Her eyes were not blue or green.
They were the color of a rich Turkish coffee.
She turned back to the window. “A fairy-tale plot if ever there was one. A husband waiting in the wings.” Her shoulders bunched upward once with a little huff of a laugh. She seemed to shrink away from him.
His breath? Bloody hell, likely.
He cleared his throat. “I, ah, need a bath. Good morning, Miss Clarke.” He bowed and turned to leave.
“This letter came for you.”
He turned around. Her body faced the window, and she held her arm out to the side like a single branch of a tree, a square of paper in her long, lithe fingers.
He took it. His name was scrawled across the front, but there was no sign of who sent it. He ripped it open, eyes flying immediately to the bottom of the epistle. No signature. “Who’s it from?”
“No clue. It was on the table in the entryway this morning. I thought I’d deliver it to you.” She spoke to the window.
He scratched his head, then folded it without reading. His head hurt too badly for intellectual work of any sort this morning. “Thank you, Miss Clarke.”
He should be teasing or flirting with her. He usually did with pretty women. Or rather, all women. A sluggish brain refused to flirt, however. He made for the door again, then stopped with his hand on the handle. “Why did you douse me with water this morning?”
“You mean lightly sprinkle.” She looked over her shoulder, the sweetest of smiles curving her lips. “To wake you up, of course.”
Something sparked in his brain, despite the wine-induced fog. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “There are more pleasurable ways to wake a man, love. You should learn a few.” He winked and then left. The flirtation put a little jaunt to his step that had been missing for quite some time.
Devon called for a bath, and a tub was set before his fire and filled as he ate a slab of buttered bread, then tended to his teeth. He eased into the fire-warmed water until his head dipped all the way under, hair floating out every which direction. He stayed there in the liquid silence until his lungs burned, then he popped back up.
On a small round table next to the tub, someone had placed a silver tray, and on that tray—heaven, a can of Turkish coffee. Beside it was the letter.
Who in hell would write him? Who would know he was currently inhabiting the country of all places, for the time being, atoning for his not-quite sins? The writing was decidedly feminine if a bit messy. His sister-in-law, then. Perhaps she’d forgotten to include her name, all that marital bliss clouding her usual eye for detail. But why would she write to him? He reached for the letter, shaking water droplets from his hands as he had upon waking.
He chuckled. Devon never would have thought Miss Clarke was the type to pull such a trick. Her friend Lady Jane, yes. Not her, though. She hid depths behind those coffee eyes. He plucked the paper from the table, unfolded it, and read.
Lord Devon,
You are not a rogue. You are not a lech or, as yet, too pickled by drink to consider common sense. So, before it is too late, I must write to you and ask…
What are you doing?
You were a steady man, a prince, a bit too flirtatious perhaps, but deserving of your station in society.
Until you were not. I can only assume the current bout of debauchery, which seems so out of character, stems from a broken heart. I can understand that ailment, and I sympathize.
I also mourn. Do you intend to drown your life and talents in drink? If so, you are more fool than I thought, when I thought you no fool at all. A little devilish, perhaps, but kind and careful and, oh, many things I now know I imagined.
More the fool am I.
I hope you save yourself from your heartache and set your sights on self-improvement. No woman will want you otherwise.
I no longer do.
Devon almost dropped the cursed paper in the water, but he caught it, clutched it tighter, and read it again. Then a third time.
Should he roar or chuckle? Or just go ahead and drown himself, as he was conveniently placed in a small body of water and currently in possession of a badly bruised ego. He tossed the paper aside, and it fluttered to the floor. He rubbed his chest where it felt tight, suffocating.
Who the bloody hell had sent him that letter? Not his sister-in-law. She loved Devon’s brother to distraction. They madeeyesat each other all day long. Some London lady, then, who’d pined over him from afar. He tried to identify a name, a face in his memory. Nothing. Even if there was a name and face, how would they know where he was? He’d told no one but Arthur and his mother. They weren’t gossipers.
It couldn’t be a woman at the party. Of course not.
