Free Perfect Bride by Samantha James

but uncompromisingly firm.
    “You can’t leave,” he reminded her. “What about the constable?”
    “To the devil with the constable!”
    If she stayed, something would have to be done about her language.
    “What about Harry?”
    The question brought her gaze to his in a heart beat. “Harry?” she whispered.
    He could almost feel her terror. God knew, he de cided grimly, he could certainly see it.
    “Yes.”
    “You think he’ll come after me?” Her tone wasn’t entirely steady.
    “I don’t know.” It was the truth. “He won’t find you here. He’d never think to look here. Mayfair might as well be a world away from St. Giles.”
    Her eyes clung to his. “You won’t let him find me?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    Her strength gave way. Unable to remain on her feet any longer, she sank into his arms. This time there was no outburst as he scooped her up. He was nearly to the bed when she said urgently, “Wait! My bonnet . . . please, will you fetch it?”
    Sebastian obligingly retraced his steps. She clung to his neck as he bent to retrieve it. Carefully he low ered her to the bed, then handed the bonnet to her.
    She wasted no time dragging it over her head.
    He watched as she wiped the tears from her eyes. In all truth, Sebastian couldn’t say what came over him. The next thing he knew, he found himself sit ting on the side of the bed.
    “You need to rest and lie quietly, Devon.”
    Her eyes had been half closed. At the sound of his voice, she opened one. “I don’t believe I gave you leave to call me by my given name,” she said with a frown.
    A statement of remarkable hauteur, considering she’d just been in his arms and was now in his bed. Well, not his bed precisely, but it was his house.
    The makings of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, swiftly suppressed, lest she see it. “May I?” he asked gravely.
    “May you what?”
    She was exhausted; he knew it by the shadows that ringed her eyes.
    “May I call you Devon?”
    “I suppose you may.” She eyed him. “But what am I to call you then?”
    “Most definitely not Lord Shyte.”
    A glimmer of a smile crossed her lips. “You prefer Lord Arse?”
    “Devon!” He raised his brows. “I do believe we’ve just begun to engage a truce, you and I. Please, let’s not jeopardize it. And Sebastian will do quite nicely, I believe.”
    Their eyes caught. All at once her smile wavered. She averted her head. “I really didn’t want to leave,” she confided in a small voice.
    “You didn’t?”
    “No. It was only because you looked so dreadfully stern.”
    How flattering, he thought. Did she regard him as such an ogre then? “Yes, I know,” he murmured. “Justin is the pretty one, not I.”
    Her gaze slid back. “What do you mean?”
    “My dear, you just said I looked dreadful.”
    She frowned. “Dreadfully stern, not dreadful.”
    She was decidedly emphatic, so much so that Se bastian was a little taken aback. But then he remem bered the night he’d found her. Handsome , she’d called him. Him . He said nothing, merely sat there for a moment, a strange sensation in his chest. Before long, her eyelids began to droop. Then all at once she shuddered.
    Sebastian leaned forward, fighting a startlingly compelling urge to brush a wayward curl from her cheek. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
    “I remember lying in the street, in the cold.” Her voice plunged to a whisper. “I don’t want to wake up like that again.”
    Suddenly her hands were in his. Not soft and deli cate and gloved, like a lady’s, but chapped and red and dry. Yet so very small within his.
    His fingers curled around hers. “You won’t,” he said quietly. “Now lie back and sleep, Devon.”
    “I don’t think I can. I”—she hesitated—“I’m afraid.”
    “Of what?”
    “That when I wake, it’ll all be gone. That you’ll be gone.”
    He felt inexplicably pleased.
    “And your brother, too. Justin.”
    Justin , he echoed dryly. Of course.
    His grip