A Lady's Luck. Ken CasperЧитать онлайн книгу.
Devon again when he dropped them off and once more when he picked them up.
They ate another hearty English breakfast and set off for the academy.
By arrangement the previous afternoon, he delivered them directly to Devon’s classroom. Along the way the girls kept babbling on about how nice Miss Hunter was, how all the girls in the class liked her, that she wasn’t mean like some of the teachers back home—a charge he couldn’t remember hearing before—and how much they were looking forward to spending the day in her classroom. Apparently, Brent reflected, Devon was casting a spell on his children, as well.
She greeted him with a smile and told the girls where to sit. Wisely she didn’t keep them together but paired them off with different partners.
“You may collect them at three o’clock. If they’re not downstairs, they’ll be up here with me. How are you planning to occupy your time alone?” she asked casually, then, as pink rose to her cheeks, excused herself. “That was impertinent of me. I beg your pardon.”
His response was mixed. He found her discomfort amusing, even encouraging. On the other hand, complete honesty on his part would be unwise.
“I have business research I need to do, so this time off works out nicely. What time do you quit today?”
She gazed at him in a way that made him wonder if it was with interest or dismay. He preferred to think it might be the former. “It’s Friday,” he reminded her. “I thought we might stay here another night, if you’ll agree to join us. Our attempt at playing tourist yesterday wasn’t very successful. We ended up watching television.”
“Oh, my.” Her brown eyes sparkled with exaggerated dismay. “That bad?”
“And the offer of dinner is still open.”
She grew more serious, but the humor didn’t completely fade, and that gave him hope.
“Please join us,” he repeated.
Whilst changing clothes in her flat late that afternoon, Devon debated with herself and Heather about the wisdom of spending the evening with Brent Preston.
“Charles has spies everywhere,” she reminded her friend. “So many people in Oxford know me. Word is bound to get back to him that I was in the company of a good-looking American gentleman….”
“And his two kids,” Heather pointed out.
“That won’t make any difference.”
Charles was jealous and vindictive, and his threatening telephone calls since their breakup had made it clear he didn’t want her seeing other men and would take vengeance on any man who shared her company.
“He has no bloody right laying claim to you like that,” Heather countered angrily. “He asked you to marry him and you said no. That should be the end of it. You can’t spend the rest of your life cowering in fear of a man whose designs on you border on the criminal and perhaps even the psychotic.”
“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already told myself,” Devon murmured as she slipped out of the dress she’d worn at school and went to the lavatory. For the past two years she’d been alone and lonely. She could change that if she’d cease being such a coward and a victim. She used to be popular, outgoing.
Her determination to disregard Charles’s threats was intractable until she thought about Brent’s children. Surely Charles wasn’t so depraved, so obsessed with her, that he’d do them harm. The girls had already lost their mother. If something were to happen to their father, something that resulted from her association with him, she’d never be able to live with herself.
Wearing only bra and panties, she weighed the pros and cons of the situation as she scrubbed her face. She emerged a minute later in her dressing gown, sat at her vanity and brushed out her shoulder-length hair. While she was applying a dusting of makeup, Heather inventoried the small collection of perfumes on the dressing table and selected one.
Devon couldn’t help smiling as she dabbed it behind her ears. It had been so long since she’d been out with a man, the prospect sent little shivers tripping along her skin and in her belly.
“What are you wearing?” Heather asked. “Something simple, I should think. Casual but elegant, of course.”
Devon laughed. “I was considering the dark green trousers and the silver-gray blouse.”
“And your rust-colored cable-knit pullover. Perfect. Oh, wait.”
Heather rummaged in the side drawer of Devon’s dressing table and brought out a necklace of polished black-, green-and wine-colored stones and a matching bracelet.
“Here. Where’s your good watch?”
If Devon weren’t already keyed up about her date, her friend’s enthusiasm would have made her excited. She pointed to the little drawer under the mirror. Heather extracted the stylish gold timepiece with its tiny diamond chips for numbers.
Ten minutes later Devon spun around in front of the mirror that ran the length of her wardrobe. She was feeling giddy, like a girl let loose after a long confinement.
Pleased with the results thus far, she now considered her footwear.
“The black boots,” Heather insisted.
Devon agreed. Finally she put on her tan Burberry and grabbed a multihued green silk scarf.
“Wish me luck,” she said as she went to the door.
“I wish you more than that. I’ll want a full accounting when you get back—” Heather smiled “—whenever that may be.”
Devon left the flat laughing.
Five
The ornately carved grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby was striking six when Devon walked into the old Tudor inn. At this time of year the sun had long set.
Brent and the girls were waiting for her on the settee in front of the fireplace, in which a lively fire burned. Unlike so many Americans who dressed casually for nearly every occasion, he was wearing a perfectly tailored chestnut tweed jacket, a fawn shirt and olive-green tie. His darker sepia slacks were sharply creased and he had on comfortably worn polished brown loafers.
He was even handsomer in this more informal attire, she decided, than in the proper suit he’d had on earlier in the day. But it was the man and not the clothes that caught her attention—and her imagination.
He was powerfully built. She wondered what sports he played, convinced that whatever they were, he played them well. Brent Preston didn’t strike her as a man who did things by half measures.
“My,” she said, making an effort to focus her attention on the twins instead of him, “aren’t you the smart duo?” They were dressed in matching pink frocks and mid-calf boots.
The girls jumped up and ran to her, clearly pleased to see her. As delighted as she was with their greeting, it was their father’s appraisal that warmed her insides.
“Where do you suggest we eat?” Brent asked.
“There are several places in the area,” she said. “The Stag and Steer, a short walk from here, is quite good. Their 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