He was not a talker, and he danced with technical perfection if not with flare. She let her mind wander, as she usually did with him. When they got too close to the image of a man with smiling lips and laughing blue eyes, she sought out brown ones instead. Or glanced at the girls along the wall.
They needed her help, and they would get it. It’s what fairy godmothers were for, after all.
CHAPTER2
Devon tore the sketch out of the notebook Mr. Clarke insisted he keep and questioned his life choices for the billionth time in the last two months.
He’d come here for a lark—tour the inventor’s workshop, intimidate the man’s brazen daughter, then leave. He had not meant to ask a question, become fascinated by the missing answer, ask for help in answering the question, and become obsessed.
But he had.
Such an innocent inquiry. Such a perilous outcome. Ask a man if science could be used to improve a cup of coffee, then set up shop in the man’s house for two months, running into wall after wall and continuing to drink what must be substandard brews.
The grains. Surely, they could be purged. He sighed.
Then he’d found the silver lining. He had not succeeded with his invention, but he had succeeded in another area.
Annoying Miss Clarke to within an inch of her life. He’d frayed her patience in the last two months until it was as threadbare as a poor man’s sleeve, cataloged her shifting reactions to his continued presence in her home. He flipped to the very last page of his notebook and ran his finger down the list:
Shock
Suspicion
Avoidance
Annoyance
Annoyance was proving to be the best stage yet. So amusing watching her irritation and her ire rise. First, she ignored him—avoidance—shooing him away like a buzzing bug. Then she tossed her head, sending those glorious golden curls scattering, and her coffee-brown eyes sparked. Who knew such fires were to be found within?
She deserved the irritation. That. Letter. That. Lie. She’d not even been able to tell him to his face what she thought of him.
Coward.
Devon slammed his notebook shut. He was a coward, too. He could not confront her, either. They were at a stalemate, and he tired of it. He had evidence she’d written the letter. A piece of paper with her signature, the handwriting matching exactly the letter she’d handed him at Whitwood Manor. He’d confront her and be done with her. Once he did so, he’d have to leave, though, and that meant leaving behind Mr. Clarke’s excellent workshop, his library of books, his shiny tools, and incisive brain.
Devon needed all of that to succeed with his invention. Yet, Miss Clarke remained a distraction as long as he remained in her father’s workshop. Likely the reason his distracted mind could not reason its way to a device to rid his coffee of the damn grounds. He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Why did he become so fixated on such silly things?
Coffee.
Lady Jane.
He hadn’t even wanted to marry her! Not a bit. Hell, he desired improved coffee more. Much more. Yet still, he’d fixated, determined likely, to live up to Arthur’s ideals, the family’s expectations. After all, if anything should happen, Devon must be prepared.
He slammed to his feet. “To hell with that.”
“To hell with what?” Mr. Clarke, steely gray hair in disarray as usual, stood in the doorway. He was a large man, the kind who used his body as much as he used his brain, and best described as brawny despite his age. His brown eyes reminded Devon of Miss Clarke’s, but where hers were steamy mugs of coffee, his could never be considered so soft. They were hard, polished oak instead.
“Good evening, sir,” Devon said.
Mr. Clarke strode farther into the workshop, moving like a man magnetized to a corner filled with spare parts. “Evading my query, hm?” He rummaged through the pile. “Remember what I always say,” Mr. Clarke said.
Devon raised an eyebrow. The older man said lots of things. He liked to talk.
“Once you know what you want, don’t stop plowing till you get it.” Devon swallowed a chuckle.
It was Mr. Clarke’s turn to raise a brow.
“You do know how that sounds?” Devon said.
