Page 87 of Bad Luck Bride

“That’s rather true for gentlemen, too,” he pointed out. “We obtain educations that prepare us for no trade, occupation, or profession. We live off our quarterly allowance—well, not me, since my father disowned me ages ago and I kicked against the pricks and trained as a mining engineer, much to my family’s embarrassment, but what you describe is true for most gentlemen we know.”

“I suppose it is.” She waved the check in the air. “This is so much more gratifying.”

“Yes,” he agreed, smiling at her, savoring the joy he saw in her face. “But I’d happily pay you a hundred pounds every day if I could see you smile at me like that.”

Abruptly, he looked away, suddenly, oddly embarrassed. “We had best be going. I’ve hired a carriage for the entire day. I thought it better than trying to find cabs. If you’re ready?”

“I am.” She put the bank draft in the top drawer of her desk, then retrieved her handbag from beneath her desk, then she rose, hooked her handbag over her arm, and started for the door.

“Did you see Delilah Dawlish lingering out there anywhere, waiting to pounce?” she asked over her shoulder as he followed her.

“I didn’t. Perhaps she’s moved on. Perhaps someone else’s scandal has pushed us off the front page of her wretched paper.”

Kay brightened. “I know I shouldn’t find that to be a happy prospect…” She paused, making a face. “But, sadly, I do.”

“Well, I ordered the driver to pull into the alley, just to be on the safe side.”

Kay took her straw boater hat down from its peg on the coat tree and pulled her hatpin from the crown. “That was wise of you,” she said as she put on her hat and secured it in place.

They left the hotel, and Kay ordered the driver to take them to Red Lion Square.

“Holborn, eh?” Devlin said, assisting her into the carriage as the driver climbed up onto the box.

She nodded. “We have four hotels to see today. Holborn, Bloomsbury, Soho, and ending in Marylebone.”

Their tour took them most of the day to complete, but Devlin found little opportunity for anything more than conversation. The first two hotels they visited were still in operation, with dozens of people milling about. They had lunch in a crowded Bloomsbury tea shop, and the third hotel, in a very poor section of Soho, had boarded up windows, broken shingles, and peeling paint. It wasn’t, they decided, even worth a look.

But in Marylebone, the Portland Hotel gave him cause for hope. It was empty, for one thing, and as they began to explore the rooms on the first floor, Devlin saw a heaven-sent opportunity for a little romance.

“One thing’s certain,” he said, nodding to the walls of the suite’s sitting room. “The wallpaper will have to be replaced.”

“I’m afraid so,” she agreed, running a hand over the peeling paper. “There’s no saving it.”

“It’s a shame, though.” He moved to stand behind her, stretching out his arm above her shoulder. “Gardenias,” he said, tracing the petals of one of the flowers. “Your favorite.”

“Yes,” she agreed with aggravating indifference.

“Go on,” he coaxed when she fell silent. “Ask me how I know that.”

“No.” Her voice was firm. “I’m not asking.”

He flattened his palm against the wall, his chest brushing her shoulder. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course.”

“Then why aren’t you asking me?”

Her face was in profile, but he didn’t miss the faint smile that curved her mouth. “Because you so badly want me to.”

“You devil,” he murmured. He leaned even closer, playing with fire. “C’mon, ask me.”

She made a choked sound—a stifled laugh—then pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “I won’t.”

“C’mon,” he murmured in her ear. “If you don’t…”

Beneath the brim of her hat, her eyebrow lifted in a delicate arch, daring him. “If I don’t?” she asked.

“If you don’t, I might have to send you pineapple lilies next time.”

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