“All right.”
To her relief, Livvy found countless things of interest in the library and temporarily managed to forget about their kisses with the aid of a fine copy of Robinson Crusoe. By late afternoon, however, she was forced to abandon the shipwrecked adventures and go and dress for dinner.
The butterflies in her stomach returned as she descended the stairs wearing a beautiful blue velvet evening gown, another of Daisy’s castoffs, and Fletcher directed her to a large wood-paneled dining room at the end of the east wing.
Devlin was already there, standing by the fire with a glass of amber liquid in his hand, and he raised it in a jaunty toast to her.
“Evening. You look lovely.”
She fluffed her skirts and tried not to blush. The dress was more sophisticated than the ones she usually wore, more suitable for a married woman like Daisy than a spinster like herself. The front was cut in a deep V, making her painfully conscious of the exposed skin on her chest, but the warm appreciation on Dev’s face made her glad she’d chosen it. She raised her chin and pretended she was as confident and sophisticated as a duchess.
You could behisduchess, if you just say yes.
She quashed the invasive thought.
A servant pulled out a chair, and she sat opposite Dev, then took a sip of red wine to bolster her nerves. Just being in the same room as him made her jittery.
“So,” she said, keen to break the awkward silence. “Tell me about the party. How many people have you invited?”
Dev took a sip from his own glass. “Over a hundred, I should think. Although not everyone will come. And your Uncle Hubert will never get an invitation.”
“Good,” Livvy admitted with a soft smile. “He might be my closest living relative now, but I’d be quite happy never to see him again.”
“Fletcher will have him ejected from the premises if he dares to show his face.”
“Thank you.” She took a careful sip of soup, aware of Dev’s gaze resting on her mouth for a second before he picked up his own spoon and followed suit.
“Have you ever been to a Twelfth Night party before?” he asked.
“Never. Why? Are they particularly scandalous? People aren’t expected to dance naked around a bonfire howling at the moon or anything like that, are they?” she teased.
The twinkle in his eyes suggested he was imagining her in just such a scenario, and she hoped the candlelight hid her burning cheeks. Really, he brought out the worst in her.
Thankfully, he didn’t rise to the bait. “According to the church, Twelfth Night is the last of the twelve days of Christmas, but it’s associated with all sorts of stories and legends that are much older than that. It’s a night where none of the usual rules apply. Everything’s upside down and back to front. Jesters become kings, servants become masters, men dress as women and vice versa.” He tilted his head. “Haven’t you ever seen Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night?”
“Is that the one that starts with a shipwreck, and the twins who get separated and washed ashore?”
“It is. Viola and Sebastian,” he nodded. “Half the characters are in disguise, and they all fall in love with the wrong person, but everything works out in the end.”
“I remember it because there’s a character called Olivia.”
“A beautiful noblewoman. Poor Count Orsino is pining away with love for her, but she’s in mourning for her dead brother and refuses to entertain any proposals of marriage.” His lips curved upward. “Sounds familiar.”
Livvy snorted. She was less like the rich and beautiful Olivia and more like poor, hopeless Viola, mutely longing for a man who didn’t love her back. Ugh.
“Will there be dancing?”
“Of course. And music enough music to make anyone fall out of love, if Shakespeare had it right.”
“If music be the food of love, play on’,” Liv quoted, recalling the famous opening lines of the play. “‘Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.’”
“Brava. You should be on the stage at Drury Lane,” he teased. “But do you think it’s possible to have too much of a good thing? To fall out of love?”
Liv bit her lip. “I’m not sure. Maybe?”
She’d tried to stop lovinghimfor years, to no avail. It was unlikely that she’d stop any time soon, even if she saw him every day. She didn’t think she’d ever get enough of his sly humor and burning kisses. But there was a strong chance he’d get tired ofher,as he’d done with all his previous paramours.
He spoke before she could dwell on that depressing thought.
