be quiet, unjust heart—the name of a trio in the opera’s first act. Of course, previously, he never had, but tonight was different. “I find that my enjoyment of the opera has changed considerably, at least whilst in your company.” A delightful wave of pink spread across her cheeks. “Come, let us all go and get some refreshments downstairs. After you, Lady Winthrup.”
Devlin motioned for Mabel to go ahead as he took hold of Sophie’s elbow and led her to the entryway of his box. Finding himself wanting to confound her as much as she did him, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You look enchanting when you blush.”
“Devlin Markham,” Sophie whispered, lightly smacking her fan against his arm. “You do not need to woo me. I have already agreed to your proposal.”
Guiding her down the corridor toward the stairway, he responded, “Must you continually be so cynical when I pay you a compliment?”
“Need I remind you, you are very well practiced in the art of compliments?”
A chuckle escaped him as he led her down the stairs and into the saloon were drinks and canapés were being served. “That I cannot deny,” he remarked. “However, with you, I am always honest.”
They came to a halt inside the room. “So you say.”
He scowled. “Must you forever question my honor?”
“It is not your honor I question, but rather your glib tongue.”
“Oh, there is that dratted man,” Mabel interrupted as she pointed down the end of the far corridor toward the Earl of Abelard. “I think I should go and give him a piece of my mind for standing you up.”
Sophie caught sight of Abelard disappearing down the corridor. “Aunt Mabel, you would not wish to cause a scene, would you?”
Mabel pursed her lips to one side. “Oh, I do suppose not, though he does deserve a dressing down.” She sighed. “I see the powder room down the corridor. I think I had best go and freshen up as I feel a trifle flushed. If you will both excuse me?”
“If you feel unwell, I shall accompany you,” Sophie replied.
“No,” Mabel answered, patting her on the hand. “I am quite well. I just need a moment of peace and to calm my temper. Stay and converse with the Duke.” She turned to the right and proceeded to walk down the hallway.
From the determined glint in her eye, Devlin suspected the old girl was going to hunt down the earl rather than the powder room. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for Abelard, but the feeling was very fleeting.
“Come,” Devlin said to Sophie as he took her hand in his and began guiding her further into the room. “Let us obtain some refreshments.”
They had navigated halfway toward the refreshments table when, from behind, Devlin heard a female voice enunciate his name.
He took in a deep breath and slowly spun around. There, his aunt Cornelia, the Dowager Marchioness of Brampton, stood, staring at him in utter disdain. He had not seen her in nearly two years, but she still looked the same, garbed in black mourning clothes, as she had been for the past two decades since his uncle’s death. And as usual, her shoulders and back were ramrod straight, her head high as she locked her disapproving eyes on him.
Her once classical features had hardened into haughty lines of censure, and though she still maintained a trim figure, there was no disguising the rigid bitterness permeating her very core. He had rather hoped to avoid seeing the prig for at least some time, but that was not to be.
“Lady Brampton,” he acknowledged with a nod. He noticed his three cousins were also standing to the side of their mother. His aunt always had them in tow, in the hopes of trying to foist one of them off upon an eligible bachelor, even though they were well past what society considered an acceptable age. “Ladies, how lovely to see you all.” He turned to Sophie. “Lady Sophie, if I might introduce you to what I have left of what one might call a family—”
“Cavalier as usual, Devlin. Really, I should have expected no less,” Lady Brampton said, her dark blue eyes narrowing as she boldly assessed Sophie. “I know who you are girl, and I would have assumed you to be a great deal more sensible than to associate with him. Your reputation will suffer.”
Sophie arched an eyebrow. “Surely you are not suggesting that there was any impropriety about my aunt and my sharing the Duke’s box this evening?”
Lady Brampton’s pinched lips seemed to tighten even further. “You are the only unmarried lady he has ever entertained in his box before. Such an occurrence is bound to invite comment.”
“Only from those with very little else to concern themselves with.” A look of defiance flashed in Sophie’s eyes. “You, of all people, surely would not concern yourself with such trite speculation?”
“Does the man’s notorious reputation not worry you? Particularly considering his father killed my husband!”
“Mother, you must not say such a thing,” his eldest cousin, Lady Amelia, exclaimed as she grabbed hold of Lady Brampton’s arm. “This is not the place to—”
At Sophie’s gasp, he regretted acknowledging his aunt. If only he’d just taken Sophie’s elbow and steered her far away from the woman.
“Hold your tongue, Amelia!” Lady Brampton cut her off as she shook her arm free from the girl’s. “He knows perfectly well that he was never meant to be the Duke but for his father’s treachery.”
Devlin brushed a speck of lint from his jacket, refusing to show her any reaction other than disdain. The woman was stuck in the past and had concocted a mad tale to deal with her husband’s accident all those years ago. “Such bitterness in your tone cannot be good for your longevity.”
“That is just the sort of blasé attitude one has come to expect from a bounder who continually disgraces the family name,” Lady Brampton said. “You are in trade, for goodness sakes, and little better than a bastard with that Irish governess mother of yours.”
A familiar rage began to burn low in his belly at the slur toward his mother. He’d had to put up with his grandfather maligning his mother for years growing up, and he damn well wasn’t going to countenance it from this spiteful creature.
“You go too far, Madam!” Sophie exclaimed before he could respond, stepping forward. “You have no right to speak to him like that.”
Devlin glanced in surprise at his fiancée, who looked like a lioness as she all but bared her teeth, facing off against his aunt. He’d never actually had anyone leap to his defense before. It sent a warm feeling through him, one he hadn’t really felt since before his parents had died. His throat unexpectedly tightened.
“I am the dowager Marchioness of Brampton. I can speak to him any way I choose.”
“Your rank gives you no right to be so rude,” Sophie replied.
The older woman glared forbiddingly at Sophie. “You have the audacity to speak to your betters in such a manner?”
“Lady Brampton,” Sophie began, “you may outrank me in social standing, but let us be clear: you are certainly not my better. Your inappropriate and rude behavior gives credence to that assertion.”
He reminded himself never to cross Sophie. Tempted as he was to step in and save her the grief of arguing with his aunt, it was clear she didn’t need his assistance. At all. And to tell the truth, he was rather captivated by the sight of her taking on a dowager marchioness.
For him.
“You would do well to mind your tongue,” Lady Brampton spat out.
“And you would do well to heed your own advice!” Sophie proclaimed.
“Ladies,” Devlin finally intervened. “Perhaps you both should calm down.” Though he was enjoying Sophie putting his aunt in her place, they were attracting a crowd. Normally, he wouldn’t care about causing a spectacle, but he did care about Sophie’s feelings.
He frowned. He’d never particularly cared about a woman’s feelings before.
“Stay out of this, Huntington.” Sophie glared at him briefly before returning her attention to Lady Brampton. “Families must be each other’s strongest support, yet here you are maligning him. Shame on you.”
“Ladies, please, calm down.” Devlin reached out and grabbed a hold of Sophie’s right elbow. She looked like a little hell cat heading into battle for him. “My dear, I do appreciate you defending me, but we are attracting a rather large audience.” The crowd within earshot had almost doubled.
“I do not care,” Sophie said as she shook his hand off her. “Know this, Lady Brampton”—she pointed her finger at the woman—“Devlin is not alone anymore for you to vent your spite on. When you say something derogatory about him, I will not stand by and allow it.”
Lady Brampton narrowed her eyes. “For such ridiculously loyal defense of him, one would have to assume that he has in fact compromised you. Which is as I had suspected.”
His body went rigid, as if she’d just slapped him. He sincerely would have preferred she’d done so instead of turning such a vicious attack on Sophie. “Now you go too far, Madam.” Devlin’s voice grew glacial. He moved in and whispered for his aunt’s ears alone, “Say one more spiteful word about Lady Sophie, and I will cut you off without a farthing.” When he’d inherited his Dukedom, Devlin had also inherited the pleasure of paying his aunt’s annual income.
Lady Brampton raised her head to look down her nose at him. “You would not dare.”
“Try me,” Devlin invited. “For I have been looking for an excuse to do so ever since I inherited the title.”
“But you cannot,” Lady Brampton crowed, keeping her voice equally as low as his. “Your grandfather’s will prevents it.”
“Actually, the estate itself was bankrupt when I inherited. Your yearly annuity has been coming from the coffers of my trade enterprises, so in actuality, I can do whatever I damn well want with my own money.”
Devlin had the satisfaction of seeing her face go sheet white. “No, not even you, with your disdain for this family’s good name, would do such a thing,” she declared.
