Perfect Bride (5 page)

Yet in some ways, so very little.

He was still seeing after his brother and sister— wasn’t tonight proof of it? Justin hadn’t been pleased at his incursion into St. Giles tonight. He smiled slightly, for it was hard to quell such instinct after so many years. Countless times he’d had to remind himself that they must live their own lives, that they must be allowed to make their own choices.

Their own mistakes.

But Sebastian could afford none. For there was the not-so-small matter of duty to consider.

Duty.

His brother despised it. His sister shunned it, though in a different way than Justin. But William Sterling had taught his eldest son well.

To marry was his duty. To his name. To his title. His duty was the legacy left behind by his father and the generations before him.

And yet...there was more. Things Justin wouldn’t understand, might never understand, for he was so like their mother it frightened him sometimes.

Ah, yes, it was more than duty. He loved Justin and Julianna without question—he was glad their closeness had carried into adulthood. But there was a hunger in him, a yearning for something more. He wanted...a family of his own. A child of his own. Hell, a dozen children for that matter, for he would give them all the things he and Justin and Julianna had never had. Indeed, he could imagine no greater pleasure than the feel of a small, warm body snug
gled against his chest, in complete and utter trust... a child of his blood.

A son. A daughter...Sweet Christ, he didn’t care which, for the thought of either made his heart swell with emotion. God, but it would be good to hear gay, merry laughter echoing through the rooms—both here at his town house and at Thurston Hall.

But there must be a wife before there could be chil
dren, either son
or
daughter.

His fingertip swirled around the rim of his glass again and again. His mood was suddenly pensive. Thanks to his mother, the family name had been mired in scandal throughout much of his childhood.

But at least these last few years had been quiet. The storms had all been weathered, the damage repaired. His father’s death had been sudden, and Sebastian had been rather startled to learn he’d been careless with finances the last few years of his life.

But the Sterlings were once again one of the rich
est families in England. Indeed, he thought with a touch of the cynical air usually displayed by his brother, with power, wealth, and rank came privi
lege. The dowager duchess too had borne her share of scandal throughout the years. It was said her son had seen to that, and she was now the most influen
tial woman in town!

But Sebastian would not allow scandal to touch his wife and children the way it had touched his brother and sister.

And so, as with all things, Sebastian Sterling knew he must choose carefully. He was a man who preferred order in his life, a man who disliked the unexpected.

At least Justin was right—he needn’t cast about for a bride. Of course he didn’t possess his brother’s classically elegant countenance. As one starry-eyed miss once declared upon her first glimpse of Justin, ’twas as if she’d died and gone to heaven! But Sebas
tian was too dark, too big, too brawny—too much like a Gypsy, as he’d been teased when he was a boy.

No, Sebastian decided, he wasn’t so devilishly handsome as his brother. But he would be a loving father. A good husband. He’d learned from his fa-ther’s coldness, his harsh, rigid nature ...his mother’s abandonment.

But what of the woman who would be his wife?

It must be done right or not at all.

No simpering miss, to be sure. His wife must be a woman of grace and tact, of gentility and stability; cultured, well-bred, and well-educated. A woman of unswerving loyalty and devotion. A woman of scru
ples, as strong and staunch as his own. And his wife would be a woman of stable nature, a loving, atten
tive mother.

Something shifted inside him, something that caught at the very center of his heart. Dear God, he prayed fervently, above all, a loving mother!

And beauty? Nay, he decided. Many a man would demand that of a bride. Not he. Oh, he was not op
posed to a pleasing countenance. If she was a woman fair to look upon, comely of feature and shapely of form, all the better. But it was her inner beauty that mattered most.

He smiled suddenly. Justin would call him a fool, that outward beauty was not so high on his list. Se
bastian was well aware of his brother’s tastes; Justin would not deign even to glance at a woman who was not a diamond of the first water.

His smile ebbed. His heart squeezed.

Dear God, she could be a toad. As long as she loved him and would never leave. He was deter
mined he wouldn’t make the same mistakes as his father and mother. Dear God, not with his children.

Or
his wife.

The brandy decanter was nearly drained to the dregs before he arose and mounted the stairs. At the top he paused. His gaze was drawn to the first door on the right, which stood slightly ajar.

He’d best look in on her, his uninvited houseguest. He was suddenly reminded of what Justin had said.

Perhaps we should have Stokes stow away the valu
ables. Indeed, perhaps we should lock our doors. We’ve a woman of the streets in the house, you know. She may well rob us blind and murder us in our beds by morning.

He thought of the necklace the girl had gripped so tightly in her palm. It still warmed his pocket. Amaz
ing that she’d held it throughout the ordeal; she must have been in considerable pain, and who knew how long she’d been injured before he discovered her? But then greed was a powerful incentive. He knew a costly piece when he saw it, and he sus
pected this was the genuine article.

His mouth thinned. She had a great deal to answer for, that much was certain.

Almost before he was aware of it, he was standing over her. A frail sliver of moonbeam seeped in through the windowpanes, trickling over her form.

What else was it Justin had said? That Sebastian had taken a fancy to her?

Ludicrous.

It was just as he’d told Justin. The chit was a thief. A pickpocket. God only knew what else! That so lit
tle was known about the circumstances in which she’d been injured was troubling. As soon as she was able, it would have to be sorted out.

His eyes drifted over her.

One small hand, the hand that had clutched the necklace, lay curled against her chest. He’d carefully washed the mud and stench from her body and clad her in one of his sister’s night rails. Odd thing, but once she was clean, he’d had to remind himself she was a thief. A street urchin.

Not that he’d ever encountered one in quite so in
timate a fashion as he had this one. His lips quirked at the thought, then slipped away.

Slowly his gaze slid over her. She slept, but rest
lessly, it seemed. She’d kicked aside the covering he’d drawn over her. Her small mouth trembled slightly. Slender brows rose aslant above those ex
traordinary eyes that reminded him of topaz.

Respectability be damned! he thought.

For a thieving woman of the streets, she was re
markably fine. There was no denying her wild beauty and . . . God above, but he felt almost lascivious!

Was it the pose? Or the woman herself? Beneath the fine lawn of the night rail, her skin glimmered in the firelight. The night rail lay bunched about her thighs, slender and white. Her legs shifted; a small hand moved to her chest, then dropped to one side. Her breasts rose and fell rhythmically, her nipples round coral disks that thrust out impudently.

There was no hiding her frank sensuality. Sebas
tian took a deep breath, aware of something totally unexpected tightening in his belly. It was hardly a gentlemanly thing to do ...But there was no with
holding a lingering, intensely masculine admiration of the tawny mane that spilled across the pillow in silken chaos, gleaming like sunlit honey; of tender, well-shaped limbs, the velvet hollow of her belly. And...yes... oh, yes . . .

Those glorious, glorious breasts.

t was the shiver of a presence that woke Devon. The unfamiliar cadence of a voice...a man’s voice, deep and cultured and melodious. Search
ingly Devon turned her head toward the sound. Her body shifted.

“Easy, now,” said the voice. “You’ve been hurt.”

Hurt,
her mind echoed vaguely. A strange still
ness seemed to drift in her head, abruptly snared by memory. A shudder tore through her. She saw Harry and Freddie, circling like vultures. She re
membered falling, hurtling into a black void where there was nothing but cold, seeping through, clear to her very bones...she’d been cold before, but not like that. Never like that! And there had been the terrifying fear that no one would hear. That she would lie there and die, like Mama, in the cold and the dark...

But she wasn’t cold now, she realized. There was a
dull ache in her side, but she was cocooned in soft
ness and warmth as never before.

And someone sat close.
Very
close.

With that awareness, Devon struggled to bring the image into focus. A man sat beside her, so near she could have reached out and touched his sleeve. Even sitting down, he was astonishingly large, his shoul
ders surely as wide as the Thames. Behind him, standing across the room, was another man, whose rich, dark hair was but a shade lighter.

Devon scarcely gave the other man a second con
sideration. No, it was the man beside her who cap
tured and commanded her attention and made her breath slip away. She remembered now. She remem
bered waking and seeing
him
...the jolt of fear that passed through her at finding this huge man crouched over her.

It wasn’t just his size that radiated power. It was more, far more, for his was a presence that could hardly go unnoticed, not by her, or anyone else, she suspected.

His clothing was sheer elegance. Not a single wrinkle marred the fabric of his coat. Beneath was a royal blue silk waistcoat and fine cambric shirt. His cravat was spotlessly white, almost blindingly so, particularly against the bronze of his skin.

His eyes were sharply, penetratingly gray, set deep beneath craggy black brows and hair of darkest mid
night. His jaw was square and cleanly shaven to the skin, totally unlike the bristly, bewhiskered men she was used to encountering. The only hint of softness in his angled, supremely masculine face was a clefted chin.

“Where am I?” The words came out sounding hoarse; she sounded nothing like herself.

“I found you injured in the streets. I brought you here, to my house in Mayfair.”

Mayfair. Devon’s gaze circled slowly around the chamber. She stared. Somehow she couldn’t stop herself. Draperies of yellow silk hung at the window, tied with a silver cord. The walls were papered and patterned in roses. She was lying in a bed the size of which she’d never imagined, a bed so soft she felt as if she were floating on a cloud. In truth, but for the fiery ache in her side, she might have been in a dreamworld.

His speech was clipped and precise, like her mother’s. “You are a gentleman.” She spoke un
thinkingly. “And this house...it’s so grand! ’Tis what I imagined some fine lord’s might be like.”

The merest hint of a smile graced his chiseled lips.

Devon blinked. “Are you a lord?”

He gave a half bow. “Sebastian Sterling, marquess of Thurston, at your service. And this is my brother Justin.”

Devon was dumbfounded. By Jove, a marquess!

“Miss.” The other gentleman gave a slight nod. His gaze didn’t possess the piercing sharpness of that of the marquess, but he watched her closely.

“What about you?” asked the marquess. “Have you a name?”

She swallowed. “Devon. Devon St. James.”

“Well, Miss St. James, now that you’re a guest in my home, perhaps you’d care to tell me of the night’s...activities.”

There was a masked coolness in his regard. Only
then did Devon perceive it. As she did, her memories sharpened. With unremitting clarity, she remem bered the feel of Freddie’s fingers around her neck, cutting off her breath. That, she realized belatedly, was why it felt as if needles were slashing her throat when she spoke, why she was so hoarse.

Freddie, she thought wildly. She remembered gripping her dagger and thrusting it forward, the odd sensation of cloth tearing and flesh giving way...how he’d staggered away. She nearly cried out. Where was he? What had happened to him?

Her gaze lifted. “There was a man,” she said un
steadily. “Where is he?”

The marquess shook his head. “When I found you, you were alone.”

“But he was there! I tell you he was there!”

“And once again, I must tell you, you were alone. Clearly you did not sustain your injuries yourself. So tell us about this man you were with.”

“I wasn’t
with
him. I—”

All at once she broke off. The way he was looking at her...

“Miss St. James? Pray continue.”

It was easy to see what he thought of her. He con
tinued to regard her as if she were a maggot, and she was suddenly furious. Why, she was surprised he had brought himself to sit within arm’s length of her.

Devon would not hide from what she was. She could not
change
what she was. She had grown up in the dirty, fetid streets of St. Giles, where she’d learned the hard way that trust was not something to be given lightly.

Marquess or no, she would not allow him to steal her pride from her, for indeed, it was all she had. Be
sides, she knew his kind. Long before Mama had died, Devon had determined she would not fail, that she would fulfill her promise to find a better life for herself. She’d gone to the great houses of the city, seeking other work. From the time she was very young, Devon had labored. She’d cleaned fish at the docks, swept paths for the gentry as they crossed the street or descended a carriage, and carried slop from the kitchens, for Mama’s work as a seamstress was barely enough for food and lodgings.

But there were no positions to be found in the households of the lords and ladies of London, or in
deed any reputable establishment, not as maid or cook or kitchen wench. One look at her and the door was promptly slammed in her face. She did her best to stay presentable, but it wasn’t always easy—she’d placed a basin outside the door to catch rainwater in order to bathe, but some wretched soul had stolen it. If she was well scrubbed and rosy-cheeked, perhaps it might have made a difference. And it hadn’t helped that she’d outgrown her ragged gown some years ago. There was no money to spare for cloth, though Mama had mended and let out the seams as much as she could.

“Miss St. James, why do I have the feeling there’s something you’re not telling us?”

Her sharp retort died in her throat. Justin’s gaze was nearly as sharp as his brother’s. She felt herself pale, all at once uneasy. These two were blue bloods, and blue bloods had no use for people like her! If she admitted she had stabbed Freddie, what would they do?

She would be hauled off to the authorities with nary a thought.

“Miss St. James? Is something wrong?”

Her heart thumped wildly. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said quickly. It was part fear, part defiance that compelled her answer. But suddenly she started.

“My necklace!” Her hand moved frantically on the satin counterpane. “My necklace! Where is it? I can
not lose it. I had it, I know I did—”

“Set your mind at ease. It’s in a safe place.”

But his expression lent her no ease. “It’s mine! I want it back!”

He got to his feet. It skittered through her mind that on his feet he was a giant. She watched as he walked to the ornately carved marble fireplace, then turned to face her, strong hands linked behind his back. Near the door, his brother continued to look on.

“When the rightful owner has been determined,” he said with a lift of one brow, “the rightful owner shall have it back.”

“The rightful owner...What do you mean?”

His eyes had gone the color of stone. “It means I am not a half-wit, Miss St. James. I do have a very good idea how your injury was sustained, and I’ll not be tricked. A quarrel among thieves, for instance—”

“I am not a thief!” she cried. “My purse was stolen!”

“Your purse,” he repeated. “Stuffed with your coin, I expect.”

“Yes. Yes! There were two men, you see—”

“Oh, so now there were two. And hoodlums, no doubt.”

There was an awful, twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“I must give you credit, Miss St. James. You speak far better than I expected.”

Her chin climbed high. “My mother was well-spoken.”

“And who was your mother?”

“Why, the queen of England!”

“That would make you a princess. In that case, I commend most highly your penchant for disguise.”

Devon followed his gaze across the room. Draped across a high-backed chair near the door was her ragged cloak, her gown...and the pillow she’d stuffed beneath it.

Damn his arrogance! How dare he pass judgment on her!

Like her mother before her, she was different from those who lived and worked in the filthy back alleys of London. Despite those differences—or perhaps be
cause of them—she had learned to survive. It wasn’t that she was meaner or stronger—such a notion was laughable—or even that she was smarter. But she was wise enough to avoid circumstances that might place her in situations that were less than desirable.

The very reason for such attire. If one must brave the streets each night, it was better done this way. Upon commencing her employment at the Crow’s Nest, Devon had considered dressing like a lad, but alas, there was little chance of being mistaken for a lad, not with her breasts and hair constantly tum
bling in a wild curtain about her shoulders. At least like this, she didn’t look so different from the beg
gars and thieves. And thankfully, there were few who were wont to look twice at a woman who, as Bridget was fond of saying, appeared ready to de
liver the burden in her belly at any moment.

“One cannot help but wonder what you were doing about at such a late hour. Out taking the air, perhaps?”

She stared at him. There was no mistaking his meaning. “Not only do you think I am a thief, you think I am a trollop.”

He made no reply, nor was there a need to. It was there in the way those crystalline eyes measured the entire length of her form.

Devon, her ire blazing, dragged the counterpane up to her chin. The urge to do bodily harm was in
deed paramount in her mind.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked coolly. “Lord Shyte?”

He stiffened visibly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, do forgive my lapse in memory. It must have been Lord Arse—”

Three strides brought him back across the room and to the bedside. “Watch your tongue, Miss St. James. I’ll not have the language of the gutter spoken in my house. But then, I suppose I should expect no less from a woman of the streets.”

He stood above her. Tall. Not threatening, but cer
tainly imposing. But Devon was too angry to recant her recklessness. Throughout her life, there had been times she despaired of her quick, impetuous nature, but this was not one of them.