by Megan Mulry
“Marry her quickly, Devon.”
His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts. Her tone was not light or mocking, but probably the most deadly serious he had ever heard.
“So you like her?”
“She’s the woman for you, regardless of what I think, but yes, I like her very much. And who is that handsome man fawning all over Abigail?” She gestured with her champagne glass in a tiny motion toward the terrace.
“Oh, that’s Eliot Cranbrook. He’s an old family friend of Sarah’s and she invited him when she thought—well, it doesn’t matter why she invited him.”
His mother’s eyebrow arched in response. “And where is Tully?” she asked.
“If you are going to wait until Sunday morning to arrive, you are going to miss the intermittent drama. They broke up.”
“Well. That is news. Do you think it was just a phase?”
“Mother. They were together for ten years… I hardly think that can qualify as a phase.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Devon. Do you think there’s hope for her yet?”
“You are so antiquated, Mother. She is not a cancer survivor; she’s a lesbian.”
She cringed slightly. “Must you say it just like that? That word sounds so… clinical.”
“What would you prefer?” Devon chortled briefly. “Perhaps ‘the company of women’ or her ‘special friend.’ Please. You are many things, Mother, but you have never been one for mincing words. As the Americans like to say, get real.”
“Very well. You are right, I suppose. It is one of the few topics that still confounds me. I find it utterly incomprehensible. All that sameness. Where’s the variety?”
“I think she and Tully were perfectly suited and complemented one another admirably. Abby is all fiery and unreliable, and Tully is all consistent and driven. They hardly lacked for variety.”
“I guess it’s just something I could never get my mind around. It would just be so much easier if she would simply fall in love with a man.”
“Easier for whom?”
“Well, for me, of course!” She smiled the smile that she only bestowed on Devon, the warm, conspiratorial, generous smile. Then she looked up and saw Bronte approaching and resumed her brittle, shrewish affect.
Devon looked over his shoulder to see what had brought on the cooling, and asked in a low voice, “Must you be so difficult with Bronte?”
“I am never difficult, Devon. I am merely being honest. I find her gauche and ambitious.”
About halfway across the room, Bronte had stopped for a moment, holding Wolf and swinging him slightly from right to left, to speak to Willa and David Osborne, another couple of close family friends invited out for the weekend to celebrate.
Devon continued quietly, “You can hardly accuse her of being ambitious when she did everything in her power to dissuade Max from pursuing her. He’s madly in love with her—you might try to soften a bit.”
“I am not particularly soft, Devon. With you, I seem to have made an exception, but it is only because you dote on me unreservedly. The young duchess and I shall never be friends. She refuses to dote, after all.”
Devon had to give his mother credit for honesty, even if she was only being honest about her profound narcissism.
“Wait until you spend more time with her and the cub. You might change your opinion.”
“And that nickname is outlandish,” she cut back.
By then, Bronte was nearly upon them and Devon stepped to one side to include her in the conversation with his mother.
“Good morning, Duchess. Thank you so much for coming today.”
“Well—” She looked as if she was about to let loose a razor-sharp quip along the lines of what choice did I have, but pulled up short at Devon’s censorious glare. “It was my pleasure. The ceremony was lovely.”
“I thought you would want to hold the baby.”
At that moment, Devon felt something about Bronte that was so tender, so vulnerable, there was no way he was going to let his willful mother destroy it.
The dowager duchess started to lift her arms—champagne glass in one hand, Hermès purse hanging on the wrist of the other—to indicate that her hands were full when Devon reached across the small distance and took both glass and bag. “I’m happy to hold those, Mother.”
He had already deftly slid off the bag and taken possession of the delicate crystal champagne flute before she could protest. If she demurred now, she would look blatantly cruel. Her cruelty was never blatant.
“Very well.” She smiled in a small, conciliatory way.
Bronte handed the drowsy, angelic baby over with care. His antique ivory linen christening gown trailed nearly to the floor.
Sylvia Heyworth had held all of her babies in a state of surrender in those moments after delivery: exhausted, desperate, relieved. Perhaps, if she were honest, with a twinge of resentment as well, for all the pain and worry that had gone into having them. Holding a grandchild was an entirely different proposition. Here was a creature that required no particular attention, had caused her no pain upon his arrival, did not rely frantically on her for his very existence, would not extort.
Then Wolf blinked open his glassy, dilated eyes and caught hers.
She might be wrong about the extortion.
She was trapped in that glistening, infantile stare; there was nowhere to go when your own eyes were staring back at you… but deeper.
Bronte looked at Devon and smiled her new-mother smile. “See?”
Even though the dowager duchess had paid the socially prescribed attentions to Wolf over the past six weeks—the day-after visit to the hospital; peering into his bassinet while he slept on his two visits to Northrop House for tea—she had never actually held him in her arms. Nonetheless, Bronte had come to believe that Wolf was the link that would bridge the chasm between her husband and his thorny mother. Bronte had no delusions about being one of the links in that daisy chain, but she could do her part to help Max and Sylvia reach some sort of armistice.
Bronte slipped away with Sarah, leaving Sylvia and Devon to tend to Wolf. Max came over to ask Devon a quick question, then looked at his mother holding his son. He fought a moment of anxiety (he wanted to grab the baby from the unaffectionate arms of his own youth), then he paused and tried to let it go. She was holding him with unaccustomed care.
“Hello, Max.”
“Hello, Mother.”
“He’s a lovely boy.”
“Thank you.”
“Bittersweet Symphony” was playing in the background. Perfect, thought Max.
After they’d returned from their honeymoon, Max had asked Bronte if there were any changes she wanted to make at Dunlear Castle, and she couldn’t think of anything that would improve on perfection. Then, after a few weekend visits with the two of them hooked into their earbuds and reading, she’d asked if anyone had ever considered wiring the main rooms for sound. She’d met with the representatives from the National Trust to make sure there were no compromises to the architectural or historical integrity of the building, and then invisible wireless speakers had been installed in the drawing room, the morning room, and their bedroom. This afternoon, there was a mellow selection of contemporary acoustic music playing low in the background. Max looked at his mother and listened to the tender lyrics.
After a few moments, he asked, “Do you want me to take the baby?”
“If you wish,” said Sylvia, but Max caught the possessive hesitation.
“No. You keep him. He’s got your eyes, no?”
“I think he might. But babies change, of course.”
Even Max could hear that her concession was an effort to reduce her own unexpected attachment, rather than a contradiction.
“Well, I need to check on something in the kitchen. Just let Bron know when you tire of holding him.” He headed out of the room and watched as Sarah made her way back to Devon’s side, his mother smiling up at them. There was no point in wondering why De
von had secured his mother’s affection while Max had never been able to do so, nor why their respective female counterparts had elicited mirror emotions.
The rest of the afternoon sped by in a blur of family, food, and snippets of conversation. At one point around four o’clock, Eliot approached Sarah and told her matter-of-factly that he had offered to take Narinda and Abigail back to London. He knew that Sarah had hired a car and driver earlier in the week since Bronte and Max were going to be staying at Dunlear for a few days after the christening and wouldn’t be riding back into town with them.
“Seeing as there are only two seats in Devon’s car,” Eliot elaborated, “I’m sure he wants you, rather than Narinda, to occupy the passenger seat in the Aston Martin for the return trip to London. Let me take the car and driver with Narinda and Abigail, eh, Sarah?”
Sarah had a moment of terror—here she was trying to be honest and forthright and free and encouraging Devon to do the same, but the reality was that everyone already saw them as some sort of clinging pair. In reality, it was fine (heaven, really). In theory, it was horrifying. She wanted to run into the hired car and disappear into the mass of anonymous traffic on the M4.
Devon came up from behind her, loose arm falling around her waist.
“Perfect. I was trying to figure out how to manage the switch with equanimity, and now your Eliot has taken care of all the details.”
Sarah thought Devon might have even just winked at Eliot. She felt like a parcel being handed off from one man to the other.
“Thanks, Eliot.” Sarah widened her eyes at him. “But, Devon, how soon are you heading back into the city? I have an early meeting with the architect of the new store and I need to go over some papers tonight. Maybe I should head back with Eliot and—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll drive you back. No problem.” Devon took a sip of champagne as if that settled it.
I’m not being ridiculous, Sarah thought, resisting the urge to stomp her foot.
“I need to go, Devon. You and I can catch up later.” Her voice was a touch more strident than she had intended, and Eliot beat a hasty retreat, leaving the two newly-beds to sort out the parameters of love’s first blush.
Devon put a bit of pressure on Sarah’s lower back and gestured for her to follow him to a quiet corner of the room, to stand in the alcove at the left of the fireplace.
“What is going on, Sarah? Why don’t you want to ride back into town with me?”
“I’m perfectly happy to ride with you, but it just rankles to have you and Eliot—and your mother, for that matter—talking about me as if I’m a piece of luggage. I can take care of my own transportation quite well.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t want to chauffeur you around. I want to get you back to my place and attack you.”
Her stomach flipped and she blushed, looking down at the beautiful parquet floor that formed a perimeter around the room.
He put her chin into the cradle of his palm and lifted her face. “What’s going on?”
“Look, Devon.” She tried to escape his gaze but it was impossible. As usual. She finally met him eye to eye. “We’ve seen the result of too much, too soon. Let’s just take it easy.”
He released her chin and smiled. “Fair enough. Easy does it.” He stood up a bit straighter and continued in a perfectly formal voice, “Pardon me, Miss James, would you care to join me in my carriage back to the city in one hour’s time or would you prefer to accompany Mr. Cranbrook now?”
She smiled and felt free again. Even though his formality was mocking and he still got what he wanted in the end, there was at least the pretense of free will woven in there somewhere. “I would be delighted to join you, Lord Heyworth,” she said with prim acquiescence. Then she smiled and asked in a timid voice, “Is that your proper mode of address? Do you have a real title?”
He reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles formally, then kissed the tips of her fingers and pulled away slowly. “I think my correct title is Slave to Sarah James.”
She had an involuntary surge of desire when he said it (perhaps all surges of desire were involuntary where Devon was concerned). The rational area of her brain thought that she should be enlightened and opposed to slavery, but the base, lurid, rapidly emerging part of her was quite pleased (preening even) to be the queen who reigned over Devon Heyworth. She envisioned herself lounging somewhere, partially clad, the Mediterranean sun streaming in from somewhere, a platter of fresh, exotic fruit, and Devon there to serve her.
“You are so bad,” he whispered, his mouth closer to her ear than she had realized.
Her chest tightened against the silky lining of her bra and her breath hitched. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked with fake hauteur.
He pulled away a bit, then continued in that deep, sexy, lordly tone of formality, “I mean, mademoiselle, that you are quite looking forward to my enslavement and you are quite transparent about your utter lack of regret as far as my loss of liberty is concerned. I come willingly into your dominion.” He ducked his head slightly as if he were being knighted. “But please be kind.”
“Do we have time to run upstairs before we go back into town?” She was nearly breathless with wanting him in that moment. She didn’t want to be kind either.
“Good God. You are going to be despotic. What have I unleashed?” He grabbed her hand in his and they slid out the side door at the far end of the room near where they’d been huddled together. Devon turned a quick right out of the room, instead of left toward the large formal stone staircase in the main entry, and guided Sarah into a somewhat confined set of stairs that led from the kitchen to what Sarah supposed was the servants’ wing of the castle.
They got as far as the first cramped landing. Sarah had been grabbing at the back pockets of Devon’s trousers, which were at eye level as he preceded her up the narrow stairs. He whipped around and took her in his arms. She laughed quickly and then his mouth took hers in a rush of nearly painful, hard kisses. She gave as good as she got, battling his tongue with her own, the strength and power of his mouth a challenge. She pushed him solidly against the wall, pinning him as he had done to her in the upstairs hall on Friday night.
Her hand reached for him; he was already hard and ready for her touch. She undid the button closure and zipper of his pants and slipped her cool hand into his warm underwear.
“Sarah, no…”
He caught the look on her face, her eyes a million miles away. Her tongue trailed slowly and methodically back and forth across her upper lip as her thumb mimicked the same motion across his tender skin.
“Sarah, please, I can’t…”
Then her eyes caught his. “I thought you were my slave,” she whispered in a raspy, mildly threatening, dictatorial voice she barely recognized. “Doesn’t that mean you must do what I say? My bidding, as it were?” She began to stroke him in long, languorous passes. “Oh, Devon”—she breathed the words, her authority slipping—“you’re so ready. What if I just knelt right here…”
Her legs started to collapse and he shoved her away, thinking he saw a flash of movement at the bottom of the stairs. He fumbled with the button of his pants as best he could, grabbed the softly laughing Sarah firmly around the waist, and dragged her roughly behind him to get her into his bed, or behind a closed door at least, as quickly as possible.
Ten minutes later, the two of them were a limp pile of half-covered limbs tossed across the down sofa in his bedroom.
“Dear God, Sarah. What’s to become of me? Would that I had never mentioned my slavery.”
“I thought I was a very kind master. How many masters get on their knees? I just want you when I want you, that’s all.” Her head was tilted back across one of the tapestry-covered pillows on the masculine brown sofa. She spoke with her eyes closed, her mouth smiling through the words. Her ivory silk blouse was untucked from her velvet pants. Said pants were unzipped and also in an acute state of disarray. “Look what I’ve become.” She looked do
wn the length of her disheveled body for a second, then closed her eyes again. Happy.
Devon was not looking any better: shirt unbuttoned, pants at his knees. “Yes, we are quite the picture of impropriety.” He started to pull his pants up, then looked longingly at Sarah’s blouse stretched across her still rising-and-falling chest. “What time do you need to be at your meeting tomorrow?”
“Don’t even think about it. We are not staying here tonight.” She levered herself up onto her elbows to get a better look at him. “In that regard, I shall reign supreme. You will not drag me down into your world of imaginary jobs that do not require attendance or dedication.” She was laughing lightly, but he knew she meant every word.
“Just because I don’t attend doesn’t mean I’m not dedicated. Go finish packing and we’ll head home as soon as you’re ready,” Devon said.
Probably a mistake to call it “home,” as if it went without saying that she was staying with him. He had to be a bit more mindful of helping her transition away from Sarah James, Independent Woman of the World, to Sarah James, Better Half.
She gathered her luggage together and left her bag just inside the door of the bedroom she’d stayed in over the weekend. She went downstairs to say good-bye to Max and Bronte, and gave Wolf one last hug. Devon came back into the living room as Sarah was holding the baby close and cooing into the crook of his neck. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to keep to any traditional timeline of dating, courtship, dinners out—this woman had completely taken him into her thrall. The sight of her holding the baby in her arms, laughing with Bronte, oblivious to his stare, was almost more than he could process.
Max came up behind him and gave him a firm shove in the middle of his back. “Get ahold of yourself, Devon. She’s just a girl.”
“Right. That’s rich advice coming from you. I seem to recall the occasional moment or two of frantic longing in your pursuit of Bronte.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. We met. We fell in love. And we started a family. Totally uncomplicated.”
“Honestly, Max, I don’t know how long I can wait. I have an almost painful sense of urgency.”