By the time he and Malcolm retreated for brandy, Devon was ready to plead tiredness and retreat to the relative quiet of his room. But once there, he found himself resenting the stillness, for it left him far too free to think about Kat.

He stood restlessly and wandered to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtain and looking out at the starlit night. What was Kat doing now? Was she working with the lads? Was she thinking about the promises she’d made him? Was she even awake? As late as it was, she was most likely in bed, sound asleep.

That brought to mind more important questions. What did she wear to bed? A long flannel nightgown devoid of lace or trim? Somehow, he couldn’t imagine her in anything so mundane. Perhaps a thin cotton rail, tied with ribbons and bows? But no. That was too ordinary. Perhaps she just wore a silk chemise. One with little tiny flowers embroidered around a low neckline. A neckline that outlined the curve of her generous breasts—

He turned from the window and grabbed up his coat, his imagination—and other parts of him—afire. It was almost midnight, and by the time he arrived at her house, it would be tomorrow already. Perhaps, in addition to showing her that he was earnest in his desire to forward their relationship, he could also model the virtue of promptness.

Grinning at his own whimsy, he made his way through the moonlit night to the stable, where he woke, then handsomely bribed, a sleepy groom to saddle Thunder.

Kat tossed her scarf on the dressing table and then found her comb. Sighing heavily, she sat in front of the oval mirror and made a face. “Comb your hair and stop thinking about That Man.”

As usual, she didn’t listen to herself, for the third time she drew the large toothed comb through her hair, she caught herself wondering what Devon was doing now. Was he playing billiards with Malcolm? Listening to Fiona talk about the upcoming ball? Or walking a moonlit path with Murien?

“Ow!” The comb hit a tangle. That was the problem with having thick hair, it got mussed far too easily.

She worked the comb through the tangle and smiled when it finally slid through. “There,” she told her reflection in the mirror. “See what a little work will do?”

Her reflection grimaced back at her. Work was one thing, but wanting the impossible was another, which was what spending an entire day with Devon St. John tended to do to her. The man had a gift for inspiring confidences and appearing earnest, both talents that made him a dangerous man indeed.