Devon Still Quotes

I glanced up at Zay, then walked over to stand next to him. "You look good with a baby in your arms," he murmured. I took his hand, careful with his fingers that were still wrapped in tape. "Don't get your hopes up, Jones. I'm not the settling-down type." "Want to bet on that?" he asked. "Sure." I made a fist; so did he. We pumped three times. I threw paper. Zayvion threw scissors. I'd lost. Startled, I looked up at him. "Two out of three?" Zay grinned. So did I.

…I noticed you don’t have any self-defense training…” “…I can handle myself just fine.” She stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, “In the very short time I’ve known you, you have been chased, shot, robbed, stabbed, drugged, and attacked by magic.” “I’m still breathing, aren’t I?

The watercolor people hadn’t moved, hadn’t seen us, were still busy being dead and artistic. Good.

I’m glad you’re here, Lila,” he said. “I hope you feel that way, too.” Devon stared at me, a mix of emotions swirling through his eyes. I saw everything I had that first day at the Razzle Dazzle—the guilt, grief, sorrow, and all the other burdens he carried in his heart. And then there was that hot spark, a little darker and dimmer than before, but still burning all the same. “Me too,” I said. Devon smiled, and that spark brightened just for a moment, and I felt an answering bit of warmth stir in my own heart. I nodded at him, and we both went back to our food, things a little less tense between us. A few seconds later, we were laughing, along with Oscar, as Mo and Felix talked over each other nonstop. Somewhere between those laughs and all the others that morning, I realized something. My home. My friends. My Family. Sometimes, good things come in threes.

Still, I held my right hand ready to cast a spell in case arts-and-craft hour suddenly ended and they went back to Killing 101.

What the hell?” I muttered. Then I realized it was Jack Quinn’s car. Jack was a Hound and Bea’s boyfriend. The left blinker flashed on for just a second, and then Jack drove at speed again. “Zayvion, I’m sorry to tell you I think I have a crush on another man.” “Who is this unfortunate and soon-to-be-dead fool?” he asked. “Jack. That’s his car. He must have been waiting for us, or maybe he followed us.” “Jack Quinn has been following us?” Shame said. “And now he’s taking us to Collins, I think.” “Or a trap,” Shame said. “He’s a Hound, Shame.” “My statement stands.” “You still don’t get it, do you?” I turned left, following the car. “Hounds are loyal. Jack and Bea told me they’d help me if they could. They’re not going to turn against me while I’m in trouble.” “What happens when you’re not in trouble?” Shame asked. “Don’t know. It’s never happened.

Cancel Culture doesn't really exist. It's a myth created by people who have been used to saying whatever they want without being challenged and are now surprised when there are consequences to their words. Rowling is still a very rich bestselling author with a massive platform. (7/8/2020 on Twitter)

Now, in this winter of snow and crutches with Phineas, I begin to know that each morning reasserted the problems of the night before, that sleep suspended all but changed nothing, that you couldn’t make yourself over between dawn and dusk. Phineas however did not believe this. I’m sure that he looked down at his leg every morning first thing, as soon as he remembered it, to see if it had not been totally restored while he slept. When he found on this first morning back at Devon that it happened still to be crippled and in a cast, he said in his usual self-contained way, “Hand me my crutches, will you?

I know you’re tough, Lola. I can still hurt you, trust me.  I don’t want to, but that’s exactly what will happen if we take this anywhere.

I’m not sorry I feel bad for you Drake. I’m not cold, I’m not dead, and although it’s been up for debate a few times, I still have a heart.

Like Nycteris, she thought, and cringed. There was an old fairy tale called The History of Photogen and Nycteris that she still carried a copy of. The main character in it was a young woman who had been raised by a cruel witch, inside a cave beneath a castle. The girl had grown up knowing only darkness, which at the time hadn’t seemed much of an issue to child-Devon. But the general idea was that Nycteris’s world was narrow: she thought the lamp in her cave was a sun, and that the universe was just a tiny series of rooms. She knew nothing of society and had very few books. A relatable situation, for a book eater woman. One day, Nycteris escaped her cave by following a stray firefly. She ended up in the castle garden. But her reactions in the story were strange and unexpected. Upon espying the moon for the first time, Nycteris decided that it must be a giant lamp, akin to the one in her cave. She saw the sky, and likewise decided it must be another kind of roof. And when she looked at the horizon, she saw not a limitless world, but merely another room, albeit with distant walls. The concept of outside didn’t exist for one such as Nycteris, nor could it ever. Her upbringing had given her such a fixed perspective that, even when encountering something new, she could only process it along the lines already drawn for her. The story’s complexity had baffled Devon as a child, but she understood it well enough now. The truth was, Nycteris never really escaped. Oh, she got a prince and a castle and the cruel witch died at the end. But Nycteris could not ever leave the cave, because the cave was a place in her mind; it was the entire way she thought about reality. Princesses like that couldn’t be rescued.

Yours have passed away too?” I asked her. She shrugged and said, “Peter still has both of his, squirrelled away in Devon or Dorset.” Her voice was low, whispering a secret. “I think he’s embarrassed by them —their cheeks are too ruddy, or they look too much like their dogs.” I stared at her, shocked, until she laughed and I realised she was joking.

What I can make people do . . . it’s not what they want to do. It may sound corny, but I want people to like me for me, not because I can force them to or because of who my mom is or who I am in the Family. You know?” He raised his green gaze to my blue one. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Lila. You don’t care about any of that.” “Just one of the things?” I teased, trying to make him laugh a little, just so he’d forget his guilt and grief, if only for a few moments. “Just one.” His voice took on a low, husky note. “I could list all the others, if you want.” My gaze locked with his and my soulsight kicked in, showing me all of his emotions. And I felt them, too—more intensely than I ever had before. His heart still ached with that soul-crushing guilt, and it always would. But that hot spark I’d seen inside him that first day at the Razzle Dazzle had finally ignited into a roaring fire, burning as hot and bright as my own emotions were right now. Devon hesitated, then leaned in, just a little. My breath caught in my throat. He inched forward a little more. I wet my lips. He came even closer, so close that his warm breath brushed my cheek and his scent flooded my nose, that sharp, fresh tang of pine. Clean and crisp, just like he was, inside and out. I sighed. Suddenly, my hands itched to touch him, to trace my fingers over the sharp planes of his face, and then slide them lower, over all of his warm, delicious muscles . . . “Lila,” he whispered. I shivered, loving the sound of my name on his lips—lips that were heartbreakingly close to mine—

I didn't know why he had chosen me, why it was only to me that he could show the most humbling sides of his handicap. I didn't care. For the war was no longer eroding the peaceful summertime stillness I had prized so much at Devon, and although the playing fields were crusted under a foot of congealed snow and the river was now a hard gray-white lane of ice between gaunt trees, peace had come back to Devon for me.

The guy smiled at me, and I glanced at him again just in time to look directly into his eyes. My mistake. Sight was a common Talent, but my magic went beyond seeing the world with crystal clarity or being able to navigate through the dark like it was daylight. Because I could also see into people. All I had to do was stare into someone’s eyes, and I knew exactly what they were feeling at that moment, whether it was love, hate, anger, or something else. Not only that, but I could actually feel the emotion in my own heart, just like the person who was experiencing it. Soulsight, it was called. A major Talent and one that I could have done without. Most people didn’t have a lot of nice thoughts, feelings, or emotions, not even toward their own so-called friends and family. But this guy . . . he radiated cold sorrow, as though he was carrying around a heavy burden that he could never, ever be free from. Still, there was a rock-hard strength mixed in with his sorrow, along with a flicker of something else buried deep, deep down . . . a hot spark that I couldn’t quite identify. I knew in an instant that he was the sort of guy who was exceedingly loyal to his friends. Who felt responsible for others. Who tried to help people as much as he could even if they didn’t deserve it, and he ended up being the one who got hurt instead. The sort of guy that others saw as a leader and naturally flocked to. The sort of guy who was just so disgustingly fascinating that you couldn’t help wanting to know more about him. The guy kept smiling, although his expression grew thinner and fainter the longer I stared. But I couldn’t help it. For the first time in a long time, I was completely captivated by another person. In that moment, all I wanted to do was peel back the cool exterior of his emotions and see what really lay beneath—and especially see what would happen when that hot spark inside him flared to life and he finally let out his true feelings. But there was also something disturbingly . . . familiar about him. As though I’d met him someplace before, although I couldn’t quite remember where. I kept staring into his green eyes, hoping that my soulsight would kick in a tiny bit more and bring the knowledge, the memory, along with it . . .

New York always feels more like my hometown than the places where I actually grew up (which weren't far from New York), perhaps because I did my artistic "growing up" while working in this crazy, wonderful city back in my twenties. Although I love the quieter, slower, nature-rich life I live now in the sheep-dotted hills of Devon, there are ways in which I still feel more truly myself here in New York, more than anywhere else. Even after all this time in the desert and on Dartmoor. Strange, isn't it?

Here are some indications that you may still be associating productivity with goodness: When you get less done during the day than you anticipated, you feel guilty. You have trouble enjoying your free time. You believe you have to "earn" the right to a vacation or break. You take care of your health only in order to remain productive. Having nothing to do makes you feel "useless." You find the idea of growing old or becoming disabled to be incredibly depressing. When you say no to someone, you feel compelled to say yes to something else to "make up" for it.

He smiled, and some of the knots in my stomach loosened. He would keep my secret. Devon hesitated, then reached over and put his hand on top of mine. His skin was warm, as though the sun had soaked into his body. I breathed in, and the crisp, clean scent of him filled my nose, the one that made me want to bury my face in his neck and inhale the essence of him over and over again. But I forced myself to exhale and step back, putting some distance between us, even though our hands were still touching. “Look,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “You’re a nice guy, a great guy. But I’m going to . . . be here for a while. You’re an important member of the Family, and I’m your bodyguard, so it’s my job to protect you, and we’re going to have to work together. But I don’t think there should be anything . . . else.” “Because of your mom, right?” he asked in a low voice. “Because you blame me for her death?” I sucked in a breath, so rattled that I couldn’t even pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about. First, my magic, and now this. Somehow, Devon knew all my secrets. “How do you know about my mom?” I croaked out. “I remember everything about that day in the park,” he said. “Including the girl with the blue eyes who helped save me.” I didn’t say anything. I could barely even hear him over the roar of my own heartbeat in my ears. “It took me a while to figure out why you seemed so familiar. When I realized you reminded me of the girl in the park, I knew it had to be you. Mom would never have brought you here otherwise. Plus, there are several photos of your mother in the library. You look just like her. I know what happened to her. I’m sorry that she died because of me—so sorry.” His green gaze locked with mine, that old, familiar guilt flaring to life in his eyes and punching me in the gut. And once again, I found myself wanting to comfort him. “I don’t blame you for her death,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. It was all the Draconis.” “Do you really mean that?” he whispered. “I do.” Devon closed the distance between us and stared down at me. I let myself look into his eyes for another heartbeat. Then I pulled my hand out from under his and stepped away. Hurt flashed in his gaze before he could hide it. I wanted to stop. I wanted to tell him that I felt this thing, this attraction, this heat between us just as much as he did. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, pull his lips down to mine, and lose myself in him. But I couldn’t. Not when I was planning on leaving the mansion, the Family, and him, the second I thought it was safe. I already cared about Devon way too much. And Felix and Oscar and even Claudia. I didn’t need to fall any farther down that rabbit hole, especially where Devon was concerned, because I knew exactly where I would end up—with my heart broken.

It’s hard to see. There are only the shadows of things. She feels along the fridge to the wall and the phone, touching first her uncle’s keys, then her dead aunt’s, a woman Devon can feel judging her from the grave even though she’s only borrowing something, not stealing it. She has never stolen anything in her life, and she never will. She steps into the cool, still air of the closed garage and she sees Sick’s face. The way he looked at her as she let him in, the only one. His hair hung down and his lips were parted and as he moved inside her his eyes seemed to shine with a sweet sadness, the kind that only comes when you know something good can never, ever last. But you keep going anyway. All you can do is keep going and never quit.

The amiable relationship between West and Kathleen was immediately obvious upon their return to Eversby Priory. Kathleen came to the entrance hall while the butler was still collecting their hats and coats, and propped her hands on her hips as she viewed West with mock suspicion. “Have you brought back any farm animals?” she asked. “Not this time.” West smiled and went to kiss her forehead. To Devon’s surprise, Kathleen accepted the affectionate gesture without protest. “Did you learn as much as you’d hoped?” she asked. “Ten times more,” West said promptly. “On the subject of fertilizer alone, I could regale you for hours.” Kathleen laughed, but her expression became remote as she turned to Devon. “My lord.” Annoyed by the stilted acknowledgement, Devon nodded in return. It appeared that she had decided to hold him at arm's length and pretend the kiss had never happened.

Stillness pooled like blood and Devon sat, stunned and terrified to move in case her universe tilted again. The aunts were already cleaning up: wiping blood off her legs, changing the sheets around her as best they could. Someone carried the placenta away. “Your milk will be black, when it comes in,” Gailey said. “Don’t be alarmed by that. All perfectly normal.” Devon just nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Perfectly normal? How could anything be normal ever again? Her life had been a series of twisted fairy tales in which she had imagined herself the princess, but this, here, living and breathing and snuffling in her arms, had more truth than all of her swallowed stories combined. She was her daughter’s whole world, a realization both humbling and empowering. Devon had never been anybody’s world before—had never been anything at all, in fact, except the sum of paper flesh she’d consumed without thought.

He sat beside his brother and glanced at the notes. “The broken pew in the chapel has been repaired—you can cross that off the list. The keg of caviar arrived yesterday. It’s in the icehouse. I don’t know whether the extra camp chairs are here yet. I’ll ask Sims.” He paused to drink half his coffee in one swallow. “Where’s Kathleen? Still abed?” “Are you joking? She’s been awake for hours. At the moment she’s with the housekeeper, showing deliverymen where to set the flower arrangements.” A fond smile crossed Devon’s lips as he rolled the pencil against the tabletop with the flat of his hand. “You know my wife—every detail has to be perfect.” “It’s like staging a production at St. James’s Music Hall. Without, sadly, the chorus girls in pink tights.” West drained the rest of his coffee. “My God, will this day never end?” “It’s only six o’clock in the morning,” Devon pointed out. They both sighed. “I’ve never thanked you properly for marrying Kathleen at the registrar’s office,” West commented. “I want you to know how much I enjoyed it.” “You weren’t there.” “That’s why I enjoyed it.” Devon’s lips twitched. “I was glad not to have to wait,” he said. “But had there been more time, I wouldn’t have minded going through a more elaborate ceremony for Kathleen’s sake.” “Please. Shovel that manure in someone else’s direction.

We need more baskets,” Pandora said triumphantly, entering the hall. The twins, who were clearly having a splendid time, had adorned themselves outlandishly. Cassandra was dressed in a green opera cloak with a jeweled feather ornament affixed to her hair. Pandora had tucked a light blue lace parasol beneath one arm, and a pair of lawn tennis rackets beneath the other, and was wearing a flowery diadem headdress that had slipped partially over one eye. “From the looks of it,” Kathleen said, “you’ve done enough shopping already.” Cassandra looked concerned. “Oh, no, we still have at least eighty departments to visit.” Kathleen couldn’t help glancing at Devon, who was trying, without success, to stifle a grin. It was the first time she had seen him truly smile in days. Enthusiastically the girls lugged the baskets to her and began to set objects on the counter in an unwieldy pile…perfumed soaps, powders, pomades, stockings, books, new corset laces and racks of hairpins, artificial flowers, tins of biscuits, licorice pastilles and barley sweets, a metal mesh tea infuser, hosiery tucked in little netted bags, a set of drawing pencils, and a tiny glass bottle filled with bright red liquid. “What is this?” Kathleen asked, picking up the bottle and viewing it suspiciously. “It’s a beautifier,” Pandora said. “Bloom of Rose,” Cassandra chimed in. Kathleen gasped as she realized what it was. “It’s rouge.” She had never even held a container of rouge before. Setting it on the counter, she said firmly, “No.” “But Kathleen--” “No to rouge,” she said, “now and for all time.” “We need to enhance our complexions,” Pandora protested. “It won’t do any harm,” Cassandra chimed in. “The bottle says that Bloom of Rose is ‘delicate and inoffensive’…It’s written right there, you see?” “The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress.” Pandora turned to Devon. “Lord Trenear, what do you think?” “This is one of those times when it’s best for a man to avoid thinking altogether,” he said hastily.

He sent messages to all fifteen of my former suitors, asking if they were still interested in marrying me-“ “Oh, my God,” Alex breathed. “-and, if they were, he volunteered to send me to them for a few days, properly chaperoned by Lucinda,” Elizabeth recited in that same strangled tone, “so that we could both discover if we still suit.” “Oh, my God,” Alex said again, with more force. “Twelve of them declined,” she continued, and she watched Alex wince in embarrassed sympathy. “But three of them agreed, and now I am to be sent off to visit them. Since Lucinda can’t return from Devon until I go to visit the third-suitor, who’s in Scotland,” she said, almost choking on the word as she applied it to Ian Thornton, “I shall have to pass Berta off as my aunt to the first two.” “Berta!” Bentner burst out in disgust. “Your aunt? The silly widgeon’s afraid of her shadow.” Threatened by another uncontrollable surge of mirth, Elizabeth looked at both her friends. “Berta is the least of my problems However, do continue invoking God’s name, for it’s going to take a miracle to survive this.” “Who are the suitors?” Alex asked, her alarm increased by Elizabeth’s odd smile as she replied, “I don’t recall two of them. It’s quite remarkable, isn’t it,” she continued with dazed mirth, “that two grown men could have met a young girl at her debut and hared off to her brother to ask for her hand, and she can’t remember anything about them, except one of their names.” “No,” Alex said cautiously, “it isn’t remarkable. You were, are, very beautiful, and that is the way it’s done. A young girl makes her debut at seventeen, and gentlemen look her over, often in the most cursory fashion, and decide if they want her. Then they apply for her hand. I can’t think it is reasonable or just to betroth a young girl to someone with whom she’s scarcely acquainted and then expect her to develop a lasting affection for him after she is wed, but the ton does regard it as the civilized way to manage marriages.” “It’s actually quite the opposite-it’s rather barbaric, when you reflect on it,” Elizabeth stated, willing to be diverted from her personal calamity by a discussion of almost anything else. “Elizabeth, who are the suitors? Perhaps I know of them and can help you remember.” Elizabeth sighed. “The first is Sir Francis Belhaven-“ “You’re joking!” Alex exploded, drawing an alarmed glance from Bentner. When Elizabeth merely lifted her delicate brows and waited for information, Alex continued angrily, “Why, he’s-he’s a dreadful old roué. There’s no polite way to describe him. He’s stout and balding, and his debauchery is a joke among the ton because he’s so flagrant and foolish. He’s an unparalleled pinchpenny to boot-a nipsqueeze!” “At least we have that last in common,” Elizabeth tried to tease, but her glance was on Bentner, who in his agitation was deflowering an entire healthy bush. “Benter,” she said gently, touched by how much he obviously cared for her plight, “you can tell the dead blooms from the live ones by their color.” “Who’s the second suitor?” Alex persisted in growing alarm. “Lord John Marchman.” When Alex looked blank, Elizabeth added, “The Earl of Canford.” Comprehension dawned, and Alex nodded slowly. “I’m not acquainted with him, but I have heard of him.” “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Elizabeth said, choking back a laugh, because everything seemed more absurd, more unreal by the moment.

It isn’t just training that makes a person good with magic.” “True. Blind stupidity and a high pain tolerance helps. Still don’t think I’m going to be all that useful.

we need nature, to remind us to be still.

In 1959 the Steed family was still divided into two branches: the Devon Steeds, who lived on what was left of the island; and the Refuge Steeds, who occupied a much more congenial series of estates on the mainland. The original strain had grown quite thin; after Judge Hathaway and Congressman Jefferson the Devon connection was quite barren, and after Lyman Steed the Refuge line was almost as bad. The family as a unit still owned the stores; their land was leaping ahead in value; and if the tomato canneries had proved a dead loss, the cornfields were replacing them.

We’d been fighting, but I still loved her. The way you love a cousin you shared your childhood with, the way you love the children you grow up with, forever.

I don’t want to hear what you’re being paid to say, Lotte. I want to know, if I were here with no money, would you still welcome me in your bed?” Lotte nodded. “Yes, I would welcome you in my bed even if you were the poorest of men.” She kissed his chest lightly. “I don’t care who you are the son of, Devon.

And when these failed, there was still boundless store of wonders open to her in old romances which were then to be found in every English house of the better class. The Legend of King Arthur, Florice and Blancheflour, Sir Ysumbras, Sir Guy of Warwick, Palamon and Arcite, and the Romaunt of the Rose, were with her text-books and canonical authorities. And lucky it was, perhaps, for her that Sidney's Arcadia was still in petto, or Mr. Frank (who had already seen the first book or two in manuscript, and extolled it above all books past, present, or to come) would have surely brought a copy down for Rose, and thereby have turned her poor little flighty brains upside down forever. And with her head full of these, it was no wonder if she had likened herself of late more than once to some of those peerless princesses of old, for whose fair hand paladins and kaisers thundered against each other in tilted field; and perhaps she would not have been sorry (provided, of course, no one was killed) if duels, and passages of arms in honor of her, as her father reasonably dreaded, had actually taken place. For

Martyrdom, which looked so splendid when consummated selon les regles on Tower Hill or Tyburn, before pitying, or (still better) scoffing multitudes, looked a confused, dirty, ugly business there in the dark forest;

Sometimes it is good to know your limits. Good to know you still have limits. It makes you human. And I wanted to stay that way. Zayvion

thought back to the previous year, when Devon had still been dating his “normal” ex-girlfriend from Roe Hampton. Devon had broken off the relationship. They had never discussed it, but Rae suspected he had done so after realizing his feelings for her. They had not started dating until the end of the year, before she left for the summer, but it showed that

This is where it starts—where it always starts: you peer out over your long nose and see green. It brushes against your outer coat and tickles the smooth skin of your belly. It blankets the ground beneath your paws. In place of the endless stone boxes the men built, giant green trunks rise up around you. You sit on your hindquarters but still can’t quite tilt your head back far enough to see their leafy tops. This isn’t your home. There’s no way you could’ve been here before. But somehow, it feels familiar. And there is something else you recognize. . . . Meat. Your whole body seems to shout the word at once. Fur bristles along your spine. Your muzzle twitches and saliva drips from your jowls. You feel the smooth sharpness of your tearing teeth. It has been so long. Where is the meat? Your ears stand upright, the fine hairs taking in everything. You hear the crisp snap of a small branch, then the whisper of fur brushing against leaves. You think you can even hear the trill of a heartbeat. More than anything, though, you can smell the creature, hidden in the shadows, between the darker shades of green. It smells like fear and food, like everything you love about the chase. It smells like life. Out of the corner of your vision, you sense motion. You spring forward from your back legs, and the animal bolts, a tawny blur. It’s not like the rodents you’re used to. This is bigger. It bounds instead of skitters, leaps instead of burrows. It’s all speed and grace, and you love the energy it takes to chase after it. Your pack is with you suddenly—brothers and sisters and second cousins, alphas and omegas. As you tear through the forest, head nodding and eyes watering, they trail in lines behind you, and you know without looking that your tail is streaming out like a flag. With the blood pumping inside your ears, each second sounds like a bark. The creature is faster than you are, but it’s losing steam. You’re panting but not tired. You run and run and run, watching the spindly legs flick through the underbrush ahead of you. You were made for this. There’s a flick of white, a flash of a hoof. You drive harder, your nails churning up cool dirt. The pack fans out and starts to close in, herding your prey closer and closer. It’s slowing. You’re gaining. It stumbles, and you dive. You open your jaws. You sink in your teeth. You savor.

Hartland Point is a geologist’s delight. The rock on this coast changes and changes and changes again, but at Hartland Point it’s unlike anything else. Created in shallow seas 320 million years ago, the sedimentary strata are formed from layers of sand, shale and mudstone. Around 290 million years ago, when the Gondwana tectonic plate moved up from the south and collided with the Laurasia plate in the north, they met in a huge upswell of rock known as the Variscan orogeny. It formed mountains through Portugal, western Spain, Cornwall, Devon and on through the south and west of Wales and Ireland. The Hartland Point cliffs are carved out in sandstone ribs that rise up into chevron-shaped rock folds. A movement millennia old, still visible, still alive beneath our feet.

This canvas of human prehistory is distinctively modern. The renowned theorist of culture W. J. T. Mitchell once remarked that dinosaurs are the quintessential modernist animal, since in Shakespeare’s time no one knew such creatures had ever existed. In a similar way, until quite recently most Christians assumed anything worth knowing about early humans could be found in the Book of Genesis. Up until the early years of the nineteenth century, ‘men of letters’ – scientists included – still largely assumed that the universe did not even exist prior to late October, 4004 BC, and that all humans spoke the same language (Hebrew) until the dispersal of humanity, after the fall of the Tower of Babel sixteen centuries later.1 At that time there was as yet no ‘prehistory’. There was only history, even if some of that history was wildly wrong. The term ‘prehistory’ only came into common use after the discoveries at Brixham Cave in Devon in 1858, when stone axes, which could only have been fashioned by humans, were found alongside remains of cave bear, woolly rhinoceros and other extinct species, all together under a sealed casing of rock. This, and subsequent archaeological findings, sparked a complete rethinking of existing evidence. Suddenly, ‘the bottom dropped out of human history.

Fine,” Castor sighed. With his chin still resting on his paws, he mumbled, “I’m ‘Castor German Shepherd, Descendent of the Mexican Wolf and Third Dog of the Trash Mountain Pack on the Southside of Lion’s Head.

I recalled phases of my life by what was on a plate: the crispy baked potatoes on seaside holidays in Devon, the lurid, sticky jam tarts of my tenth birthday, the roast chicken of every Sunday night, bathing the dread of the school week in gravy. No matter how terrible life became, no matter how blistering the pain, I was always sure I’d still have room for seconds.

Now I know I’m Autistic, but I kinda found out about it too late,” she says. “If I tell people, they don’t want to believe me. I have my life together too much for them to realize how hard it all is. Nobody wants to hear now about how hard it’s always been, always still is, frankly.

She noticed that Flicker still seemed nervous around mutants, but played nonstop with Runt, tossing tumbleweeds for him to fetch and tackling the dog on the dunes. And when she was fearful, the friends made each task into a small adventure, chattering to each other excitedly. Kozmo wanted to join in sometimes, but it was hard to be a third friend with best friends.

Are you done?” Devon asked in a low, rough voice. How he withstood that onslaught of magic without at least half cowering—like everyone else—Steve had no idea. Blue flashed over Charity’s eyes again. “I’m just beginning. Can’t you feel the thrill of it?” A shiver flash-froze Steve’s body, but strangely, his cock hardened. He was man enough to admit that this whole situation scared the shit out of him. Yet, strangely, he’d still take her—or one of her kind—to Pound Town. Exhilarating.

Even my mannerisms like speaking bluntly or directly, or matter-of-fact. I still have to mask because I want to tell the truth. But it’s not about what I say, it’s about what people interpret. And I have gotten into trouble because of what people interpret.

Like many people who have only recently figured out they’re Autistic, Crystal is still reeling about her newfound identity, and can’t seem to stop thinking about how unfairly she was treated in the past.

Even if a professor does everything they possibly can to keep the class lively, attentiveness still declines slowly over time.38 When I worked to design my own online classes, I learned that students typically keep their attention fixed on a video for only about six minutes.

It's meaningless to question whether a trans Autistic person would have "still" been trans had they not been born neurodiverse, because Autism is such a core part of who we are. Without our disability (or our gender identity) we'd be entirely different people. There is no separating these aspects of ourselves from our personhood or personality. They're both core parts.

By the time I’d made it to Get Mugged’s cross street, I was wetter and warmer, which is not as sexy as it sounds. I turned down the street and spotted the roofline of Get Mugged. The neighborhood had gone through some heavy reconstruction. Buildings had been torn down, leaving behind dirt, concrete, and gravel. There were two buildings left standing: Get Mugged and an empty warehouse with boarded-up windows. Get Mugged held down the corner of the block, a coffee-scented old broad wearing too much paint and plaster to cover her age but still turning over clients like a dime-store hooker. The warehouse looked like Get Mugged’s meth-mouthed sister, broken, rotting from the inside out, spongy, and frail. For years, people had wanted to turn this area into boutique shopping. A building would go up, something would move in, and before there was time to hang curtains, the business would bankrupt. Enough of that had left the whole block looking a little like an unmade bed.

Every masked Autistic person has a litany of experiences like this. Most maskers dodge the massive psychological bullet that is ABA therapy, but we still receive endless conditioning that says our unfiltered selves are too annoying, unusual, awkward, nonconforming, and cold to fit in. We also witness how other nonconforming bodies and minds are treated. When the entire world shames people for being into “childish” things, having odd mannerisms, or simply being irritating, you don’t need ABA to program you into compliance. Everyone around you is already doing it.

We're not great spiritual teachers. We're just two seekers who have tried to put these principles at the center of our lives. They've worked for us. They still are working for us. And while we can't say we're all that realized or all that special, we can say with conviction that we live a life that is, all in all, astonishingly ordinary and very happily adequate. Yeah, okay, but who are we? We're a white, hetero, cisgender, middle-class, hyper-educated American couple who have studied with some of the great Asian and American Buddhist teachers alive today. We've been at it for about twenty years each. We've spent years in meditation retreat and years studying old Buddhist books, new Buddhist books, and a small mountain of psychology studies -- all in this sometimes bewildering attempt to live an ethical and energized life that will benefit us, we hope, and maybe even benefit others, too. Craig has a PhD in psychology. Devon was a classroom teacher for a decade before starting to teach meditation full-time. We're basically here to pass on what we've learned to you in hope that it can be immediately applicable in your attempts to survive modern life with your heart and mind intact. Now let's have some fun.

Sometimes it is good to know your limits. Good to know you still have limits. It makes you human. And I wanted to stay that way.

Yes, Devon was just as she remembered it: dreary, damp and depressing. If only she was still in Spain, and she’d never got that phone call.

Purpose and Perspective: This work, which the author acknowledges is essentially a synthesis drawing upon the results of many other detailed studies, offers a new approach to both the burgeoning study of regions in English history and on the established discussion of the nature of Yorkist and early Tudor government (Foreword by Professor A. J. Pollard, p. iv). The study aims to explore whether a regional approach to late medieval English politics and governance is feasible, with specific reference to south-west England during the later fifteenth century. The relative importance of regions, in comparison to counties, will be explored by examination of the elites, politics, and government of Cornwall, Devon, Somerset, and Dorset from 1450 to 1500. But such an undertaking raises the fundamental question of whether a regional approach to the study of the south-western shires (or indeed any grouping of neighbouring counties anywhere in England) is valid–was there anything more to a ‘south-west region’ than simply a set of separate shires? That problem has made it necessary to study the south-west in a longer and broader context, in political terms, across the whole of the later fifteenth century (p.1). Certain aspects of the political history of south-west England have received attention from historians, mostly in the form of family or county studies… (p.19). Despite these admirable and informative studies, therefore, there are still significant lacunae in our understanding of particular aspects of the region’s governance during the later fifteenth century. Consequently, a regional investigation of the south-west political elites spanning the later fifteenth century might draw on earlier research and offer a broader perspective of court–country relations. A regional perspective of the interaction of local and national government would make possible a greater evaluation of the role of the duchy of Cornwall and the impact of the Wars of the Roses in the region (p. 21).

Edward IV’s policy of ‘Regional Governance’ (1461–71): During Edward IV’s first reign, Somerset politics was still influenced by the Stourton and Hungerford affinities which may have sought the patronage of Edward’s courtier, Humphrey Stafford. He was the only son of the Beaufort-Stourton client William Stafford by Katherine Chideock, and it was because of his Chideock inheritance (principally focussed in Somerset, Dorset, and Wiltshire) that he was destined to be a leading member of the Somerset gentry. In the later 1450s, Stafford may have been associated with the earl of Wiltshire whose first wife was his cousin (pp. 192–3). The Bonville-FitzWaryn alliance had dominated Devon politics throughout the 1440s and 1450s (see Chapter 5) but on Bonville’s death in 1461, his sole heir was his infant great-granddaughter, Cecily. Naturally, a child could not provide adequate leadership to the Bonville-FitzWaryn connection. Moreover, Bonville’s allies, Lord FitzWaryn and Sir Philip Courtenay, were also both entering their sixties (both were deceased before 1470), and similarly could not provide the dynamic direction that was required. Into this leadership void, stepped Lord Stafford (p. 207). …[Humphrey, Lord] Stafford [of Southwick] became a crucial national–regional power-broker–one of the pillars upon which rested the pediment of Yorkist government (p. 210). It seems clear that Lord Stafford’s land-holding, office-holding, and clientele suggest that he acted as a political core for the south-west region. Stafford’s inheritances already made him a significant figure in Somerset and Dorset but, favoured by Edward IV, he was granted extensive lands forfeited by Lancastrians throughout the south-west, such as the estates of the earldom of Devon. In addition to his own properties, Stafford was showered with many offices in Somerset and Dorset, as well as other positions of immense significance in the region–in particular, his endowment with the most important duchy of Cornwall offices ensured that he dominated Cornwall (p. 221). It seems quite understandable to find that, as a figure of local, regional, and national importance, Lord Stafford’s associations were regional in nature: he was connected to major figures from each county… (pp. 221–2).

Programmed to be stubbornly self-reliant, men rebel against the notion that waiting will allow God to bring them what they want. Either that, or they don’t feel worthy of what God’s got in mind, so they go out and make their own “life.” Career, possessions, and sex will not bring peace. Love, purpose, connection, joy—those are things only God can bring us, and for him to do that, we’ve got to slow down long enough to see what’s in our path. Men crave motion; waiting requires being still and listening. If men can find a

The neighbor’s dog burst into frenzied barking. Devon jumped so hard, she clutched the door. Toby was a big dog with a loud bark. He sounded right outside the window, crazy loud snarling barks like he wanted to tear something apart. The barking stopped. Devon heard a car, and a faraway truck, and birds. Then a creak from the front of the house. Her heart slammed. Devon couldn’t tell if the sound came from inside the house, or out. It could have been the wind. It might be Toby. Thump. Devon peeked up the hall. The hall was empty, but her heart beat a vicious patter, and she wanted to run. Thump. Creak. She ducked into the office, but stayed at the door. Listening. Straining to hear. Inside or out, she still couldn’t tell. Stop! You’re imagining things! Maybe from the dining room, a noise from outside coming through the open slider. Her phone buzzed, startling her as much as the barking. Devon had forgotten her phone. She saw Cole’s name, and covered her mouth.

Stop doing this,” she cried fiercely. “You’ll drive me mad. You want to behave as if I belong to you, but I don’t, and I never will. Your worst nightmare is becoming a husband and father, and so you seem determined to form some kind of lesser attachment that I do not want. Even if I were pregnant and you felt duty-bound to propose, I would still refuse you, because I know it would make you as unhappy as it would make me.” Devon’s intensity didn’t lessen, but it changed from anger into something else. He held her with a gaze of hot blue infinity. “What if I said I loved you?” he asked softly. The question drove a spike of pain through her chest. “Don’t.” Her eyes smarted with tears. “You’re not the kind of man who could ever say that and mean it.” “It’s not who I was.” His voice was steady. “But it’s who I am now. You’ve shown me.” For at least a half minute, the only sound was the crackling, shivering fire on the hearth. She didn’t understand what he truly thought or felt. But she would be a fool to believe him. “Devon,” she eventually said, “when it comes to love…neither you nor I can trust your promises.” She couldn’t see through the glittering film of misery, but she was aware of him moving, bending to pick up the coat he had tossed aside, rummaging for something. He came to her, catching her arm lightly in his hand, drawing her to the bed. The mattress was so high that he had to fit his hands around her waist and hoist her upward to sit on it. He set something on her lap. “What is this?” She looked down at a small wooden box. His expression was unfathomable. “A gift for you.” Her sharp tongue got the better of her. “A parting gift?” Devon scowled. “Open it.” Obeying, she lifted the lid. The box was lined with red velvet. Pulling aside a protective layer of cloth, she uncovered a tiny gold pocket watch on a long chain, the casing delicately engraved with flowers and leaves. A glass window on the hinged front cover revealed a white enamel dial and black hour and minute markers. “It belonged to my mother,” she heard Devon say. “It’s the only possession of hers that I have. She never carried it.” Irony edged his voice. “Time was never important to her.

I hope you’ll consider marrying me sooner rather than later.” Another kiss, slow and devastating. “Because I long for you, Kathleen, my dearest love. I want to sleep with you every night, and wake with you every morning.” His mouth caressed her with deepening pressure until her arms curled around his neck. “And I want children with you. Soon.” The truth was there, in his voice, his eyes, on his lips. She could taste it. She realized in wonder that somehow, in the past months, his heart had indeed changed. He was becoming the man fate had intended for him to be…his true self…a man who could make commitments and meet his responsibilities, and most of all, love without holding anything back. Sixty years? A man like that shouldn’t have to wait even sixty seconds. Fumbling a little with the watch chain, she lifted it and slipped it over her head. The glimmering gold timepiece settled over her heart. She looked up at him with swimming eyes. “I love you, Devon. Yes, I’ll marry you, yes--” He hauled her against him and kissed her without reserve. And he continued to kiss her hungrily as he undressed her, his mouth tender and hot as he ravished every exposed inch of skin. He removed everything but the little gold watch, which Kathleen insisted on keeping. “Devon,” she said breathlessly, when they were both naked and he had lowered beside her, “I…I should confess to a small prevarication.” She wanted complete honesty between them. No secrets, nothing held back. “Yes?” he asked with his lips against her throat, one of his thighs pressing between hers. “Until recently, I hadn’t really checked my calendar to make certain I was--” She broke off as he used the edge of his teeth to delicately score her throat. “--counting days properly. And I had already resolved to take full responsibility for…” His tongue was playing in the hollow at the base of her neck. “…what happened that morning. After breakfast. You remember.” “I remember,” he said, kissing his way down to her breasts. Kathleen grasped his head in her hands, urging him to look at her and pay attention. “Devon. What I’m trying to say is that I may have misled you last night…” She swallowed hard and forced herself to finish. “…when I said that my monthly courses had started.” He went very still. His face was wiped clean of all expression as he stared down at her. “They haven’t?” She shook her head, her anxious gaze searching his. “In fact, I’m quite late.” One of his hands came to her face, a tremor running through his long fingers. “You might be pregnant?” he asked huskily. “I’m almost certain of it.” Devon stared down at her dazedly, a flush covering his face. “My sweet, beautiful love, my angel--” He began to look over her intently, pressing kisses along her body, caressing her stomach. “My God. This settles it: I am the luckiest sod in England.

Devon,” she said breathlessly, when they were both naked and he had lowered beside her, “I…I should confess to a small prevarication.” She wanted complete honesty between them. No secrets, nothing held back. “Yes?” he asked with his lips against her throat, one of his thighs pressing between hers. “Until recently, I hadn’t really checked my calendar to make certain I was--” She broke off as he used the edge of his teeth to delicately score her throat. “--counting days properly. And I had already resolved to take full responsibility for…” His tongue was playing in the hollow at the base of her neck. “…what happened that morning. After breakfast. You remember.” “I remember,” he said, kissing his way down to her breasts. Kathleen grasped his head in her hands, urging him to look at her and pay attention. “Devon. What I’m trying to say is that I may have misled you last night…” She swallowed hard and forced herself to finish. “…when I said that my monthly courses had started.” He went very still. His face was wiped clean of all expression as he stared down at her. “They haven’t?” She shook her head, her anxious gaze searching his. “In fact, I’m quite late.” One of his hands came to her face, a tremor running through his long fingers. “You might be pregnant?” he asked huskily. “I’m almost certain of it.” Devon stared down at her dazedly, a flush covering his face. “My sweet, beautiful love, my angel--” He began to look over her intently, pressing kisses along her body, caressing her stomach. “My God. This settles it: I am the luckiest sod in England.

Will you tell Helen tomorrow that she no longer has to marry Winterborne?” “Yes, if you like.” “Good. There’s a limit to how much discussion of betrothals a man can endure in one day.” Picking up the gold watch, still on its chain around Kathleen’s neck, he traced its smooth casing over her chest in an idle path. She pushed out her lower lip. “You still have to propose to me.” He couldn’t resist bending to take her lip between his and tugging lightly. “I already did.” “I meant properly, with a ring.” The watch ascended the rise of her breast, the skin-warmed gold sliding over the tightening peak. “It seems I’ll be off to the jeweler’s tomorrow.” Devon grinned as he saw the flicker of anticipation in her eyes. “That pleases you, does it?” She nodded, sliding her arms around his neck. “I love your presents,” she confessed. “No one’s ever given me such beautiful things.” “Little love,” he murmured, his lips grazing hers. “I’ll shower you with treasure.” Letting the watch rest between her breasts, he lifted his hand to caress her cheek. A wry note entered his voice. “I suppose you’ll want a full-fledged proposal on bended knee?” She nodded, the corners of her mouth deepening. “Because I do so love to hear you say please.” Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Then I suppose we’re a well-matched pair.” Covering her body with his, he settled against her intimately before whispering, “Because I do so love to hear you say yes.

You still have to propose to me.” He couldn’t resist bending to take her lip between his and tugging lightly. “I already did.” “I meant properly, with a ring.” The watch ascended the rise of her breast, the skin-warmed gold sliding over the tightening peak. “It seems I’ll be off to the jeweler’s tomorrow.” Devon grinned as he saw the flicker of anticipation in her eyes. “That pleases you, does it?” She nodded, sliding her arms around his neck. “I love your presents,” she confessed. “No one’s ever given me such beautiful things.” “Little love,” he murmured, his lips grazing hers. “I’ll shower you with treasure.

Safe again, Helen thought, wandering aimlessly through the upstairs rooms at Ravenel House. After the conversation she’d had that morning with Kathleen, she knew that she should be relieved that she was no longer betrothed to Rhys Winterborne. Instead, she felt stunned and disoriented. It didn’t seem to have occurred to either Kathleen or Devon that the decision about her relationship with Rhys Winterborne should have been hers to make. She understood that they had done it out of love and concern. But still… It made Helen feel every bit as smothered as her fiancé had. “When I said that I felt like never seeing Mr. Winterborne again,” she had said to Kathleen unhappily, “that was how I felt at the moment. My head was splitting, and I was very distressed. But I didn’t mean that I never ever wanted to see him again.” Kathleen had been in such glowing good spirits that she hadn’t seemed to appreciate the distinction. “Well, it’s done, and everything is back to the way it should be. You can take off that hateful ring, and we’ll have it sent back immediately.” Helen hadn’t removed the ring yet, however. She glanced down at her left hand, watching the massive rose-cut diamond catch the light from the parlor windows. She truly hated the large, vulgar thing. It was top-heavy and it constantly slid from side to side, making simple tasks difficult. One might as well tie a doorknob to one’s finger. Oh, for a piano, she thought, longing to pound on the keys and make noise. Beethoven, or Vivaldi. Her betrothal was over, with no one having asked what she wanted. Not even Winterborne.

What do ladies wear beneath their riding trousers?” A breathless laugh escaped her. The gloves dropped to the floor. “I would think an infamous rake would already know.” “I was never infamous. In fact, I’m fairly standard as far as rakes go.” “The ones who deny it are the worst.” She strained as he began to kiss along the side of her neck. Her skin was hot from exertion, a little salty, and her scent was divinely arousing: horses, fresh winter air, roses. “I’m sure you caused no end of mayhem in London, with all your drinking, gambling, carousing, chasing lightskirts…” “Moderate drinking,” he said in a muffled voice. “Very little gambling. I’ll admit to the carousing.” “And the lightskirts?” “None.” At her skeptical snort, Devon lifted his head. “None since I met you.” Kathleen drew back, her perplexed gaze lifting to his. “There haven’t been women since…” “No. How could I take someone else to bed? In the morning I would wake up still wanting you.” He moved closer, his large feet bracketing her small ones. “You haven’t answered my question.” She shrank from him until her head pressed against the wood-planked wall. “You know I can’t.” “Then I’ll have to find out for myself.

Kathleen struggled until he let go of her and stepped back. Holding the front of her trousers closed, she went to snatch her overskirt from the hook on the wall. She grappled with the heavy mass of fabric, unable to find the fastenings. “Would you like me to--” Devon began. “No.” Huffing with frustration, she gave up and bundled the skirts in her arms. Instinctively Devon reached out for her. She hopped back with an anxious froth of laughter. The sound aroused him unbearably, heat bolting from nerve to nerve. “Kathleen.” He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. “If you hold still, I’ll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you’re going to be caught.” He took an unsteady breath before adding softly, “And I’ll make you come for me again.

Would you like me to--” Devon began. “No.” Huffing with frustration, she gave up and bundled the skirts in her arms. Instinctively Devon reached out for her. She hopped back with an anxious froth of laughter. The sound aroused him unbearably, heat bolting from nerve to nerve. “Kathleen.” He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. “If you hold still, I’ll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you’re going to be caught.

Kathleen.” He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. “If you hold still, I’ll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you’re going to be caught.” He took an unsteady breath before adding softly, “And I’ll make you come for me again.” Her eyes turned huge. He took a deliberate step forward. She bolted across the nearest threshold and fled to the carriage room. Devon was at her heels instantly, following her past the workshop with its long carpenter’s benches and tool cupboards. The carriage room smelled pleasantly of sawdust, axle grease, lacquer varnish, and leather polish. It was quiet and shadowy, illuminated only by a row of skylights over massive hinge-strapped doors that could be opened onto the estate’s carriage drive. Kathleen darted through rows of vehicles used for different purposes; carts, wagons, a light brougham, a landau with a folding top, a phaeton, a hooded barouche for summer. Devon circled around and intercepted her beside the family coach, a huge, stately carriage that could only be pulled by six horses. It had been designed as a symbol of power and prestige, with the Ravenel family crest--a trio of black ravens on a white and gold shield--painted on the sides. Halting abruptly, Kathleen stared at him through the semidarkness. Taking the overskirt from her, Devon dropped it to the floor, and pinned her against the side of the carriage. “My riding skirt,” she exclaimed in dismay. “You’ll ruin it.” Devon laughed. “You were never going to wear it anyway.” He began to unbutton her riding jacket, while she sputtered helplessly.

A few guttural words caused Helen’s steps to slow as she neared the upstairs parlor. The sounds of Welsh curses had become quite familiar during the past week, as Mr. Winterborne grappled with the limitations of his injuries and the heavy leg cast. Although he never shouted, something about his voice carried farther than the average man’s: It had a deep timbre like bronze bell metal. His accent fell pleasantly on her ears, with singsong vowels and tapped R’s that carried the hint of a burr, and consonants as soft as velvet. Winterborne’s presence seemed to fill the household, no matter that he was still confined to the upstairs rooms. He was a vigorous man, easily bored, chafing at any restrictions. He craved activity and noise, having even gone so far as to insist that the carpenters and plumbers resume their daily cacophony of work, despite the fact that Devon had told them to stop while Winterborne recovered. Apparently the last thing Winterborne wanted was peace and quiet.

Still outraged by Devon’s deception, and his hurtful remarks of the previous night, Kathleen avoided speaking to him any more than strictly necessary. This morning they both wielded polite words and razor-thin smiles like weapons.

While Devon browsed over a nearby exhibit of weaponry, Helen wandered to Kathleen, who was looking at a glass case of ancient coins. “There are so many galleries in this museum,” she remarked, “that we could visit every day for a month, and still not see everything.” “Certainly not at this rate,” Kathleen said, watching as Pandora and Cassandra opened their sketch tablets and began to copy some of the hieroglyphs. Following her gaze, Helen said, “They’re enjoying this immensely. So am I. It seems we’ve all been starved for more culture and stimulation than Eversby can offer.” “London has an abundance of both,” Kathleen said. Trying to sound light, she added, “I suppose Mr. Winterborne has that on his side: You would never be bored.” “No, indeed.” Helen paused before asking cautiously, “Regarding Mr. Winterborne, may we invite him to dinner? I would like to thank him in person for the music box.” Kathleen frowned. “Yes. Lord Trenear will invite him if you wish. However…you are aware of how inappropriate that music box is. It was a lovely and generous gift, but we should give it back.” “I can’t,” Helen whispered with a frown. “It would hurt his feelings.” “It would hurt your reputation.” “No one has to know, do they? Couldn’t we consider it as a gift for the family?” Before she replied, Kathleen thought of all the rules she had broken and the sins she had committed, some small, some far more egregious than accepting an inappropriate gift. Her mouth curved in wry resignation. “Why not?” she said, and took Helen’s arm. “Come help me stop Pandora--she’s trying to open a mummy case.

There was no doubt where this would lead: One did not share a bed with a naked adult in his robust masculine prime and expect to leave it a virgin. But she also knew where it would not lead. She had seen Devon’s face on Christmas Eve as she had held the tenant’s infant daughter. His expression had frozen for a brief, brutal instant of dread. If she chose to let this go any farther, she would have to accept that whatever his plans were for the estate, they did not include marrying and siring children. “This isn’t an affair,” she said, more to herself than to him. “It’s only one night.” Devon lay on his side, a lock of hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at her. “What if you want more than that?” he asked huskily. “It still won’t be an affair.” His hand caressed her over the covers, charting the shape of her hips and stomach. “Why does the word matter?” “Because affairs always end. So calling it that would make it more difficult when one of us wants to leave.” Devon’s hand stilled. He looked down at her, his blue eyes as dark as pitch. Candlelight flickered over the hard, high planes of his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere.” He took her jaw in his hand, his mouth covering hers in a strong, urgent kiss--a kiss of ownership. She opened to him, letting him do as he wished, while he searched her with aggressive ardor.

This isn’t an affair,” she said, more to herself than to him. “It’s only one night.” Devon lay on his side, a lock of hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at her. “What if you want more than that?” he asked huskily. “It still won’t be an affair.” His hand caressed her over the covers, charting the shape of her hips and stomach. “Why does the word matter?” “Because affairs always end. So calling it that would make it more difficult when one of us wants to leave.” Devon’s hand stilled. He looked down at her, his blue eyes as dark as pitch. Candlelight flickered over the hard, high planes of his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere.

What Winterborne needs most is something he can’t purchase.” “Whatever Winterborne can’t purchase isn’t worth having.” “What about an aristocrat’s daughter?” West wandered past the bookshelves, perusing titles. He pulled a volume from a shelf and examined it dispassionately. “Why the devil are we talking about arranging a match for Lady Helen? Her future is none of your concern. After we sell the estate, you’ll likely never see her again.” Devon traced the pattern of inset bees as he replied, “I’m not going to sell the estate.” West fumbled with the book, nearly dropping it. “Have you gone mad? Why?” He didn’t want to have to explain his reasons, when he was still trying to sort through them. “I have no desire to be a landless earl.” “When has your pride ever mattered?” “It does now that I’m a peer.

Say something,” he commanded gruffly. The shy glow of her smile gilded the air. “I’m glad to see you in better health, Mr. Winterborne.” Helen’s voice. She was more beautiful than starlight, and just as unattainable. As he stared at her, Rhys was bitterly reminded of the upper-class ladies who had looked at him with contempt when he was a shop boy, holding their skirts back if he passed near them on the street, the way they would seek to avoid a filthy stray dog. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked. Rhys shook his head, still unable to take his gaze from her. “I only wanted a face to go with the voice.” “Perhaps later in the week,” Devon suggested to Helen, “you might play the piano for Winterborne, when he’s able to sit in the parlor.” She smiled. “Yes, if Mr. Winterborne wouldn’t mind mediocre entertainment.” Devon glanced at Rhys. “Don’t be deceived by the show of false modesty,” he said. “Lady Helen is a fearsomely talented pianist.” “It’s not false,” Helen protested with a laugh. “In truth, I have little talent. It’s only that I’ve spent so many hours practicing.” Rhys glanced at her pale hands, remembering the way she had smoothed salve over his lips with a light fingertip. It had been one of the most erotic moments of his life. For a man who had indulged his carnal appetites without restraint, that was saying something. “Hard work often produces better results than talent,” he said in response to her comment. Helen blushed a little and lowered her gaze. “Good evening, then. I will leave you to your conversation.” Rhys didn’t reply, only lifted his wineglass and drank deeply. But his gaze followed her every second until she left the room.

This is a very fine nightshirt,” she remarked inanely. “I wasn’t even aware that I owned one, until Sutton brought it out.” Kathleen paused, perplexed. “What do you wear to sleep, if not a nightshirt?” Devon gave her a speaking glance, one corner of his mouth quirking. Her jaw went slack as his meaning sank in. “Does that shock you?” he asked, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Certainly not. I was already aware that you’re a barbarian.” But she turned the color of a ripe pomegranate as she concentrated resolutely on the buttons. The nightshirt gaped open, revealing a brawny, lightly furred chest. She cleared her throat before asking, “Are you able to lift up?” For answer, Devon pushed away from the pillows with a grunt of effort. Kathleen let her shawl drop and reached beneath him, searching for the end of the cloth binding. It was tucked in at the center. “Just a moment--” She reached around him with her other arm to pull at the end of the cloth. It was longer than she’d expected, requiring several tugs to free it. No longer able to maintain the position, Devon dropped back to the pillows with a pained sound, his weight pinning her hands. “Sorry,” he managed. Kathleen tugged at her imprisoned arms. “Not at all…but if you wouldn’t mind…” Recovering his breath, Devon was slow to respond as he took stock of the situation. She was torn between amusement and outrage as she saw the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Let me up, you rogue.” His warm hands came up to the backs of her shoulders, caressing in slow circles. “Climb into bed with me.” “Are you mad?” As she strained to free herself, he reached for the loose braid that hung over her shoulder and played with it idly. “You did last night,” he pointed out. Kathleen went still, her eyes widening. So he did remember. “You can hardly expect me to make a habit of it,” she said breathlessly. “Besides, my maid will come looking for me soon.” Devon moved to his side and tugged her fully onto the bed. “She won’t come in here.

No longer able to maintain the position, Devon dropped back to the pillows with a pained sound, his weight pinning her hands. “Sorry,” he managed. Kathleen tugged at her imprisoned arms. “Not at all…but if you wouldn’t mind…” Recovering his breath, Devon was slow to respond as he took stock of the situation. She was torn between amusement and outrage as she saw the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Let me up, you rogue.” His warm hands came up to the backs of her shoulders, caressing in slow circles. “Climb into bed with me.” “Are you mad?” As she strained to free herself, he reached for the loose braid that hung over her shoulder and played with it idly. “You did last night,” he pointed out. Kathleen went still, her eyes widening. So he did remember.

Climb into bed with me.” “Are you mad?” As she strained to free herself, he reached for the loose braid that hung over her shoulder and played with it idly. “You did last night,” he pointed out. Kathleen went still, her eyes widening. So he did remember. “You can hardly expect me to make a habit of it,” she said breathlessly. “Besides, my maid will come looking for me soon.” Devon moved to his side and tugged her fully onto the bed. “She won’t come in here.

Climb into bed with me.” “Are you mad?” As she strained to free herself, he reached for the loose braid that hung over her shoulder and played with it idly. “You did last night,” he pointed out. Kathleen went still, her eyes widening. So he did remember. “You can hardly expect me to make a habit of it,” she said breathlessly. “Besides, my maid will come looking for me soon.” Devon moved to his side and tugged her fully onto the bed. “She won’t come in here.” She scowled. “You’re impossible! I should let the camphor burn a few layers of skin off you.” His brows lifted. “I would think you’d treat me at least as well as one of the horses.” “Any one of the horses is better behaved than you,” she informed him, reaching into his nightshirt and around his back with one arm. “Even the mule behaves better.” She tugged at the end of the bandage until it came free. The mass of the poultice and bindings loosened, and she managed to pull it off and toss it to the floor. Devon lay still beneath her ministrations, obviously pleased with himself. Looking down at the handsome scoundrel, Kathleen was tempted to smile back at him. Instead, she gave him a reproving glance. “Dr. Weeks said you’re supposed to refrain from movements that put pressure on your ribs. No pulling or lifting anything. You have to rest.” “I’ll rest as long as you stay with me.

Will Winterborne regain his sight?” “The doctor thinks so, but there’s no way of knowing for certain until he’s tested.” “And the leg?” “The break was clean--it will heal well. However, Winterborne will be staying with us for quite a bit longer than we’d planned. At least a month.” “Good. That will give him more time to become acquainted with Helen.” West’s face went blank. “You’re back to that idea again? Arranging a match between them? What if Winterborne turns out to be lame and blind?” “He’ll still be rich.” Looking sardonic, West said, “Evidently a brush with death hasn’t changed your priorities.” “Why should it? The marriage would benefit everyone.” “How exactly would you stand to benefit?” “I’ll stipulate that Winerborne settle a large dower on Helen, and name me as the trustee of her finances.” “And then you’ll use the money as you see fit?” West asked incredulously. “Sweet Mother of God, how can you risk your life to save drowning children one day, and plot something so ruthless the next day?” Annoyed, Devon gave him a narrow-eyed glance. “There’s no need to carry on as if Helen’s going to be dragged to the altar in chains. She’ll have a choice in the matter.” “The right words can bind someone more effectively than chains. You’ll manipulate her into doing what you want regardless of how she feels.” “Enjoy the view from your moral pedestal,” Devon said. “Unfortunately I have to keep my feet on the ground.

If the girls wish to romp outdoors instead of sitting in a cheerless house,” Devon said, “I don’t see what harm it would do. In fact, what reason is there to hang black cloth over the windows? Why not take it down and let in the sun?” Kathleen shook her head. “It would be scandalous to remove the mourning cloth so soon.” “Even here?” “Hampshire is hardly at the extremity of civilization, my lord.” “Still, who would object?” “I would. I couldn’t dishonor Theo’s memory that way.” “For God’s sake, he won’t know. It helps no one, including my late cousin, for an entire household to live in gloom. I can’t conceive that he would have wanted it.” “You didn’t know him well enough to judge what he would have wanted,” Kathleen retorted. “And in any case, the rules can’t be set aside.” “What if the rules don’t serve? What if they do more harm than good?” “Just because you don’t understand or agree with something doesn’t mean that it lacks merit.” “Agreed. But you can’t deny that some traditions were invented by idiots.” “I don’t wish to discuss it,” Kathleen said, quickening her step. “Dueling, for example,” Devon continued, easily keeping pace with her. “Human sacrifice. Taking multiple wives--I’m sure you’re sorry we’ve lost that tradition.” “I suppose you’d have ten wives if you could.” “I’d be sufficiently miserable with one. The other nine would be redundant.” She shot him an incredulous glance. “My lord, I am a widow. Have you no understanding of appropriate conversation for a woman in my situation?” Apparently not, judging by his expression. “What does one discuss with widows?” he asked. “No subject that could be considered sad, shocking, or inappropriately humorous.” “That leaves me with nothing to say, then.” “Thank God,” she said fervently, and he grinned.

A huge shape loomed beside her…a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding--he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste. “Lady Helen asked me to fetch you,” Devon called out, his face unfathomable. “You can either ride back with me, or we’ll stand here and argue in a lightning storm until we’re both flambéed. Personally I’d prefer the latter--it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers.” Kathleen stared at him with stunned confusion. In practical terms, it was possible to ride double with Devon back to the estate. The dray, broad-built and calm-tempered, would be more than equal to the task. But as she tried to imagine it, their bodies touching…his arms around her… No. She couldn’t bear being that close to any man. Her flesh crawled at the thought. “I…I can’t ride with you.” Although she tried to sound decisive, her voice was wavering and plaintive. Rain streamed down her face, rivulets trickling into her mouth. Devon’s lips parted as if he were about to deliver a scathing reply. As his gaze traveled over her drenched form, however, his expression softened. “Then you take the horse, and I’ll walk back.” Dumbstruck by the offer, Kathleen could only stare at him. “No,” she eventually managed to say. “But…thank you. Please, you must return to the house.” “We’ll both walk,” he said impatiently, “or we’ll both ride. But I won’t leave you.” “I’ll be perfectly--” She broke off and flinched at a bone-rattling peal of thunder. “Let me take you home.” Devon’s tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor instead of a violent late-summer storm. Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Kathleen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow he’d guessed that softening his approach was the best way to undermine her.

A huge shape loomed beside her…a man mounted on a sturdy black dray. It was Devon, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn’t say a word to save her life. He wasn’t dressed for riding--he wasn’t even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman’s low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it while departing in haste. “Lady Helen asked me to fetch you,” Devon called out, his face unfathomable. “You can either ride back with me, or we’ll stand here and argue in a lightning storm until we’re both flambéed. Personally I’d prefer the latter--it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers.

After watching her for a moment, Devon said brusquely, “Allow me.” He brushed her hands away and began to hook the corset efficiently. She gasped as she felt the backs of his knuckles brush the skin of her upper chest. Finishing the hooks, he started on the row of buttons at her bodice. “Relax. I’m not going to ravish you; I’m not quite as depraved as my reputation might indicate. Besides, a bosom of such modest proportions--albeit charming--isn’t enough to send me into a frenzy of lust.” Kathleen glowered and held still, secretly relieved that he’d given her a reason to hate him again. Nimbly his long fingers worked at the buttons until each one was neatly secured in its small silk loop. His lashes cast brindled shadows down his cheeks as he glanced along her front. “There,” he murmured. She clambered out of his lap with the haste of a scalded cat. “Careful.” Devon flinched at the heedless placement of her knee. “I have yet to produce an heir, which makes certain parts of my anatomy more valuable to the estate than the actual family jewels.” “They’re not valuable to me,” she said, staggering to her feet. “Still, I’m quite fond of them.

Careful.” Devon flinched at the heedless placement of her knee. “I have yet to produce an heir, which makes certain parts of my anatomy more valuable to the estate than the actual family jewels.” “They’re not valuable to me,” she said, staggering to her feet. “Still, I’m quite fond of them.

Careful.” Devon flinched at the heedless placement of her knee. “I have yet to produce an heir, which makes certain parts of my anatomy more valuable to the estate than the actual family jewels.” “They’re not valuable to me,” she said, staggering to her feet. “Still, I’m quite fond of them.” He grinned and rose in an easy movement, reaching out to steady her. Dismayed by the deplorably rumpled and muddy condition of her skirts, Kathleen whacked at the bits of hay and horsehair that clung to the black crepe fabric. “Shall I accompany you into the house?” Devon asked. “I prefer to go separately,” she said. “As you wish.” Straightening her spine, she added, “We will never speak of this.” “Very well.” “Also…we are still not friends.” His gaze held hers. “Are we enemies, then?” “That depends.” Kathleen took a wavering breath. “What…what will you do with Asad?” Something in his face softened. “He’ll remain at the estate until he can be retrained. That’s all I can promise for now.” Although it wasn’t precisely the answer she’d wanted, it was better than having Asad sold right away. If the horse could be retrained, he might at least end up in the possession of someone who valued him. “Then…I suppose…we’re not enemies.

We will never speak of this.” “Very well.” “Also…we are still not friends.” His gaze held hers. “Are we enemies, then?” “That depends.” Kathleen took a wavering breath. “What…what will you do with Asad?” Something in his face softened. “He’ll remain at the estate until he can be retrained. That’s all I can promise for now.” Although it wasn’t precisely the answer she’d wanted, it was better than having Asad sold right away. If the horse could be retrained, he might at least end up in the possession of someone who valued him. “Then…I suppose…we’re not enemies.” He stood before her in his shirtsleeves, with no necktie or collar in sight. The hems of his trousers were muddy. His hair needed combing, and there was a bit of hay caught in it, but somehow in his disarray, he was even more handsome than before. She approached him with abashed tentativeness, and he held very still as she reached up to pull the little wisp of hay from his hair. The dark locks were invitingly disheveled, a cowlick on the right side, and she was almost tempted to smooth it. “How long is the mourning period?” he surprised her by asking abruptly. Kathleen blinked, disconcerted. “For a widow? There are four mourning periods.” “Four?” “The first one lasts a year, the second for six months, the third for three months, and then half mourning lasts for the rest of one’s life.” “And if the widow wishes to marry again?” “She may do so after a year and a day, although it is frowned upon to marry so quickly unless she has children, or lacks income.” “Frowned upon but not forbidden?” “Yes. Why do you ask?” Devon shrugged casually. “I’m merely curious. Men are required to mourn only for six months--probably because we wouldn’t tolerate anything longer than that.

While the family and servants gathered reverently to view the magnificent creation, Kathleen took West’s arm and tugged him out of the room. “Something is going on here,” she said. “I want to know the real reason why the earl has invited Mr. Winterborne.” They stopped in the space beneath the grand staircase, behind the tree. “Can’t he show hospitality to a friend without an ulterior motive?” West parried. She shook her head. “Everything your brother does has an ulterior motive. Why has he invited Mr. Winterborne?” “Winterborne has his finger in many pies. I believe Devon hopes to benefit from his advice, and at some future date enter into a business deal with him.” That sounded reasonable enough. But her intuition still warned that there was something fishy about the situation. “How did they become acquainted?” “About three years ago, Winterborne was nominated for membership at two different London clubs, but was rejected by both of them. Winterborne is a commoner, his father was a Welsh grocer. So after hearing the sniggering about how Winterborne had been refused, Devon arranged to have our club, Brabbler’s, offer a membership to him. And Winterborne never forgets a favor.” “Brabbler’s?” Kathleen repeated. “What an odd name.” “It’s the word for a fellow who tends to argue over trifles.” West looked down and rubbed at a sticky spot of sap on the heel of his hand. “Brabbler’s is a second-tier club for those who aren’t allowed into White’s or Brooks’s, but it includes some of the most successful and clever men in London.” “Such as Mr. Winterborne.” “Just so.

Coughing from the smoke-glazed air, Devon ducked back into the carriage. He found Winterborne pulling shards of glass from his hair, his eyes still closed, his face scored with a mesh of bloody scratches. “I’m going to pull you outside and guide you to the river’s edge,” Devon said. “What’s your condition?” Winterborne asked, sounding remarkably lucid for a man who’d just been blinded and had his leg broken. “Better than yours.” “How far are we from solid ground?” “About twenty feet.” “And the current? How strong is it?” “It doesn’t bloody matter: We can’t stay here.” “Your odds are better without me,” came the calm observation. “I’m not going to leave you in here, you arse-witted bastard.” Devon gripped Winterborne’s wrist and pulled it across his shoulders. “If you’re afraid you’ll owe me a favor after saving your life…” With effort, he towed him toward the open doorway. “…you’re right. A huge favor.

Try. It’s more efficient. You can’t go through life doing this the wrong way. The wasted minutes could add up to days. Weeks.” An unexpected giggle escaped her, as if she were a young girl being teased. “I don’t use a pencil that often.” Devon reached around her, his hands engulfing hers. And she let him. She stood still, her body wary but compliant. A fragile trust had been established during their earlier encounter--no matter what else she might fear from him, she seemed to understand that he wouldn’t hurt her. The pleasure of holding her washed through him in repeated waves. She was petite and fine-boned, the delicious fragrance of roses rising to his nostrils. He’d noticed it when he’d held her earlier…not a cloying perfume, but a light floral essence swept with the sharp freshness of winter air. “All it takes is six cuts,” he said near her ear. She nodded, relaxing against him as he guided her hands with precision. One deep stroke of the lade neatly removed an angled section of wood. They rotated the pencil and made another cut, and then a third, creating a precise triangular prism. “Now trim the sharp edges.” They concentrated on the task with his hands still bracketed over hers, using the blade to chamfer each corner of wood until they had created a clean, satisfying point. Done. After one last luxurious inhalation of her scent, Devon released her slowly, knowing that for the rest of his life, a single breath of a rose would bring him back to this moment.

It’s the truth that I never wanted to acknowledge. I never got over Devon. I’m still not over him. When he broke my heart that day, he took a part of me that never recovered.