Page 52 of Bad Luck Bride (Scandal at the Savoy #3)

T he day after their tour of the hotels, Devlin made sure to stay away from the Mayfair as much as possible, for he knew that the game of romance required both pushing forward and strategic retreat.

But the next day, when he received another note from her, inquiring if the day following he was free to view more properties, he was glad to answer in the affirmative.

Though his goal was courtship with a view to matrimony, he knew he could not endure the excruciatingly sedate wooing that involved long strolls side by side under the watchful eyes of chaperones, dancing only once at each ball, and having afternoon tea with her mother, and he very much doubted such efforts would bring Kay any closer to changing her mind.

Touring the hotels gave him opportunities to be alone with her, as Delia had shrewdly surmised, but he suspected that even that wouldn’t be enough.

She hadn’t quite forgiven him for that kiss at the house party, but he sensed that if he could only kiss her again, hold her in his arms, awaken her passion, he might get somewhere.

If she didn’t haul off and slap him, of course.

And a few kisses might eventually persuade her to agree to marry him.

It was a risky strategy, though, for he didn’t want to compromise her, not again, and he would have to tread carefully.

With that in mind, he appeared at her office at the appointed time. Kay, however, didn’t seem to notice his arrival, for she was standing behind her desk, staring at a slip of pale pink paper in her hand, a wide smile on her face.

He tapped his knuckles on the doorjamb, giving a cough, and she looked up.

“Good morning,” he said and nodded to the paper in her hand as he came in. “You look as if you backed a longshot and won the Derby.”

She laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. But look.”

She held out the paper with a triumphant flourish as he halted in front of her desk. “I just got paid. ”

She said the word almost reverently. He leaned closer, studying the bank draft a bit dubiously, not sure a mere five pounds was worth such veneration. “Well, yes,” he murmured. “That’s rather the hope when one obtains employment. That one will be paid.”

“I’ve never been paid wages before. I mean, I get a dress allowance from Giles, of course, but that’s different.” She looked down at the check and laughed again. “I worked for this. I earned it.”

She sounded almost… awed. She lifted her head again, her smile so happy, it made him smile, too. “Why, Kay, you seem almost giddy.”

“So I am! You’re laughing at me,” she accused, still smiling.

“I’m not,” he denied. “Well,” he amended at once, “maybe a little.”

“Oh, I’m sure five pounds a week is a tiny fraction of what you earn in a year, but…” She paused, waving the check in the air. “It’s so gratifying to feel one is useful .”

That took him back, rather. “You don’t feel as if you are useful?”

“Most women don’t,” she countered, making a face.

“We pay calls and do the season and go to house parties. We buy clothes and write letters, we garden, we embroider cushions, and raise funds for charity… but it’s all for the sole purpose of killing time.

Until we’re married, we have no place, no real purpose but to be decorative. ”

“That’s rather true for gentlemen, too,” he pointed out.

“We obtain educations that prepare us for no trade, occupation, or profession. We live off our quarterly allowance—well, not me, since my father disowned me ages ago and I kicked against the pricks and trained as a mining engineer, much to my family’s embarrassment, but what you describe is true for most gentlemen we know. ”

“I suppose it is.” She waved the check in the air. “This is so much more gratifying.”

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling at her, savoring the joy he saw in her face. “But I’d happily pay you a hundred pounds every day if I could see you smile at me like that.”

Abruptly, he looked away, suddenly, oddly embarrassed. “We had best be going. I’ve hired a carriage for the entire day. I thought it better than trying to find cabs. If you’re ready?”

“I am.” She put the bank draft in the top drawer of her desk, then retrieved her handbag from beneath her desk, then she rose, hooked her handbag over her arm, and started for the door.

“Did you see Delilah Dawlish lingering out there anywhere, waiting to pounce?” she asked over her shoulder as he followed her.

“I didn’t. Perhaps she’s moved on. Perhaps someone else’s scandal has pushed us off the front page of her wretched paper.”

Kay brightened. “I know I shouldn’t find that to be a happy prospect…” She paused, making a face. “But, sadly, I do.”

“Well, I ordered the driver to pull into the alley, just to be on the safe side.”

Kay took her straw boater hat down from its peg on the coat tree and pulled her hatpin from the crown. “That was wise of you,” she said as she put on her hat and secured it in place.

They left the hotel, and Kay ordered the driver to take them to Red Lion Square.

“Holborn, eh?” Devlin said, assisting her into the carriage as the driver climbed up onto the box.

She nodded. “We have four hotels to see today. Holborn, Bloomsbury, Soho, and ending in Marylebone.”

Their tour took them most of the day to complete, but Devlin found little opportunity for anything more than conversation.

The first two hotels they visited were still in operation, with dozens of people milling about.

They had lunch in a crowded Bloomsbury tea shop, and the third hotel, in a very poor section of Soho, had boarded up windows, broken shingles, and peeling paint.

It wasn’t, they decided, even worth a look.

But in Marylebone, the Portland Hotel gave him cause for hope. It was empty, for one thing, and as they began to explore the rooms on the first floor, Devlin saw a heaven-sent opportunity for a little romance.

“One thing’s certain,” he said, nodding to the walls of the suite’s sitting room. “The wallpaper will have to be replaced.”

“I’m afraid so,” she agreed, running a hand over the peeling paper. “There’s no saving it.”

“It’s a shame, though.” He moved to stand behind her, stretching out his arm above her shoulder. “Gardenias,” he said, tracing the petals of one of the flowers. “Your favorite.”

“Yes,” she agreed with aggravating indifference.

“Go on,” he coaxed when she fell silent. “Ask me how I know that.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. “I’m not asking.”

He flattened his palm against the wall, his chest brushing her shoulder. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course.”

“Then why aren’t you asking me?”

Her face was in profile, but he didn’t miss the faint smile that curved her mouth. “Because you so badly want me to.”

“You devil,” he murmured. He leaned even closer, playing with fire. “C’mon, ask me.”

She made a choked sound—a stifled laugh—then pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “I won’t.”

“C’mon,” he murmured in her ear. “If you don’t…”

Beneath the brim of her hat, her eyebrow lifted in a delicate arch, daring him. “If I don’t?” she asked.

“If you don’t, I might have to send you pineapple lilies next time.”

“Pineapple lilies?” She turned her head, and he pulled back a fraction. “What are those?”

“They grow in South Africa. They’re quite pretty, but they smell like a dead body.”

“Lovely.”

“I’ll send a footman with them while you’re out. That way, the room will be divinely wretched by the time you return.” He gave her a look of apology. “I advise you not to test me on this.”

“Oh, very well, since you are determined to use blackmail…” She paused and turned toward him. “How did you know gardenias are my favorite? I don’t remember ever telling you that.”

He smiled back at her. “You didn’t.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I made a calculated guess.” He paused, leaning closer, inhaling deeply, relishing the arousal that began rising inside him even as he reminded himself to keep his head. “Your hair always smells like gardenias. Scented soap, I imagine?”

She tossed her head and looked away, making a scoffing sound that wouldn’t have deceived a child. “That seems like pretty slim evidence to me.”

“On the contrary. No woman would ever wear a scent she didn’t love.”

She sniffed as if unimpressed. “I daresay you know a great deal about what women love.”

He grinned at that. He couldn’t help it; she sounded so prim. “I know enough,” he said. “But I also overheard you in the flower shop at the Savoy, saying you wanted a gardenia for your hat. And…”

He paused again, his grin fading as his arousal rose higher.

“And,” he resumed, bracing himself for the torture he knew was to come, “the first time I ever saw you, you had a gardenia in your hair. Right here,” he added softly, lifting his hand to her temple.

Her hair felt like silk, and without thinking, he leaned forward as if to kiss her, but he jerked back in time, letting his hand fall and reminding himself sternly not to ruin the moment by rushing things.

She was staring at him as if in disbelief. “You remember the flower in my hair? After all this time? Most men, I daresay, wouldn’t even know what flower it was, much less remember it fourteen years later.”

He lowered his gaze to her full pink lips, then lifted it again to look into her eyes. “I remember everything, Kay.”

Her tongue flicked over those lips, calling to the desire inside him. “You do?”

“I do,” he said, and took a deep breath, summoning all his control, “I remember that night in Chiswick in the maze, when I kissed you for the very first time. The moon was nearly full, and I remember it made your eyes look like silver. I remember the scent of your hair and the feel of your body in my arms.”