Francesca said coolly, “Different for how long? A month? Two? How long would it be before you returned to your old ways?”
Devane dropped the reins and gazed at her. “I cannot read the future any more than you can, Francesca. It is my intention to be a faithful husband. If you feel fidelity more likely in the country than in London, then I am willing to give it a try.”
She looked suspicious but saw by his face that he was serious. “Would you really give up the Season for me?”
“Truth to tell, I share your concerns to some extent. You have many friends—let us be blunt—many beaux in London.”
“But I would never continue with them after I was married!”
she exclaimed, shocked and angry at such an imputation.
“Then why should you imagine I would?”
he asked simply. “I am not a boy. I’ve done the town for fifteen years, looking for a lady who could fill my life as I hope to fill hers. If I wanted only a titular Lady Devane to give me a son and heir, I could have married eons ago. To speak quite frankly, and risk offending you, even now I could choose a wife less likely to cause me trouble and grief.”
Reading between the lines, Francesca knew that he could also marry one much higher in society, better dowered, unwidowed, and of unsullied reputation. Many a noble lady was on the catch for Devane. “Then why on earth are you offering for me?”
she asked angrily.
“Ah, did I fail to mention it? How grossly remiss of me. I am asking you because I happen to love you, and beneath that prickly exterior, I suspect you care for me.”
“But you could do much better for yourself, Devane.”
“I could marry some duke’s daughter whom I do not love, but I could not be faithful to her. As the French duke pointed out, where there is marriage without love, there will be love without marriage. Is that what you are recommending, Francesca?”
“No indeed! You must know that is exactly what I am against.”
“Then it comes down to one important question, doesn’t it? Do you love me?”
It all sounded so simple when Devane said it. He could marry anyone he wanted, and he wanted to marry her. Why should he do so unless he loved her? And if he loved her, why would he want anyone else? “Yes, but—but David loved me, too, and he was not faithful for very long.”
Her lip trembled, and a worried frown pleated her brow.
An angry scowl pulled his brows together “Let us not begin this way, Fran. I’m not David. Don’t punish me for his sins. You married a scoundrel and a rake. I am neither one. I am a bachelor who wants to settle down with the woman he loves. Will you have me, or not?”
The moment she half anticipated and half dreaded had arrived, and she was by no means sure what she should do. Devane seemed sincere. He had nothing to gain by marrying her, unless it was her companionship. If she said no, she knew she wouldn’t see him again. He was too proud to grovel. And if she never saw him again, she would be miserable. The very thought of the future without him was intolerable.
“Yes,”
she said in a small voice. “I’ll marry you, Devane.”
She was within a heartbeat of saying more.
But if you ever deceive me, I’ll—
The words remained unsaid. It was unfair to burden him with David’s legacy. It was a new beginning with a new faith and trust.
And besides, how could she speak when his lips were bruising hers in a heady kiss? His arms crushed her painfully against his chest, as if he’d never let her go. The old fears were dissipated in new love and joy. David had never kissed her so fiercely. Perhaps this passion was what he had been seeking with those other women.... She threw caution to the winds and threw her arms around his neck. She’d love him so much he’d never give a thought to any other woman. She’d be wife and mistress, if that was what it took.
When he stopped kissing her, his eyes looked wild and dark. A wan smile played on his reddened lips. “Lord Camden was a fool,”
he said. “And that is the last time you’ll hear his name on my lips.”
“So was I. I didn’t love him as I should have, but I don’t mean to give you any excuse to stray, sir.”
“Let us go and see that church before we do something we shouldn’t.”
Francesca withdrew her arms from his neck and smiled pertly. “The church of Mary Magdalen. That seems a proper destination for such a fallen woman as I.”
“I meant see the vicar, and discover the closest bishop, so that we may arrange a special license. Because if we have to wait much longer, Frankie ...”
She peeped at him from under the small brim of her round bonnet. “One would think to hear us that we were no better than we should be.”
“Oh, we are much better. We just happen to be madly in love.”
Copyright © 1992 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (ISBN 978-0449218457)
Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.