“They will be, as long as you marry me.” She hissed the last two words. “As long as you… play the part.”
He made some sort of low rumbling sound in his throat, but despite his lack of articulate language, she had no doubt he took her meaning. He must make a show of romancing her.
“You’re upset about that, too, I take it,” he finally said.
She could not claim otherwise.
“Devon,” the Duke of Collingford called. “You wished to speak with Mother, did you not?”
He could only have one reason to do so. This morning, at least. Bother. Lillian felt like a leaf trembling in the wind.
Lord Devon frowned down at her, frowned at his brother, then returned his downturned lips toward her. “You’re shivering.” He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and marched her toward a chair. He pushed her shoulders till she plopped into it. “Are you cold or…”
Frightenedwas his unsaid word.
Neither. Both. She seemed to be feeling all the emotions and sensations all at once.
She raised her chin and raised her voice, loud enough so all could hear. “Should we tell her together?” No use in dragging everything out. Much better to have everything out in the open since there was no avoiding it. If it were to seem perfectly respectable.
She needed everything to seem above reproach.
Lord Devon’s eyes widened, then a golden brow arched high on his forehead. “Yes. Let’s.” He turned to face his family. “Mother, I am engaged to marry Miss Clarke.”
The duchess’s head had been tilted to the side with a merry smile. She remained that way after her son’s announcement, but it seemed wrong, frozen. She stood slowly, the tilt of her head straightening as she found her feet. It took four steps for her to find Lillian’s side, and when she did, she took her hands and raised her to her feet as well. Then the Dowager Duchess of Collingford wrapped her arms around Lillian.
Lillian’s eyes almost exploded with tears.
Lord Devon’s arm appeared draped over her shoulder and neck, a different weight, feel, and scent than his mother’s arms. “Mama, you’ll crush her, and I’d really rather you not.”
The dowager duchess stepped back, hugging her arms to herself, shimmering tears dancing in her eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry for the tears. I’m just so pleased.” She swatted Devon’s arm. “You gave no hint, you rogue! But oh, Iampleased. Well done, the both of you.”
Lord Devon scratched the back of his neck and looked sheepish, a red tinge blooming on his cheeks. He kept his arm around Lillian, the muscles tightening, but not in any way that seemed uncomfortable. Lillian gave in to the inexorable pull but did not know exactly what to do about it, how to feel about it. He tugged her earlobe and flicked a curl.
If only she could decipher the emotion slinking darkly behind his charming features. His arm dropped from around her shoulder, and he pushed her back down into the chair again. He took up sentinel behind her chair and leaned in close.
“Are you cold?” He cupped her neck and rubbed it, warming her goose-pimpled skin.
If she shivered, it was not from the cold but from his too-hot nearness.
Jane and Tabitha stared at them as if they were a Drury Lane production or an Astley’s spectacle, wide grins on their faces.
Lillian felt torn. She wanted to shake his hand from her body, to wipe the grins from her friends’ faces, but she also, horribly, wished to lean into the small embrace. Her father’s dictates meant she must sit here and accept it, but she did not have to lean in. It would be better for her reputation if she did not.
The duke bowed his congratulations and welcomed her to the family, then sat near his wife. His mother began a rambling monologue about weddings that Lillian could not attend.
Because Lord Devon’s hand remained on her neck, settled quietly into that little bend where neck became shoulder. Had he not been wearing gloves, they would be skin to skin, and she would be done for, consumed with the need to feel his lips on her as they had been last night.
Bless that damn glove.
The hand lifted, and Lillian startled.
Lord Devon was pulling a chair from nearby to sit close to her. When he’d settled himself into it, he laid his hand atop hers. “You’re unwell.” He leaned forward, took her teacup, and pressed it into her hands. “Drink up.” Then he settled back into the chair, his hand still proprietarily over her own.
The dowager duchess wiggled in her seat, clearly unable to contain her joy. “I’ll invite your parents over for dinner this week, Miss Clarke, as soon as can be. I’ve met them a time or two, and I do so look forward to getting to know them in more intimate terms. And I’m sure your mother has much to say in regard to planning a wedding.”
“Oh,” Lillian said, her heart plummeting. “She will not, I’m afraid. She is very embroiled in my father’s research and experimentation. He would get nowhere without her, and they are on the verge of another very big breakthrough. She will not have much time nor, I’m afraid, interest in planning a wedding. I am sorry.”
“Do not be!” the duchess said. “That’s better. I’ll be able to do as I please.”
