Perhaps they were whispering about Miss Clarke. Perhaps she always kicked up this kind of fuss whenever she went about, and that was why she seemed unaware of the whispering. It was as common a sound to her as the wind.
He could find out. He took a sharp right turn and ventured down an aisle while Lillian continued her dazed pilgrimage throughout the shop. Sliding a random book from the shelf, he shoved his face into it to hide his identity as much as possible. He waited, and the whispers came, louder than before now that the object of their curiosity had disappeared.
“What is he doing here?” one voice asked.
“And with her?” said another.
“I heard he’s been staying at her house.”
A gasp. “Why? The family is hardly goodton.”
“He always liked a lark. You know how second sons are.”
“Shiftless.”
“Do you think… she’s the lark he’s after?”
A laugh. “Quite likely. They do call him the Reputation Ruiner, after all.”
The second person made a series oftsknoises. “She’s an inventor’s daughter. Not much reputation to ruin if you ask me.”
Devon snapped the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf. He’d heard enough.
He stomped down the aisle and went in search of Lillian. Why did everyone think poorly of her? She’d never made a single mistake as far as he’d seen, and he’d seen much of her over the last few months. She’d grown bolder this season, more confident, but her manner, her dress, her actions—they all spoke of the upmost propriety. True, she’d participated in that silly game of dares last season. He knew of that, but no one else seemed to. Their whispers, the rumors, did not mention those at all.
No, she’d never done a damn thing wrong. Except kissing him. She’d done that mistake quite right.
They should adore her, not skewer her with their judgment.
Where the hell was she? He stretched up on tiptoe, searching. Ah, there were her golden curls. He marched her way and sneaked up behind her.
“Hello,” he said, determined to do something after those hideous whispers. Something delightful. Something to make her smile.
She jumped and twirled, her hand racing to her bosom. “Lord Devon! You scared me.”
“A thousand apologies.” He took her hand and traced the lacy pattern of her glove from wrist to fingertip and back. He should not. Damn, he wanted to. “It occurs to me we should not have come here for conversation. You have other things on your mind.”
“No. This is perfection. The presence of books helps me gather my thoughts more clearly.” She fixated on his hand working patterns across the top of her glove.
“Have you found any books to help us through our muddle?”
She shook her head, then lifted her gaze to his. “No.” She frowned and shook his hand from hers, lifting her fingers to her temples. “Our conversation has been all over the place this morning. We must focus. What are the direst topics to visit?”
“We are to marry.”
“Yes. So, I suppose we should discuss how to make such an arrangement beneficial to the both of us.”
He nodded. “Since we cannot find a way out of the situation.”
“Precisely. How about… you tell me what you need from a wife, and I’ll tell you what I need from a husband.”
“Too late for that. You’ve got me, no matter what you want.”
“Bother. You’re not taking this seriously.” Her eyes darted away from his face toward the shop’s front door. They widened, then she ducked behind a bookcase.
He peeked down at her, crouching near the floor, then glanced over his shoulder toward the door. Lord Littleton stood alone near the shop’s entrance. Ah. He peered back down at her. “Hiding from your former intended?”
“He does not yet know he’s former and not current.”
