Free Dair Devil by Lucinda Brant

of soldiers standing to attention, dancers huddled together, and a painter’s studio in disarray, swept the Lady Grasby, followed by William Watkins a stride behind. Both rushed up to Mr. Romney demanding answers. Rory had no idea what was being said, there was too much competing noise. She could well imagine the painter was being accused of the world’s ills by her sister-in-law, who was gesticulating widely with her folded fan.
    Dissatisfied with the laconic painter’s responses, when he pointed out the captain, she readily turned on this uniformed officer and proceeded to flay him with no regard for his rank, his mission or their audience. Drusilla’s weapons of choice never wavered: The Talbot family pedigree that stretched back to Edward the Third; her grandfather-in-law’s earldom, which her husband would one day inherit; and the Earl’s noble connections to every Privy Councilor, which would see the captain shipped off to St. George’s Island in the southern ocean, if he did not do as she commanded.
    Rory sighed and said somewhat apologetically, “Lady Grasby is threatening the captain and he is looking most decidedly intimidated.”
    “Grasby? Lady Grasby?” Dair’s ears burned and he sat up. “Tell me, Delight, do you see a wide-eyed ginger-haired fellow, thin as a whipping post—a scribbler with a blotter and pencil? Is he making copious notes?”
    She nodded. “He is. And he cannot write quickly enough for the conversation. He’s just broken the tip from his pencil and it’s jumped out of his hand. Oh no! The poor fellow went to ground trying to recapture it and has had his hand trodden on by Mr. Watkins—”
    “Mr. William Watkins? Weasel Watkins is there too? Hallelujah! It is a happy day indeed!”
    Rory looked over her shoulder in time to witness Dair punch the air with joy.
    “Weasel? Weasel Watkins? Is that what you call him?”
    She tried to stifle a smile but Dair saw it and pointed a finger at her.
    “Admit it, Delight! The moniker fits him like a glove. Those squinty eyes! Those bushy brows! Those thin, disapproving nostrils!”
    “I will admit to nothing. And shame on you. Not everyone can be an Adonis. Certainly not Mr. Watkins. But he does dress his faults well.”
    “But he does dress his faults well,” Dair mimicked, pulling a face of disgust.
    Rory couldn’t help herself—she giggled.
    “Never in my wildest imaginings would I have believed Major Lord Fitzstuart capable of envying another. You could wear a sack and females would swoon at your feet. Poor Mr. Watkins must use all his sartorial skill to fashion himself into something worthy of a female’s attention. You enter a room in a sack and poor Mr. Watkins’ efforts would be for naught.”
    “Come here, Delight,” he commanded gently, and pulled her down beside him, a firm grip on her gloved hand. There was no roguish smile when he looked into her eyes and said quietly, “It’s time for me to end this charade. I must, before my friend the scribbler uses up all his parchment. But before I make my grand exit, I want your name. You’re not a dancer, and you are not an actress. Your conversation—everything about you—tells me you’ve been well cared for, or were, in the past. No. Don’t struggle. I don’t want to cause you distress. I want to offer you—” When Rory continued to look at him blankly, he huffed, glanced away, then looked back at her in exasperation. “The Devil! What am I offering you…?”
    Rory swallowed hard, throat dried with expectation, gaze riveted to his handsome face. By the deep lines between his black brows, she knew his mind was in a turmoil of indecision.
    “How am I to know if you don’t?” she asked in a small voice.
    His gaze dropped at that, but not away—down, down to her mouth. Then down further still, to the swell of her small firm breasts contained in a tight striped silk bodice, the square décolletage low-cut, and just peeping out around its silken edge, the pretty