Page 42 of The Devil's Bargain
“When did you last eat?”
“I...” She frowned.
He set a covered tray on the corner of her desk. “The kitchen staff mentioned you missed dinner.”
“You had them prepare food for me?” Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise, confusion at this show of consideration from the man she still thought of as her adversary.
“Someone has to ensure you don’t work yourself to death.” He uncovered the tray, revealing bread, cheese, and fruit. “Though I suppose that would be one way to end our marriage.”
Her laugh was startled but genuine. “Hardly an efficient method.”
“No?” He perched on the edge of her desk, closer than propriety allowed. “I’ve found you’re rarely inefficient about anything.”
She picked up a grape, studying it rather than meeting his eyes. “Why are you being kind to me?”
“Perhaps I prefer my opponents at full strength.” But his tone was gentle as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She went very still at his touch. “Or perhaps I simply don’t enjoy seeing you exhaust yourself.”
“I’m not your responsibility.”
“No.” His fingers lingered at her temple. “But you are my wife.”
She finally looked up at him, and something passed between them, something that had nothing to do with their constant power struggles and everything to do with the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For the food.”
He nodded, withdrawing his hand though it ached to touch her again. “Try to get some rest.”
At the door, he paused. He wanted to tell her he missed having her in his arms, but he said nothing. Instead, he left her to return to her drawing.
It’d been two and a half weeks since Devlin slept in her bed. She noticed the pattern shortly after their last night together. Just before midnight, Devlin would pause outside her door on his way to slip into the small study at the end of the hall. She’d hear the door click shut, then silence until the early hours when his footsteps would finally retreat to his chambers.
One night, curiosity got the better of her, and Caroline found Devlin in his private study well past midnight, his head bent over ledgers in the lamplight. The small study was nothing like his grand office downstairs. No impressive desk or leather chairs. Just a simple writing table, its surface covered in maps of London’s poorest districts. Red marks dotted the areas with the worst water quality.
“You should be in bed,” he said without looking up.
“So should you.” She moved into the room, drawn by this unfamiliar version of him—coat discarded, cravat loosened, defences lowered. “What’s this?” She picked up a document covered in calculations. Her eyes widened as she read.
“These are plans for bringing clean water to St. Giles. But the cost is considerable.” He moved behind her, hands settling on her shoulders. “Though perhaps with your expertise, we could make it more efficient.”
She turned to face him. “You’re serious about this?”
“I am,” he said simply.
Something shifted in her chest as she studied him. “Why haven’t you implemented these plans?”
“The board would never approve such an unprofitable venture.” His thumb traced her collarbone. “And I admit, I’ve been rather distracted lately by a brilliant engineer who keeps challenging my every move.”
“I’m beginning to believe there’s more to you than you let anyone see.”
“Careful.” His smile held a hint of self-mockery. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Heaven forbid.” She reached for one of his papers, their fingers brushing. Neither pulled away. “Your flow rate calculations are wrong, by the way.”
“Are they?”
“Mm.” She picked up his pen, leaning over to correct the figures. “You’ve forgotten to account for pressure loss in the smaller pipes.”
He moved behind her chair, one hand bracing on the desk as he studied her corrections. His warmth surrounded her, his breath stirring her hair. “Show me.”
