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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
India Holton
Read between
June 7 - June 10, 2025
“Oh, a bustard,”
If only it was decent behavior to remove one’s hat in company, or loosen one’s collar, or leap naked into a nearby river!
First, however, she had to not drown in her own sweat.
“He won’t be able to escape your feminine wiles, not in those ridiculous sandals he wears over his socks.”
Beth absolutely would not blush, for she was an Englishwoman—but inside, her heart was fanning itself urgently with a handkerchief.
“And what sort of name is Devon Lockley?” she added, never mind that her own name, Hippolyta Albertina Spiffington-Quirm, ought to have disqualified her from asking.
although it was also a rather sweaty face, and currently scowling at him as if she’d like to stab him with her furled parasol. He wished she would. Pretty was nice; naughty was ever so much better.
Monsieur Chevrolet was reputed to have the mustache of an Adonis and the thighs of a Zeus—and a highly informative manner of lecturing, of course.
in defiance of an intellect that had always placed her so far at the top of her classes they had to keep inventing new ceilings for her.
This time, however, the only possible diagnosis was…um…disapproval. Yes, so much disapproval!
“Really?” she asked again, her tone still nonchalant but her interest becoming so rich she could have bought a small nation with it.
Her plain brown coat, accompanied by a small hat, gloves, and air of cultivated intelligence, triggered fear in any man who glanced her way: one catcall, and she might educate them.
Immediately, she knew she’d made a tactical error.
Really, this encounter was going to drive her to drink, and she did not think there was enough tea in all of Paris for the purpose.
“I thought you were a nice girl,” he said. She looked him in the eye steadily. “That doesn’t mean I’m weak.”
At once, Devon moved in front of her with an unexpected protectiveness that charmed her more than she wanted to admit.
A wise woman allows nothing to ruffle her feathers; she is the ruffler of feathers.
He met her fierce gaze, and the air between them grew so charged, Nikola Tesla could have invented three things just by looking at it.
He wanted to undress her brain, stroke her perspective, make her gasp out the most fascinating theory she hid from all other men. (He also wanted to kiss the hell out of her, but that went without saying.)
and Monsieur Chevrolet was for some reason outfitted in a Scottish kilt that only just covered his excellent thighs. (Beth noted several people staring at it intently, as if trying to manifest a sudden breeze.)
Outrageous! Rakishly scandalous! Actually quite soothing!
But… Er, there had been a but within that train of thought, he was sure of it.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms—merely on the scientific principle of sharing body heat, of course.
For a moment, Devon forgot to breathe. The emotion visible in her gaze was so stunning, and made her so beautiful, so haunting, it was as if she’d risen from the sea like a forgotten daughter of Poseidon.
Beth had been awed by the professor, but his repeated suggestions that she try to smile more and show her intelligence less, so as not to intimidate her male peers, destroyed that feeling.
Devon Lockley, on the other hand, had literally dive-bombed it, then set up camp right in the middle of her brain. And worse—after just two days in his company she’d begun using loose language, arguing, even veering dangerously close to banter.
her words racing after each other as if they’d been waiting offstage, clutching their scripts and jiggling their knees, desperate for an opportunity to be spoken.
So many lightning flashes sparked in Beth, she could have been plugged into a socket and used to illuminate a small city.
“Stop!” the milkman wailed, clinging desperately to the bench. “You’ll spill the milk!” Devon flashed a sidelong grin at Beth. “Shall I tell him not to cry over it? Or shall I butter him up instead?” She clicked her tongue with exasperation. “It’s bad enough you keep hijacking people, do you have to add the crime of cheesy jokes?” She heard the pun a moment after she said it and winced. The man was corrupting her even at the subconscious level! Devon laughed. “You are the cream of the crop, Miss Pickering,” he said.
“Please,” she cried, clutching at them. “My Louis—I can’t find my Louis!” Beth’s pulse skipped. “What does he look like? How old is he?” “Not even two years old!” the woman sobbed. “Green and gold, with—” “I’m sorry, what?” Beth interrupted confusedly. “You mean his clothes?” Devon said. Now the woman was confused. “I mean my suitcase. My Louis Vuitton suitcase. It’s worth a fortune!”
Devon expelled a sigh of exasperation. Turning to Beth, he gave her a look so intense, her stomach forgot swooping and donned a sparkling leotard to begin performing arabesques instead.
For about half a second, she considered saying no. But words to that effect could not be found anywhere inside her (although to be fair, she did not exactly search for them).
Really, the concrete was so very fascinating, she could not tear her gaze from it.
Requesting that dinner be sent to her room, she went upstairs with a speed inspired by (a) significant aggravation, (b) terror that someone she knew would see her and ask about the newspaper article, and (c) aaaaagghhhh.
Instead, he spent most of the day shopping for supplies necessary to help him track the Beth…er, the bird.
Crawling onto the bed to fall asleep sometime around midnight, he dreamed of Beth (which, please note, does not count as thinking about her)
Beth found herself driven to the verge of frowning. Why people—?! (That was the full extent of the sentence. Extroverts need not trouble themselves asking for an explanation.)
(Although not really. After all, murdering someone on the train led to appalling consequences, such as bloodstains, delayed timetables, and fictionalized accounts in cheap novels.)
