In but an instant, Devon was tucked in his embrace—and they were both tucked in the roomy depths of his favorite chair. He turned his attention to the woman in his arms. “You were crying last night too, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t!” she wailed.
Sebastian sighed. “Devon, I cannot abide weeping females.”
“
I’m
...
not
...
weeping
.”
But she was. Her narrow shoulders heaved up and down. She was positively blubbering.
Seeking desperately to console her, he said, “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve called in a modiste for you. She’ll arrive promptly at ten tomorrow morning.”
Her lips parted. “A modiste?”
“Yes. A dressmaker.”
Tears welled in her eyes anew, shimmering tears that speared his very heart.
Now what the devil had he done? Sebastian was wholly bewildered. He’d never before met a woman who did not wax poetic over a new gown!
In truth, he’d never met a woman the likes of Devon.
His long legs sprawled before him, he sighed. “Devon, will you please tell me what’s wrong?”
Her cold little nose was buried in the ruffles at his throat. She was shaking, gulping, trying to hold back sobs.
He tipped her chin to his, the gesture immeasur
ably gentle. “Devon, you must tell me what is wrong.” For all its softness, it was a command.
Still nothing. Was she being stubborn? Defiant? Or was it simply that she didn’t hear?
“Devon,” he intoned more forcefully.
He felt the ragged breath she drew. “My God,” she said through a watery sob, “you are a nag!”
“I prefer to think of it as persistence. Either way, I’m sure you find it quite vexing.”
“I do! But...you won’t leave me alone until I tell you, will you?”
“No,” he answered frankly. “Now tell me what it is that distresses you so.”
Hot tears seeped through the starched white of his shirt; they reached his very soul.
“I’m...not...sure I can explain.”
“Try,” he said gently.
“It just...it all seems so wrong...I mean, look at me. I’m living in a grand house in Mayfair, of all
places. Mayfair! There’s a-a dressmaker coming to visit...a dressmaker! And what have I done to de serve it? I”—her voice wobbled traitorously—“I killed a man. I killed Freddie.”
He gathered her closer, so close his breath stirred the fine hairs on her temple. “Listen to me, Devon. You did what you had to do, in order to stay alive. If you hadn’t, Freddie would have killed you.”
“I know.
I know
.” Tears streamed down her face. “But there’s a part of me that says I don’t deserve such treatment. And then there’s you—”
“Me!” Sebastian was utterly taken aback.
“Yes!” she wailed. “Why are you doing this? Why are you being so generous? I don’t belong here. You don’t even know me. You don’t even
like
me.”
“That’s not true.” Staunchly he defended himself.
“It is. I know what you think of me. So if you want me to leave—”
“I don’t want you to leave. I want to help you. And”—she might as well be aware of it now—“you are
not
going back to St. Giles. I forbid it.”
“I won’t be a burden!”
“Devon, please do not argue with me.”
“Then please don’t treat me in such a manner. You can’t forbid me anything! And you can’t tell me what to do!”
Sebastian pressed his lips together, trying not to glower. This was definitely stubbornness, he decided.
“Sebastian, did you hear me? I won’t be a burden!”
“And do you hear me? You are
not
a burden, Dev
on.
You are not.
” He spoke the last three words with emphatic emphasis.
“Then let me earn my keep.” Her tears had begun to dry. Lifting her head, she stared up at him
earnestly. “I’ve been thinking about it, Sebastian. Let me help Tansy or one of the other maids. Or perhaps I could help in the kitchen.”
He made a sound low in his throat. “You will not!”
“Why not? I’ve done it before.”
“Well, you’ll not be doing it again. Devon, for pity’s sake, I don’t intend for you to be a servant.”
“I won’t be a charity case.”
“I’m not giving you charity. I’m simply lending as
sistance where assistance is needed.” He detected more than a hint of obstinacy in her regard. “Be
sides, I can well afford to feed you ...yes, definitely you”—he tipped his head to the side as though to consider—“though I’m not so sure about Be... Dumpling.”
With this last, he endeavored to lighten her spirits.
He succeeded.
He ran a fingertip over her lips. “Is that a smile I see?” he murmured. A voice inside warned he was treading dangerously. Treading where he should not. The feel of her ...and the way she looked at him, all golden eyes and golden hair, her lips tilting up in the slightest of smiles . . .
He felt that smile as well, beneath the tips of his fingers. His own joined in, and with that, a wispy lit
tle sigh emerged from her lips.
“This is a lovely room.”
“I agree.” His mouth brushed her cheek as he spoke. He fought the urge to linger. “We’re sitting in my favorite chair, in my favorite room.”
Her eyes widened.
“How odd. I’d decided that too, when I came downstairs.” She seemed in no hurry to remove her head from his shoulder. She lay against him, no
longer sobbing, her body fluid, one small hand curled against his chest.
“Sebastian,” she whispered, “have you read all these books?”
Sweet Jesus. She was speaking of reading, while he was thinking of what it would be like to carry her up the stairs to his bed, strip away her layers of clothing, and make love to her the whole night through.
He felt himself tempted. Seduced by the beguiling charm of a lovely little urchin from St. Giles. But he didn’t want to frighten her. Or argue.
“Hardly,” he murmured.
“Why not?” She sounded amazed that he hadn’t.
“Well, to begin with, there are a great many.”
“If I lived here, I should make it a point to read every book in this room.” Her gaze flitted away. “If I could read, that is,” she said, her voice very low.
Sebastian frowned. “Tell me, Devon.” He voiced the question that had been preying on his mind. “How is it you speak as you do yet cannot read?”
He sensed her reluctance to answer. “You men
tioned your mother was well-spoken,” he prompted.
She nodded. “Mama made her living as a gov
erness before I was born,” she said at last. “And, well, I shall be honest. She wanted to teach me to read, but I was stubborn.”
His lips quirked. A startling revelation, that. At least she was honest enough to admit it—and not too stubborn.
“Since there was no money for books,” she contin ued, “I saw little point in learning to read. I disap pointed her, I think,” she said in a small voice. “But now I wish I hadn’t been so willful or defiant, because
perhaps then I might be a governess, like she was. Or
a companion to a widow in need of company.”
“What about your father, Devon?”
Her eyes grew shadowed. “He died before I was born.”
“And that’s what sent your mother into a life of poverty? She had no family to whom she could turn?”
“Only a sister who died when they were young. The only employment she could find was work as a seamstress. Unfortunately she could never find any
thing that paid well.”
“The two of you were very close, weren’t you?”
She nodded. “Her name was Amelia,” she said softly, “Amelia St. James.”
A governess, he thought, mulling it over in his mind. She wanted to be a governess like her mother. Could it be done?
Should
it? She was halfway there. He sensed it instinctively.
“If you like,” he said slowly, “I could teach you to read.”
She stared. “You would?”
“I would.” He paused. “The modiste will be here to
morrow, but we could begin the following morning.”
“Oh, Sebastian,” she breathed, “I would like that. I would like that very much.” But her joy was all too fleeting. All at once, her lips trembled. “Sebastian, I”—her voice caught—“I don’t know what to say—”
“No tears,” he advised sternly.
“No tears,” she whispered, but she was smiling, smiling in a way that made him want to spin circles on his head in every square in the city just to see her face light up the way it was now.
His arms tightened, just a little. She twisted slightly against him.
His blood began to pound once more. She lay with her hip nestled against the pillar of his maleness, which began to swell and throb, straining high against his trousers. Did she feel it? No. She gave no sign of it. Her face was turned at just such an angle that the delicate column of her throat lay open to him—like an invitation to a man on the brink of star
vation.
A veritable feast.
A temptation that must be vanquished.
Yet even as the realization tumbled through his
mind, he ached with the need to brush his mouth over that delicious arch and ever so slowly work his way up to the lush sweetness of her lips...
She sat up slowly, shifting in his lap.
Against him. Against the part of him he dared not
think about. Never before had he endured such agony. Gritting his teeth, he helped her to her feet. He
turned his body slightly aside, to hide the evidence of his arousal. Once she was up, she gave a shake of her head.
“Oh, dear. I must look a fright.”
“You look beautiful, Devon.”
She made a face. “Thank you for saying so, but I
know I look dreadful when I cry. My eyes get puffy and red.” Sebastian pulled a handkerchief from his pocket
and mopped her cheeks. “Better now?” She nodded obediently. She blew her nose, a distinctly unladylike sound. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to hold this con
tradictory creature—one moment sharp as a blade, the next soft as a kitten—in his arms and never let go.
Oh, God, this was crazy.
A hand brushed at the front of his shirt and jacket. He sucked in a breath. Oh, Christ, if she touched him
there
, even brushed him accidentally, it would start all over again . . .
“Oh, my, I’ve wrinkled you. And you look so dash
ing and splendid.”
Before he could respond, she said the oddest thing. “My mother would have liked you, I think.”
“And what about you, Devon St. James?”
“I didn’t like you at all that first night. Or the next day, either.
Especially
the next.”
The day she’d tried to punch him. Such candor startled him, but he was beginning to realize that was simply Devon.
“But now...Well, I do believe you’re a nice man, Sebastian Sterling.”
Nice
. God knew he wasn’t thinking nice thoughts. The warm, scented hollow at the base of her throat beckoned him, reminding him of other soft, velvet hollows he already knew lay hidden beneath the fab
ric of her gown.
Ah, yes, his thoughts were decidedly impure. “Thank you,” he said almost gruffly.
“Justin too is a very nice man.”
Nice.
Certainly he’d never heard a woman refer to Justin as nice. A hoarse laugh erupted. “Ye gods, don’t ever say that to his face. He fancies himself quite dangerous.”
A faint line appeared between her delicate brows. “Dangerous?”
“Yes. It’s bandied about that no lady is safe when he is near.” He smiled slightly. “If the truth be known, I do believe it.”
Devon blinked. “And what about you, sir? Are you a dangerous man?”
“I highly doubt it. Justin says I’m the most honor
able and proper man he knows.”
“You’re the finest man he knows too.”
“What, did he say that?”
“Not in those words,” she admitted. “But that was what he meant. I sensed it. And he said you have the patience of a saint.”
“Did he?” Sebastian was oddly pleased.
A loud knock sounded on the door. “My lord,” called a voice, “your carriage is ready.”
Devon stepped back. “I won’t keep you any longer then.”
Sebastian didn’t move. Questioning eyes scoured her face.
She read his thoughts. “See? I’m not weeping. Not anymore.” She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
Every muscle in his body clenched. They stood but a breath apart. Her skirts brushed the folds of his coat.
His chest rose in an uneven breath. Dangerous, she’d said. Dear God,
she
was the one who was dan
gerous. Strange feelings coursed through him. Feel
ings of desire. Of need. Feelings that had no place in this moment...in this situation. She was in his house. Under his care. My God, he was supposed to be searching for a bride ...He had to forcibly remind himself who she was, where they were ...and why.