“SHALL WE PLAY?” he said. “This is no place for a lady.” Susanna jumped and almost hit her head on the wooden rail of the stall. She had been kneeling in the straw to examine the horse that Fitz had picked out for her at the latest Tattersalls’ sale. Even at a distance she had known it was a poor choice. It looked beautiful with a shiny bay coat and bright eyes but its chest was a fraction too narrow and its legs just a little too short. Naturally she had not told Fitz any of those things. She had congratulated him on his judgment and had watched him preen.
Only a moment before, Susanna had been congratulating herself, too, silently applauding how well her plans were progressing. It had taken her four days only to gain Fitz’s undivided attention to the point that he was now probably prepared to buy her a horse never mind simply recommend one to her. He had already tried to buy her emeralds but Susanna knew exactly what he would expect in return for those and had refused them, prettily, regretfully but very finally. She had played the virtuous widow to perfection. Becoming Fitz’s mistress was definitely not part of the plan.
Instead she had treated Fitz as a friend, deferred to his opinion, leaned on his advice and flattered his judgment. He had helped her to buy a carriage and now a riding horse. They were using his parents’ money, but of course he was unaware of that. Susanna could see how much the role of confidant confused Fitz—he was not accustomed to viewing beautiful women in a capacity of friendship, not unless they had occupied his bed first. He was puzzled, bewildered and intrigued, which was exactly as Susanna wanted him to be. His parents were delighted to see their son so thoroughly distracted from his courtship of Francesca Devlin, which made them generous. All had been set fair, but she might have known that Dev would reappear to put a spoke in her wheel.
Susanna sat back on her heels. There was a pair of very elegant riding boots now in her line of vision, radiant with a champagne polish. Above those were muscular thighs encased in skintight pantaloons, and above that she dared not look. How tiresome to be kneeling in the Tattersalls’ straw at the feet of James Devlin.
“Mr. Tattersall welcomes ladies to his auctions,” she said, raising her gaze to meet Dev’s and trying to keep her eyes firmly focused on his face even though it gave her a crick in the neck to do so.
“The only females welcome here are the ones whose pedigrees are better than those of the horses,” Dev said. “Which rules you out, Lady Carew.”
He made no move to help her to her feet. Susanna was acutely aware of the prickling discomfort of the straw through the velvet skirts of her riding habit and the strong scent of horse that surrounded them. God forbid that the bay gelding would choose this moment to relieve itself.
For a second she thought she would be obliged to scramble up of her own accord, flushed, undignified and covered in hay, but then Dev leaned down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet with rather more strength than finesse. The maneuver brought her into his arms for one brief moment and the scent of leather and cedar soap and fresh air on his skin overlaid that of horse and set Susanna’s senses awry. She could feel the hard muscle of his arm beneath the smooth blue superfine of his coat. He felt like a man whose body was in prime physical condition. Evidently waiting on Lady Emma must be more physically punishing than she had imagined.
Susanna experienced the oddest sensation, as though the layers of clothes between them had melted away and she was touching Dev’s bare flesh, warm and smooth under her fingers. Never had she been so acutely aware of a man and so swiftly, her defenses shattered by simple proximity. Her cheeks flaming, she freed herself hastily from Dev’s grip and saw him smile, that wicked, sardonic smile she remembered.
“Feeling the heat, Lady Carew?”
“Suffering as a result of your discourtesy,” Susanna snapped.
He raised a brow. “There was a time when you did not object to being held in my arms.” He straightened, driving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “But of course, I forgot—that was for educational purposes only, was it not?” His voice was heavily laced with irony. “That horse has a chest that’s too narrow and legs that are too short,” he added, running an eye over the bay in the box.
“I know,” Susanna said crossly. She dusted the palms of her gloves slightly self-consciously and started to pick the straw off her velvet riding skirts. “I suppose you are an expert on horseflesh?”
“Not particularly.” Dev’s admission surprised her. “Not all the Irish grow up in the country, able to whisper horses from birth.” His expression darkened. “I grew up on the streets of Dublin. The only horses there were drays and sad creatures pulling rich men’s carriages.”
Their eyes met and the breath caught in Susanna’s throat. Her heart skipped a beat, two. She thought how odd it was that life could still trick her after all she had experienced, that it could trip her up unexpectedly like a false step in the dark. She remembered being seventeen, lying in the summer grass with the stars whirling overhead and Dev turning away her questions about his childhood with light answers. She had not known anything about his early life other than that it had been poverty-stricken like her own. They had not talked much about anything, she thought now, with a sharp stab of regret. They had laughed together and had kissed with sweet urgency. They had both been so eager and so young.
“You never told me much about your childhood,” she said, and regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.
Dev’s expression hardened into coldness. “That hardly matters now.”
Susanna winced at the rebuff and the sharp reminder that none of Dev’s life was any of her business now. He and Francesca had climbed high, she thought. She had known that Dev’s parents were impoverished gentry; for him to be betrothed to the daughter of an earl and for Chessie to aspire to marry a duke’s heir was fortune hunting of the highest order. Except that Chessie would not now be Duchess of Alton. It was her job to make sure of that.
Susanna felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Miss Francesca Devlin. Normally she was able to console herself that her assignments were better off separated from the object of their desire. The gentlemen she was engaged to lead astray were so often libertines or wastrels or simply weak-willed and unworthy. And it was true that she had no great opinion of Fitz, who seemed to embody all the vices of his class and none of the virtues: arrogance, self-centeredness and profligacy in just about everything. But even so, even if Francesca could do so much better than Fitz, Susanna admired her enterprise in trying to catch the heir to a dukedom. In some ways Francesca was an adventuress just as she was and it was a pity to ruin her chances.
Awkwardness hung in the air. Dev, whilst showing no desire to converse with her, also showed no inclination to leave. Across the yard Fitz was deep in conversation with Freddie Walters as they admired a glossy black hunter.
“Your sister does not accompany you today?” Susanna asked politely, slipping out of the stall.
Dev shook his head. “Francesca is shopping in Bond Street with our cousin Lady Grant. Some last-minute purchases for a ball tomorrow, I believe.”
“Lady Grant?” Susanna said. She could hear the odd note in her own voice and feel the sudden dryness in her throat.
Dev had heard her tone, too. He gave her a sharp look. “My cousin Alex remarried a couple of years ago,” he said. He paused. “You lived on Alex’s Scottish estate—presumably you knew he had lost his first wife?”
“No,” Susanna said. She could hear a rushing sound in her ears. For a second the sunlight seemed too bright and too hot, dazzling her. So Amelia Grant had died. Amelia, who had befriended her, advised her and ultimately ruined her future. But it was futile to blame Amelia for her own lack of courage. Lady Grant had merely played on fears that were already in her own mind. She had exploited Susanna’s youth and her weakness,