Perfect Bride (14 page)

Sebastian shrugged. There was no accounting for a female’s tastes when it came to fashion. When Ju
lianna was young, she’d been stubbornly attached to a ghastly green fluff of a frock that she insisted on wearing every day. Nurse complained that it had to be peeled away amid wails and screams every morn
ing that she was not allowed to wear it. When she fi
nally outgrew it, she insisted on having several frocks made in black, declaring herself in mourning for the loss of her most beloved gown.

“Stockings and garters,” he said when Devon reappeared.

They were snatched from his hand. “Turn aside,” she commanded.

Sebastian obliged, but he could still see from the
corner of his eye. Perched on a chair, she tugged her skirts to her knees and drew on the fine white silk, securing each while Sebastian admired the turn of slim, shapely ankles and calves. With amusement he realized he might have been the lamppost outside for all the notice she took of him.

“Slippers?” he queried, passing them her way. He stooped obligingly. A hand against his shoulder, she slipped on first one and then the other. A pair of del
icate lace gloves came next.

With a swirl of skirts, she presented him with her back. The gown was loose about her shoulders. He wanted to rip it off, not do the damn thing up! A row of tiny pearl buttons awaited his attention. His mouth dry, he stared at the supple length of her back, divided by the delicate groove of her spine, covered by a shift so sheer he had no trouble discerning the creamy flesh beneath. Almost reluctantly, his fingers complied. Doggedly he willed aside the impulse to press his mouth against the silken expanse of her nape, bared to allow him access to the buttons.

Unconsciously he measured the width of one hand against the nip of her waist. His hands were big and dark in contrast to her fairness and dainty, fine-boned form. He felt almost ungainly and uncouth—he, Sebastian Sterling, Marquess of Thurston, and she, a waif!

All at once he frowned. “Devon, where are your stays?”

“I don’t like them. I won’t wear them. They’re tor
ture devices.”

“A lady always wears stays.”

Her chin firmed. “Well,
I
won’t. I never have and I never will.”

She wasn’t wearing stays. She never wore stays. She would
never
wear stays. She spoke of torture. By Jove, she was a mistress of torture, for his was never-ending!

But in truth she didn’t need them. Had he not seen for himself,
felt
for himself, he’d never have guessed.

The task completed, he steered her toward the gilt-edged cheval mirror in the corner. Where before she’d been almost dancing in excitement, now, oddly enough, she almost had to be prodded into position. She stood for an instant, her chin bowed low, before finally lifting her head to gaze at her reflection.

She stared. “Oh,” she whispered, and then again, “
Oh
.” She ran a hand over the bodice. “It fits,” she breathed. “Sebastian, it fits!”

She was positively glowing.

Their eyes met in the mirror. “What do you think?” she said breathlessly.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “I think something is missing.”

“What?” She voiced her concern. “What?”

“I’m not sure.” He pretended to study her, first one way, then the other.

Her hand fluttered to her throat, a gesture of un
certainty.

“Yes. My thoughts exactly.”

He withdrew something from his pocket. Her eyes never wavered from his as he slipped a finely etched chain of silver around her neck. The cross came to rest in the shallow hollow of her throat.

“My necklace.” She ran her fingertips over the shiny surface, almost reverently. “You had it re
paired,” she whispered, then bit her lip.

“Yes,” he admitted with a rueful smile. In truth
he’d sent it to a jeweler the day after he’d gone to St. Giles.

Slowly she turned. Her eyes, dark and question
ing, sought his. “Why?” she asked, a ragged tremor to the word. “Sebastian, why? I thought—”

“You were right,” he explained softly. “It wasn’t mine to keep.”

She bit her lip, her eyes misty. “Sebastian, I-I don’t know what to say.”

Naked emotion flashed across her features. It seemed such a simple thing—so effortless—yet it brought her so much pleasure. For perhaps the first time in his life, Sebastian felt humble.

“Say thank you,” he said lightly.

She did, but not in the way he expected.

With both hands she reached up, tangled her fin
gers in the dark hair on his nape, and tugged his head down to hers.

Without a word, she kissed him full on the lips.

A dozen warning bells clanged inside Sebastian, telling him that he’d been right. For if the other kiss had been sweet . . .

This one was sweeter still.

evon had been kissed before—if the mashing of wet, slobbering lips against her own could be construed as kissing. Always before at the Crow’s Nest, her skin crawled and she ducked and squirmed away, seeking to evade the lustful ad
vances pressed upon her person. It was something she endured, for the sake of preserving her job.

But this was neither lust nor lechery.

Nor was she unwilling.

For with Sebastian, she wanted to be caught and captured. Imprisoned forever. And if she wanted to squirm, it was to squirm closer still. It lasted but a moment, yet it was seared in her heart forever.

Never had Devon experienced anything like the touch of Sebastian’s mouth against her own. She’d longed desperately to clamp her hands around his back and burrow her fingers beneath his shirt, to dis cover the sleek tautness of muscle and skin. And if
the kiss had only lasted longer, perhaps she would have done precisely that.

And in the days that followed, she couldn’t forget. Sebastian had kissed her. He’d
kissed
her.

Perhaps it was silly. Perhaps it was stupid, but she could have sworn something more than comfort had resided in his kiss. Something smoky and heady and heated that hinted of smoldering sensuality. She’d suffered a stab of hurt when he apologized. But she reminded herself he was a man of impecca
ble manners.

For something had happened that day in her chamber. Devon couldn’t identify precisely what it was, but every time she thought of that kiss—which was nearly every waking moment!—her toes curled in her slippers all over again.

It made her glance at him when he sat at his desk working. That overpowering awareness of him made her pulse clamor and goose bumps rise upon her skin whenever he came near. The very sight of him made her insides quiver. Sometimes she even begged his assistance when it wasn’t really needed, for her reading skills were improving vastly. One afternoon she cast a subtle glance at the cleft in his chin, the squareness of his jaw, already dark with the shadow of his beard.

Her regard must have lingered longer than she re
alized. Very soon she heard his voice. “Devon,” he said patiently, “are you paying attention?”

“No,” she almost blurted. “I’m too busy looking at you.”

The next afternoon prompted a dreamily earnest contemplation, for he sat next to her for the longest time. The figures he’d set before her were a blur. She
could hear his quill scratching and pausing—his ex planations fell on deaf ears.

Even when he was sitting, the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. He was so tall and powerful and handsome ...His scent was clean and fresh. Every so often, his sleeve brushed hers. She fancied he did it on purpose, that her mere presence set him on fire inside. Wiggling her bottom, she scooted closer to the edge of her chair...and him.

There. That was better. For now, if she turned her head just so, and he chanced to do the same, their lips would have been but a breath apart...

Would he feel compelled to kiss her again? The prospect of his mouth on hers, warm and smooth, made her shiver inside.

At that precise moment a most horrifying aware
ness set in. For it appeared that while she had been preoccupied with her most riveting, fascinating cata
log of Sebastian’s assets, her examination had not gone unnoticed.

Only he hardly looked enamored.

He replaced the quill in the inkpot and turned to her. “Devon,” he queried, “is there something you need to attend to?”

She regarded him blankly.

“Let me be blunt then. Do you need to use the wa
ter closet?”

“No!” she gasped.

“You’re wiggling,” he pointed out.

A hot tide of color rushed to her cheeks. “Not be
cause of that!”

He propped an elbow on the leather-topped table. “What then?”

By now Devon was sure her face was flaming.

How could she tell him she admired him? That she thought he was the most divinely handsome man ever put on this earth?

“Does your side pain you?” he asked suddenly.

“No. I feel a slight twinge only when I take a deep breath.” To be sure, she could hardly breathe when he was near.

He nodded, those clear gray eyes unerringly di
rect. “What is on your mind then?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Why do you say that?”

Very gently he said, “Because you were staring at me. You are
still
staring at me.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice very small. “I’m sorry. It’s just that...you smell,” she blurted.

Now he was the one who was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I don’t mean that you smell
bad
,” she has
tened to assure him. “It’s just that I’ve never been around a man who smells the way you do. So crisp and clean, like starch and—and something else—”

“It’s just a...a blend of bay rum.” He appeared at a loss for words.

“And it smells heavenly, truly it does, Sebastian! And I...I... oh, my,” she finished weakly. “I sup
pose no other woman has ever told you that, has she?”

“That I smell? In a word, no.”

“And I suppose it’s the kind of thing a lady should
never
say to a gentleman.”

“Quite so,” he agreed.

She plucked at the folds of her skirt. “I suppose you think I’m silly.”

“No.” A twinkle appeared in his eyes. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh!” she cried. “You’re making light of me!”

“Not at all! Though I’ll admit our conversations do tend to verge on the”—his lips quirked—“unusual.”

“Are you laughing at me?” she demanded.

“A little.”

At least he didn’t lie.

“It’s just that I feel like I can be myself with you,” she confided. “I don’t have to pretend to things I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “But I’m sorry. I won’t say such things again—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted with a shake of his head. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t be afraid to tell me anything. Don’t be afraid to
ask
me anything.” Devon was shocked to see his tiny smile had vanished. “And don’t betray yourself, Devon. Don’t betray who you are for anyone.” His regard was oddly penetrating, his tone quietly intent.

His hands caught hers where they lay on her lap. “Do you understand?”

Her eyes roved searchingly over his features. She was shocked to discover a lump in her throat. “You don’t mind if I say what I please?”

“Not at all.”

“And I can ask you anything?”

“Anything you please,” he vowed.

“Then tell me, my lord, how on earth you manage to shave”—she leaned forward, her eyes dancing— “
there!
” Her fingertip dropped squarely in the cleft of his chin.

He laughed, the sound low and melodious. “Very carefully,” he told her, rubbing a hand over the bristly hardness of his chin.

In that moment her heart surely melted.
*

That was the way it was whenever they were to
gether. Devon’s senses hummed. Her heart sang. She loved the way the corners of his mouth quirked upward when he was trying to appear severe and struggling not to laugh at her, the way he’d done that day in the library.

She liked making him laugh, for at times she sensed he was altogether too serious.

Six weeks of living in the Sterling household had given Devon a glimpse of life in the
ton
. Each morn
ing, while Sebastian perused his
Public Ledger
, she sat beside him, making small talk with Charles, the footman. For the most part absorbed in his paper, Se
bastian interjected a word now and then, idly sip
ping his tea.

Walking in one morning, Justin pronounced them the stodgiest pair he’d ever seen. It was during breakfast where Devon learned about the frivolous amusements of the
ton
, for Justin often regaled them with accounts of his previous evening’s activities—a censored version, she strongly suspected. Still, she enjoyed hearing who among the
ton
vied for the prized vouchers to Almack’s, which would gain them admittance to that most exclusive of clubs, as well as who was seen with whom riding in Hyde Park.

“Good morning,” Sebastian greeted several morn
ings later.

“Good morning,” she returned softly, busy butter
ing a roll.

Against her bare leg came a nudge. When Charles stepped between them to pour Sebastian’s tea, she took a sip of chocolate. With the other hand she reached down.

When the footman stepped aside, Sebastian’s gaze was fixed on her. “Devon, I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

“Please do not feed Beast under the table.”

“
Dumpling
needs her nourishment too.” It was horrid of her to tease him so, for he and Beast were still feuding; they continued to regard each other in mutual disdain.

“Devon,
Beast
does not walk, she waddles. Her belly drags upon the ground. She has the appetite of a horse. The last thing she needs is more nourish
ment, including the choice tidbits of meat I know you give her every night.”

Devon nearly choked. She pressed a napkin to her lips. Why, it was the very thing Dumpling needed!

“Besides which,” he grumbled, “ ’tis a waste of perfectly good food.”

Oh, Lord, never say he didn’t
know
! But apparently he didn’t. Nor did she know quite how to tell him. He would not be pleased...

Now, she decided, might be a good time to change the subject.

She glanced at the parade of footmen streaming back and forth through the entryway. “What’s all the commotion?”

“They’re getting ready for tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. I’m hosting a dinner party.” He peered at her over the top of the
Ledger
. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Devon shook her head.

She wasn’t surprised, of course. Invitations poured into the house with predictable regularity. Sebastian sifted through them every morning. To fetes, to balls, to soirees. Why, if he attended all of
them, he’d never have slept! Naturally, he would have to take his turn hosting such affairs.

Devon was well aware she would never be a part of this elegant, privileged life. But she was living on the fringes, and the lure was irresistible...

“Sebastian?” she murmured.

“Hmmm?”

She hesitated. “Do you mind if I watch?”

The newspaper lowered. He was silent, looking at her for the longest time. Devon began to wonder if she’d said something wrong.

“I’ll stay out of sight,” she said in a rush. “Your guests won’t even know I’m here. I’ll be quiet as a mouse, neither seen nor heard. Please say yes, Sebas
tian. I promise, I won’t embarrass you.”