He’d never fallen so fast for a woman before. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that she uplifted him, drawing him out of cynicism into a happiness he was enjoying wholeheartedly; a happiness that had taken him so off-guard, his usual defenses were useless against it. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to employ them anymore. Beth was welcome in.
He stroked her hair until she drifted asleep, then still went on gazing as the slow, feather-quiet sway of her breathing caressed him with peace.
“I love you,” he whispered, closing his eyes, sinking into dreams.
And behind her own closed eyes, Beth lay awake, holding her heart tight, trying not to break into a thousand bright pieces.
—
There are many awkward experiences a woman might experience. Being caught without menstrual protection. Not realizing until after getting home that there has been a bit of lettuce stuck in one’s teeth since lunch. But surely the worst must be waking in the arms of one’s professional rival, with whom one almost surrendered every scruple the night before. It might seem like a cozily romantic moment, but only to someone who’s already brushed their hair and applied deodorant.
Beth regarded Devon’s quiescent face, mere inches from her own, with considerable anxiety. Was he asleep? Would he remain so if she moved? Had there ever been a more beautiful man in the existence of the world?
Realizing there was no safe way to answer these questions, she did the only thing possible: twisting her lower half toward the edge of the bed, she slithered backward. Devon’s arm, hooked over her, slipped until just his hand lay on her arm. She paused, holding her breath, but he did not wake. So she slithered some more—his hand dropped to the mattress—his eyelashes stirred—Beth froze, but as he gave no other sign of waking, she exhaled with relief…
And fell off the bed.
Holding her breath, she peered up over the edge of the bed to check that Devon kept sleeping. (Really, it was unfair that any man should be so beautiful.) Reassured, she rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled across the room as fast as possible for someone in a long dress and petticoats, to say nothing of her corset. Reaching her suitcase at last, she clutched it in both arms, stood up, and tiptoed toward the door, all the while glancing nervously at Devon’s motionless form. Alas, thus glancing, she forgot to look where she was going and collided with a dollhouse. Tiny window shutters clattered. Even tinier furniture tumbled noisily. Holding her breath again, Beth waited, but Devon did not stir. The sable locks draped over his forehead remained in place, the curve of his lips lay in the dream of a smile, and her heart yearned toward him even as she continued on out the door.
—
Devon waited until the door closed behind Beth, then turned onto his back. Pushing a hand through his hair, he stared at the ceiling with an expression that would have been entirely bleak except the butterflies painted there made that impossible.
He’d known she would leave him. Everyone did, and of course a woman as intelligent and sensitive as Beth Pickering would be no different. He could only admire that she’d escaped his corrupting influence so quickly, despite how much it hurt.
Which was a lot.
He loved her. It was astonishing; he’d had longer relationships with a block of cheese, but there it was—he interrogated the idea from several angles, set it against various laws of human behavior, and sought a second opinion from skepticism, before concluding that he just loved her, completely, hopelessly, with all the scrappy mess of his heart. No doubt his father would frown disapprovingly, since emotions were an impediment to career success; and his aunt Mary would need an application of smelling salts, since she’d always wanted him to marry a nice American girl and stay in the United States, where news of his exploits would not reach her gardening club; and Gabriel would—
Oops, Gabriel.
Devon groaned. He’d completely forgotten about his cousin, who was probably sitting at home in Oxford, thinking about the conference he’d missed and cursing Devon’s very existence. Devon owed him a humble apology, transport costs, and most likely a signed declaration that Gabriel Tarrant was the Superior Cousin. But it would have to wait. He had important work ahead.
Questioning Gladstone about the caladrius’s location.
Securing the bird for himself.
Being awarded Birder of the Year.
And doing whatever was necessary, including relinquishing those other goals, to win over Beth Pickering.
Which meant catching up to her now. Climbing out of bed, Devon dressed in fresh clothes, washed cursorily, and in less than ten minutes was powering toward the boardinghouse’s front door.
And there she was.
Standing opposite the dining room entrance, she was eyeing it with trepidation as she chewed a thumbnail. She hadn’t left him.
She hadn’t left him. She was just getting breakfast.
Or, at least, trying to summon the fortitude needed for getting breakfast, considering what sounded like a minor crowd inhabited the room. He smiled. If it had been a flock of birds, she’d be inside already, and he’d have run off without seeing her. Thank goodness for her introversion.
He tilted his head to the side, contemplating her. Gone was the pretty dress; she’d dressed instead in a simple beige skirt and white shirtwaist, presenting the quintessential image of an English lady professor, calm, sensible, restrained—except for her hair, bereft of its pins, which he’d scattered to the office floor last night. It flowed down her back, utterly indiscreet.
His hands tingled with the memory of having been in that hair, the softness drifting against his bare fingers. His trousers began to feel tight at the thought that she was going to breakfast in an unbound state because of him. (His brain flashed images of the caladrius at him, alongside the Birder of the Year trophy, but he did not notice.)
She hadn’t left him. Hadn’t crept out with her clothes in her arms before he could ask for anything more than sex, hadn’t walked away without looking back while he stood on a transatlantic steamship’s deck trying not to cry, just a scared boy no matter how clever he might be.
Shaking his head, he hastily summoned a rascally expression and ambled toward her.
“Good morning, Miss Pickering.”
She did not jolt or gasp, as he thought she might. “Mr. Lockley,” she said, bestowing upon him the briefest glance.
Ah, so she was going to be like that. His smile deepened. Someone ought to teach her that standoffish behavior was a siren call to scoundrels. Hands in his pockets, he glided to her side and nudged his elbow against hers.
“Sleep well?”
“Adequately,” she replied. But then her good heart had her adding in a softer tone, “And you?”
He loved her, loved her. “Blissfully, thank you.”
“I’m glad. However, before we continue, I must clarify something. Last night was a temporary aberration induced by the peculiar stresses of the competition, and the experience will not be replicated. I trust you agree?”
“I do,” he said easily. Then he bent to whisper close to her ear. “After all, I never kiss a woman the same way twice.”
She did gasp then, looking up at him with an outrage that wavered when she discovered how near their faces were to each other, then melted completely as she gazed into his eyes. Devon knew he could have kissed her right then and won her surrender. But instead, he offered his arm. She laid her hand on it as if mesmerized, and he escorted her gentlemanlike into the dining room.
—
