Amara Royce Read online

  “I am reassured to hear it. I was afraid that perhaps you might not have the capacity for awe.” Seeing a flash of hurt in her eyes, he expounded, “No, I only mean your reactions are so even-tempered, I wondered if anything could make a significant impression on you. I wondered if I could possibly make an impression on you.”

  At that, she backed up a few steps and rubbed her hands on her skirt.

  “I’m sure I don’t understand your meaning, Lord Devin. You must make some impression on everyone who encounters you. Peers of the realm tend to do that, as if bred into the role.”

  He couldn’t stand this strange interplay any longer. He needed to get this distraction, this nuisance, this whatever it was out of his system as directly as possible. So he did the most logical thing: he closed the distance between them and touched his lips to hers.

  It was swift, a mere brush of their lips, but the electric tingle from that light touch ran through him. How he’d gone from a simple printing demonstration to this far-from-simple complication, he couldn’t puzzle out. Her eyes widened too, as if she felt a similar shock. He stood there for a moment, looking at her intently.

  In that moment, she had enough time to recall the first time she’d kissed a man. Mr. Ranseed was the butcher’s son, an excellent match, both sets of parents agreed. The third time he’d come to visit her at home, somehow they’d been left unchaperoned. They were taking a walk in the countryside, talking about some innocuous topic or other, like the weather or, no, they’d been talking about feed, about what grasses are most conducive to good beef, and suddenly he’d butted her up against a tree and begun kissing her. That was all, just his mouth against hers, but it was clammy and horribly intrusive. Startled, she just stood there, letting him probe with his tongue and wondering what all the fuss was about. He seemed agitated and eager, but whatever he was doing with his mouth felt awkward and unnatural. She decided three things immediately: 1. I do not enjoy kissing Mr. Ranseed. 2. I am not inclined to allow him such familiarity again. 3. I will not marry him after all.

  Of course, looking back, it didn’t much matter whether she’d enjoyed what he was doing. She was a headstrong, arrogant, and naïve maiden; she came to understand later that she would have gone through with all of it. She would have allowed him such familiarity, and much more. She just wouldn’t have enjoyed it. She would have married him, without question and without hesitation, because that was what their families had agreed upon. That was what her parents required from a dutiful and honorable daughter. That arrangement best suited both fathers in building solid mercantile alliances.

  She wouldn’t have had the selfishness or strength to break the commitment.

  But one month after their encounter, the weaselly Mr. Ranseed did just that. He ran off and eloped with a hat shop girl. His parents were mortified and apologized abjectly to Honoria’s family. They offered to make amends with gifts of beef and venison, but the damage ran much deeper than commerce. It wasn’t emotional or economic. No one else in town would have her, but she and her father could never figure out why.

  In the span of a moment, before Lord Devin’s lips touched hers again, she had enough time to recall all of this and to compare it with the present moment. If that wet, awkward fumbling by the butcher’s son could be called a kiss, then this—what was happening now— could not in any way be defined as something so ordinary as a kiss. This was a conflagration, an electric explosion—when all he’d done was brush his lips against hers. After the initial shock, his mouth returned to hers, his tongue teasing the edges of her lips to coax them apart. And, with conscious decision, she responded. She slipped her hands around his neck and nestled them in his hair. Her lips moved freely with his. Her breath mingled with his, hot and urgent. This didn’t feel like an intrusion at all. It was exploration, it was play, it was heaven.

  It was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  She broke away, shaken. Dallying with a young viscount—what could she be thinking? Rumors circulated about the pliability of widows. She couldn’t allow herself to become that story.

  “Oh, my.” She quickly backed away until she was against the press. Her breathing still erratic, she folded her arms in front of her and strove for composure. He stepped forward as if to follow her but halted immediately when she raised a hand, palm out, to prevent him. “If I were younger,” she said, “I’m sure I’d feel flattered by your interest. Well, flattered and then indignant. I suppose slapping you in the face would be the right thing to do in this situation. I’m guessing, though, that no young lady could resist your charms.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you do not mean that as a compliment?”

  “Oh, certainly. You seem quite the expert on seduction, and I expect you’re generally successful.”

  “I am not an ‘expert on seduction,’ by any stretch,” he replied dryly. “This definitely would not be a good example of seduction, at any rate. ‘May I see how your printer works?’ is, after all, so flirtatious it must be used in ballrooms across the land.”

  She smirked but maintained her original conclusion.

  “Then why did you do that?”

  “Do that? You mean, kiss you?”

  “Yes, that. What did you hope to accomplish?”

  “I rather hoped we would both enjoy it. I know I did, and I suspect you did as well. Am I wrong?”

  She kept silent but felt a telltale blush spread up her neck. Prevarication would be futile; her response was obvious. She’d long ago dismissed the passionate embraces in fiction as just that: fiction. So she had no way to catalog the sensations she’d experienced. He smirked in return but said nothing.

  “Really, it was . . .” All the words she couldn’t say came flooding back to her . . . conflagration, explosion, heaven. “It was . . . unusual. It was also unacceptable and entirely inappropriate. I’m sure you’ve got fresher prey available.”

  “Again, what flattering imagery. Do you really imagine I see you as prey?”

  “Don’t you? Perhaps as a trophy to boast to your chums about. Widows are so frequently assumed to be easy pickings . . . desperate for affection, free of entanglements, already experienced.... I know how men like you view women like me. I’ve fended off enough attentions from men bound and determined to convince me that being their mistress is my right and my due.”

  He bristled. She wasn’t far off the mark. Several of his friends at the club had boasted of such conquests. Widows made convenient mistresses and tended to cost less to maintain than actresses and opera singers because inheritance made them self-sufficient. Being lumped in with such a tawdry lot didn’t sit well with him, though. He didn’t target women; they came to him freely or not at all.

  He gave an undignified yelp as something orange and furry leapt onto his shoulder.

  “Jupiter! That’s uncalled for.” She reached for the striped tabby and carefully disengaged its claws from Devin’s fine coat.

  “Jupiter? Can I assume there must be a Janus nearby as well?”

  Surprised, she responded, “Why, yes, but he usually stays in the back room. He seems to find the printer comforting.”

  He reached out to pet the now-sedate cat in her arms.

  “I assure you I am no cad, dear lady. I do not collect women, which sounds like a troublesome and unpleasant sort of diversion. And I have never had to force my attentions on a woman. I have never had to convince her to entertain my affections. Do not mistake me for all the cads who have thrown themselves in your path.”

  She patted his cheek with her hand, a gentle pacifying act that had the opposite effect. So he already was furious when she said, “Not so obviously, perhaps. But you are accustomed to getting your own way. I don’t believe you’ve been truly tested. Yet. You wouldn’t force an unwilling woman, of course. You’re a gentleman. But how far would you go, or perhaps have you gone, to twist a woman’s No into Yes?”

  Her words distracted him, confused him. He’d never forced a woman, never coerced a woman. Women didn’t just fall
into his bed; they leapt into it eagerly. Immediately, a heady blond actress and a redheaded former scullery maid came to mind as quite literal examples. He wanted to say as much but realized he couldn’t possibly, not to her.

  He simply said, teeth clenched, “I assure you that I have not and would not accept a woman’s company without her complete and express desire. The very idea of coercing a woman’s attentions is abhorrent. I shall not even comment on the evil of physically forcing a woman.”

  “That’s good to hear. I think you’ll understand then when I say it’s time for you to leave.”

  He scowled but responded, “Of course. I expect you will contact me when the books are restored.”

  “Lord Devin, no apology?”

  What the devil? Apologies were not part of his vocabulary.

  “For what?”

  “Why, for taking liberties, sir. You wouldn’t treat a woman of your station so cavalierly.” She didn’t look offended but simply expectant.

  “My dear, I am sorry if you feel offended by my actions. I can assure you they shall not be repeated if they are considered unwanted. But that was far from cavalier. And I would not have you delude yourself into thinking it was a casual salute. I meant it, and I would do it again if you were willing.”

  “I am not your dear, Lord Devin. That is a disingenuous apology, and what you describe will never happen. Nothing you could offer would convince me to stoop to whoredom.”

  Well. Definitely an unusually serious conversation.

  “As you wish, madam.”

  “Wait! You were here for two purposes. Am I to understand both are now completed? Were you so sure of my low morals that you came here intent on seducing me?”

  “No.” He turned slowly toward her. “No. This moment may not demonstrate it, but even upon our brief acquaintance, I hold you in high regard, Mrs. Duchamp. What an unfortunately timed reminder of my second task, which must now be rather unwelcome. My second task today was to convey a message from my mother. She was deeply disappointed when she received your news of a prior appointment. She keenly wishes for your attendance at dinner.”

  He saw the suspicion in her eyes and continued. “Here is a letter from her. I had nothing to do with this, but I assure you she is extremely eager to introduce you to her circle of writers. She is a devoted patron to these authors. It would mean a great deal to her and to the other guests if you could at least make an appearance.”

  She took the envelope he held out and considered his statement. Shaking her head, she said, “As I explained to your mother, I have other commitments that evening.”

  He didn’t believe a word.

  “Well, if it would make a difference to your commitments, my dear, I can certainly find myself otherwise occupied. My mother’s invitations to these events are highly selective, and rather famously unorthodox. She would value your presence highly.”

  “But she doesn’t even know me.”

  “But I know her, and I think I know a bit about you. She is deeply invested in the success of her associates. And you will enjoy their company.”

  She faltered. It would indeed be a great opportunity to build the shop’s clientele and perhaps develop acquaintances with renowned authors. “As I said . . . I am otherwise engaged.”

  “If your plans change, please do consider my mother’s invitation.”

  As she stared up at him, she felt herself nod slowly. This would not end well.

  Chapter Four

  Evans Principle 2 Redux: EVERY interaction is an opportunity. Do not leave any opportunities unexplored.

  How she ended up here, in a finely appointed guest bedroom in Devin House, laced into a gray silk ball gown that surely cost more than six months’ revenue, seemed impossible. She’d said no to the invitation, to begin with, but there was no real prior engagement. Lady Devin’s special request, conveyed more heavily in the note her son delivered, seemed so reasonable, so accommodating. Thus, despite some internal quaking, she’d penned a brief note stating her prior plans were postponed and she would be honored to attend dinner.

  A note from the presumed leader of the Needlework for the Needy women conveying extreme disappointment and an urgent need to meet had given her pause. But she could reschedule such a meeting easily. By the time she’d arrived at Devin House, she’d had quite enough of correspondence for the day, if not for the week.

  Then there was Lady Devin.

  Honoria had arrived at Devin House at the appointed time, only to find she was, in fact, unfashionably early. It really had been a long time since she’d socialized in society. Lady Devin charmingly brushed off her faux pas with an airy hospitality. When the butler presented her to Lady Devin, the first thing that struck her was how very different the lady looked from her son. In sharp contrast to Lord Devin’s dark hair and green eyes, his mother was all lightness. Hair the color of enchanted straw haloed her head in an elaborate coiffure, accented with beading. Her movements carried an ethereal grace, enhanced by her pale skin and delicate features. She and her son did share the same lithe, statuesque build, but she carried herself regally whereas her son’s demeanor was more rigid and exacting.

  “My dear, it is such a great pleasure to meet you.” Lady Devin greeted her and clasped both her hands as if they were already lifelong friends. The hostess’s hazel eyes bestowed warmth and welcome. “Do you not love the energy building in the air this evening?”

  Such a statement would have struck her as odd if she didn’t know exactly what Lady Devin meant. She hadn’t consciously thought of it, but she’d certainly felt a palpable electricity in the air when she arrived and climbed the stairs to the front door—a sense of infinite possibility and indefinite promise. It wasn’t just an interest in meeting writers and potentially finding a group of like-minded bibliophiles. There was both more weight and more lilt in the air. She wondered how Lady Devin knew, but she simply answered, “Yes, it’s a lovely night.”

  And from that moment, Lady Devin continually amazed her with pronouncements and observations and revelations that were at once intensely personal and brilliantly cosmic in scope. It was impossible not to feel like the lady of the house was one’s closest friend. Fleetingly, she thought Lady Devin must have been quite the source of drama in her time—presumably the heart-seizing belle of her season, universally sought by the most prized bachelors and just as universally despised by her competition. And yet, from just their short acquaintance, she knew without doubt that no one could do anything but adore Lady Devin, such was her consummate charm and disarming intensity.

  So there was Lady Devin. And then there was the dress.

  When Honoria had first entered the house and saw the gilded mirrors and lacquered furniture, she felt so completely out of her element. Surreptitiously eyeing Lady Devin’s gown of burgundy satin, she realized her wool jacket and skirt were sadly inappropriate for the occasion. Nothing could be done about that, though. She didn’t own any gowns or finery. Minnie took sewing jobs to supplement her income, but it wasn’t fair to add to her workload by asking for frivolities. These pragmatic wools and cottons were all she needed in her daily life—not to mention, all she could reasonably afford. But then Lady Devin did the most extraordinary thing.

  As they made their way to the drawing room, she grew increasingly self-conscious about her banal appearance. She was dressed for work, hair in a tidy bun, and when other guests arrived, she would stand out as dross amid flax. She fingered her high collar, feeling constricted. Even the luxurious settee on which she found herself seated made her stand out in stark unpleasant relief.

  “Mrs. Duchamp . . .” Lady Devin leaned toward her, which struck her as exceedingly unusual.

  “Yes, Lady Devin?”

  “Do you have siblings?” What an odd question, such a non sequitur.

  “No, my lady, I was an only child.”

  Lady Devin nodded and said, “I had a younger sister, Melina. We were very close. She passed away ten years ago, and yet sometimes I feel her loss
as if it were yesterday.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Honoria responded. She well knew the keen, and sometimes, shockingly sudden stab of grief—the imagined comment or look, the thought that said loved one would have so enjoyed this joke or that novelty or a fleeting moment. The momentary forgetfulness sometimes made it seem as if said loved one would be right around the corner.

  “From one grieving widow to another”—Lady Devin tilted even closer, laid her hand on Honoria’s arm, and whispered—“would you be willing to indulge my fancy just a bit?”

  She startled, curious but wary.

  “If it is in my power, I would be happy to consider it.”

  “When we were girls, my sister and I adored dressing up in our mother’s finest frocks, and she gave us free rein, even setting aside gowns that were practically new for our amusement. We spent so many afternoons giggling and preening together, pretending we were princesses. I miss her giggling terribly.”

  Honoria nodded, wishing just a little that she had a taste of such a lifestyle. Not just a sister to play with, not just the gowns for playthings—she wished briefly for the life of leisure and luxury that made such play possible.

  “And so, here is my request . . . and I hope you perceive its sincerity: Would you indulge me in an evening of dress-up?”

  So there was Lady Devin, who managed to convince her that borrowing a dress was not an act of charity from the hostess but rather an indulgent favor to the hostess.

  Honoria hesitated. She schooled her face to mask her ambivalence—on one hand, she should be offended by the offer of charity and the insult to her appearance. On the other hand, she really wasn’t dressed properly . . . and it didn’t really feel like the offer was made out of charity. And, if she were being completely honest, she really, really wanted to know what it felt like to be dressed befitting the London ton. She was fairly sure it must feel heavenly.