Page 60 of Miss Devon’s Choice

This is different. He swallowed, pushed the thought aside, but asked himself the next question anyway. How can it be different? Love is dangerous, foolish, a mistake.

Even if she is English, being connected to me will make her life difficult. I am ugly—

Rebecca had never seemed to care, after that initial moment when she spied him from the stairs. He nearly forgot the pox-scars running across his face, his neck, his arms, when he was with her.

I am despised. The son of a merchant’s daughter, an Italian.

But he stood to inherit a title and fortune that would swiftly elevate him above many of those worries. Rebecca would be a viscountess, then a countess. She was connected to other powerful people through her cousin and her aunt.

Even if I allowed my feelings to grow, I could still lose her. Or she could grow tired of me. Stop caring for me.

It seemed she already had.

The thought made his heart feel cold, as though a fist had wrapped around the vital organ and squeezed it. Christian put a hand to the spot, the same one holding the necklace, and rubbed his chest. The gold cross pressed against his shirt, warm from resting in his palm.

“I’m too late,” he said aloud, the realization simultaneously aching and giving him hope.

If I lost her at this very moment, my heart would break.

Christian clutched the necklace tighter, raising it to his mouth in a fist. “What do I do?” he whispered to the room.

No answer came, and he’d never been so afraid in his life.

Chapter Twenty-three

Rebecca sat at the breakfast table, idly stirring her coffee. It had already grown cold, of course, as had most of the food on her plate. What little appetite she had fled when she’d been presented with a note by one of the footmen. The paper had been addressed to her, but it was a formally worded invitation from her father to both the viscount and her. To take refreshment with him. That very afternoon.

What would he do when he realized she’d made an even greater mess of her betrothal? If it had been a crumbling wall before, it was now a pile of rubble. Shouting at and insulting a man who already had second thoughts about their marriage would hardly endear her to him.

Lady Felicity sat reading her own post, tittering over a letter in her hand. She finally exclaimed to the other young ladies sitting at the table, “I have had the most wonderful news about a new seamstress. She is from Austria.”

That startled Rebecca out of her thoughts. Austria had long been a threat held over her by her father, after all. She dropped her spoon with a clatter against the cup, and all eyes went to her. She forced a smile. “How lovely. Is Austria known for its forward sense of fashion?” she asked, her throat a trifle tight.

“I have never heard it so,” said Miss Dunhill, turning to her mother for confirmation. The baroness immediately began speaking of European houses of fashion and ranking their abilities in terms of creating suitable clothing. Rebecca pretended to listen for several moments before she dabbed at her lips with a napkin and quietly excused herself.

With her father’s invitation in hand, she went to the nursery. At this early hour, she hoped to find her cousin there. Virginia, though a countess, doted on her children and spent a great deal of time in their company, when she was not with her husband or attending to her duties.

She met Virginia on the stairs leading up the nursery floor, a gaggle of children following behind her and baby Emma in her arms.

“Dear me, what goes on here?” Rebecca asked, making her eyes as wide as she could. “A parade? A festival? A march of the army?”

Edward, Virginia’s second-born son, answered while the other children giggled. “Mother says we are all to go outside and play in the gardens.”

Phillip, at eight, was the eldest of Virginia’s three children. He was at the rear of the group, which included the youngest children of the marquess, two girls and a boy. The gap between the three in the nursery and Lord Sharpeton and Lady Felicity was due to the marquess having married a second time, after losing his first wife. It was the same reason for the age difference between Virginia’s sons and baby Emma.

“That sounds positively lovely, Edward. Might I join the procession?”

“Yes, please.” Edward eagerly put his hand in hers.

Virginia chuckled. “Come along, children. Down to the gardens we go.”

One of the marquess’s daughters had a butterfly net she swung as she walked and all the children chattered happily.

“Do you intend to take charge of this lot all on your own, Virginia?” Rebecca asked.

“At least for an hour or so. Their sweet nurses are taking a few precious minutes to themselves.”

“We are driving them to distraction,” the girl holding the butterfly net said brightly.