Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

F rom the corner of his eye, Dev watched Lady Beatrix.

Any moment now, she would stand and draw every eye toward her.

She wouldn’t like the drawing every eye part of this business.

But that was rather the point.

Just when he began to doubt her nerve would hold, she shot to her feet like a spring and all but dashed down the center aisle.

She was going through with it.

He slid his pocket watch from his waistcoat and held it discreetly palmed in his hand. He would give it three minutes before he followed.

As the soprano’s voice lifted into another impossible register and swirled through the air, he experienced the twin thrills of anticipation and momentum—that feeling when a plan was proceeding precisely as it should.

Lady Beatrix was playing her role.

He was playing his.

And unbeknownst to her, Imogen was playing hers.

She was in attendance, as he’d known she would be.

And tonight, for the first time since she’d impossibly married Bridgewater and become a countess, Dev had ignored her—or pretended to. He hadn’t attempted eye contact or proximity.

Not even when he felt the heat of her gaze upon him.

He sensed a question therein—and that was good.

He would have her wondering about this change in him. Imogen had always been so sure of herself. It served him tonight if she were a little less so of him. Otherwise, how could he convince her that he was besotted with Lady Beatrix St. Vincent?

The minute hand of his pocket watch struck twelve. The three minutes were up.

He’d taken a seat in the second row, so he would have to inconvenience every lady and gentleman he passed on his way to the center aisle. Annoyed shifts of knees to the left and right… A few ladylike huffs of annoyance…

He’d made a spectacle of himself.

They would remember.

Earlier, he’d walked from the ballroom to the conservatory, so he knew the path to take. Lady Beatrix, of course, wouldn’t have needed to exercise such precaution. She would know this mansion, as she knew fifty others like it populating the West End of London. This was her world, lest he forget.

And that was the interesting thing—when he was around her, he tended to.

She wasn’t like other aristocrats.

And it wasn’t because she was poor, as he’d so eloquently informed her.

There was no artifice to her.

When he’d suggested they be friends, admittedly, it had been strategy. The next several weeks of being in one another’s company would proceed better if they weren’t adversaries.

But also…

He’d said it because he thought it could be true.

He and Lady Beatrix could be friends.

At the conservatory door, he stopped and surveyed the magnificent space with its soaring glass ceiling now dark with night and palm trees that nearly reached the highest point in the center. Lush with exotic greenery from every corner of the world, this room proclaimed aristocratic wealth and privilegemore distinctly than any other room in the mansion. Gilt and silk furnishings and crystal chandeliers could be easily bought, but one came into possession of these exotic trees, shrubberies, flowers, and orchids—not to mention the Grecian marble statuary scattered throughout—with contacts from around the world and no expense to spare. One didn’t purchase such finds with credit.

His gaze caught on a still figure bent over an especially vibrant orchid.

Lady Beatrix.

She was dressed at the height of fashion in her new finery tonight—a silk dress in a sapphire hue with white satin gloves reaching just below her elbows. Her lady’s maid had arranged her hair in a coiffure that accentuated both the volume and luster of her sable locks and the graceful column of her neck.

His gaze found itself following the delicate line of her clavicle.

A man’s tongue wouldn’t be able to resist that line—to test its feel…to know its taste.

Dev stopped himself right there.

Lady Beatrix wasn’t his to test and taste.

And she wasn’t his doll to dress up.

He’d only procured the clothes—and the housekeeper and the maid and the French cook and the pantry full of food—so she could play the role of his fiancée believably.

That was all.

He cleared his throat.

She froze, mid-sniff. Her head angled, and surprised, remarkable… arresting …eyes met his, holding them as she straightened.

Her eyes.

The sapphire hue of her dress brought the subtle violet within the gray forward, further deepened by the thick, dark fringe of eyelashes— beautiful .

But Lady Beatrix’s eyes were more than remarkable, arresting, and beautiful.

Unflinching and possessed of a rare openness, one had to be stout of heart to brave looking into those eyes. One wouldn’t be able to hide from that inquisitive gaze—at least, not for long.

“The conservatory for our little sensation is a bit cliché, no?” she asked. Except she wasn’t asking—she was telling.

A blade of steel ran through the understated beauty before him.

Dev found a smile twitching about his mouth. “Then what better place?”

A laugh sounded through her nose. “You owe the soprano at least five dozen roses for upstaging her performance.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll send her ten dozen.”

Lady Beatrix shook her head on another dry laugh and began wandering along the periphery of the cavernous space…always keeping opposite him and… watchful . “Do you know where we shall, erm , position ourselves?”

Discomfort and nerves shimmered off her, belying the pragmatism of her words.

He glanced around. “We need to be visible from the corridor beyond the doors.”

She wrinkled her nose. “A bit obvious.”

“Tonight isn’t about subtlety.”

She continued her amble, pausing before a large palm in examination. “What about here?”

Dev shook his head. “It isn’t sufficiently visible from the doors.”

She walked purposely toward a bright spray of fuchsia on the other side of the room. “Would this suffice?”

“It has rather aggressive thorns. I can see them from here.”

He understood what she was doing. She was avoiding the obvious place where they should stage their little sensation —the marble Greek statue planted dead opposite the double doors. Too obvious , he supposed.

He propped an arm on its base. “I believe this is the perfect spot.”

Lady Beatrix appeared unconvinced. “Define perfect.”

“A clear view from the door.”

A resigned sigh issued from parted lips. “I suppose. However, I’m not sure anyone will notice us in the slightest with that ” — she motioned in the general direction of the statue’s perky, unclad breasts—“for our backdrop.”

Dev’s mouth curved into a smirk. “They’ll think we’ve been overcome by lust.”

She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant. Then they popped open, and she said, “ Right . Shall we get on with it?”

Dev’s smile broadened with triumph, then froze.

One problem yet remained.

Namely, the ten or so feet of distance between them—and how to bridge it.

The nervous skittishness of Lady Beatrix’s eyes said she’d arrived at the same problem.

“This doesn’t have to be awkward.” He said it in an offhand manner meant to put her at ease.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Who’s being awkward?”

Best he left that question unchallenged.

He took a step forward and sensed she’d willed herself not to take a responding step backward.

As starts went, he could think of worse.

The time had arrived.

For Beatrix to play her role—of besotted lover to the man known as Lord Devil.

Head cocked, attentive, he was waiting.

For her to make the next move.

“Shall I…” She had no idea where to go with the question. “Just tell me where to stand.”

“Where you are is perfect, only…”

“ Only? ”

“Only I shall need to move closer to you.”

Within his eyes and between the syllables of his words, he was requesting permission.

She nodded.

He moved closer.

“I believe some parts of us will have to touch.”

She swallowed. “Of course.”

“Would a hand be asking too much?”

It was a joke.

Even the sort of joke spoken between friends.

Yet she couldn’t quite conjure a smile.

Wordlessly, she extended her hand, and he took it.

A frisson of anticipation purled up her spine and crawled through her veins. Her lungs forgot how to draw breath.

“May I remove your glove?”

Her brow crinkled. “Is that necessary?”

“We’re lovers.”

Beatrix suppressed a gasp.

Lovers.

Except…forming an umbrella above that word and all her interactions with the man before her hung another word.

Pretend.

All this was a game of pretend.

She nodded.

He took white silk between forefinger and thumb and tugged—one finger, then another, until the glove slipped loose and free.

He had strong, capable hands—hands accustomed to work. She’d felt them upon her that day in Hyde Park. But not like this —his skin bare and warm against hers.

Truly, she’d experienced his hands upon her in more intimate places.

Except did the touching of two hands lack intimacy?

One experienced the world through one’s hands.

So, to touch the hand of another person…

To know they felt yours, too…

What could be more intimate?

Further, she understood in a way not born of experience, but rather instinct, why women wanted this man’s hands upon them.

In the distance, her mind registered applause. The first half of the musicale had concluded. Guests would start stretching their legs and mingling and wandering through the manse, possibly— probably —toward the conservatory.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and she grew suddenly too hot. Deverill stepped closer. Space remained between them, but with her hand in his and the positioning of their bodies combined with the seclusion of the setting, no doubt would linger in the mind of the casual observer as to the goings-on between Mr. Blake Deverill and Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

A small group of ladies strolled past the open conservatory doors, and Beatrix braced herself for what was to come in the next second. The ladies glanced their way…

And kept moving without sparing even a second glance.

Surprise, along with a hefty dollop of indignation, swept through Beatrix. Was it so far beyond the realm of possibility that she would indulge in a bit of impropriety?

“I believe we need to be more obvious,” said Deverill.

“And I suppose you have ideas for how to go about that.” The statement left her mouth dry as dust.

No mistaking that glint of wickedness in his eyes, curling one side of his mouth. “Myriad,” he said. “But one will do.”

She swallowed. His gaze, which caught everything, followed the movement.

“I’ll place my hand on your waist.” His voice held a dark, raspy edge. “With your permission, of course.”

Beatrix supposed that fell within the boundary of a little sensation . Still… “Not too low on my waist. On the ribs.”

His brow lifted in question.

“I don’t want to be ruined,” she said, tightly.

“Aren’t I compensating you enough for your services?”

No denying the implication within that services . She could choose to be insulted—or to stand her ground. “I might want to marry someday.”

His head cocked. “Oh?”

Her back was beginning to ache beneath the rigid squareness of her shoulders. “I would like for my options to remain open.”

A strange conversation to be having when one hand was holding one of hers and his other hand was settled on her waist and her other hand was resting on his shoulder, the heat of his body meeting hers through superfine, his delicious scent mixing with the floral aroma of exotic flowers in bloom.

The close, humid atmosphere of a conservatory was most… intoxicating .

She picked up a sound—muted footsteps…the low murmuration of voices punctuated by the odd trill of sudden laughter…

Another group of ladies was approaching.

“Ready?” he murmured.

She nodded a barely perceptible yes , even as a panicked no, no, no tore through her.

The group reached the open iron-and-glass doors, and Beatrix thought she might’ve caught a few second glances from the corner of her eye. Yet there was no indication that a little sensation had been achieved. She wasn’t even sure they’d inspired the lift of a mildly scandalized eyebrow.

Deverill’s brow furrowed with perplexity.

Though it pained her, Beatrix had to say something. Though it meant she would have to return the money—and the dresses…and the servants…and possibly the food…and most definitely the French cook who prepared the most divine hot chocolate in the whole world… “I fear,” she said, “you may have been wrong in your choice of partner for a little sensation .”

Deverill’s eyes narrowed into aquamarine slits. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” she began, “I’m Lady Beatrix St. Vincent, all but confirmed spinster. And you—” She leaned back and swept her gaze up and down his person. “Are you .”

“Meaning?”

“ Meaning the casual observer likely thinks you’re picking a stray palm frond from my hair.” She took a sip of air to brace herself for what she must say next… “Bluntly, no one would expect a dalliance between us. Society would think everything else first.”

Oh, the mortification that burned through her. The heat of a thousand suns couldn’t touch it.

But it had to be faced.

Yet Deverill didn’t release her or demand the return of his ￡2,500 or the dress off her back. He simply said, “I see.”

He possessed the look of a man who had made up his mind about something.

More lively conversation drifted into the conservatory from the corridor. Another group was approaching.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, wary.

And she knew what other look he possessed.

The look of a man who hadn’t given up.

In fact, he might’ve only gotten started.

He angled his head in assessment, which illustrated the strong line of his jaw.

She only noticed because she was so close to him—within his embrace, in fact.

“Do you trust me?”