With his gaze locked on her face, he waited, but she didn’t stir again.
He sighed and slumped back in the armchair.
No more prevarication, no more oblique and ambiguous utterances.
If he had to bare his soul to convince her of the truth—that he had always loved her as she’d loved him—he would. That was all the plan he needed.
Consciousness returned to Therese in a long, slow slide as if she—her mind—was falling into place after having been absent for quite some time.
She was warm and comfortable; for long moments, she didn’t move, then slowly, she raised her lids.
The first thing she saw was entirely unexpected. A dragon statue…no, it was the dragon figurine she’d seen on the first day of the exhibition!
She blinked and focused on the dragon, poised to launch into the air, flames curving from its nostrils, its wings spread wide. She drank in the superb craftsmanship, displayed not just in the golden shape but also in the exceptional coloring of the iridescent enamel scales and the glittering jewels artfully embedded here and there, scattering the light.
Unable to help herself, she freed a hand from the covers and reached out to turn the figurine so she could admire the coloration on the dragon’s back. The colors coruscated like living fire—yellows, oranges, and every shade of red.
Running a fingertip down the dragon’s spine, she smiled. Then she wondered how it came to be there. She knew Victoria had noticed the little dragon, even before Therese had; she’d seen Victoria ahead of her, examining the statue, and she’d assumed Prince Albert would buy it for the queen. Apparently not; after all, there had been many exquisite items displayed to catch the queen’s eye.
Still smiling, Therese remembered talking to the Russian jeweler. Among other things, he’d assured her the figurine was one of a kind. Yet here it was; she stroked the dragon again, confirming that it was in no way a figment of her imagination. At the exhibition, while she’d admired the statue, Devlin had been watching and waiting on her a few yards away. Given it was on the table by her bed, presumably he had bought it for her.
Her smile deepened; her birthday was nearing, and he must have remembered…
But why give it to her now?
She blinked, then blinked again as more-recent memories flooded into her brain. Events unfurled in a rush, then a torrent.
She remembered the crash. Remembered what followed. In her mind’s eye, she saw Devlin walking through the chaos of the aftermath toward her and experienced again the huge upswell of relief…before she’d weakened and fallen.
Her last visual memory was of Devlin’s face—of his relief, so deep and utterly unshuttered on first seeing her, being overtaken by, then erased by, concern for her.
Her last tactile memory was of his strong arms catching her as she’d sagged toward the ground.
She frowned. Why had she been on the train? Had they been traveling to the Priory? She couldn’t remember…then the murky mists clouding her memory thinned, and she did.
She remembered it all.
How she and Devlin had grown closer, how happy she’d been about that, what he’d said early that morning, and what she had said in reply…then she’d seen him with the woman in Covent Garden. The emotions that had erupted in that moment remained sharp and clear, but now lacked the power they’d earlier possessed, the immediacy and urgency and sheerpainfulnessthat had derailed her mind and sent her running in full-blown retreat.
In hindsight, her reasons for taking the train to the Priory were no longer as obvious, as convincing and compelling, as she’d thought they’d been.
She blinked and refocused on the dragon. The spine had warmed where her finger had been stroking.
Why was it there?
Puzzled, she glanced around, confirming that she was, as she’d assumed, in her own bed. The room was dim, with the curtains tightly drawn, but the quality of the light seeping past them told her it was full daylight outside.
Frowning, she returned her gaze to the figurine, then looked past it. Shrouded in gloom, Devlin sat slumped in an armchair.
His eyes were closed, and his chin rested on his neckcloth. His hands were clasped over his waist, and his chest rose and fell in a slow, regular rhythm; he was fast asleep, but that wasn’t what caused her to stare. His coat was rumpled and smudged, his linen looked limp, his hair bore evidence of him having raked his hand through it multiple times, leaving it badly tousled, and his chin bore the dark shadow of a beard.
He looked more disreputable than she’d ever seen him, as if he hadn’t left the room since, presumably, he’d carried her there.
She straightened her legs and turned the other way—to check if there was anyone else present—only to feel a stabbing pain at the back of her head. Raising her other hand, she encountered a bandage. Gingerly, she traced the band, then warily prodded the wound it covered and quickly thought better of that. Carefully, she returned to her side and her previous, unpainful position.
Her gaze went to Devlin, and she saw his eyes were open. But other than lifting his head to look at her, he hadn’t moved.
He caught her gaze. “We think you were struck by your dressing case, when it fell on you during the crash.”
