Page 49 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Devyn was sure now that he hadn’t fallen in love with a mere woman, but a goddess.

Only, before because she was beautiful, more than beautiful. Visually perfect in a way that made artists believe in God, and turned doubting heretics into believers. The kind of noticeable gorgeousness that men fought wars over.

And she had been his.

He had told himself while he thought he was rotting away that he’d do the noble thing and give her up, let her be happy, let her get all that she wanted that he couldn’t give her. He’d have sold his own soul to give it to her, but not his brother’s, and that was the cost.

But tonight, now that he’d had her again, he didn’t know that he could do it again.

Because she wasn’t just a woman, she was a goddess.

In that ethereal way in which you’re cursed, you meet a goddess in the woods, or in Devyn’s case, beneath a willow tree, and it fucks you up forevermore.

There is no going backwards or forwards, because you’re in her grasp.

And no matter how many mortar shells she throws in your life, no matter how bad you think maybe you’d like to hurt her back, you’re under her spell.

When she’d closed the curtain behind her and slowly let go of his hand digit by digit, Devyn knew that the spell was still cast all over him, and there was no cure.

“Whose perfume ye wearin’?” Calum asked, eyeing Devyn as he took a seat across from him in Peregrine’s club.

Devyn leaned back in his chair, propping his cane beside him, his brows going all cross and defensive. He pointed with one finger in his friend’s direction. “You’re taking the piss, man, I don’t—”

“Oh my god,” Peregrine threw his head in his hands. “You didn’t.”

“He definitely did,” Calum argued, shit-eating grin on his swarthy face.

Devyn avoided both of their stares, taking a sip of his drink. Regrettably, the burn in the back of his throat as he swallowed wasn’t strong enough to wash the taste of her away.

“This is going to be the worst night of my life,” Peregrine said, throwing back his brandy.

Devyn pulled back, affronted. “Bit dramatic. You mean worse than when you thought I died.”

“Yes,” Calum and Peregrine said in unison.

Devyn looked between the two of them, obviously missing something. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Clairville!” A voice called from behind Devyn. The voice sounded the same as a mortar shell, a dinner gong that day at her manor house, a death rattle. It was the sound it was all over before he wanted it to be.

All three men turned in the direction of a tall, bronze-skinned man with stupidly green eyes, immaculately dressed. Devyn recognized him from the theater. Of course he would look like a storybook prince with a deep tan.

“Your Grace,” Peregrine said, standing to defer to the Duke. Devyn didn’t move. Calum didn’t either, his eyes on Devyn. “If you’re knee deep in shit, guess we both got dirty boots, then,” he’d said once.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Captain Devyn Winter, and his comrade, Lieutenant Calum Sterling.”

Devyn knew that Perry knew he wasn’t a Captain anymore. Didn’t know why he gave him a title he no longer held and demoted his best friend in the process, but fuck it. He’d never deign to contradict his older brother in Moria’s Conquest’s hearing.

“Your Grace,” Devyn said, chin high, eyes cold. Devyn knew that he could intimidate men when he wanted to. There was a place he went in his mind when he was facing an opponent, and this man, this Duke, definitely was one.

The other man looked him over, both a little intimidated and a little unfazed at the same time.

Other men always seemed to note Devyn’s height, his shoulders, how large he was, how big his hands were.

Some, itching for a fight and others desperate to avoid starting one.

He’d love to put his fist through this toff’s face.

He’d been on strict orders from the physician now that he was making so much progress not to overexert himself.

Already disregarded that bit of advice in the alcove, hadn’t he?

Fuck it. He had nearly died in a rescue attempt of a comrade, a man with soft hands and floppy hair didn’t scare him.

“Heard you were hit in Bajgah, terrible business,” Moria’s Pretty Duke said, sitting next to him.

Devyn stared over at him. “Did you?” Took a sip of his fresh drink, because god damn it, calling him Moria’s Duke even in his head after making his fiancé moan his name? He should feel guilt, shame, maybe; but he didn’t.

And that was the roughest part of it all. She’d been there too, she’d been willing, they’d both wanted it. God, he’d nearly died with her name on his lips. But having her fiancé sitting next to him an hour later was not where he’d thought this night was going to go.

Devyn looked at Perry, who mouthed: “Sorry,” in his direction.

The Duke was talking. Several others in his party had wandered over.

Apparently, he and Perry knew each other from Cambridge.

Perry was the one who’d told His Grace, The Duke of Stolen Fiancés, that Devyn had gone down.

For a second there, he’d thought Moria had mentioned it. He should have known better.

So now, here he was. An injured captain who’d given up the commission and leadership he’d trained and bled for, sitting next to the man who’d done what Devyn should have done. She deserved someone who’d choose her. That’s what the Duke had done, not Devyn.

“Glad you made it out, Captain,” The Duke said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Devyn raised a brow.

“Alright, you’re… not a verbose man,” the Duke said, looking over at Perry for some sort of commiseration.

Devyn’s jaw clenched. Did this man misread her like he misread Devyn? Was he thick or just self-absorbed? Devyn felt anger spreading through his body like poison.

Someone called to him, the Duke held up a finger. “Clairville? You joining us for the stag party, or is your brother playing chaperone tonight?”

Perry met his eyes, chewed on his lip.

From behind the Duke’s back, Devyn mouthed Stag Party? With incredulity.

It was Calum who spoke first. “Well, Yer Grace, ye won’t believe it actually, but I got meself engaged as well. Captain,” he said, giving Devyn a wink, “is takin’ me out for me own stag party tonight so I’m sure ye won’t mourn our absence.”

His Disgrace looked at Devyn’s best friend as though taking him in for the first time. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re the fellow Miss Dempsey is engaged to?”

The Duke called for a footman to bring another round of drinks. Calum tried to put him off, but the Duke wouldn’t hear of it. An empty display of power and generosity for an audience who could not have cared less, Devyn thought.

The Pompous Duke shook his head, “Lady Moria told me that her maid was leaving for…” he leaned closer to Devyn’s best friend until he felt Devyn’s glare and pulled back with a grimace.

“You’ll forgive my future wife, ‘a redheaded Scottish soldier every bit as besotted as he is broad shouldered,’ is the description she gave.

And I’ll tell you something,” he paused to take a drink from a tray proffered between them, “People can say all kinds of things about her, but she’s been more excited to plan Ella’s wedding, and to see her happy.

I’m sure your Ella is a most deserving young lady. ”

Devyn couldn’t hear any more. He stood, walking away from the table and the assembly in his brother’s club, without so much as a by-your-leave from the Duke.

“Peculiar though,” the Duke’s voice raised, stopping Devyn in his tracks. “She told me that Ella was marrying a Captain. Promoted after the former Captain was killed in action. But Clairville, you said your brother was the Captain, and this man is only a Lieutenant.”

Fuck.

Devyn blew some air out of his mouth. He read the other man’s face for signs of knowing, that look on a person’s face when they’ve registered something and you’ve been caught out.

Couldn’t. His anger and loathing that they had come to this made it hard for him to be objective, the way a captain in Her Majesty’s Army had to be.

He wasn’t one anymore. Guess that was for the best, then.

He could get a dishonorable discharge or worse for what he was about to do.

Devyn threw his cane, Calum caught it in one quick hand.

“You want some fucking prize?” Devyn was standing so close to the Duke, his height and size making a natural buffer. A vein pulsed in Devyn’s neck, his forehead.

The Duke shook his head, didn’t back down or look away. “Think I’ve already got it,” he said, taking a sip of his drink as he kept his eyes locked on Devyn’s.

If Devyn had been standing at a cliff, contemplating jumping, what he did next was the equivalent to throwing his arms wide and taking a leap.

Because Moria was not a prize for some arrogant toff and he’d lay his body down right here in some overly decorated club to prove there was no price he wouldn’t pay for her honor.

Devyn felt his muscles stretch and constrict as he reared back, planted his feet, and prepared to slam his cannon-sized fist into a Duke’s face. He was already going to lose her, had probably already lost her, so whatever came next, he was prepared for.

Only, he was prepared to make the other man bleed.

He wasn’t prepared for his best friend to wrap his own hand around Devyn’s, and for Peregrine and some other man he couldn’t see, to pull him back.

Lawrence Pembrooke tightened his hold on Devyn. “You and me, we’re going to have a little chat. My brother’s club. Tomorrow. Noon.” And backed him outside to a waiting carriage.