Page 3 of Kiss or Dare


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Wait.

He lurched over the side of the tub, sending water sloshing onto the floor, and grabbed the letter once more. No frank. No postage. Nothing.

He set the paper on the table and settled back into the tub.

Itwasa lady from the party. Had to be. There were only three unmarried ladies in attendance. Lady Jane, who’d refused to marry him three times. Mrs. Brighton, who was a good decade older than him and perfectly nice but… no, not her.

And Miss Clarke.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the rich scent of the coffee, then opened them up to peer into the depths of the can—a deep liquid brown, just the color of Miss Clarke’s eyes. It was unexpected. Her eyes, not the coffee. They were a color to soothe, to warm, to light the very limit of exhausted annoyance if he had anything to do with it.

The witch. She thought him a very devil? Well then, he’d devil her.

* * *

Lillian stood at the library window, tracing a windowpane—across, down, across, up. Over and over. Like her days. Like her life would be—a repeating pattern. Known. Weary. Unbearable.

She turned away sharply and strolled to the shelf she knew well at Whitwood Manor’s library. The rug squished beneath her thin slippers.Bother. She really should not have emptied a pitcher of water over Lord Devon’s head. Not only had she ruined the likely valuable rug (everything in this place had value), but it had contoured Lord Devon’s shirt to a chest she’d only been able to imagine until this morning.

It was his fault, really. He’d been sleeping—no,passed out—on the floor in a corner of the library, jacket long-lost, waistcoat open, cravat tangled like a sloughed snakeskin about his neck, shirt haphazardly open. His golden hair had been tossed about his head like a garden in disarray, and his long golden eyelashes had laid still as death on his rosy cheeks. He’d looked angelic, like a little boy whose mother must have stroked that cheek, placing a loving kiss there in sleep.

But he was the very devil. At least these days he was.

And she’d wanted him.

More than usual, and that was saying a lot.

Then, she’d become more than a little enraged at the wanting since she’d determined not to want him any longer. So, she’d given him a much-needed bath.

But that had merely driven her desire higher. The contouring, you know, the water droplets sluicing over a sharp jaw and down a corded neck.

She’d have to call in a maid about the rug.

In a moment. For now, there were the books. She ran her finger along the spines. Anne Radcliffe, Henry Walpole, Sir Walter Scott. Now these,thesewere stories worth hearing.

Her own story? Not so much.

She was only an invisible debutante in love with a duke’s charming younger brother.

A tragedy, not a romance. Not even worth a single page of narrative. She pulled a slim copy from the end of the shelf. Charles Perrault. It fell open to the obvious page,Cindrillon,in the original French. She could read French. Barely. But she did not need to read it to know the story. Her father adored it and had told it to her often throughout her childhood, referred to it often even now. A little orphan girl elevated to royalty through hard work and patience. And a little magic. His exact life plan without the magic.

Lillian rolled her shoulders one, two, three times and shoved the book back between the others. She had no desire to be Cinderella, the girl whose survival depended on the goodwill of others. She hissed air between her teeth. So helpless.

Wasn’t that what she was doing? Existing, letting good float her way whenitwilled and not whenshewilled it? A disaster of a first London Season with another approaching. If only she had a fairy godmother to turn things around.

No.

If only she could be her own fairy godmother.

Hm. Excitement thrummed through her. Why not? She had already determined to play the role with Lord Devon. She dropped her face into her hands with a groan.Whathad she been thinking?Bother. She should never have given him that letter, never meant to give it to him. She’d written it for herself alone, an attempt to purge the man from her heart and mind.

But drenched in liquor, asleep where he shouldn’t be, his utter magnificence in complete disarray and pitiful deterioration, he’d looked like he needed a kick in the arse.

Hopefully, her letter would be a well-aimed and forceful kick. She’d not signed it, thankfully. He did not know her handwriting. He’d never guess.

Her eyes widened, and her legs wobbled. There’d been no postage on the letter. She’d said it had come from beyond the manor, but he’d know otherwise. She clutched her racing heart. No, no, no, no. Perhaps he’d think it was Katherine who’d written it or Jane. Or even Jane’s young, flirtatious stepmother.

She forced her heart to calm and her muscles to relax. He’d still never guess it was her. He barely saw her. Never had. They had shared a dance during the Season, a single minuet in heaven during which he’d barely registered her presence, looking over her head and winking at every woman who passed his way.