She pushed the curtain in the window to the side and peered down at the street. “We could still make the appointment to see the house.”
The tone in her voice, the smallness of her movements, made him feel like the dissolute cad everyone thought him. Viewing a townhouse she was buying for them was the last thing he wanted to do, but she would not look him in the eye. That sliced worse than a knife. A saber. Damn. It likely sliced worse than a guillotine. She’d lop off his head if she continued not looking at him.
He swung his feet to the floor and came around the bed. He knelt before her and cradled her hands in his. “Of course. Anything you wish.” Not even a week married, and he’d disappointed her, abandoned her. All she’d asked was that he help her rebuild her reputation, rebuild his own. And he’d failed her.
He pulled her to her feet, desperate to do whatever he could to make it right. “Where is this house we may one day occupy?”
Her mood did not seem improved, so he pulled her body against his and attempted to melt her sorrow with a kiss.
When she pulled away breathless and rested her forehead against his chest, little pants heaving her shoulders up and down, he spoke into the top of her hair. “If there are rumors, we’ll squash them. I’ll stay away from the docks and find some other way. I’ll appear by your side at events and dote on you until you’re sick of me.”
Her eyes glinted. “Impossible.” She opened the door and stopped in its frame. One foot in his room and the other in the hall, she seemed trapped between two worlds.
Or maybe that was him.
“You’re a determined man.” She extended an arm to him.
He took it and weaved it with his own. “You are a determined woman. We suit quite well.”
Yet they didn’t seem to suit at all. Neither could give the other what they most needed. Devon needed space and time to become the man he wished to be without hurting anyone else. Lillian needed respect, a pristine reputation not even theton’shighest sticklers would question.
He locked up the room and tightened his clasp on her arm, pulling her tighter to his side “Tell me.” He bounced her down the hall. “What sort of deviance does everyone think I’m up to?”
Lillian chuckled. “If I knew, I would tell you.” As they stepped onto the street, Lillian leaned her head against his arm. “We’re close to Frederick’s, are we not? Would you like a cup of coffee first? We have time.”
It was on the tip of Devon’s tongue to say yes.Of course,he would say yes. “Let’s find this house and see it,” he said instead. Not quite two weeks remained until Frederick sold to the other fellow, and his chest ached a bit when he thought about it. If he stepped into the coffeehouse now, the ache might become—God forbid—tears.
“Lord Devon!”
Devon stopped and turned to see Mrs. Matlock rushing out of the building. “Is something amiss?”
She huffed and puffed as she stopped before him. “Not at all.” She drew one deep breath that might have filled even her toes and pulled an envelope from her apron as she did so. She waved it at him. “I forgot. It came for you today.”
Devon accepted it and pried open the sealing wax. “Thank you, Mrs. Matlock.”
She disappeared back inside as he set his eyes to the paper and chuckled. “It’s from Adam. He’s telling me all about last night. Says your girl was a success. He regrets I wasn’t there, and he—” Interesting. What was that saying about doors opening and closing?
“And he what?” Lillian prodded, poking him in the ribs.
“Nothing.” Devon folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Adam had invited Devon to a high-stakes game in one week’s time, an invitation-only sort of thing at a ball he and Lillian were likely already invited to. He had named some of the players, too. If Devon was lucky, it might be the only night he needed to make Frederick’s his.
“I’ve changed my mind, Lil,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Let’s have that cup of coffee after all.”
CHAPTER21
In the looking glass, Lillian looked exactly as she should—bodice showing the appropriate amount of cleavage, the perfect height on her slightly puffed sleeves, the perfect width of gold ribbon tied beneath her breasts, her hair perfectly coifed. She was, taken as a whole, crisp and gleaming. She had used her fairy godmother magic once more. Or her maid had. And she’d need all the magic she could get. Whispers, incorporeal as they were, proved difficult foes to vanquish.
She looked the picture of respectability, as she must do.
Yet her reflection seemed different from all the other times she had faced herself in the mirror. This time her lips had a slight, satisfied curve, and her skin tended toward a rosy, pink flush that she had begun to recognize as belonging to Devon. Not that it washisflush but that heinspiredit. Anytime she thought of him, there it was, pouring across her skin like spilled tea across a table.
Not good at all. She and Devon were supposed to present a united and respectable front in order to squash the rumors, but surely anyone looking on her would see beyond the respectable façade to the squirming desire beneath. Apparently, when you married a fairy-tale prince, you did not—poof!—transform into a perfect princess. No. Your inner wanton was released. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that her prince actually wished to be a purveyor of hot and bitter beverages and not royalty at all. She bit the middle of her index finger and chuckled.
“You truly are breathtaking.” a deep silky voice said from the doorway.
She looked over her shoulder, lost the ability to breathe. Certainly lost the ability to think. Devon leaned against the doorframe, his ankles crossed and his coat stretching perfectly across his broad shoulders. His golden, slightly tousled hair gleamed. Charmingly roguish, terribly endearing.
He crossed the room and stood behind her, then trailed his fingertips gently over her shoulders and down her arms until their fingers thread together. He looked not at her, but at the image of them together in the glass.
