by Gaelen Foley
“Of course. You risked yourself, your job, to get my aunt what you thought she needed. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who really cares that much? Never mind your wages—I’ve been around long enough to know that it’s not possible to pay someone to give of themselves from the heart the way that you do. You went above and beyond the call of duty simply because you love my aunt, and for that, I shall be always in your debt.”
She moved back slowly a small space and peered into his eyes. He dropped his gaze after a second, looking a trifle chagrined.
“It’s not that I don’t want to come and see her. It’s just—so difficult. You lost your parents, too—you said so at dinner. You know how it is. At least I have memories of mine. Too many memories,” he added, then shook his head in brooding frustration. “I know that’s no excuse. The fact that my family was taken from me ought to make me come here even more. I should be here while I still have time with her, as you said, and I know that, but the more I spend time with her—the more I let myself care—the more it’s going to hurt when—” His voice broke off, as if he could not even bring himself to say the words.
“Your aunt knows you love her, Devlin,” she told him softly, running a comforting caress up and down his muscled arm. “It’s not a question of that. But if you don’t spend time with her while you still can, how will you ever be able to forgive yourself once she’s gone?”
He glanced darkly into her eyes.
“I know it hurts to see her getting weaker and to know the day draws nearer when you must say good-bye, but avoiding the situation will not stop that day from coming.”
“You’re right, of course. I know that.” He shook his head. “It’s just—hard.”
“Then I will help you,” she whispered, taking his hand. “Stay and make her happy, and somehow we’ll get through it together.”
He stared down at their joined hands. “I get the feeling you’re good at helping people.”
She smiled wanly and shrugged; her deceitful letter had obviously not helped much. “Well, it’s all out in the open now if you wish to speak to her about it. Somehow she suspected that I had written to you. She questioned me, and I confessed.”
“You confessed?” he echoed, glancing at her in surprise.
“Of course. I would not lie to her.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered, shoving his other hand through his hair with a rueful smile. “She asked me the same thing, but I told her I had no idea what she was talking about.”
“You lied?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows.
“I didn’t want you to lose your job, sweeting.”
“Oh,” she murmured; then they both laughed at their faux pas as they gazed at each other. Lizzie blushed at the intimate warmth in his smile. She lowered her lashes, suddenly feeling shy. “Who ever would have thought you and I could have something in common?”
“Yes,” he murmured. “We’re both alone.”
She lifted her glance slowly and found him watching her.
Words failed her. The smoldering glow she had glimpsed in his eyes at dinner was back; indeed, there was something almost possessive in his stare as he studied her, desire gentling the hard, angular precision of his face. With a measured balance of boldness and caution, he lifted his hand once more to touch her, running his knuckle lightly along the line of her jaw.
She trembled at the contact, a tingling spark of sheer thrill rushing down her spine and searing along every nerve ending from her fingertips down to her toes. Staring into her eyes, Devlin slid his hand beneath her hair, clasping her nape, drawing her to him. She went willingly, leaning toward him, as eager as he. So close that she could feel the warmth of his breath, Devlin tilted his head; Lizzie’s eyes drifted closed at the first gliding caress of his lips on hers—smooth, satin bliss. He brushed his hungry kiss back and forth across her mouth, entrancing her. She could feel her lips swelling, growing acutely sensitized beneath the tender stroking of his mouth, his hand cradling her head all the while.
Her senses a-swirl with dizzying pleasure, it was all she could do to brace herself with a hand on his thigh, the other at his chest, clinging to the open front of his unbuttoned waistcoat. Then Devlin let his lips wander slowly away from her mouth, dusting her face with light, heated kisses, while his other hand clasped her waist. Lizzie smiled in sensual delight at his playful seduction, trailing little kisses over her cheeks, her brow. Then he bent lower, pressing a kiss full of hotter intent to her throat.
She tilted her head back with a catch in her breath, her lips parting. She draped her arm over his broad shoulder, drawing him closer, all her awareness fixed on his open-mouthed kiss on the curve of her neck. The man would drive her mad.
When he came back and claimed her mouth with electrifying demand, Lizzie felt her heart would surely burst, it was pounding so hard.
Devlin cupped her face, his thumb caressing the corner of her lips. “Open your mouth for me, angel. Let me taste you,” he begged in a panting whisper.
Hesitantly, she yielded, afire with enthralled fascination as his tongue glided into her mouth, an exploratory stroking. He moaned low and gathered her closer, his deepening kiss consuming her. She had heard about French-style kisses like this—hot, wet, deep, erotic. But when she responded boldly in kind, licking Devlin’s tongue slowly as his mouth slanted over hers, nothing could have prepared her for his explosive lust. He lifted her astride his lap, both his hands gripping her backside almost roughly through her gown. He pressed her against his body, kissing her more hungrily still. In his fierce eagerness, his teeth bruised her lip, but Lizzie didn’t even care. With her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, the feel of his hard, lean hips between her thighs was too much. Though layers of clothing stood between them, the lock-and-key fit of their bodies ignited such a surge of wild need in her blood that she tore her mouth away from his by some superhuman effort.
“God, no more,” she gasped.
“Wait,” he pleaded.
“No, Devlin. We have to stop.”
He flinched and closed his eyes as if she had struck him, but he let her go without argument, steadying her by her elbow as she climbed off his lap.
“Have I upset you?” he whispered when she stood before him on shaky limbs.
“No.” Would that she could claim to be upset, insulted, scandalized, instead of craving more of him—much more. “It’s late. My duties start early.”
He sent her a cynical half-smile, his eyes still glittering and heavy-lidded with passion. “Good girl.”
“You don’t make it easy.”
He reached for her hand and held it gently. “You’re all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him with a breathless laugh, for she was feeling a good deal better than merely “all right.”
“Good,” he whispered, caressing her hand with his thumb.
She gave his fingers a fond squeeze. “Good night, Devlin.”
“Good night, Lizzie.”
“See you in the morning?” she asked meaningfully.
He seemed to think it over for a second. “I’ll be here.”
She nodded in approval and let her hand slide free of his light hold, walking resolutely across the library. She hesitated at the doorway, however, and glanced back, stealing one last look at him. Beautiful in the firelight as a visiting god, he was still sitting lazily on the couch, flushed and tousled and so tempting. His inviting gaze snared hers with magnetic power. Staring at the magnificent man, hers for the taking—at least for tonight—she let out a yearning sigh of virtuous self-denial; it roused a throaty chuckle from him.
“I am leaving now,” she announced firmly.
“Come back,” he called in soft beguilement.
“Devil,” she whispered, and shook her head at him with an arch smile. Before his silken charm could weaken her any further, she forced herself out of the room and hurried up to her bedchamber, still grinning from ear to ear.
Over the next few days, Lady Strathmore did what she could to nurse
the spark between her nephew and companion into a scintillating little flame. She gave them ample opportunity to be together, requiring both of them to attend her the next day on a visit into Bath. They sampled the waters at the Pump Room, where she showed her handsome nephew off to all her aged friends and busied herself catching up on the local gossip, leaving Dev and Lizzie to join the other onlookers at the great window, watching the bathers sink into the healing pools. Afterwards, they went to Sally Lunn’s and bought a few dozen of the famous Bath cakes sold there to bring back for the servants: Dev said he had to repay Mrs. Rowland for the floating island.
On the first evening, they played chess, bantering their way through the game, much to Augusta’s amusement. Each seemed surprised by how well matched they were; no one ever beat Lizzie at chess unless she was letting one win, but Devlin had learned the game from his keen-witted father as a boy. The following afternoon it snowed again. Augusta looked out the parlor window in response to a tapping on the pane and laughed aloud to see the fat Napoléon snowman the two of them had built outside her window, complete with bicorne hat. Lizzie waved at her, pink cheeked in the cold, and then went on scattering seeds across the snow for the hungry birds.
That evening, over warm, mulled wine, her nephew had both women in such fits of laughter over a game of charades that tears rolled down their cheeks. No one in Society ever got to see this side of him. He felt at home here, she knew, and like a great lion at play, rolling in the tall grass, he left the dark jungles behind for now. Lizzie and she teased him for his ineptitude at the game, both secretly loving him for rising to the occasion when most males would rather not have risked their dignity to make an old lady laugh.
“What is that supposed to be?” Lizzie exclaimed, barely catching her breath from gales of laughter as he continued making some throwing gesture, his growing frustration apparent. “Throw?”
He tugged his ear with a look of exasperation.
“All right, sounds like throw. Go? Know? Show?”
He glared at her expectantly, hands on hips, but they eventually guessed his selection, Le Nozze di Figaro. Next it was Lizzie’s turn, and Augusta smiled to herself at how Dev watched the girl’s every silly move with a look of quiet delight.
The evening passed merrily.
On the third day, the sky was clear and blue, so Dev took the ladies out for a drive, intent on getting his aunt out of the house as much as possible before he was to leave on the morrow—all too soon, Augusta thought, but the past few days, in truth, were more than she had hoped for. She knew better than to ask him to stay.
They watched the snow-kissed countryside pass by while the silver bells jangled on the harness of his high-stepping horses. They drove through the village past a crowd of playing children and looped back again to the house. The two of them helped Augusta back inside and into her Bath chair, but once Lizzie had helped the dowager get situated in the warmth of the parlor, Dev offered the girl a driving lesson in his flashy black traveling coach.
“I don’t dare,” she vowed.
“Oh, come—”
“That thing is enormous! I’ve barely driven a one-horse gig, let alone a four-in-hand.”
“Then it’s time for you to give it a go!” He seized her wrist with a pirate laugh and dragged her back out into the already darkening afternoon.
Sitting at her desk, Augusta watched them out the window for a long while, tapping her lip slowly in thought.
The grooms looked on in varying degrees of amusement and alarm as Devlin cajoled Lizzie into the driver’s seat. He climbed up beside her, placed the whip in her right hand, and then showed her how to hold the double reins in her left.
“Let your arm lie loosely against your side. Bend your elbow to make a right angle with your forearm. Sit up nice and straight, there you are. You want to keep your hand even with the lowest button of your waistcoat.”
“My waistcoat?” she teased.
“This looks about right.” He reached over with a quick grin, grasping a waist-level button of her pelisse. “Use this as your marker. Now, bend your wrist inward slightly, like so.” She tamped down a frisson of awareness at his touch as he arranged her hand in the proper angle. “Your knuckles should face outward toward the horses. This creates an easy spring, as it were, from which you may keep a good feel on their mouths. They’re very responsive, so there’s no need to saw on the reins, but never allow the reins to lie slack, either, or the team won’t know what you want them to do. As for the whip, you don’t need to worry about it at this stage. A light tap now and then is enough to make sure they’re still paying attention. Ready?”
When she gave him a resolute nod, he threw the hand-brake.
The first few yards felt a bit precarious, the tall, stately coach lurching across the courtyard in fits and starts; but when the steady team of black Fresian horses gained the long, flat stretch of drive, the coach’s pace became steady, the ride smooth.
“I’m doing it!” she cried as the wind blew back her bonnet.
“Yes, you are,” Devlin murmured fondly to her. “Watch your pace, now. Easy through the turn.”
Pulling back gently on the reins, she executed a fine halt as they rolled up to the gate, giving no insult to the horses’ soft mouths.
“Excellent, my dear. Now turn them to the right.” He coached her through the task, which felt precarious to her, but was old hat to the horses.
She gained confidence as the four black Fresians went steadily clip-clopping along. They were frightfully large beasts, but they seemed agreeable enough, willing to do as she asked—chiefly, she suspected, because they could smell and hear their master up on the driver’s box with her. After a brief, easy jaunt of less than a mile down the road, they made use of a packed-dirt roundabout that encircled an ancient elm tree.
Not wishing to press her luck, she relinquished the reins to the expert whip Devlin and rode happily beside him, her bonnet trailing down her back by its ribbons and the cold wind nipping at her nose. In the west, the sun was already setting, though it was barely five; the larger stars began to glitter, brilliant and silver, in the crisp winter air. Rolling back into the cobbled courtyard, the grooms greeted them with broad smiles and teasing congratulations on her success. The team was unhitched; then Devlin and she accompanied the men and horses into the stable.
Hands in her coat pockets, Lizzie followed as the head groom led Devlin over to the stall of the tall, chocolate gelding he had ridden so hard on the last leg of his grueling journey to Bath.
“He favors it less today, my lord. The rest seems to have done him good.”
“Hm.” Devlin went into the gelding’s stall and greeted the horse with a gentle scratch on his broad cheek, then made his way back to the animal’s hindquarters, where he ran his hand down the left back leg, palpating the horse’s hock down to his fetlock.
“Is he all right?” Lizzie asked, wincing guiltily to know that the animal had been injured due more to her lies than to Devlin’s rough riding.
“Inflammation seems to have gone down. A bit of strain to the flexor tendon and this suspensory ligament, here,” Devlin murmured. “Mac, have you got that liniment?”
“Aye, sir.” The groom went into the stall with a small brown bottle of some medicinal ointment and an old, soft rag with which to apply it.
“I’ll do it.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself—”
“I’m the one who hurt him,” Devlin murmured. He held out his hand for the supplies. The groom gave them to him without further comment, nodded his respects, and left to marshal up his trio of young stableboys to begin the busy process of feeding all the horses in the barn. It was their dinner time.
“Is there anything I can do?” Lizzie inquired, leaning uncertainly against the stall door.
“Pet his head to distract him. He’s not sure whether he likes this stuff or not. It feels funny going on, doesn’t it, boy? Camphor—hot and cold at the same time. Very strange!”
; “I imagine so,” she murmured, smelling the sharp, pungent odor of the ointment when he opened the bottle.
He set the rag aside and took off his thick leather gloves while Lizzie held out her hand, luring the horse over. The chocolate gelding approached, shuffling its hooves through its bedding of fragrant hay.
“Does he have a name?” she asked as the horse investigated her hand with its soft muzzle, lipping at her palm with its velvety mouth.
“If he does, they didn’t tell it to me when I bought him. Why don’t you name him?”
“All right.” The gelding ambled closer, blowing a puff of breath against Lizzie’s cheek. She laughed. “What would you like to be called, you handsome thing?”
Devlin poured the liniment oil into his hand and crouched down, massaging it into the gelding’s hock and fetlock, the animal’s knee and ankle joints, respectively. The gelding snuffled and swung his head around to see what Devlin was doing.
“Come here, boy. Let me have a look at you,” Lizzie said, doing her part to distract the animal from the treatment.
While Devlin picked up his back hoof and inspected its motion from the ankle, she got the horse’s full attention by scratching behind the ears. It leaned its head into her hand. “Let’s see. We could name you for your color. Chocolate. Brownie. He’s got a bit of dappling on the rump there. Shadow?”
“This horse has the heart of a hero,” Devlin remarked, intent upon his task. “He took me at a full gallop through a snowstorm in the middle of the night. I refuse to let you call such a noble beast Brownie.”
“I’m so sorry, you dear thing,” she told the horse, smoothing his dark floppy forelock off to the side so she could see the expression in his big, soulful eyes. When she brushed the forelock aside, she noticed a small white star in the center of his forehead. “You are a hero, aren’t you? A star! That’s it. We’ll call him Star, Devlin. See?” The gelding bobbed his refined head and snorted against her cheek a second time. “He approves!”
“Fine by me.” Devlin glanced at her, his sea-bright eyes twinkling. “Star it is.”