Angel's Devil (6 page)

Despite her
annoyance at' him and the rumors he had informed her of, that didn't seem
entirely fair. "But he told me he's trying to refor—"

"Angel,
don't argue with me," Camellia returned. "For heaven's sake."

Fortunately,
Simon approached Angel with a glass of punch in time to save her from the
remainder of the tirade, and with a stiff nod the countess went to find her
husband.

"Thank
you," Angel said gratefully as she accepted the glass.

"You're
welcome," he returned with a smile. "You looked as though you needed
to be rescued."

She sent an
exasperated look in her mother's direction. "She dislikes my even speaking
with your cousin, as though he spits venom, or something."

"Some say
he does." Simon grimaced and looked out toward the floor. "What in
the world is he doing with Pearl Wainwright?"

"Dancing,
I believe." She stifled another grin. "He requested an
introduction."

"But Miss
Wainwright is . . . " He trailed off, obviously unable to find a
diplomatic way to say what he was thinking.

"Rather
vacant?" she supplied. "And perhaps prone to the vapors?"

"Angel,
" Simon chided, glancing at the couple again. "Why didn't you tell
him?" he whispered.

She shrugged,
pursing her lips. "He didn't ask."

Other than
Simon, Angel's visits to Naffley House were her favorite part of being engaged.
She'd been taking tea with Simon's grandmother every Wednesday afternoon for
the past three months, with the exception of the fortnight she'd been away in
Paris. With Lady Elizabeth, as the dowager viscountess and daughter of the
Duke of Newberry insisted on being called, she could speak her mind. Their
conversations were often amusing and insightful, and now that she had met them
both, Angelique was surprised at how much the older woman reminded her of the Marquis
of Abbonley.

"Has Simon
spoken to you about the estate in Warwickshire?" Lady Elizabeth asked,
adding a spoonful of sugar to her tea.

Angelique
nodded. "He mentioned that he thought he could persuade his father to let
us set up a household there," she answered.

The viscountess
pursed her lips. "Seems to me that stubborn son of mine should have
offered it outright. Not as though he's set foot in it for the past five
years."

Angelique was
well aware that Lady Elizabeth was frequently frustrated by the stuffiness of
her only son, Simon's father, the Viscount Wansglen. It was apparently her late
daughter, James Faring's mother, who had been the more spirited of the two
siblings. "Simon told me it's a lovely place," she offered with a smile.

The viscountess
harumphed. "It's been in the Talbott family for generations," she
noted. "An old stone and oak fortress that's stood against the
Lancasters, floods, and the plague. It's something of a shrine. We all speak
with bated breath about Turbin Hall."

That
description varied somewhat from what Simon had told her. Living in an old
fortress where every stick of furniture had its place and history sounded a
bit . . . stitling. "It sounds enchanting," she responded firmly.
Simon would certainly have no objection to her making some improvements on the
manor once they were married.

Lady Elizabeth
gave a cackle. "It sounds mouldy," she responded, "but you'll
manage."

"Thank
you, my lady."

Downstairs the
door opened, followed by footsteps coming up the stairs. "Grandmama?"

"In here,
Jamie," Lady Elizabeth called, giving a delighted smile.

James Faring
pushed open the drawing room door.

"Grandmama,
I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to have me invited to every
damned pheasant and fox hunt in the country this autumn," he snapped,
limping into the room. His angry green eyes turned to Angelique, and' he
stopped in mid-stride. "My apologies, Lady Angelique," he said after
a moment. "I didn't realize you were here."

"That's
quite all right, my lord," Angel responded, noting that his long-fingered
hands were crumpling someone's engraved calling card into an unrecognizable
wad.

"I only
asked if the Marquis of Westfall would be hosting his annual hunt," Lady
Elizabeth commented, setting aside her tea, "and mentioned that you
enjoyed hunting."

"You know
bloody well that I do not enjoy—"

"Hunting
with the Marquis of Westfall will do wonders for your reputation, my
grandson."

He scowled.
"Hunting with Westfall will give me an attack of apoplexy." Angel
couldn't stifle a chuckle, and the marquis glanced over at her. "Do I
amuse you?" he queried, raising an eyebrow.

She shook her
head. "I'm trying to imagine you suffering from apoplexy."

He gave a
slight grin. "Ah, but you've never seen me attempting to converse with Westfall.”

The dowager
viscountess snorted. "The last time you conversed with Westfall you
relieved him of seven hundred pounds at Boodles' club, did you not?"

The marquis
furrowed his brow. "Was that Westfall?
I
remember it seemed quite amusing at the time, but—"

"What's
amusing?"
     
.

Angel started.
"Simon," she exclaimed, as he strolled into the room.

He took her
hand and raised it to his lips, then glanced over at his cousin.
"Generally, James, when someone is accompanying someone else, the first
someone does not storm off in a rage and leave the second someone behind to
make his apologies."

"I didn't
ask you to apologize," the marquis returned shortly. "And if you and
Grandmama would stop meddling in my affairs, I wouldn't have to go storming off
anywhere." He glanced over at Elizabeth. "Did it occur to either of
you that I might simply want to spend this autumn at Abbonley? That I might
enjoy being home after having been away for nearly two years?"

Lady Elizabeth
stood. "You're right, Jamie," she sighed, stepping over to kiss him
on the cheek. She looked over at Angelique. "May I leave you in the
company of these rapscallions for a moment?'

"Of
course," Angel agreed, glancing over at the marquis, and for the sake of
her reputation grateful that Simon was present.

"What are
you up to now, Grandmama?" James queried suspiciously.

"I'm going
to send a note to Julia Davern to inform her that I was in error and my
grandson will not be available to go fox hunting after the Season."

"Oh, good
God," Abbonley groaned, motioning her out the door. "Please."

Simon grinned.
"You can't blame us for trying, you know."

"Yes, I
can."

"I thought
you wanted to be respectable," Angelique added, and was rewarded by a
scowl from the marquis.

"That's
correct, my lady. Respectable." He dropped onto the couch beside her.
"Not sent to Bedlam. That quadrille lasted for twenty-five minutes. I
conversed, quite charmingly, I might add, with Miss Wainwright for that entire
time. I received three responses." He ticked them off on his fingers.
" 'Yes, my lord,' 'no, my lord,' and 'whatever pleases you, my
lord.'"
     
.

Angelique
nodded and took another sip of tea. "That is what you required, is it
not?" she said mildly. "I'm afraid I don't see the problem."

"What are you two talking about?" Simon interjected.

"That was bloody well
not
what I required," the marquis
snapped, ignoring his cousin. His emerald eyes, though, seemed considerably
less than annoyed as he met her gaze.

He was enjoying
the argument, she realized. And so was she. "Miss Wainwright is quiet,
respectable, and from a good family. That is what you—"

"All
right. I see your point." James threw up his hands in mock surrender.
"There's no need to stab me with it." He shook his head, a reluctant
grin touching his lips. "Next time, please add intelligence to the
list."

She nodded
again. "Very well, my lord." Angel gave a slow smile she was unable
to suppress. "I may have someone in mind for you." A brief, guilty
thought crossed by her, but she ignored it. James Faring might truly wish for a
wife, but she would show him that he couldn't simply pick a few choice
ingredients and be happy with the results.

"Will someone
please
tell me what's going on?" Simon
asked.

Before the
conversation could continue, James's grandmother returned and Miss Graham had
to take her leave. Elizabeth invited both of her grandsons to supper, then left
them. With Angelique gone, the drawing room seemed quieter and darker, and
James rose to go find something with which to occupy himself.

"James,
may I speak to you for a moment?" Simon returned from the doorway' where
be had parted from his betrothed.

"That
sounds rather formal," the marquis commented, nodding and sitting back
again.

"You seem
to . . . get along rather well with Angel." That didn't sound promising.
James raised an eyebrow.

"That was
an argument we were having, Simon."

"You like
to argue," his cousin pointed out. "You always have."

"Well,
excuse me for enjoying a spirited conversation. I thought you'd be happy that
Lady Angelique and I are dealing well."

"I am. And
stop being so hostile," Simon scowled, walking over to pour himself a
brandy. He raised the decanter in James' direction. "Thirsty?"

The marquis
shook his head. "No. And I'm not being hostile."

"You
shouldn't be harassing Angel. It's bad enough that her parents are half ready
to call off the wedding simply because the Devil's returned to London."

A muscle in the
marquis' lean cheek twitched. "My apologies, cousin," he murmured,
"if my having survived Waterloo is upsetting your wedding plans."

Simon flushed.
"That's not what I meant."

"Well
then, please, explain exactly what it is you did mean."

"James, I
wanted . . . to ask your assistance."

"You've a
funny way of going about it." He gestured in Simon's direction.
"Continue."

"You know
Angel and I don't want to wait until next April to marry," his cousin said
slowly, and the marquis nodded.

"So I
gathered."

Simon leaned
back against the window sill. "Last night I happened to notice her
mother's reaction to seeing the two of you waltzing."

"So you
want me to stay away from her." The marquis stood, turning away so Simon
wouldn't see how much that hurt. "Very well."
   
.

"No,
James, I don't want you to stay away from Angel. Just the opposite, in
fact."

Thinking he
must have heard wrong, Abbonley stopped halfway to the door and turned to stare
at Simon. "What?"

"Her
parents are concerned that perhaps we've rushed our decision to marry. What if
they're right?"

James frowned,
wondering why he hoped that what he was hearing was true. "Simon, it's
certainly no concern of mine if you and Lady Angelique have changed—"

Shaking his
head, Simon took a step forward. "What I mean is, what if the Marquis of
Abbonley began showing interest in Angel? If they realized that, her parents
would surely—"

James shook his
head. "Absolutely not, Simon. I won't step between you and a woman. Ever. If
I've learned one damned lesson, it's that one."

Simon paled.
"It wouldn't be like . . . Desiree," he muttered. James turned again
for the door, and Simon strode after him. "James, I'm sorry. I meant it
would only be for show. It would only be to convince her parents that delaying
the wedding would be a mistake." He lowered his hand. "That they'd be
better off if they allowed us to wed immediately.”

"No,
Simon."

His cousin
paused. "You owe me, James:'

James turned to
look at him. "l owe you?" he repeated slowly.

"I've
spent most of my adult life helping you make your escape, literally and
figuratively, out of women's bedchambers, making certain you returned home
safely when you were too foxed to see straight and had just gambled some lord
or other out of half his birthright, and," Simon hesitated for a moment,
then raised his chin, "and being your second in duels."

He stopped, but
James stood quietly, waiting for the rest. "And?" he finally
prompted, looking at his cousin.

"And so
I'm only asking one favor. A large one, I'll admit, but I'll never ask you for
another."

"Why did
you never write and tell me about your Angel?" James asked instead of
answering.

Simon eyed him
suspiciously, apparently sensing that he was being put off. "It was
actually something of a surprise."

"You mean
you proposed by accident?" James returned, raising an eyebrow. "That
seems a bit scatter-witted for you, cousin. You being the sensible one, and
all."