Georgette Heyer - Devil’s Cub

She paused for breath, and shot a look at Avon out of the corners of her eyes. He was quite unperturbed; a faint smile hovered over his thin lips, and he regarded his sister with an air of cynical amusement “I find your conversation somewhat difficult to follow, my dear Fanny,” he said. “Pray enlighten me.”

Lady Fanny said shrewdly: “Indeed, and I think you follow me very well, Justin.”

“But I don’t,” Léonie said. “Who deserves that Juliana should be cold? It is not the poor nobody?”

“Of course not!” replied her ladyship impatiently. She seemed strangely loth to explain herself. Léonie glanced inquiringly at the Duke.

He had opened his snuff-box again, and held a pinch to one nostril before he spoke. “I apprehend, my love, that Fanny is referring to your son.”

A blank look came into Léonie’s face. “Dominique? But-” She stopped and looked at Fanny. “No,” she said flatly.

Lady Fanny was hardly prepared for anything so downright rude. “Lord, my dear, what can you mean?”

“I do not at all want Dominique to marry Juliana,” Léonie explained.

“Perhaps,” said Lady Fanny, sitting very erect in her chair, “you will be good enough to explain what that signifies.”

“I am sorry if I seemed rude,” Léonie apologised. “Did I, Monseigneur?”

“Very,” he answered, shutting his snuff-box with an expert flick of the finger, “But, unlike Fanny, beautifully frank.”

“Well, I am sorry,” she repeated. “It is not that I do not like Juliana, but I do not think it would amuse Dominic to marry her.”

“Amuse him!” Fanny turned with pardonable exasperation to her brother. “If that is all-! Have you also forgotten the plans we made, Avon, years back?”

“Acquit me, Fanny. I never make plans.”

Léonie interrupted a heated rejoinder to say: “It is true, Fanny: we did say Dominique should marry Juliana. Not Monseigneur, but you and I. But they were babies, and me, I think it is all quite different now.”

“What is different, pray?” demanded her ladyship.

Léonie reflected. “Well, Dominique is,” she replied naively. “He is not enough respectable for Juliana.”

“Lord, child, do you look to see him bring home one of his opera dancers on his arm?” Lady Fanny said with a shrill little laugh.

From a doorway a cool, faintly insolent voice spoke. “My good aunt interests herself in my affairs, I infer.” The Marquis of Vidal came into the room, his chapeau-bras under his arm, the wings of his riding coat clipped back, French fashion, and top boots on his feet. There was a sparkle in his eyes, but he bowed with great politeness to his aunt, and went towards the Duchess.

She flew out of her chair. “Ah, my little one! Voyons , this makes me very happy!”

He put his arms round her. The red light went out of his eyes, and a softer look transformed his face. “‘My dear and only love,’ I give you good morrow,” he said. He shot a glance of mockery at his aunt, and took both Léonie’s hands in his. “‘My dear-and-only-love,’” he repeated maliciously, and kissed her fingers.

The Duchess gave a little crow of laughter. “Truly?” she inquired.

Fanny saw him smile into her eyes, a smile he kept for her alone. “Oh, quite, my dear!” he said negligently. Upon which my lady arose with an angry flounce of her armazine skirts, and announced that it was time she took her leave of them.

Léonie pressed her son’s hand coaxingly. “Dominique, you will escort your aunt to her carriage, will you not?”

“With the greatest pleasure on earth, madam,” he replied with promptitude, and offered his arm to the outraged lady.

She made her adieux stiffly, and went out with him. Half-way down the stairs her air of offended dignity deserted her. To be sure the boy was so very handsome, and she had ever a soft corner for a rake. She stole a glance at his profile, and suddenly laughed. “I declare you’re as disdainful as Avon,” she remarked. “But you need not be so cross, even if I do interest myself in your affairs.” She tapped his arm with her gloved hand. “You know, Dominic, I have a great fondness for you.”

The Marquis looked down at her rather enigmatically. “I shall strive to deserve your regard, ma’am,” he said.

“Shall you, my dear?” Lady Fanny’s tone was dry. “I wonder! Well, there’s no use denying I had hoped you would have made me happy, you and Juliana.”

“Console yourself, dear aunt, with the reflection that I shall cause neither you nor Juliana unhappiness.”

“Why, what do you mean?” she asked.

He laughed. “I should make a devil of a husband, aunt.”

“I believe you would,” she said slowly. “But-well, never mind.” They had come to the big door that gave on to the street. The porter swung it open and stood waiting. Lady Fanny gave her hand to the Marquis, who kissed it punctiliously. “Yes,” she said. “A devil of a husband. I am sorry for your wife-or I should be if I were a man.” On which obscure utterance she departed.

His lordship went back to the sunny room upstairs.

“I hope you did not engage her, mon petit? ” Léonie said anxiously.

“Far from it,” replied the Marquis. “I think-but she became profound so that I cannot be sure-that she is now glad I am not going to marry my cousin.”

“I told her you would not. I knew you would not like it at all,” Léonie said.

His grace surveyed her blandly. “You put yourself to unnecessary trouble, my love. I cannot conceive that Juliana, who seems to me to have more sense than one would expect to find in a child of Fanny’s, would contemplate marriage with Vidal.”

The Marquis grinned. “As usual, sir, you are right.”

“But I do not think so at all,” objected Léonie. “And if you are right, then I say that Juliana is a little fool, and without any sense at all.”

“She is in love,” answered the Marquis, “with a man called Frederick.”

“ Incroyable! ” Léonie exclaimed. “Tell me all about him at once. He sounds very disagreeable.”

The Duke looked across the room at his son. “One was led to suppose from Fanny’s somewhat incoherent discourse that the young man is impossible!”

“Oh, quite, sir,” agreed Vidal. “But she’ll have him for all that.”

“Well, if she loves him, I hope she will marry him,” said Léonie, with a bewildering change of front “You do not mind, do you, Monseigneur?”

“It is not, thank God, my affair,” replied his grace. “I am not concerned with the Marlings’ futures.”

The Marquis met his glance squarely. “Very well, sir. The point is taken.”

Avon held out one of his very white hands towards the fire, and regarded through half-closed eyes the big emerald ring he wore. “It is not my custom,” he said smoothly, “to inquire into your affairs, but I have heard talk of a girl who is not an opera dancer.”

The Marquis answered with perfect composure. “But not, I think, talk of my approaching nuptials.”

“Hardly,” said his grace, with a faint lift of the brows.

“Nor will you, sir.”

“You relieve me,” said his grace politely. He got up, leaning lightly on his ebony cane. “Permit me to tell you, my son, that when you trifle with a girl of the bourgeoisie , you run the risk of creating the kind of scandal I deplore.”

A smile flickered across Vidal’s mouth. “Your pardon, sir, but do you speak from your wide experience?”

“Naturally,” said his grace.

“I do not believe,” said Léonie, who had been listening calmly to this interchange, “that you ever trifled with a bourgeoise , Justin.”

“You flatter me, child.” He looked again at his son. “I do not need your assurance that you amuse yourself only. I have no doubt that you will commit almost every indiscretion, but one you will not commit. You are, after all, my son. But I would advise you, Dominic, to amuse yourself with women of a certain class, or with your own kind, who understand how the game should be played.”