Chapter Eleven

It had been a couple days since Ophelia fled a particular townhouse on Grosvenor Square, low, masculine laughter following her departure. The man was a scoundrel. A wicked, vexing, provoking, wonderful scoundrel. And he wanted her in his bed, possibly to do all sort of delightfully wicked things to her cunny. With a groan, she admitted she had never thought in the absence of a suitable gentleman to marry, she might indulge in an affair with one who attracted all of her senses.

Spending time with her father at the British Museum; coaxing her mother to attend the Covent Garden, where they watched a delightful opera performed by the incomparable Fanny Corri-Paltoni; even attending a ball last night with Cousin Effie did not sufficiently distract Ophelia’s thoughts from tumbling recklessly down a forbidden path. She had an exhausting day shopping with Cousin Effie and Princess Cosima. They visited Rundell and Bridge, seeking a diamond choker with matching earbobs for Cosima, then toured several shops along Bond Street.

The outings should have stilled the restlessness plaguing Ophelia, but as the days passed, she was thinking of Devlin Byrne more, not less. Laughter and low murmuring of conversation swirled around her, but her concentration was frazzled. And that irritated her, for she was not the kind of woman to be so easily befuddled. She was certain of it. In three days, she was to visit Wardour Street to see Miss Fenley. Ophelia was not familiar with the area, and she would need to have her full wits about her.

“Are you well, my dear?” her mother said. “You are awfully quiet.”

Lowering the fork that still held a piece of succulent veal speared on its tip, she said, “I fear I am poor company for dinner this evening. I have a slight headache.”

“The sun was intolerable today, and you wore that little flip of a hat instead of a bonnet that would have afforded you much more protection,” her mother said with a sigh. “You do appear frightfully flushed.”

Cousin Effie turned concerned eyes to her. “Do you still have plans to attend Lady Bloomfield’s ball?”

“I’ll send my regrets,” Ophelia said, pushing back her chair to stand. “Mama, Papa, if you’ll excuse me. I believe I shall retire to bed early.”

Dipping into a respectful curtsy to her family, she hastened from the formal dining room and made her way up the winding stairs to her chamber. Her maid helped her remove her clothes and the pins from her hair, tumbling the heavy tresses to her back. Then she sat while her hair was brushed to make it shine, the traditional one hundred strokes. Clad only in her chemisette, Ophelia sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling, unaware of the creeping darkness as night blanketed the city, unable to sleep.

She was caught in a quandary and at a loss on how to proceed. Avoiding thinking about it was not a solution, and as the last few days proved, her problem only lingered in her thoughts, waiting to haunt her while she slept. She had always been decisive, chasing after what she wanted. Her mother often bemoaned that her wild energy would be her ruination. And for the first time, Ophelia felt her mother’s worries might prove correct.

Her thoughts were indelibly captured by Devlin Byrne.

When his lips touched hers, Ophelia had ceased to remember that he was the forbidden fruit. His fingers had evoked sensations and wicked yearnings that must be wrong but had felt so existential. It had felt like the rays of a thousand suns caught her skin.

So her sex was her cunny…and he wanted to kiss it. The idea was too scandalous to contemplate. How would he do it? Through her drawers, or would he remove them…his mouth and tongue to her bare skin?

As if I would ever allow myself to be so reckless with you…

Worse, she had no current notions of how she could ever face the man again. She had embarrassed herself by fleeing as if the devil himself chased her. His low, masculine laughter had followed her, taunting her all the way home.

She wanted revenge.

She wanted to kiss him again and again.

She wanted…

Ophelia blew out a sharp breath, curved her body around her largest pillow, and buried her face against its softness. His kisses had felt good. Extraordinarily good. Her lips tingled, and Ophelia lifted her shaking fingers to a mouth that still wore the impression of Devlin Byrne. She licked her lips, and she swore she tasted him still—a hint of whisky, something evocative. She couldn’t say exactly what it was about him that drew her; she knew only that she was irrevocably drawn, perhaps to her detriment.

Unexpectedly, she felt a surge of envy for what Kitty and Maryann had experienced. Not for marriage or even love, but for a connection that filled them with sensations that did not encompass loneliness and uncertainty. Ophelia craved to feel that intense, forbidden thrill of his touch…of his kisses. “What am I to do?” she whispered.

The barely lit chamber provided no answer.

I want you…

She lifted one hand to the valley between her breasts and lightly stroked down her quivering belly. Drifting her hand lower, she rested her fingers lightly above her mons, warmth working through her entire body. Her hand drifted lower and lower still until she touched the very place he had rested his palm with such surety. She felt a flood of heat, and a curious shock moved through her body.

Forbidden lovers.

For a moment, Ophelia allowed herself to imagine being clasped in Devlin’s embrace. She would take her fingers and thread them through his dark hair. She would be brave…and wicked enough to press her body against his as he stroked and molded the shapes of her breasts, hips, and then once again caressed that secret place between her thighs.

Her palm turned hot and damp. Her fingers shook as the temptation to stroke herself rose in her fevered thoughts. The remembered feeling of his fingers rubbing her…cunny flushed her entire body with delicious heat. The sheer intimacy and trust she had placed in Devlin had been toe-curling, freeing, and like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

With a guilty groan, she admitted to herself she wanted to feel his body atop hers, heavy and strong. She wanted to indulge in all manner of delightful naughtiness with him.

I barely know him! To have such a longing was nonsensical.

Her thoughts lingered on those days in the cottage. They had been two children scared witless who had forged a connection in their determination to be brave. Friendship, trust, and a bond had been formed, and not once had Ophelia thought herself better than him. In fact, with the little she knew about marriage, she had thought Niall perfect. For he cared for her. In his own way, he had loved her truly, and all of her little self had adored him.

She remembered the days she had buried her face in the pillows and sobbed her little heart out. The despairing looks her mother would give her father. And the insensitive means they had used to distract her from thoughts of a poor boy who had no role in her life.

His wild, determined cry before that door had closed clung like a phantom ghost in her ears. Wait for me… Ophelia had unintentionally waited. Now there was a chasm between them, one of class and prejudice. To even pursue their friendship now felt like a distant hope that might never be attainable.

Only if I let it.

Agitated, she sat on the edge of the bed, curling her toes into the soft carpet. “What am I thinking?”

Society would skewer them if she dared to align herself with him in any way, and she would not have her parents’ support. “Hang society,” she muttered crossly, standing to walk over to her windows and look down in the back gardens.

Everything she longed for seemed unattainable, and the stumbling block was her own judgment. Irritation snapped through Ophelia, for, like her friends, she loathed that her life was not controlled by what she wanted but by the condescending, boorish, bigoted, unjustified opinions of others. A soft bleat had her hurrying over to her bed to scoop up Barbosa, who tried to stand on shaking legs. Holding him close to her chest, she padded back with him over to the windows.

She cuddled him close to her chest, inhaling his lavender scent. Ophelia had insisted her companion be given daily baths in scented water, to her mother’s annoyed shock. Even her maid and several other servants seemed to have fallen in love with the baby goat. Her mother was a tougher nut to crack, while her father was at best indifferent to his presence.

“What am I to do with the desires in my heart, Barbosa? They will not leave me be.”

Another soft bleat came from him, and then he caught the edge of her chemisette between his teeth. Ophelia laughed and snuggled him even closer. Then the ghost of Kitty’s words whispered to Ophelia.

“We will have to be wicked, improper, and terribly scandalous.”

“Improper and scandalous,” she whispered with a smile, tapping her finger against the glass. “And why not? Did we not promise to take what we wanted and live for ourselves, that it would be marvelous to be wicked?”

The ghost of Maryann’s voice joined in the arguments for giving in to temptation.

“We must be daring and take what we need instead of waiting, wasting away on the shelves our family and society have placed us on.”

Something unlocked inside of Ophelia, and a pulse of vibrant awareness scythed through her. She rested her forehead on the cool windowpane, welcoming the swell of something intangible but decidedly free blossoming throughout her body.

Unexpectedly, she laughed and covered her face with her palms.

…

The very next morning, as if the devil had known she dreamt of him and temptation for the long night, he sent her a note. Cousin Effie, who waited a few paces down in the hallway, threw Ophelia an inquisitive glance.

“You looked flushed, Ophelia. Are you unwell?”

“On the contrary, Effie, my heart is enlivened. I… It is a letter from a friend. If you will grant me a moment, I must read it and pen a reply before we head for the park.”

Without awaiting Effie’s response, Ophelia darted around and hastened to her private parlor. She wrenched the door open, then entered, closed the door, and leaned against it. With slightly shaking fingers, she tore into the envelope.

Another elegantly scrawled note.

Have dinner with me.

There was a quickening low in Ophelia’s belly, a thrum of anticipation throughout her entire body. No money was offered, and sweet relief rushed through her. When she sauntered from the parlor, the sound of the pianoforte playing pulled her to the music room. She went over and sat beside Effie, lightly skipping her fingers over the keys until she found the perfect piece to match her cousin. They played a duet for several minutes until their songs ended.

“A much lighter and livelier piece than what you played this morning,” Effie murmured.

Ophelia glanced at her cousin, who watched her with piercing curiosity. “I thought the household abed.”

“I could not sleep and went to the kitchen for some milk. It was on the way back to my chamber I heard you playing. I peeked in on you, and you were so intent you did not even hear me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine how that little goat lay on the carpet so peacefully.”

Ophelia chuckled. “Barbosa loves my playing.”

“What a ghastly name.”

“How disagreeable of you to say so. It is lovely,” she said tenderly.

Cousin Effie touched her shoulder. “I can tell that a gentleman sent you that note.”

Ophelia’s breath hitched. “Effie—”

“I can also tell that you like this gentleman—absurdly so. You… The instant your fingers touched that envelope, it was as if you’d awakened from sleep.”

“Surely not,” she replied, mortified to be so obvious in her tendre.

Effie grinned. “Your mother will be pleased when it is announced; only yesterday she mentioned how much she wished for you to marry and settle into your own home, even though they left the decision in your hands. I know your reckless heart and that gleam in your eyes intimately. I urge you to be careful that your evident affections do not lead you to marry in haste.”

It felt as if a fist closed over her heart. “Effie…”

“Yes?”

Unable to speak past the ache in her throat, she pushed a smile to her lips. “I would like to visit Hatchards to collect a few books I ordered last week. Will you accompany me?”

“Yes.”

“Effie?”

Her cousin frowned at the tightness in Ophelia’s tone. “What is it?”

“I would have your confidence on a matter of grave importance.”

Effie gently touched her arm. “Please be assured of my discretion.”

“I am searching for someone. A woman by the name of Sally Martin.” No recognition sparked in Effie’s eyes, and Ophelia released a slow breath. “Since Mama is determined for you to accompany me about town for a more correct appearance, there are a few places I will traverse that might alarm your sensibilities. I promise you that it is safe, and for now, that is all I can tell you.”

“I gather you will not stop these visits,” Effie said somberly. “Even if I make an objection?”

“I will not. It is very important to me. A friend has also invited me to a dinner party. I might attend,” she said softly. “I am not certain if I shall accept as yet.”

“Then I shall accompany you if you accept,” said her cousin simply with a smile. “Dinner parties are always delightful.”

“Thank you, Effie.” Ophelia hugged her, unable to explain the emotions rising inside at her cousin’s unflinching support.

Perhaps she might tell her of Devlin, and Effie could help her to resolve the unrelenting cravings that beat in her heart for the man. The butler announced another letter had arrived for Ophelia. With a frown, she took it, breaking into a wide smile when she saw that it was from Maryann. Hurrying into the parlor, she used a letter opener on the envelope.

…

Dearest Ophelia,

Nicolas and I are getting married in a few days’ time by special license in the family chapel at his principal estate. I am sorry for the short notice, but promise me that you’ll come. My heart is already breaking that Kitty will not be here to witness my happiness. Please travel down as soon as possible so we can spend some time together. I’ve also invited Fanny, Charlotte, and Emma.

Love, Maryann.

P.S. The address is Delacree Park, Wiltshire, and the wedding will be at ten o’clock.

…

A hush settled over the small intimate gathering of friends and family as the bride appeared. The groom, who had waited with an absolute stillness that had been remarked upon, jolted, a sensual smile curving his mouth. His bride, Lady Maryann Fitzwilliam, soon to be the Marchioness of Rothbury, appeared enchanting. She wore a fashionable cream gown that flattered her slender yet curvaceous figure. The hem was trimmed with delicate seed pearls, and her head was covered with a long cream veil in priceless Chantilly lace upon which a small diamond tiara was set.

Ophelia leaned backward from where she sat cramped together on a hard pew in the small chapel belonging to Nicolas St. Ives’ country seat. It was a beautiful old building that, as part of his family’s personal estate, had not been devastated by the Tudor desecration of religious buildings. It was simple in design but had such depths of history. Ophelia breathed in the fragrance of incense and the arrangements of roses that scented the chapel, and she could not imagine anything more perfect.

A wide smile curved her mouth as her dearest friend hovered in the arched entrance of the chapel and stared at the man who loved her with every breath inside him. Maryann was flushed, her eyes bright, her countenance one of pure, unguarded joy.

“How lovely she looks,” Cousin Effie said wistfully. “I’ve always thought her a little mousey with those spectacles she wears, but today she is…”

“Maryann has always been beautiful,” Fanny said with loyal sincerity, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Oh, my,” Charlotte said, clasping her hands together. “Would you look at the marquess’s face?”

“The man is scandalous,” Effie said stiffly. “He looks like he wants to eat up his bride.”

Glancing at the marquess, Ophelia froze, her stomach flipping alarmingly. When she had danced with Devlin…when they walked in the rain…and when they kissed. Devlin looks at me like that—as if he wishes to consume me.

That thought was a revelation to her.

An unknown tempest brewed in her breastbone, and chaotic longings tapped inside Ophelia’s heart, the rhythm feeling like a song. She wanted to be kissed, to be held in a lover’s embrace, to be stared at with such poignant longing and care. Not just by any lover…by Devlin.

I want Devlin Byrne.

“I truly think eat is too tame a word,” Emma said, two spots of color high on her cheekbones. “The man has no shame!” Yet her tone also reflected longing and envy, a feeling Ophelia understood.

“Maryann is blushing,” Charlotte said, a glint of mischief appearing in her blue eyes.

“She is glowing, isn’t she?” Emma said with a sigh. “I swear I need to find something to be wicked about. That seems to be the way to secure well-sought-after gentlemen. First Kitty snagged a duke, and now Maryann a marquess.”

Ophelia, Fanny, and Charlotte laughed softly and shared an amused glance with one another.

“I wish Kitty could have been here,” Fanny said. “It would have been perfect to have all of us sinful wallflowers together.”

Ophelia also noticed how Charlotte glanced at Lord Sands, who sat on the opposite pew, a marquess in his own right and a man their friend seemed to long for. As if he felt Charlotte’s gaze, he suddenly turned his head, his obsidian eyes capturing her friend’s regard. The man had the reputation of being a dangerous flirt with no intentions to marry. His lips quirked, and even Ophelia gasped at the provocative carnality in that expression.

Charlotte quickly looked away, her pale alabaster skin turning a delightful pink.

“Well, she could have at least removed those spectacles for today,” Effie grumbled, but there was a peculiar wistfulness in her voice that had Ophelia looking at her closely.

Effie’s cheeks were pale, and her eyes held a touch of remembered pain. She had married at nineteen to an earl who had always treated her with kind consideration and love, only to have lost him in a reckless carriage race, along with a companion who had later been revealed to be a mistress of his.

Effie hadn’t completely forgiven him for the scandal that had swept through society afterward. That was five years ago. Although a widow, Effie was still so very beautiful and elegant with her pale blond hair and glistening brown eyes. Effie could have remarried but had not done so. Ophelia had asked her once if it was because of how much she had loved her husband, and Effie had merely smiled and brushed it aside.

A string quartet leaped to life, playing a beautiful song for Maryann to proceed down the aisle. Maryann took a deep breath and, as if she could not wait, she broke into a small run, at which her waiting groom chuckled.

“Why, I never!” Effie gasped, staring at her, utterly aghast. “She is markedly impulsive.”

“Be quiet,” Ophelia murmured. “You are only here because of me. And it is because Maryann is so…free and decided about what she wants that Nicolas St. Ives adores her.”

Her cousin harrumphed but remained silent for the duration of the beautiful ceremony.

Have dinner with me.

At Devlin’s remembered words, Ophelia felt as if a dream awoke inside of her. She had been undecided before, afraid of being too tempted by Devlin Byrne.

That aching dissatisfaction she had allowed herself to feel for so long reared its head. Whenever she was with Devlin, Ophelia felt as if she lived. She never felt that she had to slip on a mask of perfection, no matter how small their interactions were. A faint stirring of anticipation went through her, and in that moment she understood so much why Maryann had urged them all to be wicked and daring and free and to hunger after the things they wanted.

Life was not limitless… It would invariably end, and the idea that she might never experience something as beautiful as she witnessed cut her to her soul.

Yes…I want my very own slice of wickedness. Ophelia might not have found the love she once dreamed about, but it felt as if she had found that thing that might make her hunger to live a little. To take the leap and discard her anxiety about whoever that might disappoint. She closed her eyes briefly and only saw a darkly sensual smile and brilliant green eyes.

Yes…I’ll have dinner with you.

…

According to Devlin’s calculations, they would arrive at his home in Rochester, located on the outskirts of the city, within an hour and fifteen minutes. Riding alone with Ophelia for said time would certainly be interesting. At their few encounters so far, he’d quite enjoyed bantering with Fifi. There was something about her droll, witty repartee that made him long to simply lie with her under an oak tree and talk. He wanted to know things about his Fifi, and perhaps they could start with his carriage drive.

Not my Fifi, he reminded himself. Not his anything. Not yet.

It made no sense for him to be hopeful when he could not anticipate success. He might kiss her again, and she might slap him across the face for his improper advances. He might be acting like a fool, pursuing her to his bed. But he would be a damn careful fool. It was that easy to slide back into the old dreams he’d built up around her, despite that the reality of the woman was nothing like what he had envisioned. Fifi was unpredictable, and he liked that. She was a lover of life, and he saw that in the beauty of her singing, but he hungered for more than just her splayed beneath him. Devlin wanted to know her likes and wants, and what made her smile, what made her frustrated. He wanted her friendship. And he wanted her as his lover. He would not be stupid enough to dream of her being his wife.

“Imagine my sisters’ faces when they meet her,” he said to Conan, rubbing him behind the ears.

Devlin told himself it was the petty need inside him to see his family’s faces when he made the appropriate introductions that urged him to make said introductions. Leaning against the squabs, he heard when the steps were knocked down and a soft murmur to his footman.

Fifi entered the carriage sheathed in a golden dress, which clung alluringly to her curves, a matching pelisse, and black gloves encasing her slim hands. A small hat perched atop her midnight dark hair had been swept up in a simple chignon, with artful curls kissing her cheeks and shoulders. She wore a string of black pearls around her throat and matching earrings in her ears. The simple yet fashionable cut of the gown accented her small waist and all her generous curves, and Devlin had to look away for a moment.

Only a moment.

Her eyes seemed to laugh at him, and he arched a questioning brow. She winked, the motion so quick he almost missed it. Devlin inhaled deeply. Some faint scent clung to her, a teasing hint of honeysuckle and…something far more elusive to his common senses.

Another young lady dressed in a lovely blue gown was assisted into the carriage. She was incredibly pretty, with her hair coiffed in a fashionable style. This unknown lady appeared shocked to see him but quickly gathered her composure.

A third lady entered the carriage. She was young and dressed in a serviceable gray dress. She dipped into a quick curtsy when she saw him and lowered her eyes. The ladies sat opposite him, one audaciously staring at him with a slight smile about her mouth, the other sneaking discreet glances that volleyed from Fifi to himself. The young maid determinedly looked through the small slit in the curtains. Luckily, his conveyance was large, elegant, and up to the standards of carriages owned by important lords.

Devlin curled his fingers over the head of his cane. “You were to come alone.”

The unknown lady sucked in a breath at that brash pronouncement. Conan, who reposed beside him, woofed his greeting, then went back to resting his jowls on his paws. Devlin idly rubbed his head with his other hand.

“Though I am four and twenty and a veritable spinster, if I came alone, I would be taken for a lady of questionable character should anyone find out,” Fifi said with sweet sarcasm. “I am obliged to invite my cousin Effie, who has been tasked to be my chaperone.”

“Your chaperone?”

“Unfortunately, the impropriety of my daring to dance with you in such a public fashion made it a necessity. We unsettled my parents’ considerably unflappable composure.” Ophelia chuckled lightly, as if she found the notion of a chaperone amusing. “I thought it prudent to also have my maid accompany us. Cousin Effie, allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Devlin Byrne to you. Mr. Byrne, Lady Ephigenia Deidrick.”

He had never understood this notion of chaperoning by betters. He and Fifi would engage in discourse, and this lady would sit there and pretend she did not hear a bloody thing. Worse, this cousin was discreetly assessing him from the top of his head to the polished tips of his boots.

Tucking a wisp of hair that had escaped its elegant chignon behind her ear, Fifi settled comfortably against the squabs.

“Lady Deidrick,” he said, dipping his head in a brief bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Mr. Byrne,” she replied with a crisp smile and chilling civility. “When my cousin informed me of our outing to Rochester, she gave no indication a gentleman would accompany us. I do hope by the end of this…dinner, I can say it has been a pleasure.”

He had nothing to add to that, but he dipped his head to the maid. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The girl’s eyes widened as if she had not expected him to acknowledge her presence. Her cheeks pinkened, and she dipped her head and returned his greeting. The little miss then removed a book from the pocket of her dress and started to read.

His surprise must have shown.

“My friends and I decided months ago to teach our maids their letters and how to read. Our first act of rebellion,” Fifi said with a provocative smile.

Devlin leaned back against the squabs. “What were you rebelling against?”

Fifi’s eyes gleamed with a defiant spark. “Society. Our set can be ridiculous at times.”

Devlin stared at her for several moments. “How have you been, Fifi?” Since we last spoke…touched…walked in the rain…kissed.

Her cheek took on a rosy glow, and her eyes shifted from him briefly. “I have been quite well. Barbosa and I get along famously.”

“Why did we meet at an inn?”

“My friend Lady Maryann is now the Marchioness of Rothbury, having married by special license only two days ago. I am on my way home from the wedding.”

“I glimpsed a bit of their story in this morning’s papers. London’s most scandalous couple.”

Fifi nodded happily, and a faraway look entered her eyes. It reminded him of the days he would walk along the beaches of West Dunes, thinking of her and wishing their paths would once again cross. Back then, hunger had been a living entity within his soul. Now it was muted. Waiting. Watching. Or so he told himself, not liking the raw throb pulsing through him. There was so much he wanted to say to her, to ask her. Hell, he wanted to draw her onto his lap and kiss her senseless.

“My family will be present at our dinner.”

Her eyes widened. “It would be most lovely to meet them.” A small smile touched her mouth. “I never thanked you for my goat. Thank you, Devlin.”

An odd sound came from her cousin’s throat, no doubt at Fifi’s familiarity.

“He is Mr. Byrne to you, as you are Lady Ophelia to him,” her cousin said tightly under her breath and in a very disagreeable tone.

“How absurd,” Fifi said. There was a stubborn pride in the set of her small chin. “Devlin and I are friends, and as such, we’ve dispensed with formalities while we are amongst other friends.”

A swell of admiration went through him. He liked her lack of pretension.

Acting on rare impulse, he dipped inside his pocket and withdrew a small leather-bound book.

Surprise widened her golden-brown eyes. “Is that… You still have it?”

“I’ve read it many times.”

She laughed and blushed a little, clearly flustered. “I am not certain what to say.”

They shared a secret smile, and her cousin chose that moment to delicately clear her throat. Devlin tugged at the damn cravat that felt like it was about to choke him. The young girl seemed engrossed in the book, and the cousin seemed to find Conan fascinating, but he suspected they were keenly aware of every word that passed between him and Fifi. He was incapable of diverting his attention from Ophelia, an observation her lady maid and cousin noted, to his irritation.

Devlin closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and settled in for the journey.

He had to admire the ladies. It passed in a silence that almost felt companionable. Except he could feel their stares upon him, all with a different intention. Only Fifi’s gaze he savored, especially when he caught her ogling his body. He winked. She blushed and looked away, a naughty smile curving her mouth. The chaperone gasped and clenched her gloved fingers while staring at him more wrathfully.

The chaperone would be a problem. He wondered darkly how he could do away with her.

“What villainy art thou plotting?” Fifi murmured after more than thirty minutes of silence.

Devlin cut his gaze to her chaperone and then attempted to share with Fifi his most villainous look. Her eyes twinkled, and he thought then they were the deepest brown and prettiest he’d ever seen. Of course, despite her lowered lids and pretense of sleeping, Lady Effie harrumphed.

Several more minutes passed before the carriage turned into a stately driveaway. Fifi brushed the carriage curtains aside, and her lips parted on a soft gasp of surprise.

“Is this your home?” she asked, her tone filled with admiration.

“Yes.”

“It is beautiful!”

That had her cousin peering outside as well. The lady, however, refrained from sharing her opinions.

They drove along a graveled driveway lined with towering elm and beechwood trees up to the main house, a large manor designed in the Tudor style that had been refurbished with a more modern turret, arched windows, and entrances. The landscaped grounds were exquisitely maintained and stretched to romantic vistas enlivened with a ruin in the distance and elegant plantings. A small lake edged with weeping willows and other trees was inhabited by a profusion of water fowl, including a pair of swans that continued their stately way across the water, ignoring the new arrivals. Devlin had purchased this estate from an earl who had badly needed money to help restore his principal estate. It never ceased to amaze, how many nobs squandered their fortune at the gambling tables and ran their estates to the ground with their vices.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and he dismounted first with Conan, then assisted each lady down.

Fifi’s gaze drank in the large mansion, the sweeping lawns, the gardens, and the woodlands. “What a splendidly situated lake.”

That his estate could impress the daughter of a marquess filled him with an annoyed sense of pride. Devlin made no reply to her admiration and ushered Fifi and her cousin inside while his butler led the lady maid below stairs.

“I believe my family awaits us in the drawing room,” he murmured, waving them toward a door down the long hallway. He knocked on the door, opened it, and stepped back, allowing the ladies to precede him inside.

His two sisters, who were standing by the windows, their heads bent together in close confidence and giggling, whirled around.

“Niall, you are home!” Sara cried, hurrying over.

She paused long enough to dip into a curtsy for his guests before flinging herself into his arms. He held her to him, returning her hug. A fierce rush of love went through him.

His younger sister strolled over more sedately, her curious gaze on his guests.

“Lady Ophelia Darby, Lady Ephigenia Deidrick, allow me to present my sisters, Miss Sara Byrne and Miss Gwenn Byrne. Sara…Gwenn, meet Lady Ophelia…Fifi, and her cousin Lady Ephigenia Deidrick.”

His sisters froze, their expressions ones of comical dismay and shock. They dipped into the appropriate curtsies, but their attention was wholly on Fifi. Amusement rushed through him when Sara tossed him an accusing stare.

“You lie!” she declared passionately.

He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug, went over to the wingback chair, and lowered himself into a relaxed sprawl. He stretched out his legs and leaned back in the chair, crossing his ankles. His repose clearly offended this Cousin Effie, no doubt for its lack of refined posture. He had seen many gentlemen sit, like they had something large stuck in their arses and it might explode should they relax their shoulders and cross their legs above their knees. Devlin smiled at her, and she flushed, looking away.

“Who are you?” Gwenn demanded, staring at Fifi.