The Heiress In His Bed. Tamara Lejeune

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.

      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.