Page 4

D iana sat up in her bed and frowned. A feminine laugh filtered through her bedroom window followed by a louder one. She pursed her lips wondering where it came from. She lay back down, telling herself it had nothing to do with her. It could only be coming from the townhouse behind hers.

Years ago, Sebastian Devons, owner of a scandalous club and half-brother to the Marquess of Derry, purchased it.

At the time, all her neighbors had been up in arms about someone with his reputation buying a home in the heart of Mayfair, but eventually, they settled down.

Her mind flashed to the one time she’d met him.

Almost ten years had passed, but she still remembered and appreciated his kindness.

A loud splash and shrill laughter caused her to sit up again.

She should go back to sleep but knew she wouldn’t.

She climbed out of bed and pulled her wrap on before quietly making her way downstairs and to the drawing room.

Once in the room, she reached for the handle of the door, leading out to the terrace.

She hesitated and frowned. Why was she going outside? It had nothing to do with her.

It was so late it was almost morning. Even the fire the servants kept going in the hearth had gone out.

Ladies didn’t wander around in the dark by themselves, she told herself.

Yet she was tired of doing what ladies should.

She twirled the brown braid hanging over her shoulder.

She imagined her hair looked a mess. It always fell out while she slept.

She was a restless sleeper. Stuart used to joke that she never woke up in the same spot she went to bed in.

She pulled the door open, and the sound of more feminine laughter and splashing drifted towards her. A deep, rich, masculine voice rang out, but she couldn’t understand precisely what the man said. Pushing aside her practical thoughts, she walked down the terrace steps into the garden courtyard.

“Come, my lovelies. Out of the fountain,” the man cajoled.

“You said you were not staying at the Ball of Misdeeds, so we thought we would bring the fun to you.”

Diana glided past her own fountain in the middle of her garden to hear better.

Thick vines covering the ornate fence between her townhouse and the one behind hers blocked any possibility of a view, but she was confident the man was Devons.

His club’s success had only grown, and they now hosted two scandalous annual balls.

From gossip, she knew the Ball of Misdeeds was one of them.

A memory of him wiping her tears during their carriage ride years ago appeared in her mind. It had been a crazy night, but he’d been correct. Clara had been found the very next day, and the man who had taken her was paying for his dastardly deeds.

To some, Devons was considered nothing but a notorious rake, but Diana’s encounter that evening proved otherwise. For a moment, she pondered what he must have thought of her that night. Grimacing, she doubted it was anything memorable for him. She was, after all, one of the uneventful ladies.

She silently chastised herself for such musings.

At the time, Diana’s heart wholly belonged to Stuart.

She gulped, her stomach dropping as it always did when she thought of her husband in the past tense.

It had been two years since his passing, and she still missed him.

She pushed the thoughts away as she reached the wall. She leaned forward, listening.

“My lady, you of all people know a townhouse in the middle of Mayfair may not be the place to cause a scene.”

“Devons, you are becoming a bloody bore,” a woman said, followed by a loud smack. Something hit the ground.

Diana’s eyes widened. She knew that voice. She inched closer to the gate that separated her garden from Devons. The gate had never been used and was overgrown with vines, but she tried to peer through them, wanting to confirm who it was.

He sighed. Another woman sang, “Yay! You are joining us.”

Diana heard a deep chuckle and then more splashing.

She peered through the gate and gasped. Lady St. James and Lady Clarrow stood in the fountain, one only in her chemise and drawers and the other with her skirts lifted to her knees.

The sound of more sloshing water drifted through the gate, and her eyes widened as she witnessed Devons, only in his shirt and trousers, wading through the fountain towards them.

The ladies screeched as he got closer and darted to the other side.

Diana almost giggled at the sight they all made.

She leaned towards the opening between their gardens, and her foot hit a vine, causing her to stumble.

She fell against the gate and any confidence the vines would keep it closed disappeared quickly.

The metal door swung open, ripping the vines.

Her knees smacked the ground as she fell forward.

Heat spread across her body. She glanced up, still on all fours, and saw all three of the fountain frolickers staring at her in open-mouth shock.

She jumped up, and no one said a single word.

She should say something. Her eyes darted to Lady St. James, dressed only in her undergarments.

The lady appeared slightly embarrassed but shrugged and waved at her.

Diana’s eyes met Devons’s. He broke contact and perused her from her messy hair, lingering on the tip of her brown braid falling over her chest, and then continuing down.

She sucked in a breath. The movement seemed to startle him as he jerked his eyes back to her face.

His gaze made her tingle, disconcerting her.

She flushed, horrified that he may be able to somehow understand how he affected her. “I apologize, Mr. Devons—”

“Just Devons is fine,” he said, his voice rich and growly.

The other lady in the fountain asked, “Would you like to join us?”

Diana stared open-mouthed at Lady Clarrow, flushing even more. “I…well…I.”

“Leave her be,” Devons said to the lady before turning his gaze back to Diana. “Why don’t you return home, my lady? I’m sorry if we woke you.”

She studied him. For some reason, her eyes wandered down his form. She took in his broad chest and flat stomach, which she suspected was not only flat but firm, and then her eyes started to move further down.

“Lady Hensley?” he said, startling her.

She glanced back at his face. He smirked at her, cocking an eyebrow wickedly in some sort of invitation. She could feel her face turning red again. “Yes, you are quite right. I apologize for intruding. I promise tonight’s events will be forgotten by the morning.”

Lady St. James appeared relieved, while Lady Clarrow and Devons seemed not the least bit bothered either way.

She turned and heard Devons’s footsteps following behind her.

Diana spun back around to tell him it wasn’t necessary that he escort her and accidentally smacked his chest with one of her hands. Flustered, she took a step back.

“I don’t need you to walk me to my terrace doors,” she insisted.

“Lady Hensley, I will see you to the door as I did once before.”

Diana’s eyes flew to his, startled, he remembered.

Devons smiled, amused by her surprise. Unsure what to say or do, she simply nodded and crossed her garden.

He followed at a more leisurely pace. As she reached the door, she turned back to observe him standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her. “Good night.”

Devons nodded and spun on his heels, returning to his own garden area.

Diana entered the drawing room and shut the door, leaning against it.

What a strange night. Her mouth tilted up in amusement.

Lady St. James was certainly not an uneventful woman.

Perhaps her sister was right. No one could be put into such simple categories.

A chortle escaped her, as she really thought about the absurdity of the situation.

Diana wondered how often Devons pulled ladies out of his fountain.

She studied herself in a mirror and squeaked.

Her hair was everywhere, and her wrap was gapping in the front, revealing her nightgown.

Diana should be horrified but she imagined Devons had seen plenty of nightgowns and tousled hair.

Diana wondered what she must have looked like through Devons’s eyes but eventually pushed the thought from her mind. Why was she thinking such a thing?

*

Sebastian stood in his second-floor study, watching Lady Hensley playing with her son in her garden.

Before last night, it had been years since they’d spoken.

When he’d read about her husband’s passing, he’d been tempted to send her a missive or call on her to pay his condolences, but he’d worried about how that would look, not so much for him but for her.

She was a highly respected lady, and he was the main provider of vice to London society.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, reflecting on the previous evening.

It had been shocking when she fell through the opening between their gardens.

Her chestnut hair had wildly fallen out of a braid, and she’d been dressed only in a wrap and bed attire.

She looked so drastically different from the woman he now observed.

Today, she appeared very much like any other proper lady, every hair in place and a little cap at the back of her head.

He didn’t understand why married women chose to wear lace caps.

Was it an unwritten rule that once they wed and reached a certain age, out came the pieces of fabric?

He was being unduly harsh. Not all ladies wore them, but the ones the peerage deemed to be paragons of society certainly did.

Those caps seemed to be used to signify their standing among the peerage, even if it was a farce.

He smirked. Lady St. James often had one fashioned to her head, and she was no saint.