Perfect Bride (13 page)

“Your possession of that necklace hardly ensures that it’s yours. And I would remind you, it’s broken.”

“
I
broke it!”

“Well, at least you admit it. I suppose there’s no need to ask how it happened, is there?” This last was accompanied by a knowing arch of brow.

Even if he’d asked, she wouldn’t have told him. She was too incensed with his high-handedness and with his jab, for with it a vivid rush of memory sur
faced in her mind.

Devon would never forget that long-ago day she’d broken the clasp. It was rare that she asked after her father. It caused her mother such distress that she’d quickly learned not to broach the subject; Mama had always said little save that he was a man of upstand
ing bloodlines. The scant information Devon had gleaned was little comfort, though, when the other children jeered and called her bastard.

“You said my papa was a gentleman!” she cried one day.

A pained expression flitted across her mother’s gentle features. “He was,” said Mama.

“Then why do the other children call me bastard?” Devon screamed. “Why?”

Never would she forget the stricken look on Mama’s face. With a hand she reached out and brushed a burnished curl from Devon’s cheek.

“Devon,” she murmured, “oh, my sweet, sweet child...”

It was then Mama told her the truth. “One sum mer when I was young, I attended the nieces of a-a very wealthy family. I fell in love that summer, Dev on. I fell in love with the son of the master and mis tress of the house. It was he who gave me this.” She
touched the cross at her throat. “I was foolish, for he was far beyond my reach, far above me in station. When I confessed my love, he said he couldn’t marry me—
wouldn’t
marry me. He...he rejected me.”

So it was true. Her father
was
a man of fine family.

But hardly a fine man.

Her voice bleached with pain, Mama went on. “I ran away to London, for I had no family of my own. Scant weeks later I discovered he’d been killed in a riding accident. By then, I knew I carried his child in my womb.” Her words grew choked. “Work was scarce, but I couldn’t give you up...I couldn’t! Nor could I appeal to his family. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was stubbornness—much like you pos
sess, I think. Most of all, I was afraid, so very afraid! His family had the power and wealth to take you away, and it was something I knew I could never al
low, especially once I saw you.” Wistfulness flitted across her features. She toyed with the necklace around her neck.

“You have his passion,” she whispered. “His im
pulsiveness. And your eyes are so like his. So like his...”

But at her mother’s confession, Devon was angry as Amelia had never been. She was angry at the haunting sadness that lived inside her mother, that even now filled her eyes.

Despite his rejection, her mother had never stopped loving her father. But Devon hated him, hated him for causing her mother pain and using her body. Incensed, she tore the necklace from her mother’s neck.

“Why do you wear this?” she screamed. “
Why
?”

Mama began to weep.

It was the last time they spoke of her father—the last time she’d made her mother cry. Devon never forgave herself for making her mother weep that day, for in that moment came the awareness that for her mother, the necklace was both a torment and a comfort. It was much the same for Devon. Besides its sentimental value, it reminded her of all her mother endured, of all that Devon should strive for.

Slowly she raised her eyes to Sebastian’s. “That necklace is mine,” she said fiercely. “It was given to my mother by a-a well-to-do fellow.”

“Your protests grow tiring, Devon. I confess, you give an admirable performance. I’d truly begun to believe you weren’t a thief. But now it seems I must warn you. I refuse to be taken advantage of. I won’t be fleeced.”

Fleeced! Through her teeth, she said, “I promised my mother I would never steal or whore or beg, and I will not.”

His silence proclaimed his disbelief only too well. Outraged, she called him a name so foul she could scarce believe she’d said it.

“Did your mother teach you to swear too?”

“My mother never
heard
me swear. She was the kindest, most gentle soul on this earth, and I would never have dishonored her so. You, however, are an
other matter.”

“So I gather. A pity you’ve never learned to con
trol your tongue.” The clench of his jaw bespoke his disapproval.

Devon relished it. “What, sir,” she said with caustic sweetness. “Is my language more than you expected?”

“On the contrary. It’s everything I expected.”

They stood toe-to-toe now. As he spoke, he leaned close. Devon’s smile evaporated. Her mouth went dry. Her heart thumped almost painfully. The possi
bility that he was about to kiss her skittered through her mind. Oh, an absurd thought, that! Yet all at once the turf had changed. Confronted by bold, brazen masculinity, she felt her pulse begin to ham
mer. But she wouldn’t retreat. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Tilting her head back, she discovered his leisurely assessing gaze wandering down her neck, across the exposed skin of her chest.

It settled on her generous swell of cleavage.

“Stop looking at my bosoms!”

“My dear,” he drawled, “you have but one bosom.”

Anger rocketed. “Well,
stop looking!
”

Their eyes tangled. “Let us be frank with each other, Devon. I paid a visit to the Crow’s Nest. I saw the other barmaid—Bridget, I believe. Yes, her name was Bridget.”

Devon felt as if her face was on fire. A scalding shame spilled through her, clear to the farthest reaches of her soul. But far surpassing it was an anger that spiraled higher with each second. Sebastian had gone there to check on her story. To check on
her
.

“She appeared to have no distaste for the man whose hands were in her bodice and beneath her skirts.”

“Bridget,” she said levelly, “is not a harlot.”

His lip curled in distaste. “If that is what you think, then your morals are most assuredly displaced.”

Devon opened her mouth, prepared to deliver a cutting retort. Before she could say a word, he spoke.

“There’s no question she’s a harlot. What then, I

wonder, does that make you?”

Devon slapped him, as hard as she could.

His shock was gratifying.

“ ’Tis a logical assumption,” he defended himself stiffly.

“You bloody prig!”

“What, are we back to that again?”

“You are,” she charged, her voice shaking. “You are a hypocrite, and yes, I do know what
that
word means. You dare to deride me, yet you can’t stop gawking at my breasts. I’ve seen you looking when you thought
I
wasn’t looking!”

“Were you covered decently, I might be able to.”

She gasped. “Kindly remember, sir, it was you who put me in this dress!” The modiste had yet to deliver any of her new gowns.

“Because I thought you were of a size with Ju
lianna.”

“Obviously I am not,” she said tightly.

A dull, red flush had begun to creep up his neck. “The truth is,” he muttered, “you fill Julianna’s gowns in a way Julianna does not.”

“And of course I’m to blame.”

“What about the gown you were wearing the night I found you? By God, if you’re not a doxy, you cer
tainly looked like one.”

“You’re determined to think the worst of me, aren’t you?” she lashed out furiously. “How dare you,” she said, her eyes blazing. “How dare you stand in judgment of Bridget—of me—you in your fine house with your fancy ways!” She jabbed a fin ger squarely in the middle of his broad chest. “I daresay you’ve not spent your entire life chastely. In
deed, I daresay there’s been more than one woman in your bed!”

At first he was startled, then clearly affronted. “I am a man,” he stated.

As if that explained everything. As if that ex
plained
anything
. And spoken, she decided coolly, like a man who thought he was entitled to every woman in sight.

Granted, there was no arguing the fact, for his was a vital, intensely masculine presence. From the very first time she’d laid eyes on him, a sizzle of aware
ness had sparked in her body. It stood to reason that probably many other women would find his wide shoulders, narrow hips, and raven hair as devastat
ingly attractive as she.

Furthermore, the evidence was irrefutable. Her gaze drifted lower. His gentleman’s clothing did lit
tle to hide his long-boned strength. He was built like a stallion.

His jaw jutted out. “Stop looking at my ...my—”

“Crotch?” she supplied.

“Don’t be vulgar,” he warned tightly.

She responded quite pleasantly. “If I wanted to be vulgar, I’d have said—”

“That’s quite enough, Devon!”

Calmly she returned her eyes to his thunderous features. “You said you were a man. I thought I should verify.”

Later Devon would be mortified that she dared to speak so audaciously. But not now. She wanted to gloat. He’d just been given a sample of how he’d treated her, and she was certain he didn’t like it!

She squared her shoulders. Back to the matter at hand. Coolly she stated, “Now that we’ve estab
lished that you haven’t spent your life chastely, tell me this. Have you ever lain with a woman and
paid
her?”

He gazed down his long, supposedly superior nose at her.

“Have you, my lord?”

“I had no need to pay a woman to lie with me,” he said abruptly. “But even if I had—”

Devon interrupted him. “Let me guess, my lord. I daresay it’s different for you blue bloods, isn’t it?” She gave him no chance to respond. “I admit, I’m cu
rious. Do you keep a mistress? Do you supply her house and clothing and—”

“That is none of your affair,” he said sternly. “And you are impertinent, Devon.”

Devon snorted. There was no need for an answer. She had it right there.

She looked him straight in the eye. “You’ve never had to wonder where and when your next meal will come from, Sebastian. You’ve never spent a night shivering in cold. So do not dare to judge me. Do not dare to judge Bridget. Yes, she takes men in the back room. Yes, she does it for the money it will bring— how else is she to feed her brothers and sisters?” Her eyes simmered.

Gathering her skirts in her hands, she prepared to exit.

Before she left, she turned and looked him directly in the eyes. “And just so you know, I
will
have my necklace back before I leave.”

hen Sebastian strode into his chamber and caught Devon with her hands in his drawers— well, perhaps not literally!—he’d been furious, both at her and himself. He’d been gullible, for he’d be
gun to entertain the notion that he was wrong about her. But her presence in his room proved otherwise.

He’d called himself every kind of fool, that he had succumbed in such a way; that he’d been blinded by her lush sensuality...and, yes, her charm.

She was impetuous. Impulsive. She provoked him. She aggravated him. She was neither coy nor shy. She was half lady, half wildcat, and totally unpredictable.

Ah, yes. Her charm...

He wanted to shake her even as he longed to drag her into his arms and kiss her until she could speak no more. When he caught her in his room going through his things all he could think about was pulling her close, trapping those temptingly muti nous lips to his, and kissing her until they were both
wild with desire. He wanted to plunge his hands into her bodice and fill his hands with bountiful, creamy flesh, bare her breasts and curl his tongue around those delectably colored nipples.

Her breasts.

There was no question she was extremely sensitive about that particular part of her anatomy, and not in the way a man would hope. He hadn’t realized his scrutiny was so transparent. Or maybe it was simply that he’d never dreamed she would take him to task as she had.

How lame he’d sounded!
Look me in the eye
, she’d insisted the night she had determined to flee. And she was right. He
did
look when he thought she didn’t see. But even Justin managed to keep his eyes above her neck! In the far recesses of his mind, he wondered what she would be like in bed. Ah, but there was one way to find out, he decided with black humor.

Not bloody likely, though. He’d gained no favor with her this day.

“Hell and damnation,” he said aloud.

Absently he fingered the plane of his cheek. Christ, it was still throbbing! He was still having dif
ficulty believing she’d slapped him. Never before had Sebastian been slapped. Never had there been occasion for him to be slapped. Of course, never had he
said
what he just had either.

Shame bit deep. In all honesty, he must acknowl edge the truth. He’d branded as whores those women who spread their legs for any and every man willing to pay their price—women like Bridget. He’d held them in the utmost disdain, without once
ever really considering the reasons a woman might take up such a life. Perhaps it had been in his mind that it was a conscious choice; certainly he’d never considered there might be a need behind it—a need like brothers and sisters!

And he wondered...had Devon been hungry? Cold? He had the awful feeling she had.

It came to him then...Until he’d met Devon, he’d really given precious little thought to those less for
tunate than he. But not all paupers were thieves and robbers, the dregs of the earth—like Harry and Freddie. No doubt there were many like Devon’s mother, Amelia St. James, a woman left on her own with a child to care for...a woman left to the mercy of the fates.

But he must give credit where credit was due. Dev
on had done a fine job of turning the tables.

Adorable. That’s what she’d been. Absolutely adorable. Why, it almost made him want to laugh, the idea that he’d been lectured by a waif!

Not that he’d been inclined to laugh when she’d slapped him. Indeed, she’d given him quite a lot to think about.

He didn’t wait long before hurrying into the hall. He didn’t entirely trust her not to plunge headlong into the streets once again. She was in a fine enough temper to do exactly that.

His step quickened. In his haste, he nearly ran down Tansy, who had just rounded the corner. Her arms were wrapped around a large box.

“My lord,” she cried, her eyes sparkling. “My lord, look! This just arrived from the modiste. Miss Devon will be so pleased, don’t you think?”

Would she? After the scene in his room, Sebastian wished he could be sure. “If you don’t mind, Tansy, I’ll see that it’s delivered to Miss Devon.”

Tansy curtsied. “As you wish, my lord.”

The maid was gone from sight when Sebastian knocked at Devon’s door.

“Who is it?”

Sebastian frowned. Her voice was faintly muffled. Was she weeping?

Sebastian didn’t answer. He didn’t dare. Instead he stepped boldly within.

Devon was just rising from the bed. She sat up, her eyes blazing when she saw him. From her post at the end of the bed, Beast snarled. Sebastian set the par
cel down near the door. Plucking the mongrel from her perch, Sebastian retraced his steps, set her on her bum in the hall, shut the door against her whiskered little snout, and turned back to Devon.

“Must you forever plague me?” she cried.

“It would seem so.”

She watched his progress across the chamber, then at the last instant swung her head away.

Sebastian wouldn’t be dissuaded. He pulled her to her feet. She tried to snatch her hands back; Sebas
tian wouldn’t let her.

“Devon,” he implored, his voice very low. “Look at me.”

Her gaze was flush with the center of his chest. “No,” she denied almost frantically. “
No.
”

Cursing, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin. “Devon, please.
Please
.”

Long, spiky lashes fluttered closed, then lifted. She stared at him with huge, liquid eyes. Sebastian’s breath caught. She wasn’t weeping, but she was dan
gerously close. He felt her wounded pride in the quavering breath she drew, and her pain hurt him to the bottom of his soul.

He addressed her, his regard steady. He’d never been so solemnly intent. “Devon,” he said, “my con
duct today was appalling. I apologize most heartily for saying what I did. It was wrong of me to judge Bridget so harshly.” He paused. “And you, Devon. It was wrong of me to judge
you
, especially when I’ve come to know you.”

A strangled sound emerged from her lips. She flung herself against him, holding tight and cling
ing. His arms closed about her.

“Oh, Sebastian, I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have sneaked into your room. And it was horrid of me to slap you. Did it hurt?”

A faint smile curled his lips. “It would take more than a slap from a little thing like you to hurt me,” he lied.

She’d tipped her head back to peer up at him, her expression rife with utter concern. The golden splen
dor of her hair, loosely coiled on her crown an hour earlier, had tumbled down to spill about her shoul
ders in artless disarray. At his denial, she smiled in relief.

Something twisted deep in Sebastian’s gut, some
thing wholly beyond the boundaries of his control. He knew, as surely as the sun had risen and would set this very day, that he was going to do something incredibly stupid. Something insane. Something he hadn’t planned, though, God knew, he’d thought about almost day and night since the moment she’d arrived in his house. He knew he had to taste those soft pink lips poised beneath his own...

Or die.

And so, for the length of a heartbeat, his mouth closed over hers. She started in surprise, but she didn’t draw back. In some distant part of him, he’d been convinced she would; that she didn’t made his heart soar and his chest swell.

Christ, she was but a wisp against the breadth of his large-boned form. The scent of her hair was dizzying, the feel of her intoxicating. He held her tightly, half afraid he might crush her. But she swayed against him, and the tremulous rush of warm, moist breath against his mouth seared him to the bone.

It was but a whisper of a kiss, a fraction of all he desired, tempered by the certainty that if he gave in to the rising clamor in his veins, he’d have backed her up against the bed, thrown up her skirts, and plunged himself to her womb and beyond.

Sanity returned abruptly. He dragged his mouth away and stepped back.

Clear, wide-set eyes opened. She blinked, as if in confusion.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he said quietly.

She gave a little shake of her head, averting her eyes. “It’s all right—”

“No,” he said very deliberately, “it is not. A gentle
man wouldn’t have done that.
I
shouldn’t have done that.”

“Then why did you?”

This time he was the one who looked away. “I don’t know.”

Now he could practically feel the weight of her re gard. Wondering. Mutely questioning. If she pressed
him, how the hell was he to answer? He couldn’t tell her the truth—that when he looked at her, he ached to bare her breasts and body to his lips and tongue, and to hell with everything else.

Sebastian never would have considered himself a coward, but in that instant he did. He couldn’t have met her gaze if his life depended on it!

After what was surely the most uncomfortable mo
ment in his life, she nodded toward the large, berib
boned box. “What have you there?” she murmured.

Quickly he retrieved the box and placed it on the bed. “Tansy said this just arrived.” He beckoned her forward. “Go ahead, open it.”

Almost gingerly, she tugged at the white satin rib
bon, then removed the lid. Frowning, she leaned for
ward and parted filmy layers of tissue.

“The first of your gowns from the modiste,” he said by way of explanation. “I daresay, a timely arrival.”

She flushed and bit her lip, but her eyes were danc
ing as she pulled a day gown of blue and white sprigged muslin from the box. “Oh, Sebastian,” she cried, “how lovely!” A sheer, white shift and petti
coat came next. Devon exclaimed delightedly over each.

Some of the tension left his shoulders. “Try it on,” he suggested.

“Oh, yes.
Yes
.” Her face lit up. “You’ll have to help me with the buttons, though.”

Before he could respond, she grabbed up the gown and undergarments and darted behind the screen.

There was a rustle of clothing, and the dress she’d been wearing dropped over the screen.

Sebastian’s head traveled from the screen to the door. He really should fetch Tansy, he thought.

You just called yourself a gentleman,
came a mocking voice in his head.
Why don’t you act like one?

Because this is Devon, and none of the usual rules ap
ply here
.

There was little debate. His feet remained rooted to the floor.

He wasn’t about to inform her he was far more adept at helping a woman
out
of her clothes than
into
them.

Idly he picked up a dainty white bonnet, running his fingers over the ribbons. “There’s a bonnet too,” he called to Devon. “Now you can get rid of that ratty old thing you came here with.” Distastefully he eyed the object in question, looped around a bedpost.

“I shall not!” came Devon’s immediate and vehe
ment protest. “I cherish that bonnet! It was my very first, you know.”