Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

O f course, the sky opened onto Dev’s head.

The universe did have a way of demonstrating its sense of humor.

Or it was precisely what he needed to cool the foul mood that had beset him.

The day had been ticking along nicely. He’d spent the morning sketching some new plans that had seeded in his brain. When that happened, there was nothing for it but to seat himself at his draftsman’s table, pencil perched between thumb and forefinger. Sometimes, all it took was a few minutes; others, a few hours. On the odd occasion, a few days. For Dev, the world stopped until the idea had flesh on its bones.

Fortunately, today had been an hour spent at the draftsman’s table, then another hour’s worth of business correspondence. Then it was off to Hyde Park, where he would meet up with Gabriel Siren.

He corrected himself.

No longer Gabriel Siren, but Gabriel Calthorp, the newly minted Seventh Duke of Acaster.

Dev hadn’t seen the man since his elevation to the second-highest tier of English society—just a single rung below the king. The duke had been a silent partner in his steam engine business with Shaw these last few years, and Dev wanted to get a feel for Acaster as he was now.

One thing Dev wouldn’t tolerate was interference in his business. Everyone had their place in its success. Acaster invested pounds; Shaw oversaw operations; and Dev was the talent.

It was simply the truth.

Within thirty seconds of conversation, however, Acaster had put Dev’s mind to rest. The man was the same as ever, even if he was now a duke.

It wasn’t the duke who had incited Dev’s present foul mood.

It was what had come after.

Namely, Imogen.

She and Bridgewater had approached him and Acaster on their mounts. Promptly, the earl had offered greetings to the new duke—greetings he wouldn’t have offered weeks ago when the man had been a mere Mr. Gabriel Siren. Bridgewater ignored Dev—as if he hadn’t hosted the man and his wife in Prinny’s Stand at the Oaks three weeks ago.

The message was clear.

When Dev wasn’t of use, he didn’t exist.

In truth, Dev expected as much from Bridgewater. But Imogen…

They’d once been friends.

Once, they’d been even more.

He didn’t believe the act they’d shared made her his.

But…hadn’t it made them each other’s?

And though no promise had been spoken, hadn’t it been made with their bodies and writ upon their hearts?

Then Bridgewater and Imogen had moved on to extend greetings elsewhere.

The black mood that had descended upon Dev was swift and implacable.

He’d tossed Acaster a surly grunt of farewell and urged his hunter in the opposite direction.

It was then the heavens decided to open.

He didn’t immediately rein in his horse or reduce his speed. The punishing ride felt too good—the pounding of hooves rattling and jarring him, freeing his mind of all but the raw elements of gusting wind and frigid rain that met his face like individual cannon blasts. It was exactly what he needed.

What came next wasn’t.

Around a bend in the horse path, a figure appeared out of nowhere, dashing straight for him. He had only the split of a second to turn his mount before inflicting serious injury. Immediately, the figure—a woman—fell to the ground on a sharp cry of pain.

Instinct had Dev jumping from his horse, who hadn’t yet come to a complete halt, and shouting, “What are you thinking, woman?”

The instant they flew from his mouth, he knew them for the wrong words—and unfair.

She could ask the same question of him— fairly .

From there, it only got worse.

When he made to assist her to her feet, she flinched back, as if he were attempting to assault her.

In Hyde Park.

In broad daylight.

At last, however, she gathered a modicum of sense and allowed him to assist her to her feet.

With the rain pelting every available surface, she was as soaked as he, and yet sopping wet, the woman weighed near to nothing. He’d encountered kittens composed of more solid substance.

And Dev had another observation to make about this

Woman—one that should’ve been apparent the instant she’d begun lashing him with her tongue.

She was a lady.

One he’d never encountered.

But then he wouldn’t have.

This lady, came a quick third observation, was the sort who would fade into the background at a society gathering. The showier sort tended to catch his attention, in the general scheme.

The instant she was upright on her two feet, she shook off his hand and exclaimed, “You’re a bloody menace, is what you are.”

He owed her an apology—it was even possible she was correct about the menace part, too—and he was opening his mouth to say exactly that when her eyes went wide and— yet another —cry of distress issued from her mouth. He followed the direction of her gaze and found her satchel had sprung open. Neat white squares of paper fluttered haphazardly across the grass all around them.

“Blimey!” came another exclamation.

Blimey?

Wasn’t this woman a lady?

But he had no time to contemplate the conundrum when she fell to her knees and began frantically gathering every square within reach—the seals identifying them as missives.

Dev’s brow creased. She was only using one hand, rather awkwardly. “Are you injured?”

Without meeting his eyes, she gave her head a tight shake and continued about her business.

She must’ve tried to break her fall with the hand she was coddling. The wrist might be sprained or, worse, broken. Again, he began speaking words that were long overdue. “I must apolo?—”

Her head whipped around. Gray eyes, fringed with thick, wet lashes, blazed up at him. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Right.

Like a newly released coil, he sprang into motion, gathering sopping wet missives and passing them over to her, which she accepted without a single thank you. She might’ve been a lady, but no one had taught her manners.

He straightened and glanced around, squinting against the lashing rain for evidence of more escaped missives, but found none. “I think that’s all of them.”

It was only after she’d clamped her satchel shut that Dev noticed one more item. Not a letter, but a journal. He’d just lifted it off the grass when another yelp sounded at his back. He swung around to find the woman struggling to her feet again.

“Would you please accept my help?”

The stubborn clench of her jaw and curt shake of the head was all the answer he received, leaving him no choice but to watch the lady struggle to her feet, increment by slow…excruciating…interminable… increment.

Once on her feet, triumph shone in her eyes, as if she’d passed some sort of test.

All Dev saw was a woman who was causing herself an unnecessary deal of pain and hassle out of sheer bloody-mindedness. He’d never had any use for the bloody-minded. They got in the way of their own interests, and he couldn’t fathom that compulsion.

The rain continuing its unabated downpour, she took a sodden step.

And as Dev could’ve— should’ve —predicted, she yelped.

He reacted before he could think and grabbed her by the elbow before she could fall again and find a way to blame that on him, too. “It’s your ankle, correct?”

She gave another tight nod. “You can let go of me now.”

Gingerly, Dev did as told and stepped back carefully, as if she were a house of cards that would collapse at the faintest whisper of a breeze.

Then… nothing .

She didn’t move.

He didn’t move.

In this strange negotiation, they’d reached an impasse.

“Do you plan to stand there until— when? — night? ” A vision of her hobbling through Hyde Park into the wee hours came to him. The woman was stubborn enough.

“Until my ankle feels sufficiently able to continue on.” The wince that crossed her face belied her matter-of-fact tone.

Dev’s brow dug a trench into his forehead. “Until your ankle feels sufficiently able to continue on ? Do you plan to stand rooted to that patch of earth for the next few weeks, then?”

She tried for a dismissive laugh. “I can assure you?—”

“You can assure me of nothing until a physician has taken a look.”

She heaved a great, condescending sigh. He almost bought it. “Can you please leave now?”

“Not until I’ve done two things.” She would see she wasn’t the only stubborn participant in this conversation.

“Which are?” Genuine exasperation radiated off her.

“First, I offer you my sincere apology.” He meant every word. “I was riding recklessly, and I’m solely at fault for this entire situation.”

Without acknowledging his first point, she said, “And your second point?”

“You must make use of my horse.”

A single eyebrow lifted in question. “Pardon?”

“It’s obvious you won’t make it home on your two feet, so I insist you make use of my horse’s four.”

“That, I can assure you, won’t be necessary.”

He’d expected as much—and had a counterpoint ready. “If you can take three steps without yelping or wobbling, I’ll let you be on your way.”

“What gives you the right to dictate ultimatums to me?” She tried planting a fist on her waist, but gasped and let it fall to her side. That would be the injured wrist.

He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head, his message clear.

He was waiting for her to speak sense.

She heaved another of her great sighs, but he sensed a slight relenting—and a further shoring up of determination. It would take more than a little opposition to make the fight go out of this lady.

Her jaw clenched, she took a slow, testing step.

No wobble.

No yelp.

She cut him a sharp glance that said see ?

He spread his hands before him peaceably. “Two more steps, and you’re rid of me forever.”

He caught a glimpse of emotion as it passed behind her eyes— uncertainty .

Forever was only two steps away.

Dev tensed with anticipation. He needed to be ready if she did, indeed, wobble. She wouldn’t fall again—not on his watch.

If she wobbled?

More like when .

She took a second step, her relief palpable when she didn’t wobble or yelp. He admired her tenacity.

Her sense of relief, however, would prove her downfall, as she followed that successful second step with a hasty third. The yelp that scraped across her throat was sudden and instinctual, an honest reaction to pain.

But she didn’t wobble, so Dev stayed his impulse to rush toward her.

Instead, he waited.

Eyes squeezed shut, she went still. As if the possibility existed that when she opened her eyes, he would be gone and this strange interlude would’ve never happened.

He cleared his throat.

Her eyes remained closed.

Still, he waited.

Then, her mouth moving as little as possible, out mumbled two stubborn words. He angled forward as if he hadn’t heard them. “What was that?”

Her eyes slid open, opaque gray piercing through thick black lashes. Once one got past the sharpness of those eyes, it became apparent the woman had remarkable eyes…arresting eyes.

“ All…right ,” she said, each syllable distinctly enunciated, those remarkable, arresting eyes throwing daggers.

His mouth twitched, but he managed to keep a smile suppressed. The movement, however, was enough to catch her attention. Her gaze lingered a few ticks of time too long on his mouth, before sliding away.

As the torrent of rain had blessedly subsided into a light mist, he retrieved his hunter, who was sheltering beneath a sprawling oak and led him to the woman. Her knuckles shone white, so tightly was she clutching the satchel before her. For a silent moment, they stood facing each other, the understanding in her eyes matching his.

There was only one way for her to mount this horse.

With his help.

The five feet that separated them… Well, it might as well have been five miles.

For the first time in Dev’s adult male life, he had no idea how to bridge the gap between himself and a woman who had consented to him putting his hands on her.

But this blasted woman couldn’t bloody well walk.

Right.

He took a measured step forward, as if he were negotiating with a feral cat who would scratch his eyes out if she took a mind to it.

When she didn’t respond with a step backward, he eased another step forward.

Now, they were within touching distance. The next move was hers. Though she didn’t seem to understand it.

He cleared his throat, like a nerve-beset green youth. “You’ll need to place your hands on my shoulders.”

Gray eyes glared up at him. “I resent this entire situation.”

“I’m aware.”

Her shoulders lifted and fell on a deep breath.

At last, slender, gloved hands came to a tentative rest on his shoulders. Her head tipped back, so she could hold his gaze. No shrinking miss, this lady, even as the pheasant feather in her hat drooped and wet tendrils of hair clung to pale cheeks and hung lank about her shoulders.

Her eyes… They weren’t merely remarkable and arresting.

They were beautiful.

She cleared her throat.

And irritated.

Those eyes most definitely glittered with irritation.

Right.

He supposed he needed to speak the next words… “And now I’m going to put my hands on your waist.”

He didn’t understand why, but he sensed she needed to be warned, even though she must’ve understood where he would have to put his hands.

She nodded, and for the split of a second, emotions other than irritation flashed behind her eyes.

Uncertainty…vulnerability.

Here he was, about to put his hands around the waist of a lady in the middle of Hyde Park.

An unmarried lady, that vulnerability spoke.

It was just him and her, here.

Her dark, straight eyebrows lifted with annoyance and most definitely impatience, and he snapped to.

And wrapped his hands around her waist.