Devon’s hazel eyes—eyes Emily had spent hours studying in their youth—were wide with the same surprise she felt.

He stood, taller than when last she saw him, though still lean. He’d let his dark hair grow out, styling it with rakish carelessness. His tailcoat lay over the back of the couch. His white shirt and green vest were immaculately pressed. His cravat hung, untied, about his neck. Warmth spread through her to see him in such a state of undress. That searing heat mingled with her excitement at finding him, and culminated in a blush.

He made no move to retrieve his coat. Simply stared at her. His gaze roamed over her, seemed to devour her.

“You’ve grown up, Em.”

She bit her lip, recalling rumors of his poor behavior during his early years as a viscount. The heat in her cheeks intensified.

His hazel eyes met hers. They were alight with happiness. His smile was warm. Suddenly, he didn’t look depraved, despite his missing coat and untied cravat. He looked like her Devon. She took two steps into the room.

His smile widened, the pleasure in the action curling her toes in her slippers.

“I can’t believe you’re here, Em,” he said.

“Here?” she blurted, suddenly aghast. She was creeping about his house like some petty thief and he’d caught her. Far from appearing perfect and coolly indifferent, she looked like the desperate little fool she was.

He shook his head. “In my library. I only dared hope, if I let it be known I was seeking a bride, that you would appear. I thought I’d have to search the entire ballroom for you, night after night, but here you are.”

Her pulse quickened. He was indeed in the market for a wife, and he’d hoped she would come. Yet, he seemed to have put every obstacle between them.

“If you meant to find me, why weren’t you in the receiving line?”

“To have time to gather myself,” he replied. He gestured toward the front of the house. “I let Mother handle the receiving line. I always come here while she greets guests. I need time alone to prepare for the onslaught of marriage minded misses. The ones who aren’t you,” he added.

He always waited in the library? She glanced up. No mural adorned the ceiling. So, Prudence had lied. A strange dryness formed in Emily’s throat.

“I don’t understand,” she said. Hurt intruded on her joy. “If you wished to see me, you could have called on us.” He’d had years to do so.

Devon looked down, brown locks tumbling forward. “I should have called. Especially when your father died. I know what it’s like to lose a father.” His words were tight with emotion. “I should have come to offer what comfort I could.”

“Yet you did not,” she whispered. Her insides twisted. Her elation of moments ago wilted away. “Why?”

He lifted his gaze. The misery in his eyes drew her nearer. Despite her growing leeriness, she longed to soothe his hurt.

“Because I was a fool,” he said. Bitterness laced his tone. “Becoming viscount at sixteen was…difficult. I was too naïve for the freedom and the wealth that came with my father’s title.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I…I was taken in by those who called themselves my friends. I’m afraid I permitted myself to sink into a world of depravity, Em. I can’t bear to describe to you the things I’ve done. You should never know.”

She shook her head. She did not want to know. She’d always hoped the scandal sheets were filled with lies. He made it seem worse even than reported. She pressed a hand to her heart again. Her breath grew ragged with despair.

“Then your father died, and I was too ashamed of who I’d become,” he continued. “After that, the guilt of not going to you was added to the shame I already carried.” He shrugged, muscles rippling under his impeccably cut vest. “When I heard you were in London, I instructed my mother to throw half a dozen balls. I thought, if I could catch sight of you across a room, I would somehow know…” His words trailed off.

“Know what?” Emily pressed.

He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her face.

Her breath caught at his nearness. He’d grown so tall since they were last together, she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

“Know what?” she repeated, her voice a breathless whisper.

He brushed warm fingers across her cheek. “I thought I would be able to read in your face if you could forgive me and still wished to marry me.” He lowered his voice to a caressing murmur. “If you still love me.”

Emily’s heart fluttered, a wild creature in her chest. The room swayed and she clutched his arms. He clasped warm hands about her waist, his fingers nearly spanning the distance.

“And the…the depravity? The wild friends?” She forced the words out, willed her head to clear.

“Gone. Over and done with. For good.” He drew her closer, till her ruffles were crushed between them. “Emily, if you kiss me right now, I’ll know all is forgiven,” he said in that same low, smooth voice. “I’ll know you love me and will marry me.”

She searched his smoldering gaze. They’d never kissed, all those years ago. Then, when he proposed, he said it would be wrong to kiss her before getting permission to marry her from her father. That had never happened. Devon was whisked away, out of her life, and her father was gone. Now, instead of speeches of honor, Devon asked for a clandestine kiss in a library. Was he the same young man who’d once professed his love?

Her eyes went to his lips. No one had ever kissed her. Did Devon need to be exactly as he’d been in their youth? He was Devon, and she loved him. That had never, would never, change. She gave the tiniest nod.

“This is my reward for always lingering in the library,” he murmured, and lowered his head toward hers. “A beautiful woman to kiss.”

Emily pulled back. He’d said it again, that he always waited in the library. Prudence’s smug face appeared in her mind. Prudence had known. Why else be so smug?

“Not a woman,” she said. “Me. Emily. This is a cruel game, waiting in the library to kiss unsuspecting misses.”

Devon blinked, expression baffled. “No, Em. It’s always been you.”

More lies. “Except it hasn’t, has it?” She jerked free of him and backed toward the open door. “There have been plenty of others. Everyone knows what a rake you are.” He’d confirmed it to her face, moments ago. What did she think, he had reformed after three years, simply because she’d arrived in London? She might forgive him a past, but she refused to forsake her future.

“Was,” he said, his arms half raised, as if he would reclaim her. “I was a rake, once.”

“Yet, you linger in the library waiting for beautiful women.” She retreated another step.

“It was a compliment. You’re beautiful. You must know that. Even more so now than ever.” He pushed a hand through his hair, his look one of mingled frustration and confusion.

“I can’t kiss you, Devon. I don’t know what kind of man you are.”

“But you do know. You’ve known me nearly all my life.”

“Not for the last three years. Not the devil you’ve become.”

“Emily, please,” he pleaded. His pretense of sincerity knifed through her. “I’ve waited for you for so long.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t do it, wouldn’t. Kissing a Devon who lingered in the library waiting for fresh-faced misses to arrive would break her heart. She would never reclaim the pieces. Emily whirled and fled the library—and the temptation of his arms.