Page 50 of A Virgin for His Grace
Livia stared at him with obvious disbelief, her delicate features contorting with a mixture of disappointment and fury that truly hurt him.
"This is not the brother I know," she said with quiet intensity. "The Devon who raised me from despair, who sacrificed his own happiness for my welfare time and again, would never abandon someone he loved to such a fate. What has happened to you? What has changed?"
The genuine anguish in her voice made Devon's resolve waver, and he found himself struggling to maintain the pretenseof indifference in the face of his sister's distress.
"Nothing has changed," he said with forced steadiness. "I have simply recognised the futility of fighting against social conventions that are far stronger than any individual desires. Miss Greystone will find happiness in her new life, and we must both learn to accept that reality."
"Happiness?" Livia's laugh was harsh with disbelief. "With a man who drove his previous betrothed to break their betrothal through systematic cruelty? With a fortune-hunter whose debts make him desperate enough to pursue a woman whose reputation he himself has helped to destroy? What manner of happiness do you imagine she will find in such circumstances?"
Devon flinched at the accurate summary of Whitmore's character, his careful facade cracking slightly under the weight of his sister's passionate challenge.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "she will find the sort of contentment that comes from fulfilling one's duty rather than indulging one's desires. Not all marriages are built upon romantic love, Livia. Many are founded upon mutual respect and shared interests."
"Mutual respect?" Livia's voice rose to a pitch that made the crystal chandelier tinkle ominously. "Between Arabella and that... that creature who views her as nothing more than a convenient solution to his financial difficulties? Devon, you speak as though you have lost all capacity for rational thought."
The accusation struck closer to home than his sister could possibly know, and Devon found himself turning back to thewindow to avoid her penetrating gaze.
"I speak as a man who has finally learned to distinguish between fantasy and reality," he said with deliberate cruelty. "Whatever romantic notions I may have entertained regarding Miss Greystone were precisely that—notions, not the foundation for a practical future."
The silence that followed this pronouncement was so complete that Devon could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. When Livia finally spoke, her voice held a note of cold disappointment that was far more devastating than any anger could have been.
"I see that I was mistaken about your character," she said quietly. "I believed you to be a man of honour, capable of great love and sacrifice. Instead, I find that you are merely another selfish aristocrat, willing to cast aside anyone whose inconvenient feelings might threaten your comfortable existence."
The words struck him like physical blows, yet Devon forced himself to accept them without defense. Better that Livia should think him a coward than suspect the desperate gamble he was about to undertake.
"Perhaps you are correct in that assessment," he said with bitter self-mockery. "Perhaps I am exactly the sort of man society believes me to be; charming enough to seduce, too selfish to sacrifice."
"Then Heavens help us all," Livia said with quiet finality. "For I had thought there was hope for genuine feeling in thisworld of artificial sentiment. It appears I was wrong."
With that devastating pronouncement, she swept from the study with the sort of regal dignity that their mother had possessed in abundance. Devon remained at the window, his reflection staring back at him from the glass like an accusing specter.
Tomorrow would bring either triumph or disaster, salvation or complete destruction. Yet as he contemplated the wreckage of his relationships with the two women he loved most in the world, Devon wondered whether victory achieved at such a cost could ever truly be considered success.
***
The remainder of the day passed in a blur of forced normalcy, with the household staff maintaining their usual efficiency despite the palpable tension that seemed to permeate every corner of Ravenshollow Manor. Devon threw himself into correspondence with desperate energy, dispatching messages to various parties whose cooperation would be essential to the success of his plan.
To his man of business, he sent detailed instructions regarding the transfer of certain funds and the preparation of specific documents that would be required for the following day's dramatic revelation. To Lord Stanton, whose political connections had proven invaluable in the investigation of Whitmore's background, he confirmed the final arrangements for their coordinated intervention.
Most importantly, he composed a carefully worded letterto the clergyman who was to perform tomorrow's ceremony, a gentleman whose discretion and moral flexibility had been cultivated over many years of strategic charitable donations to his various causes.
Dear Reverend Thornfield, he wrote in his precise script, I find myself in need of your particular expertise in a matter of some delicacy. Tomorrow's ceremony may require certain adjustments to the traditional proceedings, depending upon information that may come to light regarding the bridegroom's character. I trust I may rely upon your wisdom and discretion in managing whatever irregularities may arise.
The letter was sealed with his personal signet and dispatched with the sort of urgency typically reserved for matters of state. Everything now depended upon timing, upon the careful orchestration of revelations that would destroy Whitmore's credibility whilst preserving Arabella's reputation.
Yet even as he refined the final details of his scheme, Devon found his thoughts constantly returning to the pain he had glimpsed in Arabella's eyes during their morning interview. The necessity of deceiving her so completely, of allowing her to believe herself abandoned at the moment of her greatest need, felt like a betrayal of everything they had shared.
The sound of carriage wheels on gravel drew his attention to the window, where he observed the arrival of several visitors whose presence confirmed that tomorrow's wedding had become the social event of the season. Lady Huxley emerged from the first vehicle with the sort of malicious anticipation that marked her as one of society's chief gossips, whilst her daughter Cecilia followed with obvious reluctance.
From the second carriage stepped Mrs. Worthington, whose presence suggested that not all of society's leaders had condemned Arabella's circumstances entirely. The older woman's sharp eyes swept the facade of Ravenshollow Manor with obvious curiosity, as though seeking some sign of the drama that everyone suspected lay beneath the surface of tomorrow's celebration.
Devon withdrew from the window before he could be observed, knowing that his appearance at this moment would only fuel additional speculation about his feelings regarding the impending nuptials. Yet the sight of society's representatives gathering like vultures at a feast made him more determined than ever to ensure that tomorrow's revelations would provide them with exactly the sort of scandal they craved—though not in the manner they expected.
As evening fell and the house settled into its customary quietude, Devon made his way to the library where so many of his encounters with Arabella had taken place. The room seemed haunted by memories of their passionate exchanges, the very air redolent with the ghost of her perfume and the echo of whispered endearments.
Tomorrow would determine whether those memories would be the foundation for a shared future or the bittersweet remnants of a love that had burned too brightly to survive the harsh realities of their world. Yet as Devon settled into his chair with a brandy and the latest reports from his investigator, he allowed himself a moment of quiet confidence.
James Whitmore had made a fatal error in underestimating both the Duke of Ravenshollow's resources and hisdetermination to protect those he held dear. Tomorrow, that error would be exposed before all of London society, and Arabella would finally understand that she had never been abandoned but merely shielded from the battle that he had been fighting on her behalf.
