Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“ D o you trust me?”

The question, and the intensity with which it was asked, did nothing to calm Beatrix’s nerves.

“I’m reserving judgment.”

The hand at her ribs slipped lower on her waist and firmed.

Every muscle in her body tensed, even as a strange, contrary part of herself began to thaw. He lifted her hand and placed it on the back of his neck, the fine black hairs tickling her palm. “This is the only way,” he muttered.

Her mind went completely and determinedly blank.

The only way ?

She could see no only way .

All she could do was hold very, very still—and watch his beautiful mouth speak words that eluded comprehension.

“Double the money.”

She blinked.

“Place your other hand on my neck, too,” he directed.

She obeyed.

Apparently, she was only capable of behaving as he instructed.

The crowd grew louder… closer …and a sense of urgency gathered momentum.

It was only in the next split of a second that she understood.

Double the money…

Ten thousand pounds.

She blinked with sudden comprehension. “Kisses weren’t part of our arrangement,” she somehow spoke.

His brow creased. “Pardon?”

“You heard me,” she whispered in a rushed hiss.

“I cannot kiss you without your permission.” The way he spoke the words gave the impression this was a problem he’d never encountered. “I’m not that sort of man.”

The shift in power nearly stole Beatrix’s breath away. He might’ve paid her a small fortune to enter into their arrangement, but for this— a kiss —he needed her permission.

She could say no .

Which, contrary person that she was, only made her want to say…

“Yes.”

And she lifted onto the tips of her blue satin slippers and pressed her willing mouth to his shocked one.

For a man possessed of such hard, unassailable edges, his mouth was unimaginably soft. Except unimaginably wasn’t the correct word. For she realized now, somewhere in a hidden corner of her mind, she had imagined the soft feel of his mouth.

Pillowy…but firm.

Every individual part of her seemed to develop a mind of its own the longer the kiss went on. The tightening of her arms around his neck… The sway of her body into his… A little cause and effect there. But, my , what a hard, unyielding body she’d swayed into. And her tongue…

Her tongue, of its own instinctive accord, darted out and swiped across his bottom, beautiful lip.

A single, swift swipe was all it was, yet…

A low growl sounded in the back of his throat.

That growl penetrated skin and bone and resonated through her, producing sensations… Sensations that begged … implored … demanded … This pretend kiss… It felt like it wanted to turn into something else…

Something more .

Of a sudden, in the not-too-far-off distance, a chorus of shocked gasps and exclamations sailed through the air of the conservatory.

A heartbeat later, Beatrix tore her mouth from Deverill’s and took an inelegant, scrambling step backward, light fingertips pressed against kiss-crushed lips. For the complicated split of a second, she and Deverill held each other’s gaze. And in that moment, she saw reflected at her a note of surprise that mirrored her own. Her gaze slipped lower and took in his beautifully swollen mouth and for a wild moment considered kissing it again.

And she might’ve been bold enough to do so but for the gathering of a crowd at the periphery of her vision. Just as she couldn’t quite believe what had happened, neither could they.

Lady Beatrix St. Vincent… kissing …Lord Devil.

They wouldn’t have believed it if they hadn’t seen it with their own eyes.

And even then, it was a struggle.

Without taking his gaze off her, Deverill reached into an interior coat pocket and produced an object.

A shiny object.

As if she were observing from a place above and beyond herself, Beatrix watched him fall to one knee and extend the shiny object toward her.

More gasps followed.

The shiny object was a ring—a deep red cabochon ruby set in a band of gold.

His beautiful mouth was moving, but she could hardly hear him through the cotton in her ears.

The words, “My sweet Bea,” snapped her to.

Not only her given name, but a shortening of it.

A pet name.

“Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

Rapt, anticipatory silence descended on their audience.

“Say yes ,” he muttered beneath his breath. “And drum up a tear of happiness while you’re at it.”

But Beatrix was trapped outside herself and unable to will her mouth to move.

“A nod will do.”

And, somehow, she managed to nod what passed for a yes .

More gasps and murmurings followed, as the silence broke and the small crowd rushed forward to offer their slightly confused congratulations to the happy and unexpected couple.

And that was their little sensation enacted.

Though, as Beatrix accepted and mutely endured the confounded congratulations and lifted eyebrows, she couldn’t be sure of something.

That the kiss had been purely for the stage.

It was that swipe of her tongue across his bottom lip…

She still tasted him—sweet and smoky, like whiskey.

She was the only person in this room who knew the taste of Lord Devil.

The unique sensation of being watched skittered across her skin and had her scanning the crowd to locate the source—a lady.

The Countess of Bridgewater.

But the countess’s gaze didn’t linger. It had already shifted toward…

Deverill.

She wasn’t merely or idly observing him as one might do in the circumstances, but rather staring.

As for Deverill, he was meeting the countess’s gaze— unflinchingly .

Deverill and the Countess of Bridgewater…

Those two knew each other…

Well .

Intimately?

Again, a certainty crept through Beatrix. Deverill wasn’t being transparent about his motivations for this pretend engagement. It wasn’t about business interests or social connections or future progeny.

It was about—possibly… probably —the Countess of Bridgewater.

Beatrix was being used in a game different from the one he’d claimed.

Which was…

All right.

For she, too, had her own motives in play—and a future to secure.

As quickly as it had descended, the moment lifted and there was no more room in her whirring mind for thought as she was swept along in a tide of congratulations and questions she couldn’t answer. Would it be a spring wedding? … Or an autumn wedding? … Or a special license wedding? She understood what the last question meant—was she in need of a hasty wedding that couldn’t wait nine months?

Fortunately, Deverill kept his head about him as he stated that his beloved betrothed—laying it on a bit thick, there—was understandably overwhelmed by events and the two of them would be leaving the musicale posthaste.

Beatrix took their early exit for a bit of nimble strategy on Deverill’s part—leave society with a juicy morsel of gossip and let them turn it into a seven-course meal overnight. News of their little sensation would be everywhere by dawn.

Once they were settled inside his coach-and-four, him seated across the footwell, they remained silent for the short drive to Little Stanhope Street. Beatrix directed her gaze out the window and watched the shadows of Mayfair roll past. As they approached her townhouse, he gave three hard raps on the carriage ceiling, and it slowed to a smooth stop.

Without the clatter of horse hooves and all the noises associated with a carriage in motion, the silence stretched long. She needed to say something. But where to start?

“The ring…” She held her hand up to the moonlight streaming through the window. Deep crimson absorbed the light and glowed. “It’s the correct size.”

“You have a slender hand.” He shrugged. “I took note when I shook it.”

“It’s very similar to the one you wear.”

“I thought it would be a nice touch.”

“To further the myth of us.” She wasn’t proud of the tartness of her voice.

He didn’t seem to notice. “I almost went with a sapphire, but a ruby suits you.”

“Why is that?”

“You have a bit of fire about you, don’t you, Lady Beatrix?”

A smile wanted out, and perhaps a small one escaped, but she realized she did have something to say… “It’s too much.”

“It’s not.”

“Like everything else.” Now that she’d finally gotten started, she couldn’t stop. “The new wardrobe…the house staff…the hot chocolate in bed…the ten thousand pounds.”

The magic , she didn’t say.

“But you’re my fiancée.”

“I’m not your fiancée, and that’s rather my point.”

“In the eyes of the world, you are.”

“So?”

It wasn’t the reality.

He needed to understand that.

Actually…

It was her who needed to understand it—and keep it in mind at all times.

The magic he presented was too seductive.

But he appeared unmoved as he continued. “In the eyes of the world, you are my future wife.”

“ And? ”

“And as such, you must maintain a certain standard of living.”

“This is about you , then.”

“It’s about appearances, and how important they are in your world.”

“ Appearances .” The word nettled beneath her skin and found purchase. “ Appearances .” She laughed.

Blimey.

From his seat opposite, he watched her, silently.

The logic of appearances was something she understood.

The maintaining of them wasn’t magic.

It was, in fact, the furthest thing from it.

“ Appearances ,” she repeated. “It’s simply the same stuff and nonsense that has dictated my life from birth.”

With that, she pushed open the carriage door and hopped down to the cobblestones before Deverill could get it into his male brain that she was in need of assistance. Before she shut the door, she had one last thing to say. “I can live with that.”

The parting image she held of him was of his eyebrows gathered into an expression of utter and complete confoundment.

Good.

That man who had it all needed to be confounded every so often.

When this pretend engagement ended, so would the magic .

And she understood that was all right.

Better than all right.

For when this pretend engagement ended, her real life would, finally, begin.

The good, solid life she’d been denied for so long would be hers to pursue.

At last.