Slowly, she lowered her gaze and found him.
He bowed low.
He’d showed up at the beginning of the season, begging to apprentice under Lillian’s father for some reason or another. The proposition—a duke’s son apprenticing with an inventor—seemed unimaginable. Lillian’s father had loved it, welcomed the younger man with open arms, new tools, and a space all his own in the workshop.
Why her father had agreed to it, she knew well. He liked to be an original, to do the unexpected, and he chased social clout like some men chased skirts.
But why Lord Devon had asked for such an arrangement she could not fathom, and he shared nothing but unwanted jokes with her.
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. The man likely knew what that position did to his body—showed off his broad shoulders and trim waist, his powerful legs, the muscles of his arms bunched under linen. He wasn’t even wearing a jacket, an article of clothing forbidden in the workshop.
She’d almost become immune to seeing him so, his bright yellow hair deliciously mussed, a scrape of stubble across his cheeks, his blue eyes glinting above a chiseled mouth, smirking.
She descended the rest of the stairs. “Aren’t you supposed to be inventing something, Lord Devon?”
He smirked now. “I am. Inventing lots of things, actually. Important things. But”—a heavy, dramatic sigh—“I need a brain break.”
She stood in the hall, imitating a lovely, elegant garden statue or ice sculpture. Something cold and cutting. “It won’t be enough, no matter how long you rest.”
He clutched his chest, right above his heart. “You wound me, Miss Clarke. What are you being compared to, by the way?”
Her brows knit together. She tilted her head and pulled on her earlobe. “Compared to… I do not take your meaning.” She knew very well his meaning, but that his mind alighted so swiftly in the same place her own mind had been mere moments ago flustered her. Better to play dumb.
“You’re anincomparable, no? What are you being compared to? A summer’s day? Are you more beautiful and more temperate or less so?”
“I’m being compared to nothing. That’s the point. There is nothing that compares to me.”
He whistled. “I see your head’s been turnedall the wayaround by the moniker. Not a”—he waved his hand in the air—“flower?”
“No.”
“Missed opportunity, if you ask me, your name being Lillian and all. What about a jewel?”
“No.”
He scratched his chin. “Aren’t you like calleddiamonds of the first wateror some such? Tricky that, calling you a diamond but saying you can’t be compared to anything. Not sure it’s sound logic.”
“It’s not a comparison. It’s a metaphor. Youknowthat. Don’t pretend otherwise. Oh, bother. I’m late. I have not the time for your musings.” She strode down the hall like a queen. She hoped. That’s what she was going for, at the very least.
She felt his eyes on her. Those unholy ice-blue eyes shining above gaunt cheeks that lately looked so tired. A fairy prince with a besieged kingdom.
As if pulled by an invisible hand,hisinvisible hand, she swung around. “Are you attending the ball tonight? You have worked hard these last weeks. A break would be beneficial. You have the right of it. Do you not think the exhilaration of dancing and conversation of a ball would prove even more beneficial than loitering in the hallway?”
Sympathy for the beast. She should not indulge.
She could not seem to help it.
Lord Devon leaned against the doorframe. “I’ve not planned on it. Would you like me to attend?”
She waved her hand in the air. “I care not what you do, Lord Devon.”
“Have we ever danced together?”
“Ha!” Could he hear the disappointment, the cynicism in that bark of laughter? She felt it in her very gut. He could not even remember the one dance they’d shared. Why would he? A duke’s brother with the admiration of the entire town. He could have anyone who wanted him. He could have had her once upon a time.
No more.
“I don’t remember,” Lillian lied, then swept through the door into the crisp spring air. She settled into the waiting coach. A walk would be much preferred, but she dared not risk muddying her hem. The prices one paid to garner the highest approval were high themselves. She’d grit her teeth and manage, though.