“Oh, good morning, Haynes,” her mother said.
“Lord Devon is here. I’ve left him in the parlor.”
Devon. He had said he’d come, but she only now remembered it. And to ask to move the wedding date forward, too. Something she couldn’t name bloomed in Lillian’s chest. It seemed a confusing mixture of emotions from lust to regret to embarrassment to delight to dread.
“The parlor?” her father boomed. “He’ll be family soon. Shouldn’t stand on such ceremony now.”
Her mother lowered her voice, but the words traveled to Lillian anyhow. “We should perhaps take Lord Devon’s lead in matters of social protocol, Jonah. Having a duke’s son for a son-in-law carries such perks as great insight into their customs.”
“We’re not a different species,” Lillian muttered.
Her father squeezed her mother tighter. “Excellent point, my dear. Haynes, tell Lord Devon we’ll be with him momentarily.”
“He asked to speak with Miss Clarke.”
“Of course, he did.” Her father snapped the words as if each one was one of Devon’s bones.
Lillian called, “Tell him I’ll be down soon,” and slammed the door. She rang for her maid and made short work of dressing, leaving her hair loose and tied back with a single copper ribbon.
When she stepped into the hall, she found her mother waiting.
Lillian gasped. “You left Papa and Devon alone?” She fled on quick feet toward the parlor.
“Lillian, don’t you think you should dress more formally? Yourhair.”
“Devon does not care. He won’t even see me if we give Papa enough time to pluck out his eyes.”
“Pardon? Daughter, that’s ridiculous. Your father would onlythreatento pluck out the boy’s eyes.”
Lillian ran so fast she flew past the parlor door as she skidded to a stop and had to retrace her steps. She entered the room, huffing, her hair hanging in her face, the copper ribbon having come loose. Lillian barely noticed.
Her father was not plucking out Devon’s eyes. He was looking at Devon’s sketchbook and patting him on the back. And Devon was not pleading for his life but beaming.
Lillian’s mother appeared at her side. “See. They are well. No eyeball plucking. You read too many novels, Lillian. You might try some Lavoisier.”
“I’m well acquainted with empirical observation as a key metric of scientific study, Mama. Andeveryoneknows about oxygen.” She rolled her eyes. “Davy is more exciting these days.”
Her mother sniffed. “Davy would be more exciting if he wrote less poetry.”
Lillian wrinkled her nose. “On that we agree. Gases, not rhymed meter, are his specialty.” She did not wish to talk science at the moment.
Not when Devon had looked up, noted their presence, and stood to his full height. She had enjoyed admiring his form from close up last night, but she could not deny the pleasures of admiring him from afar. Less tactile, certainly, but her breath caught, and her skin tingled, nonetheless.
He bowed. “Mrs. Clarke. Miss Clarke.”
Lillian’s father stood, too. “Mariah, come look at this. You know that thing I told you about in the workshop? Turns out it’s what Lord Devon was working on. He showed me these sketches just now. Brilliant. Have a look.”
Her mother practically leapt to her father’s side, snapping the notebook from his hands and riffling through the pages. “What happened to you, by the way, Lord Devon? Your face is violently mottled.”
“I, ah,ahem. Ah, hell, nothing but to out with it. I broke up a fight at a coffeehouse and received some parting gifts from the combatants.”
“Didyou break it up, eventually?” Mama asked absently, tilting her head to study a drawing. “Or did you become one with the brawl?”
“Eventually.” Devon watched Mama warily, as if she held the key to his happiness in her hands. Then, in the most uncharacteristically Devon gesture she’d ever seen him do, he shuffled his feet.
Lillian moved to his side and let her fingers search out his hand. She scratched the calloused surface of his palm, and he looked down, registering her presence.
He pulled one of her curls. “Your hair’s a mess, Lil Bean.”
