Perfect Bride (12 page)

Justin was wrong. He had no patience, no patience at all. He wanted to drag her close, kiss her mouth, and never stop.

He settled for raising her hand to his lips.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
She nodded.
He almost wished she would say no.
He wanted to say to hell with his plans, to hell
with reason, to hell with the duchess’s ball. He wanted to say to hell with the world and stay right here.

But in the end he obeyed the sway of his mind. He did what he’d been trained to do from the time he was a boy.

For Sebastian was a man ever to do his duty. And so he went to the duchess’s ball and danced with every twittering young lady who had taken her place in society.

But every moment he was thinking of Devon. And he carried with him the disturbing image of shimmering golden eyes all through the night.

Ten

romptly at nine two days later Devon pre
sented herself in the library. Sebastian was al
ready there, seated behind a leather-topped desk. A spear of sunlight shone through the windowpanes, bringing into sharp relief the heavy arch of his brows, the blade of his long, elegant nose, the turn of cleanly sculpted lips.

A strange sensation seized hold of her. She stood rooted to the floor, unable to move. All at once the simple act of breathing was a chore she could scarcely muster. And what was this odd tightness in her breast? She knew instinctively that it had little to do with an actual shortage of air. And everything to do with him, his sheer, masculine presence.

He was busily writing on a sheet of parchment. If he was aware that she stood on the threshold, he gave no sign of it. Devon’s gaze slipped to his hands; they were large and strong, his fingers lean and dark.

Her breath still dangling, she watched as he folded the parchment neatly into thirds, sealed it with a drop of hot wax, and imprinted it with his crest. The sight of his hands made her want to hide her own, and she smothered them in her skirts. Though Tansy gave her a salve to massage into them each night, still they were chapped and dry.

He must have heard her then. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, an easy smile on his lips.

“Well,” he murmured, “I see you’re ready and eager.”

Hastily Devon recovered herself. Lifting her chin, she stepped forward. “That I am,” she an
nounced briskly. Advancing into the room, she trailed a fingertip along the heavy volumes that lined the bookshelves.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled one out. “This one,” she said emphatically, running a finger along the gilt-edged binding. “I want to be able to read this one.”

He glanced at the cover, then back to her face. “You will,” he said firmly. “Your resolve will serve you well, Devon.”

Belatedly she peered at it curiously. “What
is
this book?”

He glanced at the cover. “It’s a book of English folklore. Fairy stories. One of Julianna’s favorites, as I recall.” He paused. “If you like this one, there are a pair of brothers who write wondrous tales, tales that enchant, I’m told. I believe their second book was published just this year.”

“Then I shall read both of those, too,” Devon vowed.

Something flitted across his features.

“What is it? I thought you were convinced I could do this.”

“I am, Devon.
I am.
But I fear I spoke too soon. The books I’m thinking of are written in German.”

“By two brothers, you say?”

“Yes. By the name of Grimm.”

“You and Justin live in this grand house. Perhaps someday the two of you will take up writing fairy stories.”

“Fairy stories?” His smile was fleeting. Devon could have sworn that something almost sad lurked in the back of his eyes. “Trust me, Devon, that’s a task better left to the brothers Grimm.”

Devon replaced the book on the shelf, then turned back to him. “Do you read German?”

“Yes. Not a pretty language, I fear. I’m told I have a horrid accent.”

To Devon, that he could speak—and read!— another language besides their own was astounding.

“Do you know other languages too?” She posed the question half in jest.

“Just Greek and Latin, of course.”

Of course
. The matter of her education all at once seemed an obstacle she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to take on.

Her expression must have given her away. “But there’s no need for you to learn Greek or Latin. Or German,” he amended hastily. “A smattering of French, no more.”

“French! Whatever for?” Devon was aghast. “We were just at war with them. We don’t even like them!”

He laughed softly. “I know. Far be it for me to say I understand it, but it’s a strange world we live in. All
things French are much coveted—their fashions, why, even their chefs! A dressmaker is no longer a dressmaker, but a modiste. And French is something children are expected to learn, and so, I fear, must their governess.”

Devon considered this. “Do you have a French chef?”

“Lord, no! I’m quite content with my very English
cook
,” he emphasized.

Still, Devon was caught squarely between hope and fear. “What else must I learn?” she asked carefully.

“I shall endeavor to teach you history and geogra
phy, how to keep accounts. And when my sister Ju
lianna returns from the Continent, she can instruct you in the finer points of being a lady. Music, danc
ing, embroidery and drawing, things like that. Ju
lianna is quite accomplished at watercolors.”

Embroidery? Heaven help her, she lacked Mama’s skill with the needle. As for watercolors, what if she proved even
less
proficient? Her heart sank like a stone.

Almost before she was aware of it, lean fingers slipped beneath her chin. With but the touch of thumb and forefinger, he summoned her eyes to his.

“Don’t look like that, Devon. You can do this,” he encouraged. “I have every faith in you.”

Devon’s mind was racing. Could she? How long would it take? Perhaps the better question was how much time she had. She had no idea how long Sebas
tian would allow her to remain in his house.

She wanted desperately to believe him. Somehow his quiet sincerity made
her
believe.

She
could
do this, she told herself fiercely. She could learn to read and all the other things as well.

The incentive was a powerful one; she had no inten
tion of returning to work at the Crow’s Nest. She re
fused to go back to St. Giles. She would not be weak. She would not be meek. This was her one chance to better her life, and she was a fool if she didn’t make the most of this opportunity.

The beginnings of a smile appeared. “Then, sir, I suggest we dally no longer.”

Keen gray eyes glimmered their approval. “Capi
tal idea,” he praised. His tone turned brisk. “Now, I believe you mentioned you know your letters?”

She nodded. “My mother used to sketch them out in the dirt. I think I remember them.” Linking her fingers together before her, she closed her eyes and began to recite, “A—B—C—”

“Excellent.” Sebastian gave an approving nod. “That will make it easier, I think. For you’ll find that the ability to read and write is the key to everything....”

Thus her lessons commenced.

For the next four days, faithfully between the hours of nine and four, Sebastian and Devon were closeted together, either in the library or his study. They stopped only for luncheon, and ended with tea. He was a man of his word, of punctuality, for he was never even a minute late.

He was also a creature of habit.

Little wonder then that guilt surged high in Dev-on’s chest when she stopped at the door to his cham
ber one morning.

The lure was irresistible. The maid had just exited his chamber, her arms full of linen. Devon was al ready familiar with the ways of the household. She
knew the woman wouldn’t be back. Nor would Se bastian; she’d heard the rumble of his baritone downstairs a moment earlier.

Holding her breath, she stepped inside.

The room was much like its occupant—massive and dark, the furnishings intensely masculine. She crept past an immense four-poster bed and by
passed the shaving stand. A scant heartbeat later, she opened the door of a massive armoire. The scent of crisp, starched linen immediately surrounded her—Sebastian’s scent. Trying not to disturb any
thing, her fingers darted behind a stack of neatly folded neck cloths. It made her feel quite odd, touching Sebastian’s clothing. Why, it was almost as if she were touching
him
. Pushing aside the trou
bling sensation, she renewed her search, concentrat
ing her efforts.

Drat! There was nothing.

She swung around, her gaze lighting on the chest of drawers. Her heart clamoring madly, she wrenched open the top drawer. Atop the dresser, a delicate urn tipped wildly; she rescued it just in time. Chiding herself, she opened the next drawer. Biting back her impatience, she reached for the third. It was then the light from the window reflected on some
thing bright. Was it her necklace? Her pulse singing in excitement, she started to reach for it.

Something brushed her skirts. Panicked, she looked down. With a shaky laugh, she reached to pat Dumpling on the head, then reached inside the drawer once more.

A growl of warning vibrated in Dumpling’s chest.

Devon froze. Her hand snapped back. She knew,
even before she glanced over her shoulder that she’d been caught red-handed. How the devil could such a big man be so quiet?

Her cheeks burning, she turned. Sebastian was but three paces away. It was a pose of indolent ease, his arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder propped against the wall. Snug fawn breeches outlined every hard muscle in his legs. His black jacket stretched taut against the span of his chest. His feet were shod in sleek black boots.

He appeared relaxed. Even comfortable. Faith, was there anything that rattled this man’s compo
sure? He was utterly calm. Her insides lurched, for she realized then it was an ominous calm. His dark features were etched in brittle reproof, his jaw set squarely, the cleft in his chin even more pronounced.

Her cheeks burned, yet she would not be cowed.

“Well, Devon,” he said, his tone one of frigid po
liteness, “have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Yes,” she muttered. “Must you always sneak up on me?”

His features blackened further. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re not stealing this time either.”

“I am not. I’m looking for my necklace!”

“Why not ask me for it?”

“Would you have given it to me?” she shot back.

Something flickered across his features, some
thing that sent a surge of anger through her blood.

“Would you?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes flashed accusingly. “Then you see why I did not. If anything, you are the thief! You took it from me, Sebastian.”