A Marriage Of Rogues. Margaret Moore

leafed through it before running his finger down a particular page. “Ah yes, there you are, or at least your family.”

      He closed the book and returned it to the shelf. “I confess myself surprised you’re willing to marry a man you’ve never met before.”

      “Naturally I made inquiries before coming here,” she truthfully replied. “No matter how desperate my circumstances, I have no wish to tie myself to an inveterate gambler or a sot or a lecher. You gamble rarely, you don’t drink to excess and while you’ve had several liaisons with a variety of women, you aren’t a seducer of innocents. Nor are you a dandy.”

      And when you stroll down the street, you move like a warrior prince, she thought, but didn’t say.

      “You have made inquiries. But perhaps I have no wish to marry a woman I’ve only just met.”

      “You had only just met my father the night you won all his money.”

      “Marriage is hardly a game of chance.”

      “Is it not?” she returned. “How well do you think most men of your rank know the women they wed—really know them? Don’t they more often marry based on family lineage and the limited acquaintance of shared social gatherings?”

      He studied her for a long moment, then glanced at the portrait before looking back at her. “You seem to have thought of everything.”

      She, too, had believed she had, until she was actually in Sir Develin’s presence and shared a kiss. Now her nerves were strained nearly to the breaking point. If this conversation lasted much longer, they might get the better of her, so she decided to get directly to the heart of the matter. “Are we to wed or not, Sir Develin?”

      He smiled slowly, as if he had all the time in the world to answer. “Surely I may be allowed to think it over. After all, it isn’t every day I get a proposal of marriage. In fact, this is the first.”

      His manner, both amused and condescending, roused her pride and her ire, too.

      “This situation may be vastly amusing to you, Sir Develin,” she retorted, “but I assure you, it’s very serious to me. If you cannot give me your answer today, I shall consider that a refusal.”

      “No need to be so hasty or so angry,” he said, his visage turning as grimly serious as that of the man in the portrait. “You must admit I have a right to take some time to contemplate your offer.”

      She readied herself for his refusal and for what she would say when he did.

      “I agree.”

      Her lips parted and her eyes widened with astonishment. “You do?”

      He nodded, and to her even greater amazement, a look of what could be amusement twinkled in his brown eyes. “I do,” he said with an affirming nod. “I shall meet you tomorrow morning at the Maiden’s Arms in the village of Dundrake as you suggest. Rather appropriate under the circumstances, don’t you think? Now I suppose you ought to stay to dinner.”

      Torn between confusion, delight and relief, afraid he might change his mind if she stayed any longer, Thea rapidly shook her head. “No, thank you. I have to pack my things,” she replied, moving quickly to the French doors.

      “Let me call a carriage for you. It’s a terrible day for walking.”

      Her hand already on the latch, she half turned to answer. “No, thank you. I don’t mind. I enjoy walking. It’s not far and I’ll be halfway to the inn by the time the carriage is ready.”

      Before he could say another word, Thea was out the door and walking across the terrace as fast as her dignity would allow until she reached the steps leading to the garden. Then her dignity gave way to excited relief and she broke into a most unladylike run.

      Once out of the formal garden with its trimmed hedges and into the wilder wood bordering Sir Develin’s estate, she stopped to catch her breath, leaning against an ancient oak where she couldn’t be seen from the manor house. The very large manor house with its stone carving and that paneled room that seemed to embody the ancient and noble family that resided within.

      But it was not of the garden, or the house, or the furnishings or the wood that Thea was thinking.

      “He agreed!” she whispered, not quite able to believe what had just happened. “He agreed!”

      She was going to be married to a rich and titled man. She would never live a life of poverty and want, cold and hunger, ever again. Even better, she didn’t have to resort to the plan she’d prepared if Sir Develin had refused.

      And he’d done more than simply agree. Her fingers went to her lips that he had kissed with such passion. It was as if he actually found her desirable, and when she thought about their wedding night...

      It would be wise not to think about that too much, she told herself as she pushed off from the tree and walked rapidly toward the village.

      He could, after all, change his mind.

      * * *

      By the time Dev reached the French doors, Lady Theodora had disappeared into the morning mist like some kind of sprite or other supernatural being.

      Maybe she was, he thought as he turned away. A vision conjured up by his guilt and remorse. Or perhaps he was feeling this combination of confusion and excitement because he’d never before met a more bold and determined woman, or one who kissed with such unbridled, unstudied passion.

      He crossed to the table bearing the brandy bottle and glasses and poured himself a drink. Now that Sir John’s daughter was no longer there, with her big gray eyes and distracting, tempting lips, he could surely think more rationally.

      She was right about his feeling of being on display in a shop. It had reached the state where he dreaded going to balls and parties. Her other arguments in favor of the marriage she proposed were well taken, too. And how many men were offered the chance to be married and yet still live the life of a bachelor?

      Her unexpected, undeniable passion was a point in her favor as well. She had responded not with the practiced ease of his former lovers, but with a guileless desire that increased his own.

      Yet what would his friends and the rest of the ton say if he appeared with a bride nobody knew and who many wouldn’t consider beautiful? They wouldn’t necessarily notice her shining, shrewd eyes, lithe and shapely body or soft, full lips.

      His solicitor would surely think he’d lost his head and a doctor should be summoned.

      He glanced again at the portrait of his father over the mantelpiece. That judgmental gentleman would have had Lady Theodora cast out of the house and the dogs set on her the moment she revealed who she was. He would have been completely unmoved by the look of desperate yearning that had crept into Lady Theodora’s large, luminous eyes as she waited for his answer to his proposal, a look that not only appealed to his honor, but touched his lonely heart.

      Dev downed another drink, then wandered toward the French doors, looking out at the sodden garden again. At this time of year, no flowers bloomed, so the only greenery came from the neatly trimmed hedges and cedar border, and the wood beyond. It seemed like his life—merely existing while waiting for the warmth of spring and summer.

      Putting aside such fanciful thoughts, he contemplated what he ought to do. Marrying Lady Theodora would assuage the guilt he’d been carrying ever since he let his pride, his need to win at all costs, keep him at the gaming table in spite of Sir John’s growing panic and despair.

      But did he have to pay for that mistake by binding himself to a woman he didn’t love or even know?

      Let Lady Theodora fend for herself. She certainly seemed capable enough.

      After all, as he had said, her father could have left the gaming table. She wasn’t his responsibility and never had been and need never be.

      Except...

      He had agreed.

      And