“I don’t need romance. I need respectability. I'm not sure I’ve got it with you.”
“I don’t see why you need it in the first place.”
She looked away.
“You’re hiding something.” He studied the slope of her nose in profile. It gave nothing away. “Keep your secrets if you must.” He had his own, after all. He pulled one of her curls out straight and let go. It popped back into shape. “Like one of the springs from your father’s workshop.” He reached out to pull it again.
She smacked his hand away. “This will never do,” she growled.
“I think your curls do quite nicely.”
“No,” she said with an irritated growl. “I need someone respectable like Littleton for several reasons.” She held out one finger. “My father wishes to be knighted. At the very least. The greater respectability we can earn on all fronts, the better for his cause.” She raised a second finger. “I would like to maintain my own standing in theton.” She added a third then. “I should like to increase that standing. I seem to be on shaky footing with some of them. Since I won’t refuse to be friends with Jane who, despite her elevation to countess still has not quite recovered her good standing in society, I’m afraid I have much ground to make up.”
“Why do you wish that?” Devon asked.
She looked down at her feet. She licked her lips and tugged on her earlobe. Even when she’d been concentrating on his designs and how to improve them, he’d not seen her face so serious.
He put his knuckles underneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “What is it that has you so serious, Bean?”
Her nose crinkled. “Bean? You called me that once before. You cannot be serious with such a moniker.”
“I am quite serious. You’re like a coffee bean.”
Her eyes lightened with curiosity. “How—”
Because she energized him, made him feel more alive than before.
He pointed across the street. “Oh look, we’re here!”
She turned. Her hands flew to her breast as her breath caught. “Books,” she breathed in a sigh of adoration.
“Books,” he agreed, trying not to imagine her saying his name in that same breathy tone. Why not imagine it? They would marry. They would share a bed. They would share sighs and shivers.
Not everything was bad. There would be recompense.
Lillian rushed across the street, not a single glance given left or right.
“There’s a carriage coming!” Devon yelled, dodging the conveyance himself. When she made it across the street safely, his heart settled its screaming beat. He grabbed her hand, so she did not shoot off without him again.
Devon entered the shop and almost bumped into Lillian. Her shoulders lifted and dropped with a reverent breath, and he had to dip lower over her to hear her words.
“Wonderful.”
“Should we offer sacrifices to the book gods?” he asked.
She turned and looked up at him. “Do you think it would help?”
“Help with what, you addled woman?”
She shrugged. “To find the perfect book, I suppose.”
This was too adorable. He knew she enjoyed reading, but he’d not guessed her to be a complete bibliophile.
She wound her way into the shop like an acolyte, her hands folded before her, silence on her lips like a vow. She seemed unaware of the whispers.
Devon wasn’t. Eyes cut his direction—theirdirection—and rumors flew behind cupped hands. He’d not been out much since returning to London, and it seemed the scandal still held sway in the rumor mill.
Devon smiled at the whisperers but wanted to growl. He usually smiled when he’d rather growl. It made the pounce much more of a surprise when it came.
