Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PRIMROSE PARK, TWO WEEKS LATER

B elow a crisp blue summer sky, Beatrix sat with her legs tucked beneath her and held a pleasant smile on her face—a smile that she suspected was more bland than serene—and attempted to appear as if she were attending to the other ladies’ thorough discussion of London’s best and worst milliners.

The guests had begun arriving at Primrose Park this morning, bursting with excitement for the house party all society was buzzing about, and already the entertainments were underway with an afternoon picnic on a gently sloping hillside. The acres and acres of Primrose Park’s grounds had been meticulously planned with an idyllic, painting-perfect view at every turn—verdant rolling hills…elegant willow trees draped over the pond, providing a perfect frame for the stately manor house in the distance. Even the sky dared not be uncooperative today.

“And your hair, Lady Beatrix,” said Lady Farthington. “You’re doing something different with it these days.”

A dozen sets of feminine eyes narrowed on Beatrix. “Am I?” The conversation had tipped from hats to what lay beneath.

“Most definitely.” Her steely eyes narrowed. “Something French .”

Nods of agreement all around.

Until now, Beatrix hadn’t the faintest notion that a hairstyle could be a political statement.

“It’s perfect for you,” said Mrs. Shaw. “My girls were just commenting on the loveliness of your hair. Weren’t you, my dears?”

The Shaw daughters dutifully and agreeably nodded.

Now, it was a blush warming Beatrix’s cheeks. As the wife of Dev’s business partner, Mrs. Shaw was outranked by every lady present, save her three marriageable daughters who sat demurely arrayed at her side. Upon their introduction this morning, Beatrix had suspected she would like the woman, but now she knew she did.

Lady Farthington began nodding. “I shall instruct my lady’s maid to have a word with your girl.”

“Of course,” said Beatrix. She’d rarely encountered a gathering of women where hair didn’t arise as a topic.

Blessedly, the conversation carried on without her as her gaze lifted to the sky and her mind drifted along with the cotton puffs of white clouds lazily idling above.

A majority of the guests had already arrived. The highest-ranking peer who had accepted the invitation was the Duke of Richmond. Though Beatrix was convinced it was only so he could see Primrose Park’s stables and meet Little Wicked, who had gained no small amount of fame in her three years of life.

A few earls had accepted, too. The Earl of Wrexford, a man known for his unflappable amiability, and the Earl of Stoke, with whom Beatrix wasn’t acquainted, but whose reputation preceded him. A licentious earl, if the rumors were correct. Likely on his way to ruin. In other words, an earl who wouldn’t refuse an invitation to an opulent country house party.

Another earl had accepted, too—the Earl of Bridgewater.

Although, he and the countess hadn’t yet arrived.

But they would.

Of that, Beatrix was certain.

All she had to do was call to mind the way the countess’s stare had been fixed upon Dev on the night of their sensational, little engagement.

The countess would be here.

Dev.

The countess would also know him by Dev.

Beatrix was certain of that, too.

Now that her mind had cracked open the door she’d held firmly shut these last two weeks since she’d last laid eyes on the man—him lying in bed…only a sheet covering the lower half of his body—memory took permission to relive their first kiss.

And the second.

And most definitely the third.

But mostly that night.

A night that lived with a bit too much familiarity in her mind—and in her body.

She’d held very few expectations regarding the act of coitus. The whisperings amongst ladies had deemed it an act to be endured. But if she’d had any preconceived ideas, their first coupling would have satisfied them. Nay. It had far surpassed mere endurance, for she’d wanted Mr. Blake Deverill with every cell of her being.

Yet, it hadn’t been transformative.

After, she’d still felt very much herself.

Then…they’d done it again.

And, oh, how she’d been transformed.

How the second time haunted her every waking—and sleeping—moment.

Which was why she’d avoided him these last two weeks.

Today, upon her arrival and the ensuing madness of ensuring all was running smoothly for the party—guests’ myriad needs met, wants accommodated, and desires indulged; the supply of champagne bottomless—she’d somehow managed to speak to Dev only in public view.

She didn’t trust herself with him in private.

She didn’t trust herself not to beg him for a third time.

And a fourth…

Oh, there would never be enough times.

That was the truth.

Avoidance was simpler.

And necessary.

After all, this entire elaborate ruse had a single goal—for him to woo another.

Lest she forget.

In the distance, a pair of gentlemanly figures appeared. For a panicked second, she was sure one of them was Dev.

Neither was.

The one man was tall, but older and carried a hearty paunch about his middle. The other man was tall, too, but rangy…a confident swagger to his step…a flash of sparkle in his left ear.

Her heart kicked into a gallop, and she sat up ramrod straight. No, no, no. If she wasn’t mistaken—and she wasn’t—the pair of figures were none other than…

“Lady Beatrix, is that Lydon?” asked Lady Farthington.

Mouth dry as dust, all Beatrix could do was nod.

A few delighted titters floated on the air. “Now the party shall be a lively one,” chimed another lady.

Lady Farthington squinted into the distance. “And who is that young man with him?”

Beatrix swallowed. She must answer. “That is Mr. Blaze Jagger.”

No few gasps inhaled. “The infamous blackleg?”

“He now runs The Archangel,” answered Beatrix.

To a one, the ladies fixed the entirety oftheir titillated gazes upon Jagger. The fact was her brother—no matter that he was from the other side of the blanket, that was how she’d come to think of him—was too appealing for his own good. The large diamond flashing in his ear only enhanced his dangerous magnetism. And the mischief in his smile…

Well, he would be seated well away from Mr. and Mrs. Shaw’s impressionable, marriageable heiress daughters.

She would have a little chat with this come-lately brother of hers.

Of course, Dev had insisted on inviting Lydon. He was Beatrix’s father; it was only proper. That Lydon was also a marquess, well, that was a bonus.

By the time Lydon and Jagger joined the picnic, there was no denying the frisson of excitement that had enlivened the ladies in a way discussions of milliners and fashionable hairstyles simply couldn’t.

These were men—untamed, possibly dangerous men.

Untamable?

Few women were above wanting to know—or even finding out for themselves.

She would most definitely have a chat with Jagger.

A jolly smile in place—he was well versed in those—Lydon clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. “What’s this harem of English roses I’ve happened upon?” He wasn’t above mixing his cultural references.

The ladies, predictably, tittered. Lydon held a sort of charm, Beatrix supposed. That, and he was a marquess. Ladies naturally tittered and cooed over the charms—paltry though they might be—of a marquess.

Beatrix only realized she’d snorted after she’d done it.

Lydon’s attention shifted. “Ah, there’s my lovely daughter.”

Until this moment, she had been merely annoyed.

Now, it was as if the Devil himself was fiddling on her last nerve.

“Lydon,” she said, tightly, certain her face was making a mess of itself in its attempt to remain composed.

If he thought she was about to address him as Father for the benefit of appearances, he was destined to be sorely disappointed.

He sniffed and carefully lowered himself onto the pallet of blankets and pillows the servants had hastily arranged for him.

Seeing him there, lying about like a sultan on holiday and accepting a coupe of champagne from a footman, was altogether too much for Beatrix’s continued well-being. She shot to her feet. “I, erm , I’m off for a walk.”

Lifted eyebrows directed themselves her way, and Jagger shot her a wink.

Cheeky man.

She didn’t bother glancing at Lydon as, without another word, she set out. Not for the manor house, but rather in the opposite direction—toward a dark and as-yet mysterious copse of woods.

They suited her mood.

She’d only made it thirty yards or so when she felt it—a hand on her upper arm. She threw an irritated glance over her shoulder.

Lydon.

Pique transformed into puzzlement as she swung around to an abrupt stop. Before she could open her mouth, he said, “I haven’t had an opportunity to properly congratulate you on your impending nuptials, just the two of us.”

“Haven’t had an opportunity?” she asked, incredulous. “You haven’t been home in weeks.”

He shrugged, a marquess utterly indifferent to bourgeois standards of time. “A man has business to attend in the general course of life.”

Her brow creased with a sudden suspicion. “You haven’t left Cumberbatch in London, have you?”

The stubborn man had refused to come with her to Primrose Park. “I’m valet to a marquess, not your nursemaid.” Then he’d extended an object toward her. “Now, you strap this little beauty to your thigh, and you’ll be all right.”

It was a knife.

A knife that presently lay undisturbed in her valise.

Cumberbatch meant well.

It was almost touching.

“The old bugger insisted on coming.” Lydon shook his head, bemused. “Getting rather vocal in his opinions in his dotage. Might need a new valet soon.”

Beatrix’s fists clenched at her sides. “Don’t you dare even think of it,” she said through gritted teeth.

Cumberbatch was too aged to find another place.

He was theirs, for life.

Though they weren’t within earshot of the party, they were within view, so Beatrix decided it best that she stay put and let Lydon have his say, rather than put on a spectacle of her running away and him chasing after her. “You have something to say to me?”

A serious glint entered Lydon’s eye. “You’ll want to get on those nuptials in quick order.” He glanced around the grounds of Primrose Park meaningfully. “You’ve caught yourself a right keeper.”

Beatrix felt not only the skyward lift of her eyebrows, but also the effect of having herself struck dumb.

“I doubted you had it in you.” Doubts that yet lingered in his eyes, in fact. “No idea as to the why s and how s of this impending union, but you’ve done it. I’ll say this for you—you’ve always been a clever one.” And on he went… “Now, you get those vows spoken and that marriage register signed.”

Beatrix’s cheeks burned. The tips of her ears, too. The bald-faced audacity!

But as much as she wanted done with this conversation, she did have a matter to air… “You brought Blaze Jagger.”

A statement of the obvious; the question implicit.

Why had he brought the fox into the henhouse?

Lydon remained unbothered. “Figured it was all the same to Deverill if I brought a new friend.”

“ Friend? ”

Lydon kept surpassing himself in degrees of audacity. Jagger was many things— adversary…family —but not friend .

Lydon searched her eyes for any knowledge they might reveal. “Jagger might say some unpleasant things to you. Don’t believe a word of it.”

“And what might he say?” She didn’t let Lydon answer. “That he’s the holder of all your debt?”

Lydon gave a lordly sniff of dismissal.

“Or,” she continued, “might he say he’s my brother?”

That got Lydon’s attention. “Load of rot. I shared a bit of fun with his ma on the rare occasion, and I’m guilty of— what? — crimes? ”

Beatrix supposed that was as close to a confession as she was ever likely to get. “Why did you bring him here?”

“He expressed an interest in attending, and, well…” He shrugged, as if the remainder of the sentence didn’t need to be spoken.

Beatrix was in no mood to humor her father. “And you’re in no position to refuse him.”

She would’ve thought such words would elicit a sniff or even a glower. Instead, he smiled— brightly . “If it isn’t the man himself,” he said, as if the sun to his moon approached.

And Beatrix knew before a sure, masculine hand lightly closed around her arm and a low, rumbly voice sounded in her ear. “Going somewhere, my love?”

Deverill.

She froze.

My love.

Of course, the endearment was for the benefit of others. After all, they were on display.

She turned sharply, and her mouth found itself disconcertingly close to his. Her gaze lifted and met his within that intimate space.

Until this very moment, everything about their arrangement had felt mostly theoretical.

Now, here it was being put into practice.

Was she up to the task?

Doubt pulsed through her.

In the wild instant that followed his my love , she’d believed it.

Or had wanted to believe it.

And she wasn’t sure which was worse.