If the Shoe Fits

by Megan Mulry

  “Well, it’s legitimate in that it’s not false. Whether or not you believe yourself to be astonishing is something else altogether.”

  He shook his head with a reluctant half smile.

  Sarah continued blithely, “But I suspect you’re more of a secondary definition type… and think of fabulous as wonderful or marvelous.” She took a sip of her champagne and closed her eyes for a second at the pleasure, then opened them with a quick blink and pinned him with the full force of her sapphire gaze. “I avoid secondary definitions whenever possible.”

  “It is quite possible that you are insulting me horribly right now, but I can’t bring myself to care one way or the other, what with that fabulous shoulder of yours and its failed attempt to remain covered by that wispy rag of a thing you have tossed over it.”

  In her effort to prevent the champagne in her mouth from spraying across the table at the very erect Duchess of Northrop, Sarah was forced to let half of it up her nose, causing a painful combination of watery eyes and burning nostrils.

  Finally collecting herself, she said, “I’ll have you know this wispy rag was hand-sewn by nuns in the south of Spain and is considered a work of art by many experts in the industry.”

  “And what industry would that be? The Iberian Virgins’ Lace Industry?”

  Sarah could do nothing but stare. Then, “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Well, nothing like the direct question, then. Max warned me that you American ladies like to hear it straight. So yes, I am most certainly flirting with you, and while we’re at it…” Devon took a quick look to his right, and then left, across Sarah’s place, to make sure the people sitting near them were fully engaged in their own conversations, then he lowered his voice and continued, “While we’re at it, I have cleared my schedule for the weekend, so we don’t need to stop at flirting. We might as well skip right to shagging.”

  She was unable to prevent the mischievous, receptive spark in her eyes.

  On he went. “You are probably staying here at Dunlear, right? So just let me know which room Bronte has put you in and I’ll meet you at midnight and all that. You Americans love that kind of thing, right? Trysts… rendezvous… rakish lords?”

  “You’ve freed up the entire weekend, have you? And enough with the waggling eyebrows. Let me think for a minute.” Sarah looked across at Max and Bronte, then down one length of the obscenely grand, medieval dining hall, with its mellow wood paneling and priceless old masters hanging placidly along the walls, then briefly up to the intricately molded coffered ceilings, all the while twisting the stem of her champagne flute methodically, as if she were contemplating a stone-cold business deal. “All right, but here are my terms.”

  In that moment, Sarah had the calculating realization that if she was going to rid herself of her virginity once and for all, here was a golden opportunity. Another country. Isolated incident. There was no chance this arrogant (okay, incredibly sexy didn’t hurt either) man was going to go all saucer-eyed over her. No chance of bumping into him at some bar in Chicago or New York, where she now split most of her time. And when the construction on the London store got underway, he could be a casual, port-of-call boy. He could be a perfectly contained episode. Tidy.

  “A businesswoman. Excellent. Terms. Do go on,” he prompted.

  And he appeared to have a devilish sense of humor. She decided to have a little fun with him. And if it led to a casual weekend something-or-other, great. And if not, no harm done.

  “First of all, I am not staying here at the castle. My parents decided to make a family outing of it—well, technically my stepmother pretty much invited herself—but anyway, we’re having a short holiday while we’re here, staying over at Amberley Castle Hotel, about fifteen minutes from Dunlear.”

  He nodded to let her know he knew the place, but clearly the idea of a family vacation had put a damper on his plans. “Family?”

  “I have my own room, not to worry.” She tried to play it cool, slanting him an encouraging smile. “Anyway, here’s the deal,” she said quietly. “I don’t have time for some complicated emotional mess, so let’s just keep it to a fun weekend, okay? Deal?”

  He stared at her as if she’d just offered him the Holy Grail, nodding his agreement in stunned silence. “Deal.”

  She pressed on in a low, confidential voice. “Why don’t you plan on taking me back to Amberley after the party tonight so we can dispense with this unwieldy seduction and enjoy the rest of our meal?” Sarah went so far as to give him a pat-pat on his strong hands, feeling downright accomplished at this flirting thing. She went for the final turn of the screw. “Not to worry. I’m a sure thing. For the weekend, at least.”

  And with that, she turned from Devon’s stunned (gorgeous) face to resume her conversation with James Mowbray, who was just finishing a discussion with the Duchess of Northrop about the regrettable dearth of cellists in the new schedule at Wigmore Hall. After the Duchess finished her complaint, she smiled briefly at Sarah then turned to her left. The whole merry-go-round of socially prescribed conversational partners had been thrown off with Devon’s interruption. Sarah leapt right back into the conversation she and Mowbray had been having before Devon had introduced himself and taken her attention away.

  “So, James, back to your idea about not spreading further into the U.S. market… what makes you think New York sales alone will be enough to justify the substantial financial commitment you’re making to build the store? If it’s not revealing any trade secrets, I’m particularly concerned with spreading myself too thin at this stage—I spent this week scouting for a possible London location—but you are already totally established in terms of your…”

  Devon stared at the blond bombshell’s back and let the sound of her sexy, no-nonsense talk about exit strategies, net present values, and P and Ls wash right over him. None of that resonated in the least. Two other words did: Sure. Thing.

  All right then. The caterer removed Devon’s appetizer plate and he turned to his Aunt Claudia to hear the latest news on the renovations of her country house in Cornwall.

  “Bear with me, Devon, dear. I know I’m not a young and risible American woman, but I think you can spare me a few minutes of witty repartee during the main course.”

  He smiled and enjoyed the comfort of his aunt’s familiar, if acerbic, company. “I’m sure you had your share of risible Americans, Aunt Claudia; no need to go all judgmental on me. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Right you are, Devon. But none of them ever drooled on me like you were about to do to that lovely innocent.”

  Innocent my ass, thought Devon with a quick look at Sarah’s cascading blond hair and overgenerous chest, and then he gave his reluctant attention to his viciously fashionable aunt. She was wearing something diaphanous and purple that offset her eyes and her diamonds. She even smelled expensive.

  “When are you going to step up, Devon?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t beg anything of anyone.” Claudia was his mother’s sister, best friend, and mortal enemy. They had been born ten months apart and had competed for everything in the six decades ever since… including dukes and earls.

  “Very well,” Devon conceded. “I don’t beg your pardon at all. I have nothing to step up for. Max has found a suitable wife—”

  Claudia’s tiny bite of poached salmon could not have caused the slight choking sound that followed that statement, but Devon gave her a little smile and let it pass. “Well—” Devon leaned in to his aunt—“he’s found a wife who suits him perfectly. And she’s not marrying my mother, after all!”

  Lifting her champagne flute, Claudia toasted Devon. “Ah, my dear. You must know you are in danger of being bagged. Your mother has done her duty by marrying off Claire to the—”

  “Don’t say it, Aunt Claudia—”

  “Very well. She married Claire off to that horrible Marquess of Wick—”

  Behind closed doors, everyone referred to h
im as The Prick of Wick.

  They both looked across the table and, even from the distance of the large formal table for twelve, Claire’s discomfort and strain were evident. She was pristine in her appearance, as always, but her tender formality was in grave danger of evolving into plain old bitterness. Her husband was absent, as usual. Not that anyone minded, especially Claire, but it still smarted that the Marquess of Wick couldn’t make the effort to show up for his brother-in-law’s wedding.

  “Off spending her money, I suspect.” Claudia was as close to sympathetic as she’d ever been, having burned through her share of cruel and careless husbands until she finally met the right man in her current husband.

  “Well, Claire made her bed… and all that.” Devon took another sip of champagne.

  Claudia narrowed her shrewd gaze and shook her head slightly. “I never knew if she really did… you were just a little ring bearer then, weren’t you?” Claudia kept her gaze on the pale blond woman sitting across the table. “I think your parents may have made that bed…”

  “Oh, please. Poor Claire. Yada yada. It’s such a hard life being a marchioness in a huge castle in Scotland. Cry me a river.” Devon waved a hand across his face as if swatting away a fly. “Don’t get me started.”

  “Very well. Anyone else at the table we can dissect while we’re at it? Your mother can’t focus her attention on Max any longer… he will provide an heir, probably already has if you ask me—”

  Devon almost spit his champagne at that. “Claudia!” His voice was raspy and choked and the beautiful Sarah James turned quickly to make sure he was okay. She let her hand rest briefly on the oxblood-red velvet of his forearm. Then, seeing he was fine, she smiled at him and Claudia, then released him just as quickly and returned—again, damn it—to James Mowbray.

  “So that leaves you.” Claudia took another sip of champagne and set her glass down.

  “And Abigail,” Devon lobbed.

  Lady Claudia rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started on that one. Have you ever seen a lovelier creature? Just look at her…”

  They both let their gazes settle across the table on the wild black curls and sparkling gray eyes of Lady Abigail Heyworth, fourth (and final! his mother was always quick to point out) of the Heyworth children. Devon and Abby had been partners in crime for as long as any of them could remember. They were both what was delicately known as hard-to-pin-down.

  “Very well, you are quite right,” Devon finally agreed. “Abigail will never bend to Mother’s will.”

  “And you? She parades you around like one of her prized parures.” Claudia’s pinched expression was a perfect mix of disgust and envy.

  “She can parade me all she likes, but Mother knows that when it comes to getting me to heel, she’ll never succeed.”

  Claudia leaned forward to get a better look at Sarah James. She was smiling and talking in animated conversation with both his cousin James and the aforementioned Mother.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Claudia took the final sip of her champagne and raised a finger to signal for the waiter to refill her glass. “Looks to me as though your mother is already locking and loading on your weekend foray.”

  Devon shook his head. There was no point in being surprised that Claudia had probably heard his entire sordid conversation with Sarah. Why give the older woman the satisfaction of knowing she was, as usual, quite right?

  Before the dessert was served and the toasts began, Bronte gave Sarah a quick wink-and-a-nod and the two got up and went into the ladies’ powder room together. Bronte shut the door, double-checked that no one else was in the adjacent water closet, then came out squealing.

  “Is Devon hitting on you?”

  “Well—”

  “Oh, Sarah! You are too much. You are such a vixen I can’t stand it! I know you are so saucy and the Sarah James It Girl—I mean, I created the whole concept—but—”

  “Bron—”

  “Are you going to fool around with him tonight?” Then lowering her voice while still somehow squeaking, she said, “Are you going to sleep with him?!”

  “Bronte! Stop!” Sarah was five years younger than her dear friend, but they often joked that they were both emotional twelve-year-olds when it came to guys. Bronte had nearly botched her whole engagement to Max through a string of mistakes and misunderstandings. Sarah, truth be told, had never really had the opportunity to botch anything. But it was better to play up the whole It-Girl thing than to confess a life devoid of romance. “He is such a parody of himself,” Sarah said, “with all that rakish fake earl foolishness. I mean, he’s not even an earl. It’s just ridiculous. He’s just ridiculous.” She applied more lipstick, then continued, “But he’s so hot. I guess I’m sort of playing with him. I finally just told him I was a sure thing so he could quit it with the smarmy seduction and we could get on with some interesting dinner conversation.”

  Sarah had turned to the mirror to double-check her mascara and lipstick and caught Bronte’s openmouthed gape in the reflection.

  “What?” Sarah asked, her lipstick poised in midair as she was about to put the top back on.

  “You did not!” Bronte covered her mouth and started to laugh. “Oh, Sarah, you are priceless. He is so fawned over around here, you have no idea. His mother ignores everyone in the family except Devon, his sisters act like he is the best thing since sliced fucking bread.”

  “Bron, I thought you were trying to cut back on the swearing… you know, becoming a duchess and all that.”

  “Don’t remind me. I’m already shitting bullets about walking down the aisle in that vintage Valentino dress… I keep picturing all those yards of priceless lace getting caught on the edge of one of the goddamned pews and my very nervous self tripping flat on my fucking face.”

  Sarah grabbed Bronte’s hands in hers and gave her a warm smile. “You are going to be a star, Bron. Don’t give it a second thought. The dress is divine. The chapel looked beautiful tonight at the rehearsal, and it will all be perfect.”

  “Thank you so much for coming. All these Etonian-Oxonian-Cantabrigian mates are a bit overwhelming. I will be relieved when the rest of the Yanks arrive tomorrow. My mom is not helping.”

  Sarah gave her an encouraging hug and then the two women headed back out into the surreal world of Dunlear Castle: ancestral home to the nineteenth Duke of Northrop and his ne’er-do-well younger brother. If Sarah was going to lose her virginity, she might as well do it in style.

  Chapter 2

  Whether it was a curse or a blessing—Sarah still hadn’t decided—she was able to drink vast amounts without getting drunk as long as she stuck to champagne. Devon, on the other hand, seemed to be showing the signs of one too many glasses. His goofy smile was plastered on his face as they fell into the back of the courtesy limousine that had arrived from Sarah’s hotel. The car headed out the Dunlear Castle gravel drive and onto the small country lane that would take them to the Amberley Castle Hotel. It was times like this she wished that she actually did feel the effects of alcohol.

  Sarah was reminded of all those idiotic parties in her early teens in Lake Forest when she had tried, almost desperately, to get tipsy, buzzed, or even flat-out drunk—anything to take the edge off the overarching awkwardness that plagued her. Her mother and father had always babied her and told her how pretty and kind and lovely she was, but Sarah knew better. Her skin was nearly blue, it was so pale. Her fleshy middle and thighs were impervious to jogging and sit-ups.

  And then the boobs.

  Well, suffice to say, her chest was ample.

  When Elizabeth James died soon after Sarah’s twelfth birthday, Sarah said good-bye to her mother and, unwittingly, to her childhood. In the midst of her mourning and depression and isolation and futile attempts to love her father out of his own misery, Sarah took no notice of her body’s transformation from pudgy preteen to voluptuous Lolita. By the time she was fourteen, her father was still bringing home old-fashioned smocked dresses when her body was bette
r suited to a Maxim cover shoot. Just like everything else in her life, as far as Sarah was concerned, her body had been all wrong.

  Somehow sex just never made it to the top of her to-do list. And now that she was a successful twenty-five-year-old businesswoman, it would have seemed patently absurd to tell anyone that she was still a virgin. Bronte Talbott, of all people, who had single-handedly crafted the advertising and PR campaign that depicted Sarah James as the quintessential voluptuary, would never have believed her.

  But something about the way Devon touched her made her feel like her too-big, too-soft body might be quite fine as far as he was concerned. Maybe even better than fine. A permanently smiling Devon Heyworth draping his hand over her shoulder and tracing his index finger along the arch of her left breast made her feel like the whole world was better than fine.

  “You do realize you are touching my breast, right?” Sarah blurted.

  Devon looked at her, continued to smile, continued to touch. “Are you going to narrate the entire evening?”

  Sarah blushed. Not just rosy cheeks, but hot, ferocious waves of heat up her chest and neck. Luckily, the back of the car was dimly lit.

  “Are you blushing?” Devon looked at her closely, his hot, boozy breath against her cheek, then looked out the car window, still touching her breast absently. “Hmm. I was under the impression that American women no longer blushed. I will have to report back to the Royal International Seduction Society at their quarterly meeting next month.”

  She smiled, mostly relieved that her narration faux pas hadn’t given her away. In that split second of contemplation at the dinner table, after which she had nonchalantly informed Devon that she was a sure thing, Sarah was all of a sudden 100 percent committed to getting rid of her virginity once and for all. It was just hanging out there in the ether. Undone. And she wanted it done.

  But she didn’t want to go through some long, tedious relationship that would require doting phone calls, feigned intimacy, and the dreaded nicknames and baby talk. Devon was undoubtedly the man for the job. Just look at him, her alter ego cried. Could he have been any better looking? Sarah thought not. And she had been around her share of photo shoots with hot Italian male models. Not to mention that he arrived prevetted, being the younger brother of her best friend’s ducal husband-to-be. Devon Heyworth was royal and witty and… fondling her breast… and…