A Lady's Luck. Ken Casper
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roast beef and Yorkshire pudding are excellent—”
“Yay, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Rhea sang out.
“I want something else,” Katie complained. “I’m tired of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
“Well—” Devon put a finger to her chin “—they have steak pie, mutton chops, their trout is quite good and—”
“Steak pie,” Katie repeated. “I want steak pie.”
Brent smiled. “I guess it’s the Stag and Steer then. Trout, you say…”
They donned their coats.
“Thank you for joining us,” Brent said as they walked through narrow streets to the restaurant. “It’s always more fun to have someone local show us around.”
Devon smiled. “And it’s my pleasure to be that someone.”
It was a fun meal. Brent, Devon soon discovered, was possessed of a droll sense of humor. He told stories about life in Kentucky that made her wish she were there.
“Is the grass really blue?”
He chuckled. “It’s definitely lush and definitely green, but it’s not even native to America. It grows all over Europe and North Africa.”
She sighed dramatically. “Another myth destroyed.”
Taking a different route back to the hotel after dinner, they came upon a toy shop that featured old-fashioned porcelain dolls. The girls were fascinated by their painted faces and period costumes. They begged their father to bring them back the following day.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he pointed out. “They probably won’t be open.”
Devon could tell he was teasing, but the twins apparently didn’t realize it. Rhea screwed up her mouth with annoyance and Katie stared stoically, her eyes teary.
“I believe they’re open until noon,” Devon informed them.
“Please, can we come back?” Rhea begged. “Please?”
He turned to Devon. “If you’ll join us.”
She hadn’t anticipated that. Or had she subconsciously been angling all along for another excuse to see him?
“If you really want me to.”
“We really want you to,” Brent said quietly. His lips said “we,” but his eyes said “I.” Awareness set off little flutters in her belly.
At the hotel, he invited her up to their suite. Since the inn was nearly empty he’d been able to book their best and biggest accommodations.
She hesitated.
“Will you help tuck us into bed?” Rhea asked eagerly.
It was an unusual request, one she’d not received before, and the intimacy it implied made her slightly uncomfortable. She glanced at Brent. All evening long they had been catching each other’s eye, then looking away. Heather had been right, Devon realized. He was interested.
Were it not for her concern about Charles, she would have accepted the invitation with alacrity. She enjoyed this man’s—and his daughters’—company and would very much like to share more of it.
But Charles—
If she was surrounded by spies for the duke, as she suspected, he would know she’d been in Brent’s company. Not going up to his room wouldn’t make any difference, regardless of his young daughters being with them. Charles had made it clear he didn’t want any other man to enjoy her companionship in public or in private.
Then she took another look at Brent and couldn’t imagine him being intimidated by anyone, even a man like Charles. Besides, in a few days Brent Preston would be on his way back to the United States. Charles wasn’t likely to pick a fight with him across the Atlantic.
“Just for a few minutes,” she said to the girls, then added to Brent, “if that’s all right with you.”
All right? Brent felt his blood racing, long-dormant sensations tingling. Thoughts and desires he’d managed to bury since Marti died were resurfacing with brutal vengeance.
He and Devon had spent the evening like two old friends, exchanging ideas, asking each other questions, sharing laughter. Twice he’d spontaneously reached for her hand, found it and squeezed. Twice she’d willingly returned the casual caresses. More than like friends.
Guilt rampaged through him. If Marti were here, he would never…
But she wasn’t, and the renewed realization that she was gone forever produced an ache so acute it could have brought him to tears. Then he raised his head—till then unaware he’d been staring at the ground—and saw Devon, and a different kind of ache possessed him. For a fate-changing instant he prayed that Marti would understand, and if he was making a mistake, forgive him.
There was such warmth in Devon’s smile that he had to believe that Marti would approve.
They took the stairs up one flight to what the British and Europeans insisted on calling the first floor, as if the ground floor didn’t count. The suite comprised two modest bedrooms, a private bath and a sitting room with a small marble fireplace.
“Change into your jammies,” Brent told the girls, “and brush your teeth, then I’ll come and tuck you in.”
“We want Devon to tuck us in, too,” Rhea reminded him.
“She will. Now, go get ready for bed.”
The twins danced into their bedroom. After a few seconds he and Devon could hear water running in the bathroom.
“I like them, Brent. Very much. They’re wonderful children.”
“I guess I’ll keep them then,” he replied, more aware of her and the effect she was having on him than the lighthearted words tumbling out. “You’ve made quite a hit with them, too.”
“We’re ready,” Rhea called out a minute later.
“Come on,” Brent said, and put his hand on the small of Devon’s back as he guided her toward the girls’ bedroom.
Brent hugged the twins, gave them each a kiss. Devon could remember her father sending her to bed, but she couldn’t recall him ever kissing her good-night, much less tucking her in. How lucky these girls were to have a father who loved them. She expected to simply say good-night and leave, but they insisted on giving her a hug and kiss, as well.
“Pleasant dreams,” she said in a voice choked to a whisper as she watched them snuggle contentedly under the covers.
What a wonderful experience it was to hold the children in her arms and kiss them good-night. She had no siblings other than Nolan, who was so much older that he hardly counted. She had a few cousins, but they, too, were his age, so she had been brought up virtually as an only child and never experienced the kind of intimacies this family, incomplete as it was, engaged in as a matter of routine. She envied them.
Family dynamics in her life had been keeping track of how much her father was drinking, and if necessary, avoiding him. Her mother, who had been over forty when Devon was born—an unplanned, if not unwanted child—had been frail for as long as Devon could remember, owing to a wonky ticker, as her father had invariably phrased it. At one stage Devon had wondered if Sarah Hunter wasn’t faking feebleness to gain attention, but entertaining such a doubt had only made her feel guilty.
The warmth of this encounter with the Prestons, father and daughters, filled her with a longing she’d never felt before. If this was what it was like to have a normal family, she decided, she wanted it. She’d thought of family before, many times, but somehow the image had never included moments like this.
Brent stood behind her in the doorway to say their final good-night, his body’s warmth enveloping her, as his arm reached around her and pulled the