elegantly arranged. Every other man in the room had gone to more trouble to dress for the occasion than he.
He should have looked like a plain black crow. And yet he looked magnificent.
His hair was newly barbered: cut short and brushed sternly back with water. It seemed he disdained pomade. Kit was glad; she disliked the smell of pomade. And clearly he preferred neatness, rather than style. She wondered whether he realised that enough small rebellious locks had survived the barber and the brushing to spring up, giving a faint impression of the Windswept Style.
A tiny smile quivered inside her. So that was why he had his hair cut so brutally short. It would not do for the world to know the stern Mr Devenish could grow a headful of curls any damsel would envy.
"Another danth? Yeth, yeth, of courth. Are you enjoying —?"
"Odd, that," he interrupted brusquely. His cold grey eyes bore into her, a faint, disturbingly mocking light in them.
She looked at him inquiringly.
"My sister-in-law, Lady Norwood, is of the opinion that you lisp only when you are nervous. Are you nervous?"
Kit did not know what to say. She gave what she hoped sounded like a nervous, schoolgirlish titter as a way of avoiding a reply. It sounded to her ears more like the whinny of a sick horse. "Oh, look," she said, "there's my friend Mifh Lutenth. I mutht —"
"You didn't lisp at all in the park this morning."
Kit froze. "Park?" she said vaguely, twirling a dusky curl in the most inane way she could think of.
"After you'd been attacked by those footpads, I would have thought that if nerves had been in question, you'd have been lisping your head off then."
"Footpadth? Good Heaventh! But I really don't know what —"
"Doing it much too brown, Miss Singleton. I am not venturing a bow at random, you know. I saw your face when you hit me." Hugo smiled sardonically and raised his wrist. "And I bear your brand."
To Kit's horror a faint, livid mark was still visible. "Oh, no, I am so terribly sorry, I didn't —"
She caught herself up just in time. She could not admit to being out at dawn, unchaperoned. "I mean, you are mistaken about whoever you saw. It was not I.I slept until ten o'clock this morning, after the late night I'd had." She bit her lip and looked up at him remorsefully. "I don't know who did this to you, but I am very sorry you were hurt."
He snorted. "It would take more than a cut from a vixen to hurt me."
She flushed and, without thinking, reached out and took his wrist, cupping it between two soft hands. She peered at the thin red mark. "It looks rather red and angry. Did you put any salve on it?'' Her finger lightly traced a line just below the actual mark.
A silent shiver went through Mr Devenish at her touch. He stared down at her, watching the soft, slender finger stroke gently back and forth across his skin. It was mesmerising.
He glanced at her face, his brows drawn darkly together in unwilling suspicion. Her head was bent, the tassel of her cap falling forward. Her pale nape was curved and delicate, her dark curls wisping gently around it. Was this another one of her tricks? He wanted to pull his hand back away from her soft touch. He was unable to move, transfixed by her touch. He could feel his heart beating within his chest, pounding the blood though his body.
He inhaled deeply to clear his head and found himself inhaling the scent of her, the faint citrusy tang of something in her hair, the warm aroma of —he inhaled again—was it vanilla and rosewater coming from her body? Whatever it was, her scent was ravishing. He loathed the way so many females drenched their bodies with strong-smelling perfume. Not Miss Catherine Singleton. A faint hint of roses, and yes—he leaned forward imperceptibly and breathed deeply again—he was sure it was vanilla. Roses and vanilla.
She had removed her outlandish red jacket and he found his eyes drawn to the scooped neck of her gown, to the fine creamy skin. His gaze sharpened and he
He should have looked like a plain black crow. And yet he looked magnificent.
His hair was newly barbered: cut short and brushed sternly back with water. It seemed he disdained pomade. Kit was glad; she disliked the smell of pomade. And clearly he preferred neatness, rather than style. She wondered whether he realised that enough small rebellious locks had survived the barber and the brushing to spring up, giving a faint impression of the Windswept Style.
A tiny smile quivered inside her. So that was why he had his hair cut so brutally short. It would not do for the world to know the stern Mr Devenish could grow a headful of curls any damsel would envy.
"Another danth? Yeth, yeth, of courth. Are you enjoying —?"
"Odd, that," he interrupted brusquely. His cold grey eyes bore into her, a faint, disturbingly mocking light in them.
She looked at him inquiringly.
"My sister-in-law, Lady Norwood, is of the opinion that you lisp only when you are nervous. Are you nervous?"
Kit did not know what to say. She gave what she hoped sounded like a nervous, schoolgirlish titter as a way of avoiding a reply. It sounded to her ears more like the whinny of a sick horse. "Oh, look," she said, "there's my friend Mifh Lutenth. I mutht —"
"You didn't lisp at all in the park this morning."
Kit froze. "Park?" she said vaguely, twirling a dusky curl in the most inane way she could think of.
"After you'd been attacked by those footpads, I would have thought that if nerves had been in question, you'd have been lisping your head off then."
"Footpadth? Good Heaventh! But I really don't know what —"
"Doing it much too brown, Miss Singleton. I am not venturing a bow at random, you know. I saw your face when you hit me." Hugo smiled sardonically and raised his wrist. "And I bear your brand."
To Kit's horror a faint, livid mark was still visible. "Oh, no, I am so terribly sorry, I didn't —"
She caught herself up just in time. She could not admit to being out at dawn, unchaperoned. "I mean, you are mistaken about whoever you saw. It was not I.I slept until ten o'clock this morning, after the late night I'd had." She bit her lip and looked up at him remorsefully. "I don't know who did this to you, but I am very sorry you were hurt."
He snorted. "It would take more than a cut from a vixen to hurt me."
She flushed and, without thinking, reached out and took his wrist, cupping it between two soft hands. She peered at the thin red mark. "It looks rather red and angry. Did you put any salve on it?'' Her finger lightly traced a line just below the actual mark.
A silent shiver went through Mr Devenish at her touch. He stared down at her, watching the soft, slender finger stroke gently back and forth across his skin. It was mesmerising.
He glanced at her face, his brows drawn darkly together in unwilling suspicion. Her head was bent, the tassel of her cap falling forward. Her pale nape was curved and delicate, her dark curls wisping gently around it. Was this another one of her tricks? He wanted to pull his hand back away from her soft touch. He was unable to move, transfixed by her touch. He could feel his heart beating within his chest, pounding the blood though his body.
He inhaled deeply to clear his head and found himself inhaling the scent of her, the faint citrusy tang of something in her hair, the warm aroma of —he inhaled again—was it vanilla and rosewater coming from her body? Whatever it was, her scent was ravishing. He loathed the way so many females drenched their bodies with strong-smelling perfume. Not Miss Catherine Singleton. A faint hint of roses, and yes—he leaned forward imperceptibly and breathed deeply again—he was sure it was vanilla. Roses and vanilla.
She had removed her outlandish red jacket and he found his eyes drawn to the scooped neck of her gown, to the fine creamy skin. His gaze sharpened and he
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