She should not be as nervous as she was, but apparently it did not matter how many times one had kissed one’s fiancé when one was awaiting the arrival of one’s husband. In a bedroom. The night after the wedding. Where was he? Papa had insisted on sharing one more drink with Devon, but she’d thought he’d be up before her maid left. Yet here she was, alone.
Stripped of her wedding finery, hair brushed until itpoofedout in all directions, Lillian turned in a slow circle, inspecting every inch of the room in the Duke of Collingford’s townhouse. Was this Devon’s room when he was in residence? She did not see how it could be. It held nothing of him, not a single detail spoke of him. She widened her circle, strolled around the perimeter of the room, traced her fingers down the embroidery on the curtains, and toed the thick weave of the carpet. She opened a drawer here and there—nothing—then perused the titles of books on a shelf.Debrett’sand Fordyce and others equally un-Devon-like.
Was the little apartment she knew he rented… somewhere in London… equally sparse, equally devoid of personality? She’d rather be there, where he was comfortable and himself, than here where he didn’t even exist.
But they’d agreed to stay with his brother until they found a place of their own. He refused her access to his apartment. They both knew they needed the respectability of a duke’s residence. Particularly Lillian.
Lady Abigail and her father had sent flowers congratulating Devon and Lillian on their union.
Lillian shivered and turned away from the books, away from the memory of Lord Needleham’s smug expression, and resumed her investigation of the room. Only paper and ink and pens in a writing desk and nothing under the bed. Not a speck of Devon anywhere, and only one piece of furniture remained—a large armoire with two large doors and several drawers below.
She glanced toward the door. Devon could enter at any moment. She best be quick. It would probably prove as empty as the rest of the room, so she was doing nothing wrong. Not prying in unwanted territory, certainly.
She rushed to the massive piece of furniture and yanked open the doors.
And there he was. Theater bills and letters, worn banyans and sketchbooks, an entire personality hidden inside a cabinet barely larger than the man himself. She breathed deep, then gathered everything she could in her arms.
She spread them out on the carpet before the bed, then settled herself, legs folded beneath her shift and wrapper, in front of the papers and knickknacks. As she picked them up one at a time and studied them, each one made her smile grow, increasing her list of questions for when he arrived. Her wariness eased. The bits and bobs proved it—this was not just any room. This washisroom, and she felt it constrict around her like a delicious hug.
The door opened, and her head swept toward the sound. Devon stood in the frame, his hair falling rakishly over one eye. Devon. Entering her bedroom, their bedroom, on their wedding night.
“Do not be angry with me,” she said.
Using the bed, he eased down beside her and surveyed the items on the rug. He picked up a playbill. No, not a playbill.
“What is that?”
“From a boxing match I attended. I placed money on this fellow right here.” He hit the paper and the sketch of a man on it with his knuckles. “I won, too. It was a brilliant fight.” His voice gained energy, and he threw a few fake punches in the air.
“This?” She handed him a spoon. “Odd thing to have in an armoire in your bedroom.”
Devon pursed his lips and blew on the bowl of the spoon. Then he promptly hung it on his nose.
Laughing, she swiped it from him and tried it herself. It fell immediately into her lap.
“Not everyone,” he said, plucking the spoon from her lap, “possesses a perfect nose for spoon hanging.”
She leaned forward and ran her index finger down the length of his nose and then kissed the tip of it. “Few simply have a perfect nose.”
He gathered her close. She expected a kiss, a slow and languorous meeting of lips.
He toppled her to the ground, covering her face and neck with little smacking kisses and running his fingers through her hair. His caresses turned to tickles, and she pushed him away, laughing even harder.
He rolled onto his back beside her.
“Tell me about the spoon,” she wheezed between laughs.
He lifted the spoon in one hand toward the candlelight and studied it. “There was an old lady. Some years ago. On a street somewhere. Here, in London. She had a basket of things, bent and broken, and she was selling them. I bought this spoon from her.”
Lillian wove their hands together and squeezed. “How much did you get it for?”
“Two pounds.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Two pounds? You likely paid her rent.”
He squirmed. He usually did when wrestling with some uncomfortable emotion. She’d come to see that, and the intimacy of the knowledge made her wriggle closer to him, wish to ease his discomfort in whatever way she could.
“Do you think?” he asked. “I'd like to think the money kept her warm and safe and full.”
