Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PRIMROSE PARK

A ll done in sky blue and cream, every available inch of wood gilded to within an inch of its life, the bedroom was nothing less than what Beatrix would’ve expected—spectacularly opulent.

And new.

She’d expected that, as well.

Too new —its silks too shiny, its colors too vibrant to be seen as anything resembling tasteful in the eyes of society.

Gauche.

Old titles and older money didn’t appreciate vivacity in its displays of wealth. Since the French aristocrats had gotten their heads lopped off for such obvious flaunting, English aristocrats had learned their lesson from their cousins on the other side of the Channel and kept their privilege relatively muted these days. They rather liked having their heads attached to their necks.

Yet this bedroom belonged to Mr. Blake Deverill… Lord Devil —a man who wasn’t a lord in any real sense, yet he existed in a world without limits.

What must it feel like? To experience life thusly?

She would never know, of course, but she found it refreshing to dip her toe into these unexpected waters of his.

She lifted the dress that was laid out on the bed. Brown…slightly worn…able to be buttoned by its wearer…incongruous with its surroundings…

It was the dress of a servant—and meant for her.

The dress was dry and clean; she didn’t mind.

Outside, the weather continued its offensive, lashing the windows and tossing solid oak canopies as if they were willow trees.

She would be staying the night.

Extraordinary.

She would be staying the night in Lord Devil’s house.

Beyond extraordinary.

It stretched the limits of belief.

The only silver lining she could think of was that she wouldn’t be ruined, as society didn’t know of her presence here.

She’d just finished buttoning the dress, scented subtly of lavender, when a light tap-tap-tap sounded on the door. She opened it to find a servant waiting to lead her to the dining room. As she navigated one long, freshly painted corridor after another, she saw that the rest of Primrose Park was as newly refurbished as the bedroom.

Blimey, how much money did Deverill have, anyway?

The dining room, of course, dazzled, with its plush Aubusson carpets, rich mahogany wainscoting and long central table to match. White marble fireplaces mirrored one another to either end of the rectangular room, and a solid wall of windows surely overlooked an exquisitely manicured garden during daylight hours. But this was night, and the storm continued to rage outside, so the sparkling panes would have to wait until morning to reveal their delights.

Her gaze immediately found Deverill, one arm comfortably propped onto the fireplace mantle as he held a whiskey tumbler and conversed easily with two older servants—a tall, upright man who bore the air of an estate manager and a woman of middling height who could be none other than Primrose Park’s housekeeper with her tidy appearance and quick, darting eye that kept abreast of all happenings within a fifty-foot radius of her. She’d noted Beatrix’s presence before Beatrix had noted hers.

An odd thought occurred to her.

Here was Primrose Park, a decidedly aristocratic country estate, being run in a uniquely democratic, even bourgeois manner.

Deverill’s gaze found Beatrix’s. His ease held, as she felt herself tense. She couldn’t yet relax around him—even if they were friends .

She only just didn’t snort.

“Lady Beatrix,” he said, pushing off the mantle, “I see you managed to get dry.”

As all eyes landed on her, she managed not to squirm. She never did like being the center of a room’s attention. “Only just.”

That got a smile from the other man and a cant of the head from the housekeeper. “A hot meal will set you to rights,” said the woman, efficient feet already on the move. Her voice held more than a hint of the Irish.

Deverill stepped to the dining table and pulled out a chair. “My lady,” he said, indicating she take the seat.

As she stepped around him to take the proffered seat, she couldn’t resist a quick inhalation—just a sip of air. The air smelled so delicious around that man.

“Are your footmen out for the night?” she asked as she lowered onto saffron velvet.

It was a distancing question, but also one of genuine curiosity. An estate like Primrose Park should have a footman attending the master’s dinner. Several, in fact.

But Primrose Park, clearly, wasn’t like other estates.

“We haven’t yet gotten the knack of footmen,” said Deverill, taking his own seat at the head of the table, to Beatrix’s left.

Her eyebrows lifted. We? Was the man now referring to himself in the royal we ?

Before she could inquire, the housekeeper returned and set a large dish in the center of the table. A shepherd’s pie, if Beatrix had to hazard a guess. A stray thought wondered if the formal dining room of Primrose Park had ever served a dish of shepherd’s pie before Mr. Blake Deverill had become its owner? The scrumptious scent of savory meat and veg hit her nose, and her mouth watered and she decided she didn’t care.

The housekeeper stood aside while two maids brought in a few more dishes and finished setting the table. Then the estate manager pulled out a chair for the housekeeper, and they settled into their places across the table from Beatrix.

Eyebrows crinkled together, she flashed a question toward Deverill. The blasted man was regarding her with clear amusement. “Lady Beatrix,” he said, “may I introduce my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Deverill, to you?”

Beatrix felt her mouth wanting to gape open. She didn’t allow it. Instead, she summoned every good manner that had been instilled within her—at finishing school, not at home—and said, “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance.”

That got a smile from each of the Deverills, and Beatrix felt a measure of relief. “No need to stand on formality with us, my dear,” said Mr. Deverill.

“Blake,” said Mrs. Deverill, reproachfully. It only occurred to Beatrix that, of course, his mother would call him by his given name. “You’ve gone and played a jape on poor Lady Beatrix?”

A sheepish smile acknowledged his mother’s admonishment. “I might’ve been having a bit of fun,” he said in the manner of a son who had charmed his mother from the moment of his birth.

It actually explained much about the man.

“No, I thought…” In her attempt to mitigate the situation, she might make it worse by finishing that sentence. Beatrix closed her mouth.

“You thought my parents were Primrose Park’s estate manager and housekeeper?”

“I…”

At last, she was saved from digging herself deeper into the hole of her own making when Deverill said, “Well, you would’ve been right.”

Again, Beatrix felt her eyebrows lift. Honestly, she’d never felt so aristocratic in her life.

“Now, Blake,” said Mrs. Deverill without heat.

Deverill shrugged in a gesture of resignation. “I can’t stop them.”

“A lordly life of leisure isn’t for the likes of us,” said Mr. Deverill.

“How can you know if you don’t try it?” asked his son, but there was no mistaking the wink in his voice. The argument had the worn-in timbre of one that would remain ever unresolved.

“A man must make himself,” said Mr. Deverill. “Otherwise, what’s the point of him?”

Mrs. Deverill nodded approvingly at her husband and reached for the shepherd’s pie. She began spooning portions onto everyone’s plates. “My son’s favorite meal.”

Beatrix cut a quick glance toward Deverill, who caught it and gave a little shrug. A smile pulled at her mouth.

When she took her first bite of the pie, her eyes drifted shut and she might’ve moaned. “I think,” she began, “your shepherd’s pie might now be my favorite meal, too, Mrs. Deverill.”

It had been the truth and the right words to say. Now, everyone could relax and tuck in with ease. Lady Beatrix might be an aristocrat, but she wasn’t a hoity-toity one.

As the meal progressed, she was able to sit quietly as talk proceeded around her. It was the conversation of a family who not only knew the details of one another’s lives, but also shared in them. She rarely enjoyed a meal like this. Simple, delicious food…the company of people who adored one another.

And she liked one thing more.

Deverill hadn’t introduced her to his parents as his fiancée. Their ruse for the ton didn’t extend here—into the realm of his true family.

He had lines he didn’t cross.

Which spoke well of him.

It was a question from Mrs. Deverill, however, that pricked her ear—and curiosity.

“And that Imogen?”

Composed of but three words, the question held a sharp blade running through its abbreviated length.

“Now, now, dearest heart,” said Mr. Deverill, quelling.

“ Imogen? ” Beatrix found herself asking—as if she had the right.

She never could resist a pursuit when her curiosity was stirred.

Deverill gave his head a curt shake, the glint in his eye warning her off.

His mother, however, would heed no such warning. “She would be the Imogen who was the daughter of Baron Whitsby. The Imogen who Blake grew up alongside.” She sniffed. “The Imogen who ended up a countess .”

“Mama,” said Deverill, “Lady Beatrix is the daughter of a marquess.”

Mrs. Deverill fixed Beatrix with a look of sympathy. “None of us can help the accident of our birth, can we, love?”

Beatrix gathered she might’ve just been insulted and further gathered she didn’t mind very much. In fact, a laugh bubbled up and spilled over. She didn’t laugh very often and was a bit out of practice, which was the only explanation she could find for how long it went on.

Mr. Deverill gave a bemused shake of the head, while Mrs. Deverill gave an approving nod. Their son settled back and watched, his expression unreadable.

At long last, Beatrix swiped a tear from her cheek. “Are we speaking of the Countess of Bridgewater?”

“Know her, do you?” asked Mrs. Deverill. It was clear she wouldn’t count such an acquaintance in Beatrix’s favor.

“All nobs know each other,” said Mr. Deverill. “There’s only so many of them.”

Before Beatrix could assure them how very correct an observation that was, Deverill pushed back from the table and shot to his feet. “Would you like to meet Little Wicked, Lady Beatrix?”

“Oh, Blake,” said Mrs. Deverill, “let the lady finish her meal.” She met Beatrix’s eye. “Would you care for a second portion, love?”

Beatrix thought it better to place her fork down. The stormy expression in Deverill’s eyes said he wasn’t truly asking. “I’ve quite taken my fill, Mrs. Deverill. I’ve never encountered a tastier shepherd’s pie, I can assure you.”

Then she was following Deverill through the house, one corridor after another, and through the kitchens, which filled with sudden quiet at the unexpected presence of the master of the house. In the boot room, before they stepped outside, she was handed an aged greatcoat to ward off the rain. The violence of the weather had abated to a steady downpour, so it was a quick dash across the grounds to the stables, which were a hive of activity, even at this evening hour, as lads and grooms scrambled about, attempting to soothe high-spirited horses still spooked from the storm.

In her time, Beatrix had seen all manner of stables, from the shabby and inexpertly run to the tip-top fitted out with only the best. Deverill’s stable fell into the latter category with its spacious stalls, high, airy ceiling, and general air of cleanliness. He might have known nothing about horses or the world of racing, but he was a conscientious owner, one who did right by his stable. He’d hired the best to maintain it. Beatrix could only admire the resolve.

When they reached the last and roomiest box at the end of the central aisle, Deverill broke his silence. “Here’s our best girl.”

A chestnut beauty at sixteen hands high, Little Wicked was being groomed with steady smooth strokes by a lad humming a soothingtune, though the filly had no look of wildness in her eyes. If anything, she was basking in the attention.

“I’ve only seen her on the racecourse. Never this close,” said Beatrix, her voice low, so as not to disturb the quieting atmosphere. “She’s a beauty.”

“Isn’t she?”

“And you take good care of her.”

Deverill snorted. “Coddle and spoil her, more like.”

“Thoroughbreds are bred to be spoiled.”

He dug into a pocket and came up with a lump of sugar. The filly stretched her neck and gentle lips took it off his extended palm as he stroked the velvet of her nose with his other hand.

“Is Little Wicked a one-off for you?” The question had been at the back of Beatrix’s mind for some time. “Or are you out to establish a bloodline of racers?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He appeared content to leave it at that.

She had another observation to make. “The field is almost set for the Race of the Century.”

“Aye.”

“The competition will be fierce.” She was aware her voice had taken on the tone she used for extracting information for her articles.

Deverill cast her a knowing glance. He’d detected the tone. “Aye.”

She figured she might as well continue as she’d started. “There’s the Duke of Rakesley’s Hannibal. His stable won’t have eased up on training.”

“Oh, I know all about the methods of Rakesley’s stables.”

She sensed a truth hidden just beyond sight. “How is that? Stables are secretive and guard their methods closely.”

“If you must know?—”

“I must.”

“—When I won Little Wicked in that card game off Clifton, I knew nothing about horse racing. I thought the game rule number one was that everyone cheated.”

Slow dread churned through Beatrix. “What did you do?”

“I hired a spy.” He gave an unconcerned shrug.

If he thought she would let such a provocation pass, he didn’t yet know anything about her. “You installed a spy in the Duke of Rakesley’s stables?” She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice.

“Aye,” he said, nodding. “The practice is shockingly common.” Another shrug. “I’m certainly housing a few spies in my own stables as we speak.”

“That’s beside the point.” Her next question was most inappropriate, but so, too, were her entire dealings with this man. “Did you learn anything of value?”

“Nothing the grooms and trainers I’d hired didn’t already know.”

“And the spy?” she asked.

“You don’t know how to let a matter drop, do you?”

Beatrix proceeded as if he hadn’t spoken. “Is the spy still in Rakesley’s stables?”

A dry laugh sounded through Deverill’s nose. “In a manner of speaking.”

She lifted her eyebrows and let them ask the next question for her.

“The duke up and married her.”

It only took the split of a second for the implication of those words to sink into the air and find purchase in Beatrix’s mind. “Are you saying the new Duchess of Rakesley was a?—”

Deverill held up a single finger, staying the rest of the question in her mouth. “ That does not find its way into one of your articles.”

Fair play, she supposed. Deverill had no way of knowing that since Rakesley was the brother of her best friend, no gossip about him would ever flow from her pen. “Then you’ll know,” she said, “that Hannibal will be tough to beat.”

Deverill nodded. “As will the Duchess of Acaster’s Light Skirt and the Marquess of Ormonde’s Filthy Habit. In fact, Little Wicked has yet to beat any of them.”

“Then there’s whoever wins the St. Leger in September.”

“Aye.” His attention returned to Little Wicked. “I know little about horses and racing, but there is something special about this filly, isn’t there?”

Beatrix’s eye assessed Little Wicked from muzzle to haunch. “She has a magic to her.”

He nodded appreciatively. “ They will have to beat her in the Race of the Century—not the other way round.”

A question had been nagging at Beatrix for days—since before they’d entered into their arrangement, in fact. If there ever was a time to ask, it was now. “Why?”

Intense aquamarine eyes shifted and met hers. “ Why what?”

“Why did you keep Little Wicked and become part of this world?”

Unreadable emotion flicked behind his eyes before he lifted them toward the ceiling. “The rains have passed.”

And Beatrix heard it was true.

The rain had, at last, worn itself out, and the stable had gone silent.

“We’ll be able to leave in the morning.” He gave Little Wicked’s muzzle a parting stroke and strode down the central aisle. “It’s getting late,” he tossed over his shoulder.

That was one way to avoid answering a question.

She knew the satisfaction of having struck a chord, even as she experienced the frustration of having been dismissed.

Her feet scrambled to catch him and only just did so as he was passing through the wide gate into the stable yard. However, she’d misjudged the solidity of the ground beneath her feet.

Or, rather, the slickness.

One moment, she’d drawn abreast with Deverill, a demand that he explain himself poised on her lips, and the next, the world went suddenly sideways as her foot skidded across a slick cobblestone and gravity had her tumbling arse over head.

Or it would’ve done.

A pair of quick, masculine hands shot out and grabbed her—and pulled her upright…

Into his broad chest that had all the give of a brick wall.

The tip of her nose could attest to the fact.

Her heart threatening to hammer free of her ribs, she went still and assessed herself. All seemed as it should be.

Well.

As it should be was also not the case.

For a pair of strong arms yet held her, leaving her no choice but to feel the length of his body along the length of hers…the warmth of him…the strength of him… She tipped her head back to inform him she could, indeed, stand on her own two feet, unassisted. But her gaze only made it as far as his mouth and the words became stuck in her throat.

His lips .

She’d dreamed of his lips.

It was shamefully true.

The beauty of them…the feel of them.

Of their own will, her feet were lifting onto the tips of her toes. Then her mouth found a will of its own, too, and was pressing to his…

Soft, yes…

Firm, too…

Delectable…

Kissable.

Lips that invited one to keep kissing them.

His hands tightened around her upper arms, and gently, he set her away from him, breaking the kiss as quickly as it had begun.

Aquamarine eyes glittered with bemusement. “What was that about?”

“Confirmation.” She supposed that was the best word for it.

His eyebrows creased together. “ Confirmation? ”

“That your mouth is as kissable as I remembered.”

A dry, flummoxed laugh escaped him. “An empirical exercise, then?”

When he put it like that… “Precisely.”