Chapter Eight
LORD DEVON’S LOOK of appreciation as he eyed her over from head to toe was all Mildred required to shore her resolve to see her night through at Château Follet, regardless of her cousin’s presence.
During the remainder of dinner, she had caught the solemn stare of Alastair more than once and determined that she would stop looking his way. If she were to enjoy herself, she had to pay him no heed. He would surely forget her soon enough, especially as that scarlet beauty beside him clearly took an interest in him, as most women were wont to do.
“You have not touched your pudding,” Devon remarked.
“In truth, I am too nervous to eat very much,” she answered, though she could not recall the last time she had passed on dessert.
“Ah, that is to be expected your first time here,” he said with reassurance.
She returned a grateful smile.
“Perhaps another glass of port will ease the nerves?” he offered, waving at one of the footmen.
Mildred felt the gaze of her cousin upon her but resisted looking at him. She hesitated at a second glass, for she had already consumed a full glass of wine and was not accustomed to partaking of more, but Devon was already instructing the footman to refill her glass.
Devon held up his own glass. “To an unforgettable first time.”
She clinked her glass to his before putting it to her lips. Perhaps the glass of port was precisely what she needed. She was surprised at her present disquiet, especially after she had so firmly declared her intention of staying to Alastair.
She finished the glass of port, and from Devon’s look of surprise, she must have done so rather quickly.
“The port is far better than the pudding,” Devon acknowledged.
Blushing, she replied, “Yes, it is a very fine port.”
When Devon made to gesture again for the port, she stayed him, placing a hand upon his arm. “No, no. I will not be seen as a glutton, particularly upon my first visit.”
“Madame Follet would welcome your gluttony and be happy to have the offerings of her cellar so enjoyed.”
She chanced to look Alastair’s way and found him staring in her direction. Blast it. She would have thought him lost in the brilliant, thickly lashed eyes of the redhead by now. Realizing her hand still rested upon Devon, she quickly withdrew and straightened in her chair. Devon looked to where she had gazed.
“Do you know that man?” Devon asked.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly.”
“It seemed he followed you when you left the table.”
Though she had no appetite for food, she decided to take a large spoonful of pudding. “He felt obliged, as my cousin, to see that I was well.”
Devon’s brows shot up. “Your cousin?”
Having no desire to talk of Alastair, she replied quickly, “By marriage. And we are scarcely in the same company.”
“How coincidental that you should both be here then.”
“Yes, it was completely unexpected.” And unwanted.
Devon looked down the table toward Alastair.
“Perhaps I will have another glass of port,” she declared to draw his attention.
She accomplished her goal, for he seemed quite happy to supply her with more wine. She did not consume the third glass with quite the same thirst, for she could start to feel the effects from the first two glasses of wine, the chief benefit of which was that she ceased to mind Alastair and fixed upon Devon’s increasing charms.
After dinner, everyone retired to an assembly room adorned with paintings, replicas of works such as The Nude Maja by Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, and Venus of Urbino by Titian. More wine was served by maids and footmen, scantily dressed in the costuming of ancient Egyptians. Millie tried unsuccessfully not to stare at the abundant amount of flesh revealed, wondering if she would ever have enough nerve to parade in front of others with her midsection and the entire lengths of her arms bared. Or, if she were of the other sex, to expose the whole of the chest. She had always liked that part of a man. It was so very different from that of her sex. The width, the taut ridges, were as pleasing to her eye as anything.
The wine having increased her bravado, she found herself commenting to Devon, “Do they not feel chilled?”
“They are accustomed to their state of dress,” he answered.
Mildred realized she felt quite warm despite the dampness of her gown. She also felt light in the head and a little unsteady.
“Would you care for a seat, Miss Abbey?” Devon inquired.
How attentive of him, she thought to herself, pleased that he had not yet left her side. She greatly hoped that he would choose her.
“How are the couples selected?” she asked after sitting down on a settee.
Devon sat beside her. “Well, those that did not arrive with someone may choose from the unattached. At present, we are to circulate and acquaint ourselves with each other and, hopefully, find someone with whom we should like to pair.”
“Ah, well, you are kind to keep me company, but do not let me stay you from befriending the others here.”
“In truth, I have no interest in seeking other company.”
She found herself bereft of words and lost in the shimmer of his beautiful blue eyes. She could hardly believe her fortune! But perhaps he did not mean to imply he preferred her company? Yet, what else could he have intended with those words? Did she dare press for a supporting statement? How she wished she had not partaken of so much wine that she could think more clearly!
“Miss Abbey, may I have a word?”
She looked up to see Alastair standing before them with his hand outstretched, and she was not so inebriated that she could not know from the firm set of his jaw that she was better off not taking his hand.
Sensing her hesitation, Devon rose. “Good sir, I do not think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance? I am the Viscount Devon, my father the Earl of—”
“And I am Alastair,” her cousin replied, staring coolly at Devon.
Devon bowed. “A pleasure. Is this your first visit to Follett?”
“No, and if you will pardon my intrusion, I mean to have a word with Miss Abbey.”
Mildred wanted to refuse, but the tone in his voice suggested that it was perhaps unwise to do so. She turned to the frowning viscount and could see that he wished to object, but his sex was not immune to the command that Alastair exuded.
“I shan’t be long,” she assured Devon before rising and accepting her cousin’s arm.
She allowed herself to be led to the other end of the room and braced herself for battle.
“Have you lost all discretion?” he asked when they had put some distance between them and the other guests.
She would have pulled her arm from him, but he kept it.
“If you mean to scold me,” she replied, “I would spare your breath and time for a more worthy pursuit.”
He pressed his lips into a line. “Lord Devon is not to be trusted.”
“Yes, you had warned me of his charms.”
“A sinister disturbance lurks behind his pretty manners.”
“You are well acquainted with him then?”
“It is not necessary for me to be well acquainted with him.”
“Then you have no specifics, and no evidence to criticize a man you barely know.”
“I require none. I am inclined to dislike him.”
They both looked back toward Devon, who was now in conversation with the beautiful redhead.
“You are inclined to dislike everyone,” Mildred responded with some exasperation, for she wanted to return to Lord Devon and did not like how tightly her arm was trapped against Alastair.
“You are ready to give your trust to a man you just met?”
“I understand that Madame Follet does not extend her invitations to merely anyone.”
“She is not immune from making mistakes.”
“I am willing to take that chance.”
His countenance darkened. “You are willing, then, to award a man who may prove to be a cad your maidenhead? Once given, it cannot be recalled.”
She flushed and tried once more to disengage her arm. When the effort proved fruitless, she stared him square in the eyes and said, “That honor has already been bestowed on another!”
His eyes widened in surprise, and she felt a small triumph in being able to astonish the man. A maid presented them with her tray of wine glasses, and Mildred reached for one.
“You have had enough of that,” Alastair growled. To the maid, he said, “A glass of water or lemonade for the mademoiselle.”
After the maid had left, he turned back to Mildred. The shock had not left him.
“You are no longer a virgin?” he asked.
“You see, I am more suited to Château Follet than you think.”
“But who—with whom—?”
“That is none of your affair.”
“I can make it my affair.”
“I do not presume to ask the names of the women you have deflowered.”
His nostrils flared. “I do not de—”
“Perhaps you could make it known to Haversham that I am no longer in possession of my honor? For certain he will not wish to marry me then.”
“That is the wine talking. When you have come to your senses, you will see what a preposterous notion that would be. I know you would not shame your family in such a way. Despite what Katherine or Marguerite might have said to you, coming to Château Follet carries great risk for you. And you have worsened it by befriending a suspect man and allowing him to intoxicate you!”
“He did not intoxicate me! I drank the port of my own free will.”
“Which he encouraged and supplied for you.”
He had paid more attention to her during the dinner than she would have thought. It was all very trying and slightly incomprehensible, which made her mind swim. With auspicious timing, the maid returned with a glass of lemonade, which Alastair took and presented to Mildred.
“Drink it,” he commanded.
Hoping that doing so would bring about an earlier conclusion to their dialogue, she did as he bid.
“Who was it?” he asked after she had finished half the beverage.
“Who was what?” she returned.
He looked about, then drew her from the room, closing the doors behind them. “Who deflowered you?”
“I said it was none of your affair. It serves you no purpose to know.”
“If I were your father or your brother, I would call the rogue out.”
“But you are neither.”
“Thank God!” they said in unison.
Alastair shook his head and she returned to drinking her lemonade. It did seem to clear the fogginess of her thoughts.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “you are connected to the d’Aubigne family now.”
“And since when do you trouble yourself with regard to anyone?”
“Since… You think me that heartless?”
She paused. She did not think him so wholly uncaring. If she had, she would never have bothered with speaking to him. But it was best not to think better of him at present. “I thought you prided yourself on your indifference to others?”
“I do.”
“Then why waste your breath on me?”
“Because there is one person I do care for: my aunt. And she concerns herself greatly with you.”
“Ah, you are doing her a favor.”
“I am.”
“But she wishes me here, wishes me to partake of what Château Follet offers. Are you not doing her a disservice by attempting to thwart her plans?”
“Her wishes are misguided. She will see that soon enough.”
“Or she will find you insufferably arrogant.”
He grinned. “She has already accepted and made peace with my conceit.”
Mildred sighed. The man had an answer for everything! She thought of Devon and the redhead. “Will you not tend to your scarlet beauty before she is charmed by the Viscount?”
He followed her gaze and seemed to hesitate, but said, “She will have to wait.”
“And why is that? I think our tête-à-tête has lasted long enough, and I had said to Lord Devon—”
“Devon and Miss Hollingsworth can keep each other company tonight.”
Taken aback, she asked, “I thought you took an interest in the redhead?”
“I did, but I informed Marguerite that for tonight, I am choosing to claim you.”