She tried to believe him. His eyes narrowed and his head tilted, and she knew that look. She’d seen that far-off gaze often enough on her father’s face. Devon had left the coach.
“Where’d you go?” she asked.
“I was just wondering… pumpkin-flavored coffee. Do you think people would like it?”
She scrunched her nose. “Goodness, no!Blech. Why?”
His eyes cleared, and he joined her once more. She loved the look of mirth on his lips. “Just an idea.”
“An interesting one but in need of tweaking.” She shivered. “No pumpkin.”
“You’re a pumpkin.” He tweaked her nose.
Equal measures indignity and amusement rolled through her, and she prepared to fly at him and tweak his nose, and his ears, and his chin, and then do something imminently more interesting to his lips.
The coach rolled to a stop. Horrid timing, that.
“We’re here!” he said with a triumphant smile. He threw open the door before the footman could do so and escorted her down. They entered the ballroom in silence, and as Lillian craned her neck to find the wallflowers, Devon dropped a kiss to the top of her head.
“For luck,” he said. Then he disappeared, in search of the game.
She watched him as long as she was able. Once, she’d written him a letter to tell him how she felt about him, and it had helped them both. She’d barely known him then, not really known him at all. Yet she’d poured every feeling in her heart onto that slim bit of paper.
Now, she knew him better than anyone else, saw straight to the golden core of him. He knew her just as well. But the thought of telling him all, made her freeze. It would be so much harder now.
She’d try, anyway. Tonight, alone in their bed, whether he won or lost, she’d try.
She’d tell him that behind the silk and the curls and the lace fans, all she really wanted was him and a single-room apartment, his hands on her body and his heart beating near her ear.
Lillian turned from the empty space where he’d disappeared through a doorway and found Abigail. She found the other wallflowers. If she did not prove rumors false, their parents may never let her near them. But perhaps taking what she really desired—Devon anyway she could have him—was the best way to show her wallflowers how to help themselves.
CHAPTER22
Devon snagged a glass of wine and wound his way toward Lord Adam Tipton. He sat at a large round table with four other fellows, all with deep pockets and risky natures. The room was dark, the candles glowed bright, and so too did Devon’s hope. One week remained to procure Frederick’s, but all he needed was one night. One hour. One hand of cards.
Ifluck stood in his corner. Devon disliked relying on luck. Most people compared it to a fickle woman. He thought it a snickering jackanapes. Luck? A lady? Ha! Ladies calculated their risks and made sensible moves because they had so few options. Only a spoiled schoolboy flitted about indiscriminately.
Devon lifted his glass as he slid into the remaining empty seat at Adam’s table. “Good evening, gents.”
Adam clapped him on the back. “Glad you could join us!” He rubbed his hands together.
“What are we playing?”
“Vingt-et-un.”
Devon groaned. A fickle game indeed, but not without an edge of skill required. He pulled a slim case of plain, dark wood from his inner jacket pocket and opened it to reveal his counters. They were made of the same simple dark oak, not quite round, the only mark on them a single line down the center.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Adam asked, peering at the counters as he pulled ivory fish from his own pockets.
Devon held one up between his middle and index fingers. “Guesses, Tippy?”
“It looks like an ars—”
“It’s a coffee bean, you nitwit!”
Adam shrugged and tapped a fish on the table. “If you say so. Rather reminds me of my mistress’s bum.” He elbowed Devon and waggled his eyebrows. “It’s a memento of one of your mistress’s bums, isn’t it?”
Devon lifted a single brow, channeling every duke in his family’s past. “Would you desist, Tippy?”
