Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

The surrounding couples were beginning to drift away from the dance floor in a muted rustle of silk and well-tailored wool. Looking up through her lashes, she saw that Devlin had fixed her with an inscrutable stare.

“No,” she repeated a little more forcefully. “Ye gods, the idea is absurd.”

“True. But stranger things have happened,” he murmured.

“Perhaps in novels,” she shot back. “Not in real life.”

“And how much experience have you had in real life, Miss Sloane?”

She lifted her chin a notch. “Enough to know that we had better not remain standing here together in the center of the room, else risk becoming fodder for the morning gossip mills.”

Devlin didn’t move.

“I see my sister near the entrance to the card salon,” went on Anna. “If you will kindly escort me there, you can shed your suit of shining armor and walk away without the weight of noblesse oblige making any further dents on your shoulders.”

His lips twitched. “I imagine armor can be cursedly uncomfortable. As can a conscience. That’s why I make no pretensions to possessing either.” Devlin finally offered her his arm. “I was not about to suggest you look to me for help. If you are in trouble, you had best turn to your older sister’s new husband. It is Wrexham who is the perfect hero, not I.”

“I shall bear that in mind, should I ever be in peril.”

To her dismay, Devlin seemed in no hurry to end their tête-à-tête. Rather than taking a direct line toward Caro, he chose a roundabout route through the leafy shade of the decorative potted palms. The fronds cast a fluttering of knife-edged shadows, making it impossible to read his expression.

Muddled grays, charcoal blacks—the play of hues seemed to mirror the marquess’s own inner thoughts, which he kept shrouded in darkness.

Let them remain wrapped in whatever sins he chose to live with, Anna told herself. It was of no interest to her.

Liar. The leaves caught in a current of air, the low whisper echoing Devlin’s earlier word. Liar, liar, liar.

“About the pistol, Miss Sloane…” Like a mastiff with a bone between his teeth, Devlin seemed stubbornly unwilling to let the subject drop.

She thought quickly—surely she could improvise.

“Really, sir, I hardly think I owe you any explanation. However, to put an end to your tedious interrogations, I shall explain.”

He waited.

“If you must know, my sister and I are writing a play, to be performed at an upcoming house party to which we’ve been invited. Amateur theatrics are always a source of entertainment at such gatherings, and Caro thought it would be amusing to come up with a fanciful plot involving pirates and a kidnapped heiress in need of rescuing.”

A cough—or was it a laugh?—caused her to pause. “Forgive me,” Devlin murmured, clearing his throat. “Do go on.”

Odious man. Why he took such fiendish delight in tormenting her was a mystery. But at the moment, all she cared about was escaping from his devil-dark gaze. “My maid, who is a very talented seamstress, is willing to help with creating costumes, and so, well, we thought that having colorful props, such as pasteboard pistols, would add to the spectacle. I happened to be passing Mr. Manton’s shop, and decided that accuracy would be a nice touch.”

“Accuracy. Yes, that’s rather important when it comes to pistols,” said Devlin dryly.

Ignoring the comment, Anna hurried to add, “But it is all meant to be a surprise. So I would ask that you not make mention of it to anyone, sir.”

“I’m good at keeping secrets.” Devlin smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Lurking beneath the thick fringe of his lashes was something deeper and darker than humor. It was…

Puzzling. The marquess had a surprising number of hidden facets, which was at odds with his image as a frivolous, indolent rake.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she answered. “Then may I count on your silence?”

Devlin led her through a sliver of space between two of the potted trees, and all at once they were back in the gilded light of blazing candles. “Very well. But be advised that when you ask a favor, you must be prepared to grant one in return.”

On that note, he turned and walked away.

Pasteboard pistols. Devlin chuckled under his breath. The explanation was diverting, but just as much a lie as her earlier denial.