Beth went with Devon in something of a daze. Only fifteen minutes prior, she had reached the firm decision that, although she was desperately attracted to the man, there must exist some doubt as to the sincerity of his interest in her, considering she was a plain little owl and he a worldly rake. Furthermore, her own behavior had gone as far from sensible as it was possible to get without losing one’s head entirely (to say nothing of one’s virginity). So while she might reasonably continue a professional association with Devon, intelligence led her back to the same conclusion she’d made at the train station in Canterbury: she must forget romance and focus on winning **tenure**.
So how she had gone from Absolutely Setting a Boundary with Mr. Lockley Like the Independent, Educated Woman She Was! to almost immediately thereafter tingling with delight as he guided her across the corridor was a baffling mystery. Even more baffling was the fact that she found little desire within herself for solving this mystery—and, conversely, a whole lot of desire for Devon.
As they stepped into the dining room, all conversation around its long table abruptly ceased as ten heads looked up from newspapers or coffee cups to stare at them. Then, being British, looked politely away again, although with enough throat clearing and newspaper rustling to make it clear the politeness lidded a writhing mass of profanity. Beth and Devon did not say anything; it would have been pointless. The damage to their reputations was clearly now beyond repair (or at least, Beth’s reputation, Devon’s actually being improved) thanks to the front-page headlines of three different publications.
BIRDER SWEETHEARTS IN TRAIN TRYST
ORNITHOLOGISTS ORDER LOVE FROM MENU
PROFESSORS IN FINE FEATHER
Beth’s stomach roiled, and she was fairly sure it wasn’t just the smell of fried bacon causing it.
“Come along,” Devon whispered and, in the gentlest example yet of manhandling, guided her across to the sideboard. Taking a plate, he lifted the tongs set on a dish of grilled tomatoes, then turned to her.
“Some of these?” he asked. Beth looked at him confusedly for a moment before comprehending that he was serving her, not himself. At once, her vocabulary disappeared in a glittering burst of amazement. No one had ever served her unless employed to do so. And from the rather nervous look in Devon’s eyes, he’d never done it before either.
I love you. The memory of his whispered declaration at the verge of sleep took her glittering amazement and turned it into moonlit snow: romantic but also chilling. For while she might have stayed awake for hours last night imagining he really meant those words and fantasizing about where it could lead, looking at him now, with his eyes like a raven’s wing and his beautiful face, and what had been her point again? Oh yes. In morning’s light it became clear what he’d actually said was “eye of newt,” inspired by the windstorm outside to quote Macbeth. That made much more sense.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her response. She directed him to the foods she wanted, then he pulled out a chair at the table for her and ensured she was comfortably placed. By the time he brought her a cup of tea, Beth’s logic had given way to a helpless dream of their wedding day. Eventually he sat beside her with his own plate of food, and she gave him a bashful nod of thanks. He winked in reply. Turning to reach for the salt canister—
She stopped, hand in midair.
The entire company was staring at them, and judging from the range of expressions, also imagining their wedding day.
Snatching back her hand, Beth fixed an unblinking stare on her plate. How was she supposed to eat now?
“Excuse me, sir.” Devon’s voice wandered casually into the enthralled silence. “May I ask how you developed such an excellent mustache? I’ve never had luck in growing one. Perhaps you can advise me?”
Beth glanced up through her eyelashes to see the gentleman opposite her blush and stroke his whiskers. He launched into a detailed explanation of their care, and although Devon did not move, Beth could practically feel him nudging her in his friendly way. An ephemeral smile slipped across her mouth, then hid itself away again. Picking up her fork, she began to eat, and Devon guarded her peace by asking the hirsute gentleman about barbers, pomade, and the perils of crumbs, until she’d finished.
After breakfast, they left their suitcases with the landlady and set off for Professor Gladstone’s house. Summer was rousing slowly for the day, white-skied and quiet. The long, dusty road coursed through hedgerows and frothy trees, beyond which lay a view of plump hills and groves. Beth’s stomach returned to roiling now that she was alone with Devon, no other person in sight to judge her behavior. Good sense, upon being summoned, whispered pathetically that it was unwell and could not attend. She was forced to the meager resort of hugging her satchel for comfort—not a particularly effective thing to do considering the binoculars and hard-edged field journal inside.
But it was important she reset the boundary between her and Devon that she’d been so determined upon this morning, or else the villain might turn her calm waters into an absolute typhoon, and she didn’t want that, did she?
Actually I wouldn’t mind, answered her heart unhelpfully. Ignoring it, Beth glanced sidelong at Devon. “I must clarify something,” she told him.
“Again?” Devon flashed a grin. He was kicking at pebbles while he walked, an endearingly boyish behavior that had Beth veering into the middle of the road to escape the charm radiating with devastating power from him.
“Yes, I must—”
“Hyyyaah!!”
Suddenly, a great chaos of noise filled the world. Beth felt a moment’s confusion before Devon was leaping to wrap his arms around her. As he threw them both into a hedge, Beth’s confusion exploded into shock. She stared through a veil of hair at a curricle speeding away along the road, its pair of horses kicking up great clouds of dust.
“Are you all right?” Devon demanded, cradling her against him, his hand brushing the hair away from her face as he searched for injury.
“You saved me,” she sighed dreamily—then, hearing herself, forced Proper Etiquette kicking and screaming back into her brain. “I’m much obliged for your timely assistance.”
Devon chuckled. The sound vibrated through Beth’s heart, causing havoc with its already tumultuous pulse. She attempted to push herself up, but Devon held her closer, so that she was now at risk of suffocation, crushed nerves, and fatally broken scruples.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he insisted. There remained no hair against her face and yet he kept brushing. His eyes had turned the color of old fire. Beth went still, like she did when observing a distressed bird.
“I’m quite sure,” she said softly. “You should let me up before a newspaper reporter comes past.”
He nodded but did not move, except for his hand, which was now sliding down her throat. After the past week, Beth had a good idea where it might end: deep inside her feminine wiles. She tugged herself free, getting clumsily to her feet and brushing off road dust, leaves, and hot tingling sensations.
“As I was saying,” she continued a little shakily, “I must clarify something.”
Devon gave a huff of laughter. He rose, looking like a pagan god emerging from the undergrowth. At the sight, Beth’s good manners rushed forward—not to protect her but to offer themselves as sacrifices on whatever altar Devon might suggest. Appalled at herself, she began striding down the road.
For three steps before stumbling on a pebble.
Immediately, Devon was at her side, holding her upright. “You are hurt.”
The genuine anxiety in his expression melted away the last of Beth’s resistance to him. The man might be a villain, but he was a decent, good-hearted villain, and she could honestly no longer think otherwise. He listened to her, always made her feel welcome, and now here he was caring that she might be hurt. Not letting herself love that would be allowing all her bullies, the people who’d told her she was not worth care, to rule her heart. And it would be allowing them to devalue Devon too, which she couldn’t tolerate.
“I’m fine,” she told him with a smile. He did not seem convinced, however, and Beth suspected he was on the verge of carrying her all the way to Gladstone’s house. Gentle reassurances were not going to suffice. So she pulled away and began striding once more along the road, swinging her hips just a little in the way she’d seen Hippolyta employ when desirous men were on the scene.
“To clarify,” she said in her archest tone, “we are rivals, traveling together only as far as Professor Gladstone’s house, after which we will go our separate ways.”
“Of course,” he answered as he followed, his voice easing just like she’d hoped. She cast him a provoking look.
“Perhaps we may shake hands again at the Birder of the Year ceremony, when you congratulate me on winning.”
That made him smile, and Beth was relieved to see color return to his face. “You really are an angel,” he said. “I’ll mention you in my winner’s speech.”
Edging to the side of the road, Beth skimmed her fingers along a hedgerow, letting the tickle of leaves and twigs send sparks through the heavy smolder Devon’s touch had caused in her. “What would you say about me, exactly?”
