The Marriage Truce. Ann Elizabeth Cree

not do it if that is what you wish to know. I have every intention of marrying her,’ he added stiffly.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I’ve no desire to be held responsible for seducing your granddaughter.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘There’s enough tension already between our families—it would probably make the Battle of Waterloo look like a tea party.’ He fixed Monteville with a hard look. ‘Nor do I intend to let my damnable sins interfere with my sister’s happiness. Henslowe has not only made it clear I’m not welcome here, but he would stop the marriage if he could.’

      Monteville moved towards the sideboard and set down his glass and picked up the decanter. ‘More, my lord?’

      ‘No.’

      He set the decanter down. ‘I am still at a loss to know exactly why you were in the garden with Sarah?’

      ‘I saw her quit the ballroom, and when it was time to go into supper, she still had not returned. I decided to look for her.’ He undoubtedly sounded like a complete fool or a liar.

      ‘I see.’ Monteville looked at him. ‘Tell me, my lord, do you hold any fondness at all for my granddaughter?’

      Dev nearly staggered back. It was the last question he’d expected from the man. ‘I hardly know her.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I fear our relationship could best be characterised as an armed truce.’

      ‘Quite understandable under the circumstances,’ Monteville said. He looked at Dev carefully. ‘You see, I have had a rather interesting evening. Shortly before I joined your little party in the garden, another gentleman, who, er, claimed he had also been alone with my granddaughter, accosted me, saying they had been interrupted by a witness who would have no scruples in spreading the tale about that he’d seen my granddaughter and this gentleman locked in an embrace. Under the circumstances, the gentleman seemed to feel I was obligated to give my consent to a match between himself and my granddaughter.’

      Cold fury rose in Dev. ‘You may rest assured that his witness would sooner sell his soul to the devil than spread such tales about. Nor was the embrace willing, at least not on your granddaughter’s part.’

      ‘I thought not,’ Monteville said. He continued to regard Dev with his bland gaze. ‘I am concerned for her happiness. I would not want her marriage to you, for instance, to be a notch better than a marriage to this other gentleman.’

      Dev had the sudden image of her struggling in Blanton’s embrace. He took a step towards Monteville. ‘If you want her happiness, then keep her away from Blanton. I wouldn’t allow a dog in his care, much less a woman. He would make her miserable. At least, I would not—’ He realised Monteville was regarding him oddly. It would not do to let anything but cool logic show. He frowned. ‘I will not make her unhappy,’ he added stiffly.

      ‘I trust not,’ Monteville said. ‘She has a kind and generous heart. I would not want that changed.’ His eyes had lost their bland indifference and Dev suddenly knew why Monteville could be such a formidable enemy.

      ‘No.’ Dev understood. He would not hesitate to strangle any man that dared to hurt his sister Jessica.

      ‘Good,’ Monteville said softly. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It is late. I suggest we continue this conversation in the morning. By the way, did you give my granddaughter any indication of your intentions?’

      ‘Yes. She was not pleased.’ An understatement. She had looked as if he’d said he was going to imprison her.

      Monteville’s mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. ‘I imagine not. You will need to pay your addresses in the more conventional manner. You will call tomorrow.’ He moved towards the door, indicating the conversation was finished. He paused and looked back at Dev. ‘And if you are wondering where you are to sleep tonight, I can assure you Lord Henslowe will be quite amenable to having you remain under his roof.’ He departed, silently closing the door behind him.

      Dev stared after him, wondering if he’d lost his mind. Had Monteville just commanded him to properly offer Sarah Chandler marriage? He’d hardly known what to expect when he’d entered the study with the man—Monteville calling him a libertine and a liar, perhaps even a threat to his life…but never such ready acquiescence.

      He knew the Chandlers had no more love for him than he had for them. No matter that it had been Nicholas who had been his wife’s lover, the Chandlers had blamed him as well. Rumours had circulated that it was Dev’s own cold treatment of Mary that had driven her into Nicholas’s arms.

      And then there was the duel between himself and Nicholas. He smiled grimly. There had nearly been another duel tonight. From the look on Henslowe’s face, he had no doubt it was still a possibility.

      He stalked to the sideboard and picked up the decanter. What the devil had he done? He should have followed his instincts and stayed away from Sarah Chandler. But if he hadn’t—Blanton might be the man who was calling on Sarah tomorrow. He set the decanter down, the thought making another shot of brandy unpalatable.

       Chapter Three

       S arah attempted to force a piece of toast down her throat and finally gave up. She fell back against her pillows. Morning sunlight streamed across the patterned green quilt covering her bed. Usually on such lovely days she looked forward to spending a few happy hours painting or drawing in the magnificent gardens surrounding Monteville House.

      But not today. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back under her covers. Or wish herself back to yesterday, when the sky had been leaden and grey, a day when it had still been possible to plead a headache and forgo the Henslowe ball. No matter that it would have upset Lady Henslowe and insulted the St Clairs. At least she wouldn’t be awaking today with the events of last night fresh in her memory like a bad dream.

      Lady Henslowe’s expression of horrified shock, Lord Henslowe’s threats, her grandfather’s cool, impersonal assessment. And, worse of all, the cold look on Huntington’s face.

      Even Blanton’s declaration of love and his repugnant kiss had dimmed compared to the subsequent events. She’d had no chance to speak to her grandfather. Lady Henslowe had led her to a small private saloon and bustled off to find a servant. And then her aunt, Lady Omberley, had appeared, Amelia in her wake. The worried look on their faces had been almost too much to bear. Lady Omberley had insisted that Sarah must leave immediately and had routed John, Amelia’s husband, from his card game to escort them home. His face was grim, although he said nothing. In fact, none of them had said a thing and instead treated her with a solicitude which was more frightening than if they had scolded her.

      It wasn’t until Sarah was in bed that Amelia finally spoke. She still had that careful concerned look on her face, as if Sarah was some sort of porcelain figure that might break any moment. ‘Sarah, are you all right? I do not wish to overset you, but what did happen? Mama and I had just finished supper when Cousin Penelope sent for us. She was quite hysterical and moaning about vipers in her bosom and said we must go to you right away as Lord Huntington had tried to seduce you! And then Grandfather sent word we should bring you home.’ Her face momentarily lost its worried look, and she suddenly looked fierce. ‘And if Huntington has harmed you, I vow I will call him out myself!’

      ‘No, he…he did nothing wrong.’ Except come to her rescue. She took a deep breath. ‘He was trying to help me. When Lord and Lady Henslowe found us he was trying to remove my brooch. I…I wished to use it to pin my bodice. It had a tear.’

      ‘Yes, my dear,’ Amelia said in patient tones. ‘But, Sarah, how did it come to be torn? And why ever were you in the garden with Huntington?’

      ‘I wasn’t. I went out by myself and then Cedric Blanton came. He started saying the most ridiculous things about how I was a vision of loveliness in the moonlight and when I said I must go in, he…he grabbed my wrist.’ She bit her lip and looked away, ashamed at the memory. ‘And then he…he kissed me.’

      ‘Oh, Sarah, how awful!’

      It