Francesca (20 page)

To atone for the new style of ribbon, Francesca gave up her grand late entrance and was in the saloon when Lord Devane arrived. His toilette made no concession to the country. He looked as elegant as he did when she saw him in London. There was no denying his height, and shoulders, tapering to a trim waist, made the perfect form to show off Mr. Weston’s tailoring.

The dramatic contrast of immaculate white collar against the black jacket and his swarthy complexion was pleasing. Although he dressed as he usually did, she sensed some new modesty in his manner. He greeted her with warm approval, and was at pains to ingratiate himself with Ronald. The best and easiest way to do so was to show an interest in dairy farming. This topic arose over sherry, and continued to dominate the better part of the dinner table conversation.

Francesca noticed Mrs. Denver and Selby listening with interested approval. Other matters were discussed as well—a few compliments to the hostess, politics, and neighborhood doings. She was happy to see Devane could make himself agreeable to any company. Surely that was the mark of the true gentleman.

After a hearty dinner the ladies left the gentlemen to their port and retired to the saloon. Mrs. Denver immediately broached the subject Francesca most dreaded. “Why is Lord Devane lingering in the neighborhood, Fran? Did he happen to say?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Mary laughed coyly. “I can think of one good reason, ma’am. You must have noticed he is head over ears in love with Fran.”

Francesca expected a frown to pull at her chaperone’s thin face, and was surprised to see only a gleam of interest. “Do you think so?”
she said, speaking to Francesca.

“Of course not. And I would not welcome any advances if he did make them.”

“He is not the sort of gentleman we first took him for,”
Mrs. Denver pointed out. “He seems a serious, almost sober sort of man. And so kind about the necklace.”
Mrs. Denver, of course, did not know of Devane’s infamous behavior in London. “His character is respectable. Not a saint, but never one to prey on young girls.”

“I always liked a streak of the flirt in men,”
Mary said. Both women stared to hear this coming from the lady who had married Ronald Travers. “Why don’t you ask him why he lingers, Mrs. Denver? There is no point asking Fran to do it. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth when Lord Devane is within hearing distance.”

“I hardly feel it is my place,”
Mrs. Denver replied, “though I own I am becoming very curious.”

“I’ll ask him, then,”
Mary said pertly, and laughed. “You must distract Ronald, Mrs. Denver, for he will prose our ears off about his cattle if we leave him with Lord Devane.”

When the gentlemen joined them, Mary made good her promise, and Mrs. Denver abetted her by cornering Ronald to inquire about his creamery. Mary suspected Devane would head like a homing pigeon for Fran and stationed herself nearby. He nodded and smiled at Mrs. Denver, but walked straight to Francesca.

“Have you come for a respite from discussing cattle, Lord Devane?”
Mary asked. “There is no stopping Ronald once he mounts his hobbyhorse.”

“I hope we did not bore you at dinner. Your husband is so knowledgeable that I forgot my manners and harped on the subject. He is selling me a brood cow at an excellent price.”

“Oh! Is it cattle buying that keeps you in the neighborhood?”
she asked innocently.

Devane gave her a knowing grin. “Not entirely, Mrs. Travers.”

Francesca blushed like a blue cow and said, “Lord Devane is always looking for an excuse to leave London. I seem to recall your eagerness to attend country house parties in the past, Devane.”

“And
your
eagerness to avoid them, ma’am.”
He added, to Mary, “You are the only hostess who has succeeded in luring your friend from London.”

“How long will you be at the Swan?”
Mary asked him, and felt so uncommonly bold that she added a pretext for the question. “The reason I inquire is that I plan to have a dinner party in Fran’s honor. If you will still be here in a few days’
time, I hope you will attend.”

“I will be delighted to come, Mrs. Travers. I am in no hurry to rush away from such warm hospitality.”

Mary gave her friend a conspiratorial smile and rose. “I must see what is keeping the tea tray.”

“Well, do you think I have passed muster with your friends?”
Devane said frankly.

“You are an unqualified success. Why you put yourself to so much bother, I cannot imagine.”

“Bother be damned. Manners are free. The cow is costing me a fortune.”

Her lips moved unsteadily. “I hope it is a good cow.”

“I consider it a wise investment. I must have
some
excuse for hanging on so long. You have noticed questions are beginning to arise—one might almost say expectations.”

“Of what?”
she asked, and immediately regretted the question. His kindling look was answer enough.

“This is a conversation that could be carried on more efficaciously in private. Will you drive out with me tomorrow?”
She bit her lip and tried to think of a way of avoiding another meeting. “I must warn you,”
Devane continued, “I can be a perfect burr. I have every intention of sticking until I get you alone, if I have to buy every cow in Travers’s pasture.”

“Very well, but—”
She could hardly go on to refuse an offer that had not been made. “But I do not plan to return to London,”
she finished lamely.

His eyes made a leisurely examination of her hair and face. He noticed the dangling velvet ribbons caressing her jaw. Another innovation in her toilette. Her heightened color revealed her excitement. “You have given up on the dairy-maid look, but I think that ribbon might catch on with the ton. Don’t you miss the delights of society?”

“I have no objection to the society I find here.”

“I shall grab that unwitting compliment and thank you, Francesca.”

Ronald advanced toward them. “Do you want to have a look at Bessie’s record now, milord? I told you I would show you the records of that milcher you’re buying. You won’t regret the purchase.”

“Excellent.”
He rose at once and made his bow to Francesca, who had to smile to see the elegant Lord Devane following meekly to the library to pore over records that she was sure would bore him to distraction.

The tea was cold by the time Devane was allowed to return. Mary offered to call for a fresh pot, but he refused like a gentleman and took his leave.

Before departing, he went to Francesca. “Will two o’clock be convenient tomorrow?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

As soon as he was out the door, the ladies had to hear what this was all about. “We are going for a drive. That’s all,”
Francesca explained.

“You’ll come back engaged! I know it!”
Mary crowed.

Mrs. Denver smiled, and even Selby didn’t frown. It was for Ronald Travers to make the final statement. “He seems like a gentleman of good, sound sense. A lady could do worse, taking into account the title and estates. A good deal worse.”

Alone in her bed that night, Francesca took herself severely to account. Have I no common sense? Did I learn nothing from my first marriage? Devane was a womanizer. She could not marry him—yet every fiber of her wanted to hear an offer. Perhaps it was not going to be an offer after all. He had asked if they were friends.... But his glowing eyes surely held more than friendship.

She would tell him point-blank she was not interested in the sort of marriage that meant a month’s honeymoon followed by a string of mistresses. London, and the Season, were out. Devane would never consent to such an arrangement. She would miss the Season herself....

She hardly knew how she got in the next morning. She had some vague impression of helping Mary write cards for her dinner party and discussing a menu that included much beef and cream desserts, all from the Traverses own farm. But all the time her mind was on Devane and the drive. It seemed an eternity before two o’clock finally came, and the knock at the door announced his punctual arrival.

He was met by all the party except Ronald, who was busy with his work. Francesca was annoyed that the household gave the call the solemnity of a formal visit by sitting in state in the saloon, waiting. The conversation, however, was brief and unexceptionable. The weather and the best roads for a spin were mentioned by Mr. Selby. Mrs. Denver reminded Francesca to take a warm pelisse, as she would be in an open carriage, and Mary invited Devane back for tea after their drive.

While this was going forth, Francesca surreptitiously examined her caller. A blue worsted jacket, straw-colored trousers, and shining Hessians had replaced his clothes of the previous evening without diminishing Devane’s elegance a whit. She rather regretted her determination to be a country girl. She wore a sprigged muslin and plain blue pelisse. Her chapeau was a simple round bonnet enlivened with a wreath of colored flowers.

“We shan’t be late,”
Francesca said to her hostess as they left.

The sun shone in a brilliant blue sky. Rooks soared idly amid the spreading elms, and somewhere a thrush sang. “It’s a lovely day,”
Francesca said as Devane handed her up into the curricle.

He made a playful bow, then hopped up beside her. “I ordered it especially for you. How many mindless dandies have told you that, I wonder. You see the sort of trip it is going to be. Platitudes and politeness, until I have convinced you you aren’t really a country wench, despite that hideous round bonnet. I was mistaken about the country style catching on. A lady needs the face of an angel to wear such a quiz of a bonnet. You just barely get away with it, Frankie.”

“Is this your idea of platitudes and politeness, Devane?”

“I changed my mind.”
He gave the team the signal, and they were off. “It was that invitation to tea that did it. It shortens our outing, I had planned to drive to Dorking for tea. A private parlor seemed a good spot for a proposal,”
he finished with no change in tone.

Francesca sat like a nun, deaf in one ear, but her heart was racing. “Dorking is said to be in the fairest part of Surrey. We have time to go there, I think—but not for tea.”

“Actually, I’m not sure that a private parlor is the best spot for a proposal,”
he continued as calmly as though discussing the weather. “There is something to be said for the open air. Trees, birds, flowers—all that. We’ll keep an eye out for a private spot, a little away from the road, but not too close to a cow pasture.”

“We could drive to Reigate.”

“I noticed an apple orchard as I drove along. Does it belong to Travers, do you know?”
He lifted his eyes from the road then and glanced at her, chewing back a smile. That prim face, he fancied, was the expression she wore in church.

“Or Redhill—it is said to have excellent shops. But I don’t suppose you are interested in shopping.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have the ring with me.”
He did not add it had been received only that morning, thanks to a dart to London by his groom.

Even this telling speech was ignored, though it cost Francesca a supreme effort. “Oh, I know! Let us go to the Recreation Grounds, north of High Street. There are vaults and caverns. They have something to do with the Magna Charta, I believe.”

“Very romantic, Frankie, scrambling around in a sand pit. The tale of their being associated with the barons who forged the Magna Charta is apocryphal.”

“St. Mary Magdalen church, then. Lord Howard, who conquered the Spanish Armada, is buried below the chancel.”

“I have already been to that church, looking for you.”

“At St. Mary Magdalen church?”
she asked in confusion.

“Looking for the Traverses, actually, in the parish record, Mr. Irwin knew only their last name and the general area where they live. I have been combing the countryside, looking for them. What do you think took me so long to come to you?”

She treated this question as rhetorical and said, “We could go to Reigate Priory. It was once the seat of Lord Howard—the one who defeated the Armada.”

“Good God, is that a suitable spot for a proposal? You are confusing love and war.”

She gave up ignoring his talk of marriage and turned on him in vexation. “There is no confusion, sir. Love leads to marriage, which leads to war between the man and wife. I have had enough of marital warfare. I am not interested in it.”

They had not gone half a mile yet. No romantic spot had appeared on the horizon. Perforce, Devane continued the drive. “As we are not married yet, could we not call a truce while we discuss this like adults?”

“There is nothing to discuss. Pray, take me back to the Elms.”

“Mrs. Travers will hardly have tea prepared so soon. It is the nadir of bad taste to inconvenience one’s hostess. But I shall not importune you again on that subject you dislike.”

For two minutes they continued in silence. Then Devane said, “I think, in your marriage, it was choosing the wrong partner that gave you such a disgust of the institution.”

She tossed her shoulders. “We were not going to discuss that subject.”

“We were not going to discuss
our
marriage. I am discussing yours.”

“Men are all alike—and so are marriages.”

“Your friend Mary would stare to hear you say so. I cannot picture Ronald Travers causing his wife a moment’s grief of the sort you suffered.”

She snorted. How dare he suggest she would ever marry a man like Ronald Travers? “What has that to do with you and me?”
she asked, sparks shooting from her eyes.

“Very little, I hope, but it might suggest to a rational lady that all men are not alike.”

“That is true, but it does not suggest to me that you have a single thing in common with Ronald. You are more like David.”

“I thought as much! Now we are coming to the crux of the problem,”
he said, nodding to himself. “It is clearly not the careless disposition of diamonds we are discussing. I grant you that Lord Devane, bachelor, had something in common with your husband; viz., an interest in women. Lord Devane, husband, however, would be a different article altogether.”

Francesca relented to the extent of granting him a small, distrustful peep. Encouraged, he pulled into the closest roadway, which chanced to be a graveled walk leading to a gate in the pasture fence. Mr. Travers owned the fields on either side of the road, and when his herd had grazed one side, he would open the gate and lead them across to graze the other. Other than a dusty tree drooping over the road, nature had endowed the spot with no particular aids to romance.