Lady Lilias and the Devil in Plaid - Julie Johnstone Page 0,35

gripped him in a vise.

“Nash.” His name was the softest, sweetest caress from her lips. “Did you bring me out here to be alone with me?”

Behind her, the terrace door opened. Owen stepped out, and sanity crashed back into Nash like a wave. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, enraged at himself and regretting the harsh words the minute he spoke them. He saw her flinch, but he turned away, muttered a greeting to Owen, and fled the terrace like a coward, like the hounds of Hell were chasing him. And if Hell’s hounds were guilt and longing, then they were on his heels snapping with their razor-sharp teeth.

He swallowed the distance between himself and Owen, intent that his friend knew to do the deed and intent that Lilias not hear Nash instruct Owen. As they passed, Owen turned his face to Nash, and Nash said in a low voice, “You must make your offer tonight. That man Kilgore is sniffing after Lilias.”

Standing there watching Nash walk away, Lilias could not fathom how she’d set out tonight to show him what a fool he was, and instead, she had proven herself a fool once more. She hated love. She never wanted to be in love again. Why had she thought he was looking at her as if he wanted to kiss her? Why could she not keep her mind in reality instead of letting it drift into fantasy? She wished her aunt had not bequeathed her collection of Gothic romances to Lilias when she’d died. Lilias placed the blame for her disastrous romantic entanglements squarely on her dead aunt’s shoulders.

Or maybe it was simply her? It was true that she’d had two offers of marriage, but neither of those men had known her. They’d liked her pretty face. She’d never had an offer or even a hint of flirtation from a man she knew well. Nash did not count because she’d only imagined he was flirting. Not even Owen—sweet, hapless Owen—had ever flirted with her. Not that she wanted him to. She didn’t think of him in that way, but still, it would be nice not to be standing here now questioning if perhaps it was her personality.

If it was, that was a grave problem. She could alter an old gown to fit the current style, but her personality, what made her who she was, she did not have the first notion how, or the wish, to change that. As Owen came to stand before her, she was struck with the extreme desire to know the truth, and who better to ask than Owen. She shelved her anger at him for not telling her about Nash’s visits. That, she would address later.

“Lil—”

“Owen,” she accidentally interrupted. “Oh, I’m sorry. You go first. Nash said you were looking for me?”

Owen appeared momentarily startled, but then he said, “Yes. Yes, I was, but you go first, Lilias.”

She sucked in a deep breath for courage. “Is there something wrong with me?”

He frowned. “What? No. You are perfect.”

Drat. His answer did not reassure her at all.

“You’re obligated to say that,” she muttered.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are,” she replied with an emphatic nod. “You are my best male friend; therefore, you do not see the flaws that every other male who knows me must see.”

Owen’s bewildered look became a furious one. “What other males know you? Kilgore? I’ll kill the man! Has he—”

“Do quit acting like an incensed brother,” she snapped.

“What?” Owen sounded aggrieved and shoved a hand through his blond hair, disheveling what was normally in perfect order. “I’m not anything like your brother.”

“What a thing to say,” she gasped, all the emotions of the last day overwhelming her. “I thought we meant something to each other.”

“Lilias.” Owen surprised her by awkwardly, albeit sweetly, cupping her cheek. “We do. I’m sorry. Let’s not quarrel over a silly misunderstanding.”

She nodded, grateful, and pressed her palm over his, her heart thudding as she thought once more about Nash. “Owen, am I odd? Do you think I drive men away with my quirkiness?”

“Are we speaking of anyone in particular?” His voice was hard, and he sounded suddenly so angry that she knew he understood she was referring to Nash. She would not say it, though. That would get them into another quarrel, and at this particular moment, she’d rather not admit that Owen had been correct all these years when he’d told her to forget Nash because he had long ago forgotten her. Owen had said Nash would break her