When words finally made it up and out of his throat, he said slow and soft, only for her, “My body is going to disappear, isn’t it? Until, that is, it washes up on the shores of the Thames.”
No use denying it. Besides, his scenario was much more comforting than any that she could devise, which were closer to what her father was likely devising in his own imagination at the moment.
Her father smiled, the same expression he wore when meeting an adoring crowd—his meeting royalty smile. All pretense, fabrication, but only one who didn’t know him would realize that.
Lord Devon knew him. So did Lillian, being his daughter. She wished to hold Devon’s hand, too. There was solidarity in the gesture.
“I invited you into my home,” her Papa said. “I trusted you with my workshop, my ideas. I shared my wisdom with you.” His head turned, a minuscule movement just enough for his gaze to rest on Lillian.
Lillian did what Lord Devon had only wished to do earlier. She grabbed his hand and held on for life, her fingers clutching his in a death grip. He squeezed back.
“And you,” her Papa said, spearing her with his steel-blue gaze. “I finally get an apprentice worth his salt, a man whose connections can help me in the final stage of my planning. Your own plans are finally going accordingly. You have popularity, a respectable suitor. And now this? Do you mean to dash it all against the rocks? To dash your aspirations againsthis cock?”
Lillian’s mouth dropped open. Her Papa had a vulgar tongue, but he never unleashed it on her. She knew without looking that Lord Devon’s jaw had dropped as well.
He stepped toward her father without letting go of her hand, tugging her arm out behind him. “That is not called for, sir.”
Oh Lord.She appreciated the sentiment, but Lord Devon’s knight-in-shining-armor routine would not help.
Her father rocked back on his heels, his head bobbing up and down like a metronome turned on its side. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re going to marry her.”
Devon and Lillian dropped each other’s hands simultaneously.
Papa tilted his head to the side and squinted at them. He scratched his chin as a smile bloomed across his lips. “Yes. Perhaps this was fortuitous. As I always say, good things can come from explosions if you look at them the right way. A duke’s son. Younger, yes, but still. Quite a catch. Your mother will be pleased, I suspect. A toff with half a brain, too. Rare, that. Obviously, there’s chemistry between the two of you. If you can get along in the bedroom, that’s half the battle. You see, Lord Devon, I’ll not allow you to play with my daughter. She’s no toy.”
“Precisely, Papa!” Lillian could not quite pinpoint where the courage to speak out had come from, but she clutched it to her and spoke out more, “I am not a plaything, so I will not be married off to whomever you desire.”
Her father laughed, a sound as loud and booming as the explosion. “It’s clear where your desires lie, Lillian.” He turned to Lord Devon. “I expect you to return tomorrow to have the proper conversation with me. I expect the both of you to act as if this marriage is the making of all happiness for you. A rushed marriage between two scowling parties does me no good. But a rushed marriage to unite two hearts in love…” He eyes gleamed. “There’s no scandal there.” He strode for the door.
Lord Devon followed with a few halting steps. “Aren't you going to throw me out?”
Papa shrugged. “You may do as you please. But you”—he stabbed a trembling finger at Lillian—“off to bed. Now.” He left.
Lillian cast a final look over her shoulder at Lord Devon before she left. He stood in the wreckage of the explosion, his shirt untucked, his face unreadable.
What did her own face look like? Could he read her shock, her despair? He was her silly past, a foolish girl’s mistake. She had a different future planned. With Lord Littleton. For all the wallflowers who might need her help. That future was gone now. Just as Lord Devon stood in the rubble of a small explosion, so too did Lillian, her plans for the future in blasted detritus round her feet.
CHAPTER7
Having been accustomed to letting himself into the Clarke residence for some time now, Devon did so. He turned the handle and pushed, but when he heard the boom, he slammed the door in his own face and retraced his steps down the street.
It had not been the boom of an explosion, but the boom of Mr. Clarke’s voice, yelling.
“The man had his mouth on her!” Then a tense silence. “Do not treat me like a mewling babe, Mariah!”
Mariah, Mrs. Clarke, was likely attempting to talk sense into her husband, but he would not have it. He listened to the woman on just about every issue. Except, it seemed, the topic of finding a man’s lips attached to his daughter’s…ahem.
Devon did not blame Mr. Clarke. If decades from now, hopefully, he had a daughter of his own, he’d do more than require marriage of the fellow who compromised his daughter. He was a decent shot with a pistol and learning more and more about dangerous mechanics every day.
That did not mean he had to enter that house. Yes, he and Miss Clarke needed to speak, but she’d turn up sooner or later at the next place he set his steps to—the Duke of Collingford’s townhouse, home to Devon’s brother and Miss Clarke’s best friend.
Lillian would show up there sooner or later for the same purpose he went there now—to announce an impending engagement.
He reached into his pocket and pulled a bean from the small pouch there and popped it into his mouth. Bitter at first, a taste that wrapped around the tongue. The flavor and the buzzing energy came after he crunched into it. He needed to jolt his brain awake. It still seemed to think last night a hazy dream. Or nightmare.
He could barely wrap his mind around the startling new reality of his life. He would have to marry the woman he wanted only to annoy.
Was that all he desired from her now? He had kissed her. Yes, and now he wanted to do much more than annoy her. More, yes. Marry? No.
