Page 10 of Kiss or Dare

Devon stopped, his boot hovering. He knew that voice well.

“Drinks will be involved, I suppose,” Miss Clarke said, a sniff clear in the tone of her voice.

Devon turned slowly and offered her a tight-lipped grin. “My, Miss Clark, you do move fast. Like one of those cheetahs you hear about. I thank you for it. I was in desperate need of someone to remind me of my sins, to chide me into behaving. And since I’ve not had a governess since, oh who knows how long, the duty naturally falls to you.”

She flinched and stepped back.

“Why are you here?” he grumbled.

“I should ask you that. You were supposed to be in the workshop.” Her gaze skittered away from him. Her right shoulder rolled a bit. “I was not reminding you of your sins.”

“Oh? What were you doing?”

“Watching out for you.”

“Afraid I’m going to end up passed out on the floor? You’ll have to pour champagne on my face instead of water.”

“I hope it does not come to that.”

He’d had enough. He was supposed to irritateher, but his ire grew rapidly with each of her honey-voiced words. “You always think the worst of me, Miss Clark. It tires me.”

“I do not!”

“Tell me, have you seen me in the last few months ever more than entirely sober?”

Her lips parted. No words. Her face paled. “No.”

“Precisely. I admit I was a drunken sot at Christmas, but I do know how to control myself. Without your help.” He turned. Now he did need a drink. And to win several hundred pounds or so.

“I’m sorry, Lord Devon.”

He stopped, turned.

She pulled on her earlobe, a gesture habitual for her when nervous. He’d noticed it often since he’d all but taken up residence in her home.

She took a hesitant step in his direction, her hand dropping to her side. “You are quite right. You have not touched a drop as far as I know. And if you have, what of it? I do not know why you drowned yourself at Christmas, but you obviously have control of your urges.”

He grunted.

“I apologize for failing to notice your improvement, for insisting on seeing the worst in you.” She exhaled, her eyes rolling toward the ceiling. When they dropped back down, she turned her chin to her shoulder and mumbled, “I liked you better when I was invisible to you.”

Invisible? An odd statement perhaps not meant for him to hear. All of it, though—her apology, her odd musings—took the steam right out of his ire.

He took her hand, and she turned to stone. Not even her chest moved with the rise and fall of breathing. The only hint of life in her was the slow flush of red across her chest, up her neck, and to her cheeks. Funny that they were required to cover their hands when such rosy flesh remained exposed to every man’s hungry gaze.

Devon stepped closer, using their grasp on one another to pull her closer, too. She stumbled forward, her eyes wide.

He lifted her hand, two layers of glove between them.

And patted the top of it. “You’re a good sport.”

Her brows furrowed. Her lashes fluttered. She pulled her hand free. “Thank you, I’m sure. I must return to—”

“Your admirers.Imust return to—”

“Your sinning.” She smirked. She lifted her chin in that haughty fashion of hers and swept from the room.

He chuckled, swiped a glass of champagne from a passing server’s tray, and pushed open the door to the card room. The wall of smoke hit him in the face, making him hold his breath. His stomach roiled as Miss Clarke’s scent of summer and sugar faded, replaced by the rancid smell of cheroots and sweat.