“Now,” Devon said, “will the lot of you speak with more respect of Miss Clarke and any other women in your life?” He tapped the back of his chair. “This might hurt if you do not.”
One gentleman leaned over to another. He vaguely recognized them both. “He did some crazy things at Oxford, he did. I heard he used to climb the very walls of the buildings. He’ll do it.”
“Good,” Devon said, slapping the back of the chair and pushing to a stand. “I’m convinced you will comply.” He dragged the chair back to the table he had been sitting at but no longer felt like gambling. “Good evening, gentlemen. Keep an ear out for the scoundrels over there and do let me know if their conversation toes the line even a bit.” He made eye contact with the men at the other table and cracked his knuckles.
They immediately looked away.
He’d stopped too soon. He’d barely increased his savings. At least it had been an increase, though. He could not count the night as a total waste.
He paused halfway toward the door, swiveled his steps, and joined Littleton sitting by the fire. “Do your ears work, old man,” Devon asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
Littleton didn’t even flinch. He kept his nose in his book and spoke. “They work perfectly, but my control works even better. Men will talk, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.”
A set down perched on the tip of Lord Devon’s tongue. It would stay there. Littleton’s title was not simply a courtesy.
“And,” Littleton said, “I would appreciate it if you kept your words to yourself and save your theatrics for your own women. Miss Clarke does not need the help of the Reputation Ruiner.”
Devon bristled. He chewed the set down, but instead of it disintegrating into tiny pieces it seemed to grow bigger, choking him.
Littleton finally turned and looked Devon straight in the eye. “You don’t see your brother running about and defending random women’s honor.” The way he twisted the worddefendingon his tongue made his meaning clear—he did not consider Devon’s words and actions a defense.
Devon laughed. Littleton barely knew Arthur. His brother had thrashed their uncle and thrown him out of the house in defense of his wife. Pennworthy men were not dispassionate, no matter Arthur seemed so to most.
Devon could follow his brother’s example here as he did in most things. He bowed to Littleton, turned, and left. He skirted the dancers in the ballroom as he made his way to the exit. His world was a haze of rage and disappointment, in himself and in his situation. Always.
Something slammed into him, and he stumbled backwards. The soft slamming object stumbled with him. He saw a whirl of golden curls as he steadied himself and grabbed the object. A woman. He snagged the woman’s gaze.
“Miss Clarke,” he said, letting go of her abruptly. He should not have defended her earlier. She had no need of his defense. She did not want it either.
He turned from her and strode away, tossing over his shoulder, “Littleton’s in the card room. Are you worried abouthissoul?”
“Wait!” she called out. “Lord Devon!”
He did not wait. He’d been born to wait, a second son’s lot in life, but ever since he’d learned of the sole reason he existed—to wait for death, to be there just in case of death—he’d refused to. Devon waited for no one and nothing, and especially not death.
Or debutantes.
CHAPTER3
The musicale offered fewer opportunities to hide than the ball a few nights ago, but that did not keep the girl behind the shrubbery from trying. The weather was unseasonably warm, and Lillian had convinced Lord Littleton to take advantage of some fresh air. Now, she pretended to inspect her slightly puffed sleeve but eyed the girl instead. Lady Abigail tried her best to blend into the bush, pressing her back so far against it, Lillian wouldn’t be surprised if the girl got stuck, at the very least her drab brown gown snagged and torn. She hugged a book to her chest, and the way she stroked its outline told all—she wanted more than anything to crack the thing open and disappear into a different world.
Well, Lillian understood that impulse.
“Miss Clarke, is something amiss?”
Lillian blinked and returned her attention to Lord Littleton. “Not at all. I was merely admiring the shrubbery over there.” And the wallflower—shrubbery flower?—shivering against it.
“Hm. I’ve no talent for plants. I cannot tell a rose from a peony.”
“They’re rather… different flowers, my lord, surely—”
“Afraid not.” His tone, or rather lack thereof, said he cared not to continue the conversation.
Lillian let the subject die. After all, Papa always said forcing a man to talk about something he didn’t care about was the finest sort of torture. And Mama always said it was best to let the man choose the conversational fodder. A true statement, Lillian found, not just for men but for all those consideredton.
She smiled at Lord Littleton and waited for him to provide the topic.
“These things are tedious,” he finally said.