He didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He was certain he could not love her. She was part of the aristocracy that chained him. The answer was pure and simple lust. Lust for a woman farthest from his reaches.
The governor cried out when Devon wrapped his foot too tight. With apologies he commenced the procedure again. Perhaps Devon shouldn’t feel so bitter. Claire was young and stunningly beautiful, unequalled among women in his opinion. But in her world marriage was a matter of gain and convenience. And he had nothing to offer as she grew quick to remind him.
Yet the searing, fiery flash of her eyes, loomed before him.Ah sir, in my judgment you are foolhardy, selfish, and unreliable. He’d submit to keelhauling before he confessed to that shaming fact.
So passionate, so furious. Lovely indeed and she didn’t even know it. Definitely equipped with two full breasts, he mocked himself. He knew that full well because he had touched her. He hadn’t really meant to do so; he hadn’t wanted to touch her, but when his Irish temper flared he couldn’t have stopped himself from seizing her when he did.
“Next case.”
The barrister stepped forward. “Mr. Tom Dooley is in debt, milord. He owes several merchants the sum of ten pounds. My recommendation is to put him in jail until he pays off his debt.”
The governor stood on his feet as Devon instructed. “Wonderful.” he cried. “Not Tom Dooley’s debt,” he laughed at his own little joke. “I’ll ask Dr. Blackmon’s counsel if you don’t mind. Dr. Blackmon, what say you about Tom Dooley’s predicament?”
Devon ground his teeth, the sorry state of Tom Dooley and the rich attire of the barrister who wanted Dooley imprisoned. “If you lock him up, how will he pay his debts? I say let him go about his business, pay the merchants, and a tithe to your governor as his earnings allow.”
“Good,” said the governor. “Let the man go, but be mindful, I’m in a good mood today. If I hear those debts are not paid then I will have my soldiers’ hunt you down and lock you up.”
Tom Dooley trembled, faint with relief. He addressed the governor but stared at Devon. “Thank you. I am indebted to your generosity, and I do not forget a favor.”
“Thank my doctor for curing my feet and dispensing my good graces. And you Dr. Blackmon, my arthritis is so much better. But my wife has a ball planned this evening. I shall not wish you to return to the compound, so I’ll ask you to be present.”
“But…Sir Jarvis?” Devon reminded him.
“Sir Jarvis will do as I command.” The governor chuckled, and light of heart, he twirled on his foot. “Now off with you to my wife. She suffers terrible megrims and has much to do. If you are to attend as my physician, you cannot appear as you are. Tell my wife to find you decent attire. My nephew left a few of his belongings. I believe they are about the right size. Now run along. Sir Jarvis’s nieces will be in attendance, and my wife has not left me a moment’s peace with her matchmaking plans.”
Devon stood alone next to the French windows. Strains of music floated through the room and the delicate scent of beeswax candles wafted through the air mingling with the fragrance of splendid flower arrangements. The west wing had been cleared of furniture, granting the ballroom enough space to spare them the heated crush of such gatherings. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, the governor’s wife had so carefully procured from London, the cream of Jamaica’s aristocracy, officers and their wives, and other notable island guests gathered in a rainbow of lush silks and satins. A feverish murmur swept through the ballroom. Devon turned and followed their gazes to find his wife standing on the stairs.
The first time he laid eyes on Claire in the gaol, Devon could barely get over her beauty. But this−this was beyond perfection. Both bewitching and captivating, her grace defied mere earthly mortals. The hint of defiance in her unflinching eyes only made her that much more enchanting.
The rich, sable velvet of her hair had been swept atop her in a gentle swirl, anchored by tiny delicate red blossoms. A gathering of curls had been allowed to escape, accenting her luminous golden eyes and arched sable brows. Her slender figure was well served by a tight-waisted gown, the bodice boasting a row of wispy lace, plunging low to enhance the deep valley of her swelling breasts. Her pale throat was adorned with a string of red garnets to match the deep red color of her satin gown.
The sight of her arrested him as well as any red-blooded man in the room. A knot of jealousy churned in his stomach. Every other man could stare and ogle her, yet he could not. From her clamoring legion of admirers, a well-dressed officer leaned into her, touching her hair as he whispered some witticism in her ear. Then he clasped her hand and brought it to his lips.
She lifted her chin, and her smile brightened. Devon viewed the scene through a red haze, and watched as she turned her attentions from one male to another, always smiling and nodding.
Everything had been going well up until now. He had been thinking on a plan of escape. But the gods were not inclined to let him be, leaving the brown-haired witch to weave her spell.
Devon observed Sir Teakle enter, the governor’s wife introducing him and his long list of titles. A fop, adorned in a coat of brilliant yellow with white cuffs and lapels, and white breeches so tight about his girth Devon expected to hear them split. This grotesque form of tropical turkey appeared like a man who would demand strict obedience from a woman and employ force to obtain it. Doubtless the scion of some influential family, he seemed determined to pursue an aggressive mien toward Claire. Devon gritted his teeth, his immediate distrust and contempt of the man filled him with loathing.
Claire was on her way to the punch table with Lily and raised her eyes.
Devon.
She swallowed down a wave of panic. She hadn’t prepared herself for another confrontation with him. And the encounter definitely took some preparation. He appeared refined in his dress and she wondered where he had procured gentleman’s clothing. He had profited in a better diet from his role as physician for indeed his powerful frame needed no augmentation. His white shirt tucked into unfashionably tight black trousers, clung to powerful thighs, the corded muscles rippling beneath, in what could be considered indecent. He had the appearance of a gentleman, too much like a gentleman, for he already had the presence−and the arrogance.
He did not fit the prescription of a country doctor. No. Not this man. His posture, awareness, confidence belied undertones of a man who cut his teeth in battle. Just by standing there, he commanded everyone’s attention, a man born to lead. Even at this distance she felt his all-encompassing power pervade the masses−and her.
He paused as Lily and Claire approached, and turned to them as if knowing she was there all the time. His gaze swept over her face then in lazy regard, slowly up and down her body, a sweeping gesture that angered Claire, reminding her of the intimacy shared from their last meeting.
She needed a maneuver to get him alone. To ensure he would disclose nothing. Her heart stopped in her throat. What kind of trouble would he cause her? She clenched and unclenched her hands with the set of events that put her at his mercy.
“Lily, I believe you were going to ask of the menu tonight,” Claire hinted.
“The menu?” Lily questioned, bent on being stubborn. Then she laughed. “Whenever have I been concerned about the menu? Perhaps I should inquire about the polish on the silver or the condition of the weather. What do you think, Dr. Blackmon?”
Claire tapped her foot to the low rumbling of Devon’s chuckle. It galled her how they were on such good terms.
“Weren’t you doing something?” Claire glared at Lily.
