Lord Ruin Read online

“What sort of recommendation is that for a husband?” Fear made her tone sharp. Guilt, too. If only she’d gotten out and about sooner, events might never have come to this unfortunate pass. “Determined.” She sniffed. “What about love? Emily must be loved by her husband, and I don’t believe for even a moment he loves Emily.” She had no doubt whatever that marriage between Emily and Cynssyr would be disastrous. Marriage to the duke would be disastrous for any woman. “Love. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” She gave her other glove a jerk in order to slide her fingers to the ends. “He doesn’t. He can’t.” She tugged hard on the cuff. “He never will.”

  “He’s one of the most powerful men in England, and he wants to marry Emily.” Mary tucked a strand of Anne’s hair behind her ear. Somewhere between blond and silver-gold, Anne’s hair refused to hold a curl. A woman who cared for the fashion of ringlets might have despaired. “Have you nothing else to wear, Anne? Something blue to match your eyes?”

  “I’m presentable.” That’s all a spinster need be: presentable. Her eyes were of little account, not quite blue, not quite grey. Besides, they were too darkly lashed and obscured by a pair of spectacles, gold rims holding narrow ovals of glass. Her features were regular enough but to Anne, who had constantly the model of her sisters before her, they fell far short of beauty. Rarely did people look past the spectacles since she dressed like the spinster she was, in plain, sober gowns without concession to style.

  “Powerful,” she now replied to her sister. “From an accident of birth. It’s not as though he earned his exalted position.” If she’d known how closely her expression resembled Cynssyr at his haughtiest she would have been mortified. “He’s a dilettante who probably cares more for his tailor or his bootmaker than the less fortunate people of England. What does he know of the suffering of real people?” Bartley Green had its share of misery. The duke didn’t know a thing about people from villages like Bartley Green. How could he, a man to the manor born, have any understanding of poverty? Or of hopelessness clinging to one’s soul like the dampness of mist.

  “For pity’s sake, Anne, he’s not a monster.”

  “I’ll take issue with that.” In truth, she knew little of the duke except what she read in the papers and that consisted primarily of melodramatic accounts of his social exploits. Still, if even a particle was true, he was the sort of man a lady avoided at all costs. Satirists rendered the duke’s amorous pursuits in droll cartoons, frequently showing him addressing the House of Lords while women swooned at his feet. The caricatures made clear where his interests lay, and it wasn’t the subject matter of his speeches.

  “Papa is beside himself, you know.” Lucy sighed. “Emily a duchess.”

  “Emily a what?” came a voice from the doorway.

  “Papa will not interfere this time,” Anne said stoutly, but low enough that only Mary and Lucy heard. “He won’t coerce another daughter into a disastrous marriage.” What Lucy thought of this reference to her late husband she didn’t care. The stakes were too high for the nicety of silence on a painful subject.

  Emily walked in, cooly elegant in a lilac carriage dress. Anne melted a little, as she always did when she looked at her youngest sister. She’d held an infant Emily in her arms, nursed her though illness and soothed her out of unhappiness. Beautiful, trusting Emily would be destroyed by a man like Cynssyr. Her sweet nature and high spirits would not survive the discovery that the duke did not and could not love her. Seeing her sister married to Cynssyr would break her heart. Emily needed love in her marriage. She deserved love. As their parents had once loved. This headlong rush to catastrophe simply had to be stopped.

  “A duchess,” Lucy supplied.

  “If I were a duchess,” said Emily, mimicking a regal stance, “you should have to curtsey when I come into the room.” Her eyes twinkled. “And Anne must listen to me for a change.”

  “We’ll see about that. Lucy, dearest, your bootlace is untied.”

  “What? Again?” She bent down. “What a nuisance. I am forever coming undone.”

  “Hurry up, Lucy,” said Emily. “Aldreth says the carriage is ready.”

  Anne smiled grimly and adjusted her cap. “Shall we?”

  With dry roads and no rain to slow them down, the journey into Sussex didn’t take but two hours. Too short a drive, thought Anne. And, indeed, they arrived all too soon. She hadn’t nearly enough time to lay plans against the duke.

  Lucy dropped one of her gloves when the carriage door opened. “Go on, Lucy,” said Anne. She dipped her head to avoid being enveloped by Emily’s skirt as she descended. “I’ll find it.”

  “Thank you, Anne. You’re a treasure.” Lucy extended a hand to someone outside and stepped down.

  Now, she thought, bending down, where was that glove? Not on the seat. “Come now, little glove,” she cajoled. “Blast, do stop hiding. Ah, hah!” There it was on the floor, kicked nearly out of sight beneath the lip of the seat.

  “Welcome,” she heard a deep, resonant voice say to the others. “Welcome to Corth Abbey.”

  Inside the carriage, Anne’s hand stopped inches from Lucy’s glove. She knew that voice. Memories and feelings rushed back, tugging at her heart.

  “Anne?” Mary called from just outside.

  She snatched the glove and for the space of a breath stayed bent down. Her pulse raced. She lifted a hand to her head to smooth her hair, then stopped. Curse her for her pride. What she looked like didn’t matter. Even if she were as beautiful as one of her sisters, what feelings Devon Carlisle may once have felt for her must be long dead. She recaptured her flight of fancy and gathered back the misgivings of her heart. Clutching Lucy’s glove, she stepped from the carriage, unnoticed.

  Devon stood with Mary and Aldreth but he was bowing over Lucy’s hand, distracted, as most men were, by her beauty. Thus, Anne had the space of two breaths to compose herself. Though his circumstances had changed dramatically, he had not. His hair was still too long, and he still had that ungoverned air about him, as if he just barely restrained himself from some outrageous behavior. Four years had passed. She told herself she meant nothing to him now. Indeed, she expected he would show her only polite disinterest. He was rich now and ennobled while she was nothing but a spinster of no particular interest to anyone.

  He let go of Lucy’s hand and greeted her father. Grinning, he gave Aldreth a thump on the shoulder. Then he turned to her. Anne felt her stomach contract with a kind of shivery sensation, equal parts trepidation and exhilaration it seemed to her.

  “Anne,” he said in the wine-smooth voice she remembered so well. “How glad I am to see you. You are recovered, yes?” He moved to her, taking both her hands in his and smiling that sinister smile of his.

  “Perfectly, my lord.” She bent a knee. Papa, when in his cups, tended to talk rather too much. Too late, she learned that four years ago Devon Carlisle had admired her more than a little. She’d returned the feeling, never dreaming that a man of Devon’s qualities would think of her as anything more than a chaperon for her sisters. They’d talked for hours in the days before Mary’s wedding, when she’d spent more time at Aldreth’s estate of Rosefeld than her own home. Then, of course, Devon had been a penniless younger son, and that had been reason enough for Papa to discourage him when he’d called after the wedding and been summarily dismissed.

  “Devon,” he said softly. “On that I insist.”

  Her pulse tripped. Lucy and Devon, she thought in a sort of wild panic, would suit. Yes. Suit they would. A perfect match those two. “Yes, sir.”

  “Devon,” he repeated.

  Hearing that warm and tender tone, her stomach fluttered with a herd of butterflies. Unbidden came the thought that she really could not bear a disappointment. Too much time had passed. Too much had changed. Four years had put marriage further from her grasp. As well imagine herself a Princess as imagine herself married, let alone married to him. Her place and her future were no mystery at all. She looked to Lucy who knelt over her boot,
tying the laces yet again. “Lucy, dear, come along.” What she wanted wasn’t possible. Matters would end precisely where they had in Bartley Green.

  “I own,” Ben remarked to Anne, turning his head so only Mary saw him smiling, “Bracebridge here meant to fetch the physic himself when he heard you were not well. He must have asked a dozen times if you were going to come with us.”

  “We shall be a very merry party, I think,” said Devon quickly. He touched the bridge of his nose at the spot where it jogged slightly left rather than continue straight. “Lady Prescott has arrived.” Still holding one of Anne’s hands, he led them up the stairs. “And the Cookes. Mr. Hathaway, Major Truitt.” He gestured. “Breathe a word that the Sinclairs have accepted, and one must deal with all sorts of people desperate for an invitation.”

  “Has his grace arrived yet?” Sinclair asked with a significant glance at Emily.

  Dread knotted her stomach. That man, the duke who was so completely an unsuitable husband for any woman, would not toy with Emily’s heart the way he had with all those other women. No matter what. She didn’t know yet how she would prevent an engagement, but she would. Somehow she would.

  Devon shook his head. “Alas, sir, no.”

  Like that, Anne’s tension collapsed, the knot in her stomach unraveled. She leaned to Mary. “What did I tell you?” she whispered with undeniable exaltation. “Lord Ruin hasn’t even come, the coward. He got nowhere with Emily and has taken up easier prey.” A butler moved forward to take hats and cloaks.

  “We shall see,” Mary said, handing over her cloak.

  “Not here?” Sinclair repeated.

  “The Privy Council was convened. He’s delayed until tomorrow at least. Perhaps even the day after. But there are guests enough for your amusement, sir.” Devon hadn’t yet left Anne’s side. “Major Truitt was kind enough to bring his sister Evelyn, whom I know you ladies will adore, and we are graced as well with Miss Fairchild, her mother and four cousins.”

  Lucy came perilously close to knocking over one of a pair of celadon vases on either side of the grand staircase. The butler casually repositioned it. Again, that midnight gaze fell on Anne. From pure self-defense, she pretended not to notice. Long practice had made her adept at hiding her emotions. But she couldn’t stop herself from thinking that if only her life had been different, she might be four years married. A mother and a countess in the bargain, with every right to hold Devon’s hand in hers.

  “Pond will show you to your rooms.”

  No. It simply wasn’t possible. Earls married great beauties or heiresses, and she was neither. Anne tugged, and her fingers slipped from Devon’s grasp. They were only part way up the stairs, not even half way, when the front door opened. Hearing the sound, they stopped. The core component of the chattering group appeared to be young, unmarried females and their chaperones. A few gentlemen rounded out the group, young men, one or two of them soldiers Anne guessed from their posture and serious eyes. Every one of the men gazed at Emily and Lucy, stricken with awe as men usually were with her sisters.

  “I saw the carriage,” said a woman with iron-grey hair. In the crook of her elbow she cradled a dog the color of snuff and constantly stroked between its pointed ears. “I thought perhaps my son had arrived earlier than expected. But I see it is you, Aldreth.” She inclined her head in a queenly nod. “Lady Aldreth.” Fixing her dragon gaze on Emily she said, “Do come downstairs, young woman.” She pointed at Lucy. “You, too.” Emily nodded and returned to the entranceway to offer a curtsey.

  Anne’s heart sank to her toes. This could be none other than the duchess of Cynssyr and mother to the present duke. No other woman could have such an air of arrogance about her. This was disaster. Complete disaster. The duchess never stirred from Hampstead Heath except on a serious matter. And what could be more serious than meeting the woman her son proposed to should make her the dowager duchess of Cynssyr?

  Lucy made a knee on the step just ahead of Anne, and Anne saw that Lucy’s bootlace had come unlaced yet again. “Lucy,” Anne whispered. But, too late.

  Lucy started down the stairs to join Emily. She stepped on the dangling lace, stumbled and in trying to recover her balance tangled her foot in Anne’s skirt. By catching Lucy’s arm, she saved her sister from pitching headfirst down the stairs, but the effort cost Anne her own balance.

  She grabbed for the bannister and grasped only air. The next thing she knew, she was falling with no hope of saving herself. With a strangled cry as she toppled sideways, Anne felt her ankle give a nasty turn. She landed hard on her side and bounced down two steps to the landing. She lay there, stunned and exquisitely aware of the hush.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Are you all right?” Kneeling, Devon handed over her glasses, which had gone flying when she fell. She put them on, relieved to have the world back in focus until she saw herself the center of attention.

  “I’m fine. I think.” She didn’t feel a thing. Her foot was numb from toe to ankle which surely was not natural. “Perfectly all right.”

  “Clumsy girl.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Sensation returned with a rush, and she bit her lip to keep back a gasp of pain.

  Sinclair frowned at her. “Walk it off, my girl.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “You’ve hurt yourself.” Devon put an arm around her, holding her up.

  “Good Lord, man, don’t make a blessed fuss,” said Sinclair.

  Devon lowered her onto a stair and matter-of-factly unlaced her boot. “Would you be so kind, Pond,” he told his butler, “as to send for the doctor?”

  “Milord.”

  “I don’t believe it’s broken, but best have it looked at.”

  “Nonsense!” Sinclair guffawed.

  Anne sucked in a breath as he slid off her boot. From over Devon’s shoulder, she got a full dose of her father’s glower. “Papa is right, my lord. You mustn’t make a fuss.” But her ankle didn’t just throb, it pulsed with agony. Pride was all that kept away the tears. She managed to stand, but without touching her foot to the floor. “I’m all right.”

  “You’re not.” Devon was suddenly close. “Put your arms round my neck.” But with her father glaring at her, she didn’t dare. “Come now, Anne,” Devon said in reasonable tones. “I’ll not bite. I promise you that.”

  “Always been the clumsy one,” she heard her father say. For the briefest moment, she resented his glib dismissal. Had Emily or Lucy fallen he would have been the first to demand a litter and a surgeon. She quickly stopped the heretical train of thought. She knew her duty and the respect she owed her father.

  Devon lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather. She imagined her father glaring at her and then she heard him say to someone, “No good comes of coddling.”

  “It’s all right, Anne, darling,” Devon murmured in her ear, low enough that in the general commotion no one heard but her.

  Her heart leapt. Not entirely welcome, but not unwelcome either. Darling. He’d called her darling. She put her arms around his shoulders, for balance, of course, and something deep inside her stirred. Something she’d not felt in four years.

  What if he didn’t mean it? What if he’d been thinking of Lucy or Emily or even some other woman entirely and the word had just slipped out? Darling. In that case, he was embarrassed to his toes, if he even realized what he’d said. Like as not, he didn’t know he’d uttered the endearment. But heavens, what if he meant it?

  All the way up the stairs, she vacillated between the two possibilities. He meant it. He didn’t mean it. My, but he smelled good, she discovered. A faint, lemony cologne and behind that the particular scent of the man. His shoulders felt nice, too. Solid and comforting. She rested her head against his chest and let her imagination take wing.

  “Mary,” he said, “where shall I put her? I don’t see how she can share with Miss Emily and Mrs. Willcott, now. Not with her ankle. None of them will sleep.” His arms tightened around her. “Dash it to deuces. When I built C
orth Abbey I never dreamed of entertaining so many. Nor that so many would care to visit without an invitation.” He turned his head to one side. “My room?”

  “Certainly not!” Mary said.

  He laughed. “I’d sleep in the parlor, Lady Aldreth.”

  “Bracebridge,” said Mary.

  Anne could practically hear Mary’s eyes rolling to the ceiling, and in her heart, Anne thought that Devon’s glib offer of his room sounded wonderfully wicked.

  “Then there’s really only one other possibility. You tell me if it will do.” He stopped at a door near the top of the stairs and waited for Mary to open it and precede them inside. “Well?”

  A moment later, Mary said, “I suppose.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I am. Bring her in, Bracebridge.”

  “I feel so silly about all this bother,” Anne said as Dev placed her on the bed. If he looked at her, she wondered, did that mean he didn’t remember what he’d said or that he did and had intended to say it? Lucy hurried in, kneeling at the bedside.

  Anne peeked at Devon. Their eyes met and locked for just an instant. Her heart jumped. Great beauties and heiresses, she repeated. Great beauties and heiresses. “Do stop crying, Lucy. I shall be perfectly all right.”

  Mary gave Lucy a look. “You are no use to anyone when you are upset, Lucy, dear. Take Papa and see to Emily and the duchess if you would, please. She’s probably overwhelmed by now all alone with Em. Bracebridge.” Dev stopped his pacing at the foot of the bed.

  “I do not like this,” he said.

  “It is just for the night, after all.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  Mary put her hands on her hips. “I will not put her in your room when you are here, Bracebridge. No. It’s out of the question. We’ll know soon enough how badly she’s injured. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do sit.” She pointed to a nearby chair. “Make yourself useful, Bracebridge. Amuse Anne. Take her mind off the discomfort while we wait.”

  “Major Truitt and Mr. Hathaway can room with me. We’ll put her in their room.”