Lady Eve's Indiscretion

The idea of Eve running and hiding hadn’t occurred to Percy, but from the duchess’s perspective, it was clearly an option under consideration.

“No, I cannot even be left in peace on some bucolic little French farm, because the idiot men in this family would blame Deene for that, and come after him no matter what I did or said. Everybody would conclude I had left the country to bear Deene’s child, and Jenny’s fate would be sealed.”

“I do believe you’re right.”

Eve slumped back against the cushions while Esther allowed herself a cautious hint of hope. “We’ll obtain a special license, hold the service here if you like. Every debutante making her come out will envy you the match.”

“You must do as you please, Your Grace.”

Your Grace. The chill in that form of address made Esther doubt the wisdom of Percy’s plan. “It’s your wedding, Eve, you ought to—”

But Eve was off the sofa and halfway to the door. “Please, excuse me, Your Grace. I find I need some solitude.”

She opened the door, and Esther had every intention of letting her go without another word, but there stood His Grace, and Eve’s… intended, the latter sporting a right cheek a good deal more pink than the left.

* * *

Papa had his tempers, his rants, his perpetual frustrations with the Lords, with Prinny, with the way the old mad king was treated, but nothing Eve had seen before prepared her for the cold-eyed stranger standing next to Deene.

She’d always known His Grace had served in the cavalry, known he’d faced Canadian winters, wolves, and worse, but the look in his eye now…

For the first time in her life, Eve Windham was afraid of her father. Not afraid he would harm her, afraid he would stop at nothing to protect her, even when such protection was hopelessly misguided.

She stepped back as His Grace stormed into the room, Deene following a few paces behind.

The duke had struck him. Such a blow in the context of a duel meant no apology could mend the situation. The beginning of a headache threaded itself into all the other miseries ricocheting around in Eve’s body.

“Eve.” His Grace turned a glacial stare on her. “Deene has something to say to you. I suggest you give him your entire attention, but mind me: he can apologize to you all he wants. That does not address the disrespect done to me and my house this day. Your Grace.” He turned to the duchess and offered his arm. “You have ten minutes, Deene. I suggest you spend them on your knees—in prayer if nothing else.”

They swept out, leaving Eve alone with a man who had every reason to think her daft or worse.

“Not here.” Deene took her by the hand and led her to the French doors. “They’ll post a damned sentry in the corridor, and what we have to say to each other requires privacy.”

He took her into the garden, which helped ease a claustrophobic sense gathering in Eve’s chest. While they walked along in silence amid beds of tulips and hyacinths, what registered in Eve’s benumbed brain was that Deene’s hand was warm and dry, not cold and clammy as hers felt.

“Here.” He gestured to a bench behind a privet hedge. Roses were leafing out in the nearby beds, but only a few tight buds had yet formed. When Eve took a seat, Deene lowered himself beside her and once again took her hand.

“Well?” It was all she could manage.

“Well.” He did a curious thing: he smoothed his fingers over her knuckles and brought her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to her palm. “A kiss for courage. His Grace has given me three days to notify my seconds—Anthony is in Town, and I suppose Kesmore will serve in addition—while Rothgreb and Sindal are put on notice on His Grace’s behalf. We’ve agreed to recruit Fairly to serve as the surgeon.”

Such a cozy family murder they were planning. “Three days?”

“A bit biblical, but His Grace and I agree this needs to be wrapped up before the Season officially starts.”

They agreed. What they were agreeing to was obscene, but no more obscene than that Eve would allow it to go forward.

“Deene, if I married you, you would be more displeased with your choice than you could possibly know.” She hoped and prayed he’d listen to reason.

“Disappointed has a great deal to recommend it over dead, though you must do as you see fit. I cannot promise you your father will delope, Eve, though I assuredly will. Then, too, he has not discounted your brothers issuing their own challenges, and deloping does not seem in character for any of them.”

She’d condemn Deene to facing four firing squads, then, and what was to stop her three brothers-in-law from joining the fun? She had never known her father to back down, not ever. Her brothers were just as bad.

And she… She was the one being monumentally, murderously stubborn. None of her menfolk would have a chance at Deene if she would just say yes to his proposals.

One glimmer of hope penetrated her misery, a tiny, chimerical possibility: if it came down to a wedding night, Deene might not notice her lack of chastity.

Except he would. He wasn’t a stupid man or lacking in perception.

“I can make you a promise, Eve Windham. Several promises, in fact.”

“Just not vows, please. I cannot abide the thought of vows.”

“If we marry, we will consummate the union for legal purposes and to put the compulsory obligations behind us. Thereafter, I will not press you for your attentions until such time as you indicate you are willing to be intimate with me in a marital sense.”

She peered over at him. His cheeks were the same color now. “You would leave me in peace after one night?”

“Not entirely. For appearances, we will live together as man and wife, share chambers, and go down to breakfast together. We will dote and fawn in public and make calf eyes at each other across the ballrooms, but I will not importune you.”

The small, guttering flame of hope burned a trifle brighter. His plan had potential to avoid disaster. She did not know what motivated his foolish generosity, but the plain fact was, after the wedding night, he might not want to have anything to do with her.

“And if I never indicate that I’m interested in my conjugal duties?”

“Never is a long time, and I am a very determined man who is quite attracted to you. Also a man in need of heirs, and I am confident you’ll not deny me those.”

The flame nearly went out. Of course he’d need heirs.

“Unfair, Lucas.” Except, he was compromising, while Eve was practically loading four sets of dueling pistols and aiming them at Deene’s chest. “You have an heir.”

“Who is unmarried, older than me, and for reasons not relevant to the current discussion, not a good candidate for marriage. The succession is my obligation, Eve, and I’ve avoided it long enough.”

She had at least ten childbearing years left, possibly twenty. That was a long time to muddle through with a man who had been nothing but considerate toward her.

And an impossibly long time to mourn him, should the worst occur.

“On the conditions you’ve stated—that following the wedding night you will not exercise your rights unless and until I’m comfortable with the notion, we can be married, but, Lucas, when you hate the choice you’ve made —when you hate me—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I will not hate you, I will not hate my choice. That I do vow.”

His arm came around her. He gently pushed her head to his shoulder, and they sat there amid the thorny roses, officially engaged.

* * *

Deene held his intended on the hard bench in the brisk spring sunshine and knew a sense of relief disproportionate to the circumstances. His Grace had proven canny, pragmatic, and ultimately more interested in his daughter’s happiness than in any lethal displays of honor.

“You are the first fellow Eve has permitted to do more than sniff her hem since her come out, Deene. If she