Perfect Bride (9 page)

Sebastian stiffened. Anger was something that came to him neither readily nor without cause. But this was the side of Justin—the caustic side— that he hated. Justin knew it full well, yet there were still occasions when Justin sought to prick his control.

Someday, Sebastian reflected, his brother’s acid tongue would land him in trouble, and he would sorely regret it.

Nonetheless, his tone was terse as he advised, “Let us not go there, brother. I try not to look back, and I strongly suggest you do the same.”

“Yes, you’re right. As usual. But that reminds me of something else, however.”

“Which is?”

“Well, far be it from me to point out the propriety of the situation, but we’ve an unmarried female be
neath our roof. And I know how you feel about scan
dal. So should anything ever be said, I shall take the blame—”

The tension in Sebastian’s shoulders vanished. Justin’s mercurial nature was sometimes baffling. “Don’t be absurd.” In that arrogant way that could only belong to a marquess, he went on, “We’ve given shelter to a poor, unfortunate girl from the streets. The servants are too loyal to question it, or ever be
tray me.”

“True enough. Your reputation is above reproach.”

Sebastian quirked a brow. “And yours is beyond reproach.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that.” Justin plucked a ci
gar from his pocket. “Which reminds me ...how goes the hunt?”

Sebastian gazed at him blankly. “The hunt? Good Lord, man, I’ve no plans for hunting.”

Justin erupted into laughter. “What, have you given up already?”

Only then did he take Justin’s meaning. “My God, finding a bride is the last thing on my mind just now!”

He scowled when Justin merely laughed the harder.

evon was healing. She was healing nicely. With
in several days she was able to leave the bed. The pain in her side gradually subsided to a dull ache. Soon she was able to sit and walk about the room. Tansy, the cheery little maid who attended her, entered one morning with an armful of Julianna’s clothing—at Sebastian’s direction, she was told. All were a fine fit in the hips, length, and shoul
ders, but in the bodice...It was hopeless. Her rounded curves swelled above the neckline and there was nothing she could do to hide it. Julianna was clearly less endowed in the bosom than she.

Until she was sixteen, she’d been scrawny and thin, often taken for a child much younger. She’d been so proud when the little buds of her breasts had finally begun to blossom—was there a girl who didn’t long to be a woman? But when she’d begun working at the Crow’s Nest, she’d grown to hate the hungry, wolfish look that inevitably entered a man’s
eyes as they traversed up and down her figure, in variably lingering on her chest. They stared at her breasts. They stared at Bridget’s. They grabbed and pinched and twisted.

What
was
the fascination men harbored for women’s breasts? she had pondered irritably one day. Bridget had shrugged and responded blithely that was simply the way men were. During the time Devon had worked there, she’d never grown accus
tomed to their leers.

And somehow, she’d always known she never would.

The prospect of returning to work there made her shudder. Indeed, it was the one thing she was deter
mined to avoid at all costs. There had to be a way, she told herself. She had only to find it. Indeed, she told herself stoutly, miracles could happen. Why, the very fact that she was here in Mayfair was proof.

Every morning when she woke in this lovely room so like a burst of sunshine, she reminded herself where she was—a great house in Mayfair, not just a dream conjured up from some deep-seated longing tucked away inside, a longing she hadn’t even known she had until now. Ah, but it would be easy to grow used to a life like this! Breakfast in bed. Tea sit
ting by the window, a blanket tucked over her legs. Dinner before the warmth and glow of a blazing fire. A warming pan to keep her feet toasty at night— heaven itself! No hunger. No worries about pinching her pennies to make her rent.

But she warned herself she mustn’t grow too ac customed to it. She prayed that when she was well, Sebastian would allow her to stay long enough that she might find a position in a house such as this. She
would work long and hard, if only she didn’t have to go back to St. Giles.

Yet for all that her days were filled with hope and comfort, the nights were difficult. When the room was still and she was all alone, a wrenching despair dragged at her insides.

She couldn’t forget.

By your hand
, Sebastian had said.

And it was.

Freddie was dead because of her. She’d killed a man.
Killed
him.

The knowledge rent her apart.

She lay in bed one night, trying hard to forget. Try
ing hard not to think. She tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, battling the burning rush of tears against the back of her throat and not always suc
ceeding. It was inevitable, perhaps, that her mind turned to Sebastian, who, according to Tansy, was out for the evening.

If only she knew what to make of him! He looked in on her every day, inquiring how she felt. He was always impeccably dressed, faultlessly polite. And somehow the sight of him always made her tongue feel heavy and clumsy. Perhaps it was because she al
ready knew he possessed a formidable presence.

Only the other morning, she lay in bed as Tansy ti
died the room. It seemed wrong to watch as the bright-eyed little maid worked. Finally she’d pushed aside the coverlet, determined to help. Tansy chanced that moment to turn.

“Oh, no, Miss Devon!” she cried. Naturally Sebas tian chose that moment to be passing. Her heart gave an odd little leap at the sight of him. His dark gaze traversed from the top of her head to one bare peep
ing toe, pointed toward the floor. One jet brow climbed high, a silent reproof. Either way, there was no need to utter a word. She wasted no time with drawing her foot and dragging the covers up to her chin.

To all outward appearances, it seemed his manner toward her had thawed. Yet somehow, she couldn’t help but think that he was convinced she was a strumpet. She knew not how to convince him other
wise.

An odd little pain nipped at her insides. Indeed, what did it matter? It wasn’t as if she could remain in this house forever.

Some ten days after her arrival, she lit a candle, drew on a robe, and ventured into the hall. It was rather bold, she knew, and she felt quite like the thief Sebastian had branded her. But from the beginning, she’d been intensely curious about this house. Judg
ing by the furnishings of her room, which were so very grand, the marquess must be very rich, she mused to Tansy one day. He was indeed, Tansy as
sured her with a laugh.

Now it was the wee hours of the morning, and surely there was no one about. It felt good to stretch her legs. Lovely as her room was, it was growing quite tiresome lying about so much.

Making nary a sound, she crept down the stairs and tiptoed through the house, glancing inside the rooms. There was the dining room, with its massive, polished table and silver candelabra. The parlor, where delicate, porcelain vases mingled with dainty figurines, looking ghostly in the moonlight. Every
thing was elegant, costly, and aristocratic-looking— just like the marquess.

A little in awe, but still determined to indulge her curiosity, she slipped through the nearest door. In the middle of a large, high-ceilinged room, she paused. Tall, paned windows flanked a marble fire
place. Row upon row of books filled the bookcases that lined the walls.

The library.

A painful tightness crowded her heart, her very chest. Her mother would have loved this room, she thought achingly. How she wished Mama was still alive that she might see it! Three months had passed since Mama’s death, and there wasn’t a day—not a single hour—that Devon didn’t miss her dread
fully. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away.

Trailing her fingers over the arms of the chair drawn up before the fire, she paused. Beneath her fingertips, the leather was smooth, almost buttery soft. In the fireplace, embers still glowed faintly. She could imagine nothing cozier than sitting in this very chair before the blazing warmth of the fire.

Outside, a blustery wind sent an angry pelting of rain against the windows. The storm raged on, mak
ing her shiver in remembrance. She hadn’t forgotten the feel of the cold and rain seeping through her cloak, into her skin.

It struck her, not for the first time, that she was lucky Sebastian had found her. That he had allowed her to stay.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward. Of course, if he knew she was snooping about his house, he’d likely throw her out on her ear!

The wind howled again. At the door, there was a strange scratching sound.

She ducked behind the chair, her first instinct to hide.

The scratching came again. Louder this time. More insistent. Oh, yes, much more insistent. And this time, accompanied by something that sounded almost like a whine.

Drawn by curiosity, she crept from the library, on
ward toward the scratching, clutching her candle for all it was worth. Slowly she straightened, then cau
tiously opened the door.

A gust of wind pummeled her and nearly knocked her from her feet. Something cold and wet darted past her legs into the entrance hall. She choked back a scream, looking down frantically. At her feet, two dark, soulful eyes peered up at her. Devon blinked. A dog! Wet and bedraggled, he shivered from his head to his sopping tail, little wonder since he had been out in this horrid weather. He was quite ugly. His little snout seemed mashed into his face. But somehow it made him all the more endearing. His coat was long and yellow and dragged on the glossy tiled floor. Oh, yes, he was quite stout indeed, for he looked as if he had no legs!

She set the candlestick on a small oval table be
hind her. Before she knew it, she was on her knees beside him. “Oh, my! You’ve had quite a drenching, haven’t you?” She crouched down before him.

Without hesitation the dog crammed his cold little nose beneath her hand and whined, a pitiful sound that caught at her heart. “Are you hungry?” she crooned.

She could have sworn his eyes brightened.

“Let’s just see if we can find you something to eat, shall we?” She mused aloud, “There’s a wedge of
cheese left over from my dinner.” Did dogs like cheese? Well, she would find out. “Now, my little mite. Stay where you are.” She pointed a finger at him, then laughed at herself. “My little mite. You need a better name than that, don’t you?” She pressed a finger to her lips. “What shall we call you, hmmm? I know. Webster. I shall call you Webster!”

Obviously he approved of the name, for his tail circled madly.

“Excellent,” she said, pleased with her choice. “Stay, Webster.”

It took her but a few minutes to dart to her room and find the wedge of cheese she’d stowed away in her napkin for later. When she returned, she found he hadn’t moved.

“Good boy, Webster.” Sinking to her knees again, she pinched off a bit of the soft cheese and held it out.

He needed no coaxing. Eagerly he gobbled it up.

Devon laughed delightedly. He looked up at her expectantly. “Patience, Webster.” A virtue she herself had never quite mastered, but no matter.

The rattle of the doorknob snared her attention. Confound it, there was someone there. Sebastian? Justin? Would one of the servants come up to answer the door? Either way, she’d been well and truly caught. There wasn’t time to gather Webster and flee up the stairs; she would be seen.

In desperation she seized the dog and pushed him under her night rail. “Don’t say a word!” she hissed.
As if he could
, she thought with a half giggle.

A gust of wind swirled about her bare feet. The door clicked. By the time she straightened, Sebastian stood directly before her.

“I wasn’t stealing,” she said quickly. Only then
did she realize she’d thrust the hand with the cheese behind her back.

Sebastian made no response, merely tipped his head slightly to the side, as if in inquiry.

Devon swallowed. Her eyes trickled upward, tak
ing in broad shoulders covered in wool, the intricate knot of his cravat, the corded column of his neck. There was a sharp stab deep in the pit of her belly, something she couldn’t identify. Standing so close to him again, all she could think was that he was so handsome, so intensely masculine, so unlike any man she’d ever met before . . .

It seemed strange to face him on her feet; it was not a posture she cared to maintain for very long, she decided vaguely. He was so tall that to do so would surely put a crick in her neck.

Meanwhile, his eyes were occupied with traveling the length of her. She wished she’d taken the time to tidy her hair...But what foolishness was this? She was abruptly irritated with herself. Why did she care how she looked before him? He’d made his opinion of her quite clear, and she knew there would be no changing his mind.