Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

D ev crossed an ankle over a thigh and let the facts of the woman before him assemble themselves.

He’d walked into her townhouse today armed with firm certainties.

Lady Beatrix St. Vincent was the pampered daughter of a marquess, accustomed to getting her way. A lady who lived in the same luxury as other peers of the realm. A lady of the old guard, who was too good for new things. A lady who didn’t invite the riffraff in for tea.

But he saw now he hadn’t been armed with facts at all.

He’d been carrying assumptions.

Now, they were crumbling beneath the weight of the realities.

Her out-of-date gown at the ball… The day dress she wore now, in fact… The flaking paint on the front door… The worn-down, cracked, creaky, threadbare, moldering everything of the interior… The way she’d eyed his chocolate last night and ate not one, but two scones just now—like a wolf.

These were the facts regarding Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

When she hadn’t invited him in the other day, it wasn’t snobbery.

It was…

Shame .

And that shame, once it joined with the facts, left one with but a single, unexpected conclusion.

He shoved forward, set his teacup down, planted his forearms on his knees, and clasped his hands before him. Instinctively, she shifted backward, as if he were invading her space.

Good.

As he had last night, he scented opportunity.

“You’re… poor .”

The statement left no room for equivocation.

She visibly bristled, the gray of her eyes gone to steel. “I’m the daughter of a marquess.”

He didn’t relent. “Poor as Job, in fact.”

“I’m a lady.”

He nodded. “And you’re living in near penury.” He wasn’t letting her off the hook, but he needed a different angle. “I’ve looked into your writing lark .”

She tried for an indifferent shrug. “An occasional pastime.”

Dev narrowed in… “Five or so published articles a week is more than occasional.”

She allowed the clench and release of her jaw to provide her answer.

“This writing lark of yours puts food on your table.”

Her eyes shone with mutiny.

“And the society gossip you pepper into your articles?—”

“Horse racing and society go hand in hand,” she cut in.

“That gossip puts a little more food on your table.”

Her gaze cut toward the window, as if she could see through the grime.

Dev went on, undeterred. “I came here to ask you?—”

Her gaze flashed to meet his. “You mean to bully me.”

What she might’ve lacked in material wealth, she made up for with an abundance of courage.

“I came here,” Dev continued, equably, “to convince you to write nice things about me here and there.”

“Because of last night?”

“If you choose to see it that way.”

“I don’t see how a few write-ups in the turf rags will lift the esteem of society.”

The lady was quick, he would give her that. “You’re not wrong.”

Her head tilted in question. “What is this all about, Mr. Deverill? Why would you want to unearth anything about me? I’m nothing to you.”

“Oh, you’re someone, Lady Beatrix,” he said, dry. “You’re the someone who broke into my hotel suite last night.” He realized he was turning his pinky ring and stopped. “Besides, I make it a point to know everything there is to know about anyone that I’m going into business with.”

A little, disbelieving laugh escaped her. “You and I aren’t going into business together, Mr. Deverill.”

Oh, she wasn’t going to like the next part of this conversation. But opportunities and angles were coming to him, and there was one in particular that held the glimmer of promise… “Now that I’ve properly met you in your home and seen your circumstances firsthand, I think we might have a use for each other.”

“Now that you know I’m penniless,” she said, blunt—antagonistic, even.

Dev lifted empty hands, helpless to the facts. “You’ve seen how I live, and now I’ve seen how you live.”

He let the tit-for-tat settle into the air—and waited. In any negotiation, this moment inevitably arrived—the impasse. Ironically, one had to arrive at the impasse before progress could be made. What it came down to was who had the most patience and the most nerve. One needed both to come out on top.

“Will you never stop speaking in riddles, Mr. Deverill?” At last, her patience had run out.

“It’s simple, really,” he said. “You marry me.”

Oh, he had nerve to spare.

Lady Beatrix blinked. Her mouth fell open for the space of three incredulous seconds before she snapped it shut. It opened again. “ Marry you?”

“Well, agree to marry me.”

“You jest.”

“I’m not known for jesting, in the general sense.”

A scoff born of sheer incredulity scraped across her throat. “I won’t agree to marry you.”

Dev sensed now was the moment to ease up a hair, even as he continued to press forward. Another opportunity like Lady Beatrix St. Vincent wouldn’t fall into his lap again so easily. “ I know that, and you know that, but society doesn’t have to.”

“So…you’re proposing…an engagement ?”

“In the eyes of society, yes.”

“Why would I agree to such a thing?”

If she wasn’t careful, she would form permanent grooves in her forehead.

Finally, they’d arrived at the crucial moment. “Because you need money.” He glanced around their decaying surroundings to illustrate the point. “And I can give it to you.”

He could practically see the race and whir of her mind as his proposition penetrated deeper with each passing second.

“You would pay me to pretend to be your fiancée?” A beat. “Why?”

“Don’t you wish to have… more ?”

Complicated emotion flashed behind her eyes. “I’m getting by.”

“But you can do more than get by.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. Why? ”

Dev felt like that why encompassed what was being explicitly asked—and more, too. For now, he would address the explicit. “As you’ve mentioned, you’re the daughter of a marquess. A lady . No doors are closed to you.”

She nodded. She understood this.

“But…” she began.

Tension crept through Dev. She was about to ask about that other why .

“Why is it so vital to you that those doors are open?” Her head tipped to the other side, as if in doing so she could view an angle she’d missed. “By every measure, you’ve achieved complete success.”

Temptation pulled at Dev.

The truth.

To tell this woman the truth.

To tell her that every success was a mere a milestone on the road to gaining what he truly wanted.

What he’d always wanted…

Imogen.

The temptation passed.

The woman before him wouldn’t understand that sort of passion for another person—the sort that penetrated through skin and bone and into the very cells of one’s being until those very cells were composed of nothing else.

So, he said, “My business interests will benefit, of course. Not to mention a solidifying of my position in society, which, of course, will serve to benefit my future progeny.”

She sat back and watched him speak—and didn’t believe a word issuing from his mouth. “Oh, yes,” she said. “One must consider one’s future progeny .”

Dev snorted. He couldn’t help himself. She was calling out his half-truths, and he didn’t mind all that much.

It made no difference.

By the end of this little tête-à-tête , he would have what he wanted—her agreement.

“If we were to pursue this idea of yours,” she said, “do you have a plan for announcing our engagement to society?”

“I do.” It had come to him only three seconds ago.

“Which is?”

“We’ll cause a little sensation.”

“ A sensation ?”

“Nothing you won’t be able to walk away from with a relatively intact reputation.”

Lady Beatrix uttered a dry laugh. “I have about six months before my place on the spinster shelf is official. A little sensation would give me a bit of panache, I dare say. But…”

“ But? ”

“But…how much?”

“ How much? ”

“How much money are you willing to pay me to create a little sensation with you?”

A fair question, but he wanted to push her and he knew exactly how… “You know, I could turn you in to the law.”

His words, however, didn’t have the intended effect. She didn’t appear rattled. In fact, she looked cooler in this moment than she had since he’d entered her house. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

She smiled and she shook her head, slowly. “That end has been missed.”

“You think?”

“I’m no longer in your hotel suite,” she said, the very voice of reason. “The burden of proof that the daughter of a marquess has trespassed in your rooms would lie squarely on your shoulders.”

“The chewed-up apple core in my rubbish bin could bear witness.”

Her mouth twitched with a smile it was unwilling to release. “The apple had no business being that delicious.”

A sudden guffaw startled from Dev. Audacity . The woman possessed both audacity and a sense of humor.

A thought occurred to him—one he hadn’t yet allowed himself to believe.

This partnership could work.

“Five thousand pounds,” he said.

Lady Beatrix’s gasp could’ve been heard all the way to the Western Isles. “ Five thousand pounds? ”

“Not a penny more.”

She stared at him, aghast. “I would’ve done it for several thousand pennies less .”

“I want you to fully invest in the role.”

Her brow creased, as if she were only now seeing him for the first time. “You’re swimming in gold, aren’t you?”

“Something like that.”

But it wasn’t greed for what she could squeeze out of him shining in her eyes. It was interest—and curiosity. “And this is all for your future progeny ?”

Her skepticism was unmistakable.

But she didn’t have to believe him.

“I’m a man who gets what he wants.”

“I can see that, Mr. Deverill.”

What Dev saw was a question perched on the tip of her tongue—the one that would naturally follow.

And what is it that you actually want, Mr. Deverill?

He had no intention of answering that question—now or ever—so he pivoted. “Of course, you’ll immediately require a new wardrobe.”

Her eyebrows winged together. He’d caught her on the back foot. “I’m wearing my best day dress now.”

“It won’t do.” Though the change in subject had been strategic, Lady Beatrix’s wardrobe did, indeed, need to be addressed. “It’s wool, brown, buttoned up to your chin, and about ten years out of date.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“It’s not the sort of dress that tempts a man into creating a sensation.”

He got a snort by way of reply.

“I am Lord Devil.”

“And?”

“ And I would only court a stylish woman.”

“I’m not spending a penny of my money on new clothes. That’s not part of our agreement.”

“I can’t have the woman I’m courting looking like a pauper.”

“I’m the daughter of a marquess. No one thinks me a pauper.”

Even as he lifted it, Dev knew the raised eyebrow was a fair bit of cheek.

“And you’ll need a new servant or two.”

“I’m not replacing Cumberbatch.”

“An additional servant or two,” he amended.

The woman shimmered with pique and exasperation and looked thoroughly unconvinced. “Why on earth would I spend my money on servants and dresses?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I’m scraping along just fine.”

“ Scraping along ?”

Her gaze shifted toward her favorite patch of filth-crusted window. She didn’t dignify his question with a response.

Sudden insight struck him. Scraping along had been Lady Beatrix’s life for so long she didn’t know another mode of existence. Here was a woman adapted to making do with what she had.

And Dev saw something more.

He may have been the son of a humble estate manager and a housekeeper and she the daughter of a marquess, but his life had always had so much more than hers.

“To be clear,” he said, “you have no intention of purchasing new dresses for our engagement?”

“Our pretend engagement,” she corrected him. “And the answer is of course not.”

Sometimes in a negotiation one must retreat and reassess. They’d reached that point—which didn’t mean Dev would concede the point, not at all.

“I almost forgot,” he said, reaching for the parcel at his side. He pushed it across the table. “A gift.”

Her eyebrows crinkled with confusion. “ A gift? ”

“For you.”

For some reason, he felt like that last bit needed to be said. This woman wasn’t accustomed to receiving gifts.

Tentatively, as if a jape were possibly being played on her, she took the parcel and set it on her lap.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Maybe.”

“Open it.”

Hesitant fingers hovered, then forefinger and thumb pulled the string and the four sides of the box fell open. She gasped with a squeak closely resembling delight at the variety of chocolate confections staring up at her. She tore her eyes away to meet his.

“Aren’t you going to try one?”

He found he liked this role.

Lord Devil— tempter .

He couldn’t help wondering what other temptations he could throw this woman’s way.

She picked up a chocolate and considered it. Very clearly, she wanted to eat it. A single bite was all it would take.

But she didn’t.

She took a nibble and savored it. Then another nibble, and savored it, too, as she consumed the chocolate bite by dainty bite in a manner Dev wasn’t sure he’d ever appreciated a single thing in his life.

“One thing more,” he said.

“Yes?” she asked, distracted. She was eyeing her next chocolate.

First, Dev noticed something. “You have a smudge of chocolate… here .” He tapped the corner of his mouth.

Her tongue darted out and began working on the area.

As he watched the tip of her pink tongue, a surprising happening occurred. His mouth went dry.

He tore his gaze away and cleared his throat and returned to the subject of one thing more … “You and I are not adversaries.”

Her tongue stopped, and her eyes narrowed warily, as if searching for his angle. “We’re not?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see any reason we should be.”

She reached for her second chocolate and took a contemplative bite. Her eyes drifted shut for an instant of bliss. But he could see she was turning his words over in her nimble mind. At last, she nodded. “I think you’re right.”

“In fact,” Dev continued, emboldened, “we should be friends.”

Her brow crinkled. “ Friends? ”

“Our arrangement won’t work if we don’t like each other. So…”

He extended his hand across the table. She regarded it as if she’d never beheld a man’s hand before and made no move to take it. Then— at last…tentatively —she reached out. His hand felt like a clumsy bear paw against the slender elegance of hers. He’d thought her hand would’ve been cold. But, no, Lady Beatrix’s hand was warm and composed of firmer substance than it appeared.

Much like the rest of her, he suspected.

He liked the feel of her hand.

His gaze lifted, and he found himself not only holding her hand, but staring into her eyes—those remarkable, arresting, beautiful gray eyes of hers that he now saw held a hint of violet.

Her brow lifted expectantly, and he realized he’d been holding her hand a few ticks of time too long.

He released it and cleared his throat, his sense of purpose returning. “In three days, the Duchess of Haver is hosting a musicale.”

Lady Beatrix nodded. “I received an invitation along with everyone else who is summering in Town. You’re invited, too?”

“Surprised?”

“The thing is,” she began, and Dev knew he was in for another of her little insights. “If you’re being invited to the musicales of duchesses, I don’t understand why you need me.”

“Oh, you’re very necessary to my purposes, Lady Beatrix.”

“And it’s at the musicale that we will create our little sensation?”

“Yes.”

She stood, signaling the end of tea. “Then I believe our arrangement is ready to proceed.” She hesitated. “ Friend .”

A smile curved Dev’s mouth as he came to his feet. Lady Beatrix had a sense of humor. He couldn’t help wondering how many people knew that about her? Fewer than a handful, he suspected. He was seeing a side of her she didn’t easily reveal.

And he knew it to be as fragile as a robin’s egg.

Perhaps they would end up becoming actual friends.

“Lead the way, friend .” He followed her to the front door. Once outside, he donned his hat and said, “I’ll see you three days hence.”

She hesitated the split of a second, a flash of uncertainty passing behind her eyes. Then she nodded and closed the door.

In that split of a second, she’d reconsidered.

Then reconsidered again—and let their arrangement stand.

As his feet hit the cobblestones of Little Stanhope Street, Dev understood something. He was one step closer to his goal. No doors would be closed to him with Lady Beatrix St. Vincent as his future bride. The ton would have no choice but to take notice.

And so, too, would Imogen.

Oh, Imogen would notice.

The next three days would be crucial, for there he felt on shaky ground. Lady Beatrix could easily reverse course. He must find a way to bind her to their arrangement.

As quickly as the problem presented itself, so did the solution.

Of course.

It had been before his eyes the entire time.

It wouldn’t be through threats of exposure or verbal acrobatics or bullying that he would bind her to him.

How did one attract a Bea?

With honey.

Or chocolate, as the case happened to be.