It felt good—no, beyond good. Rising on tiptoes, she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder…
“Anna?” Her sister’s voice cut through the haze. “Are you there? Mama is looking for you.”
Thank God for the gloom and the Devil’s coal-black evening clothes.
Coming back to her senses, Anna broke off the challenge with a ragged gasp. “Yes, yes, I’ll be out in a moment.”
Devlin’s expression was impossible to read. All she could tell was that he seemed to be watching her intently with a heavy-lidded gaze.
Fisting her skirts, she edged past him, praying that he would be gentlemanly enough not to follow.
Caro cast a second look into the alcove as Anna emerged from the shadows and paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the brightly blazing light.
“Since when have you become so engrossed in art that you’ll stay to study it even when the candles are in danger of burning out?”
“My garters had come loose,” she fibbed. “I could hardly retie them in full view of the other guests.”
“Well, that might have roused the elderly baron McIntire from his after-supper slumber,” replied her sister. “Instead, two footmen had to carry him up to his room when the snoring grew too loud.” However, the bantering tone did not quite dispel the question lingering in her eyes.
Anna avoided meeting her gaze. “Where is Mama?”
“In the side salon, having a nip of sherry with the countess and her husband.” Lord Dunbar had finally arrived halfway through supper, having been delayed in his journey home from Edinburgh by a broken carriage axle. “You know how garrulous she gets when she’s had several glasses of spirits. We had better go trundle her off to bed before the poor earl faints from exhaustion.”
“No doubt we could all use a good night’s rest.” Perhaps in the morning she would wake and find the last little interlude had been nothing but a strange dream. Even now, it seemed a strange, smoke-swirled fantasy brought on by too much rich food, too much fine wine, and too many new faces.
“You look odd,” said Caro. “Are you feeling ill?”
“Just overtired.” Just overwhelmed with sensations that no proper young lady ought to be feeling. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
Devlin held himself very still, waiting for the sound of her retreating steps to trail off. He knew he was playing with fire—and Anna would suffer the worst of the burns if anyone spied their private encounters.
Damnation. He had meant to escape all thoughts of Anna Sloane’s kiss and the terrible, sinful urges it sent spiraling through his body. A jaded rake ought to be impervious to innocence. Instead, he found himself feeling…protective. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that she was hiding a secret that could draw her into trouble.
Expelling a pent-up breath, Devlin ran a hand through his hair. “Ha! As if I am some pure and noble knight, ready to slay dragons for a damsel in distress.” He was the first to admit that nothing could be further from the truth. Nobility took too much effort—it was far easier to be a hellbent rascal. No one expected anything from the Devil Davenport.
Including himself.
Cocking an ear, he heard nothing but the muted murmurs of the few guests left lingering in conversation by the hearth. The others seemed to have wandered off to the card room, and so, after waiting a few moments longer, he slipped out of the alcove and made his way out through the double doors to the castle’s central corridor.
Straight ahead would take him to the main staircase and the wing housing the gentlemen guests. But feeling too agitated to sleep, Devlin chose instead to turn left and wander down to the row of leisure rooms, where the guests had been invited to explore the various activities available for their amusement.
After pouring himself a glass of whisky from the decanters in the music room, he cut between a pianoforte and an ancient harpsichord and went to stand by the glass-paned doors overlooking the terrace. The rain had ceased and the lawns sloping down to the rock-ringed lake were bathed in a dappling of pale moonlight. In the silvery glow, the wet grass took on a fanciful glitter, as if some Scottish silkie had risen from the dark water and flung handfuls of diamond-bright crystals into the night. Wraith-like fingers of mist swirled in and out of the pine trees bordering the far garden wall, adding to the aura of primitive enchantment.
Angling his gaze upward, Devlin watched the scudding clouds, wondering why he was in such a strange mood.
He ought to be celebrating a clever triumph over Miss Anna Sloane. He had won—he was sure of it.
Well, almost sure.
She had reacted. Her mouth had quivered at his touch, and she had softly, ever so softly, let herself explore his shape, his taste.
Raising his glass to his lips, Devlin drew in a mouthful of the amber spirits and let it trickle down his throat.
Or perhaps it was just another figment of his imagination.
Draining the rest of his whisky in one gulp, he turned abruptly, determined to shake off his brooding. Anna Sloane’s presence must not distract him from the reason he was here. Between finishing the intricate mechanical model he was making for a wealthy collector and doing a bit of sleuthing to determine whether Thorncroft’s fears were justified, he had more than enough to keep his mind occupied.
Stepping lightly, Devlin exited the room and began prowling the length of the corridor. The library was dark, the only sounds emanating from within were the faint creaking of the wooden s