Sara Mitchell - A Most Unusual Match

“Grandfather also warned me about men who think too much. Shakespeare had the way of it—such men are dangerous. I should be afraid of you. I don’t trust you, but you’ve been…kind.” A beat of silence hovered before she continued slowly, “Ever since I was a girl, I’ve had occasional spells of vertigo. Sometimes they’re debilitating. Since last year they seem to be worsening.” Her voice thinned. “But there’s no other course. I have to do this.”

The last declaration was scarcely above a whisper. “What is it you have to do?” Dev prompted after a while. “Does it concern Edgar Fane?”

Her hands crushed the hat. “Yes.”

“Ah.” Since he wanted answers, not another episode of vertigo, he told her what he could. “Edgar Fane is a wealthy, likable fellow who enjoys the company of others, particularly attractive women. His father made a fortune, the older brother’s expanding it and his other brother is marrying a French countess next year. From what I’ve gleaned, Edgar’s decided his role is that of charming wastrel—one of those men your grandfather would have warned you about.”

For a moment he silently studied her. “Is your family in dire financial straits, Miss—I can’t continue to call you Miss Pickford, now can I? Will you tell me your name? I haven’t personally met Mr. Fane, but I know enough to question certain aspects of his character. Of course, it doesn’t seem fair to confide my observations unless you’re equally candid.” He paused. “For instance, when he asks you to dinner, how do I know whether you might decide to warn him about a certain Mr. Stone, and the rumors he’s bandying about?”

This time she refused to rise to the bait. “Your observations about Mr. Fane must be highly salacious.”

Night had fallen, covering them in a soft matte darkness. The carriage lamp threw out enough light to illuminate the intelligence glittering in the coffee–dark brown eyes. So. She had recovered. It was to be a battle of wits to the end, then. Strangely pleased, Devlin affected a shrug, then gathered up the reins and smoothly backed horse and buggy onto the road, all without saying a word.

She lasted until a block before the Grand Union Hotel. Garish electric lights strung on ugly poles shone down on crowds of laughing people. A loud burst of masculine laughter startled the livery horse; Dev automatically soothed the animal, then turned onto Broadway into a sea of gleaming carriages and buggies.

“You really do have a way with horses, Mr. Stone.”

Dev pulled into a vacant spot a block from the Grand Union Hotel. “I love them,” he replied simply, wondering at the undercurrent of longing in her voice. “If you treat horses with affection and respect, you’ll earn their loyalty until they die. Yes, they’re animals, and occasionally unpredictable. But if I had to choose between a horse and a human being for companionship, I’d stick with a horse.”

“Then why are you here, at one of the most crowded hotel resorts in the world?”

Her astute question jabbed him square on the chin. He deflected it with some questions of his own. “Perhaps to rescue you from whatever harebrained scheme you’ve concocted? There’s no titled duke, is there? Where did you get that ring? At a pawn shop?”

“The ring was my grandmother’s,” she retorted in a tone frosted with ice. The wobbly-kneed girl he’d ministered to had metamorphosed into the most dangerous of all species: an angry woman. “You made me want to trust you, and I’m ashamed of myself for that. Thank you for your kindness. I won’t trouble you further. If we have the misfortune to meet again, I promise to ignore you. And for your information, Neville was an earl.”

She made as if to leap from the cart. Dev grabbed her arm. “Sorry.”

“You ought to be. Let me go.”

“Not until you accept my apology.” Beneath his fingers her arm tensed. In a soothing motion he slid his hand down to her wrist, keeping the grip gentle, yet unbreakable.

“Besides, I would never abandon a lady I’d just rescued until she was safely home.”

“Even if the lady wishes otherwise?”

“A dilemma, to be sure, Miss—what did you say your real name was again?”

“Lang—” Her lips pressed together.

A glaring beam from a nearby streetlight illuminated her face, allowing Devlin to witness the battle of emotions. Lang… Something tingled at the back of his neck, an elusive fragment of knowledge that vanished when her pursed lips softened in a Mona Lisa smile. She was disheveled, her attire wrinkled and soiled; dirt was smeared across one cheek. Yet that half smile somehow captured his heart and it swelled like a hot air balloon.

Panic skittered through him. “Ah. So it’s Miss…Lang. Strange. Neither name really fits you.” All the newly restored color leached from her complexion. Insensitive clod, he reprimanded himself. “I’ll escort you to the lobby. Shall I have a bellhop fetch Mrs. Chudd to help you to your room?” He distracted her with verbal rambling while casually monitoring the pulse in her wrist. “How about if I call on you in the morning, say ten o’clock? I believe the band is scheduled to play a medley of popular tunes. Have you enjoyed the pleasures of Congress Springs Park?”

“Yes, I love the park. It’s very peaceful, even with all the other people. Mr. Stone, I accept your apology. But I don’t think it’s wise for us to meet again. I don’t want to encourage your false impressions of me, and I don’t want to—could you please let go of my wrist?” She waited, her dark gaze unwavering, until Dev complied. The Mona Lisa smile flickered, then she passed her tongue over her lips and cleared her throat. “Thank you. I wish…I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

And before he could think of an appropriate response, she jumped out of the runabout and marched off toward the hotel. Though she garnered several strange looks from evening strollers, she sailed past with the regal poise of a duchess.

A man was in a wheelbarrow full of trouble when watching the back of a woman made his pulse rate spike and his fingers tingle.

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