Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

B eatrix didn’t want to respond.

She wanted to run.

Dev understood that.

Well, too bad.

She’d made an arrangement with him.

He could release her from it, of course.

A gentleman might.

But he was no gentleman.

“Ah, the beauteous nature of young love.” Thumbs tucked into waistcoat pockets, Lydon rocked on his heels, smug smile in place. “I’ll leave you lot to it.”

The old wastrel likely didn’t think Dev caught the wink directed at his daughter.

She groaned.

“They’re all watching,” said Dev through his smile.

“So?”

The woman had no instinct for artifice.

“So, we’re completely besotted with one another, remember?”

Something opaque and unknowable passed behind her eyes. Her brow creased with a little crinkle.

“Now,” he said, turning them toward the picnic which had doubled in size with the return of the men, “let’s show them how mad we are for each other.” They took a few steps. “And smile, woman.”

He risked a glance to find her face assembled into what could pass for a besotted smile—in the dark…perhaps.

With the return of the men, the gathering had broken into smaller groupings. Typical of Richmond, the duke was holding court and expostulating on all matters of the turf in the direction of a few earls and similarly assorted lords. Lydon had found a group of ladies suitably in awe of his every word. Meanwhile, Blaze Jagger maintained the skeptical lift of an eyebrow as a lord was earnestly imparting a matter of serious importance to him—likely how he would be repaying an outstanding debt very soon.

Jagger had been unexpected, though Dev should’ve seen it coming. The man was audacious and ambitious. He’d seen a way in, and he’d seized it. Dev would’ve been the biggest hypocrite in the world if he didn’t understand and, further, sympathize.

Although, an eye would have to be kept on the man. Too many ladies, both married and unmarried, were casting intrigued glances in his direction.

But, really, Dev’s main concern was for the woman at his side.

The woman who had only contacted him these last two weeks through letters.

He’d let her avoid him, but he wasn’t so sure it was for her benefit.

Likely, it had been for his own.

“Deverill,” came a call and corresponding wave. Shaw, beckoning him and Beatrix over to join him and his family.

“Do you mind if we sit with the Shaws?”

He didn’t know why he was asking. This was his show.

“I like Mrs. Shaw,” said Beatrix. “She seems a woman of good sense.”

She was speaking to him again.

Progress.

As they settled onto the blanket, Mrs. Shaw asked, “Have you yet tasted a scone? They are truly scrumptious. I must have the recipe.”

A chorus of feminine snickers sounded from the adjacent blanket. Mrs. Shaw had made it obvious she baked her own scones.

“Scones, you say?” asked Dev. “Second only to chocolate, they are Bea’s favorite food.”

Questioning gray eyes flashed up to meet his.

Bea.

He’d called her Bea in society.

Was that annoyance he saw?

A feeling of satisfaction twisted through him.

Some part of him wanted to prick and annoy her, for he realized something in this moment.

He was annoyed with her .

“In fact—” He lifted a scone and spread a dollop of clotted cream across its lumpy surface, followed by a swipe of sticky strawberry jam. He lifted the scone and met her eyes, which had gone wide. His was intention clear.

Her mouth remained stubbornly closed, her eyes mutinous.

“Come now, my love, we’re amongst friends,” he cooed. “Why deny yourself?”

And he realized with no small amount of bewilderment that he wanted this—to feed her.

He’d never fed a woman in his life.

A tense beat of time ticked past.

At last, she relented—and opened her mouth.

He felt the pull of a wicked smile as he slid it inside. She bit down. Unable not to, he watched her chew and swallow.

Then he noticed… “You have a smudge of jam just…” Without thinking, he reached out and pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth. “ Here. ”

And that would’ve been the end of it.

Except her tongue had the same idea.

So, in the instant he swiped, she did, too—and licked him.

Her tongue slick and soft against his thumb.

There was nothing soft about the lightning bolt of desire that streaked through him straight to his cock.

The moment stretched the limits of a single second as their gazes held, knowledge within, knowledge of each other…

“Oh, you must tell us the story of how you met,” exclaimed Mrs. Shaw. “I’m certain it’s incredibly romantic.”

Beatrix dropped her gaze and turned her head subtly enough so his thumb no longer had an excuse to touch her. “It’s not a terribly fascinating story,” she said, quelling. She glanced toward the sky. “The clouds are beginning to look a little fearsome. Maybe we should go?—”

“As usual, my sweet Bea is being too modest.” He saw what she was trying to do and wasn’t about to let her. “We met in Hyde Park.”

Mrs. Shaw shifted forward, already rapt. “Oh?”

“In a rainstorm.”

Mrs. Shaw looked ready to swoon.

“She’d turned her ankle.” He decided it best to leave out the part where he’d nearly run her down with his horse, thereby causing said turned ankle.

“Oh, dear.”

“In fact, this ankle here…” Guided by impulse, he reached down to where Beatrix’s legs were folded to the side of her body and traced his forefinger along her boot and up to her slender ankle.

In a more formal setting, it would’ve been shocking. but Dev thought with the right charming smile curving his mouth he could just get away with it.

With that swipe of the tongue across the pad of his thumb, she’d sparked a match to flame inside him and he was powerless against adding kindling to the fire.

He needed to touch her.

“Then what happened?”

“Well, as you may have noticed, my sweet Bea has a stubborn streak the length and width of the Atlantic Ocean?—”

“Don’t forget the depth, my darling,” said Beatrix with a sugary smile.

“But I was able to convince her to ride my mount.”

“Upon your first meeting?” This was from the eldest of the Shaw daughters, who clearly hadn’t the faintest notion about double entendres. All three sisters looked as if they were bearing witness to a romance with the scope and drama of Antony and Cleopatra.

The tips of Beatrix’s ears grew fiercely red as she shifted and discreetly tucked her legs beneath her, away from further explorations of his fingers.

It had been forward of him.

But he couldn’t regret it.

“And was it love at first sight?” asked the youngest Shaw daughter.

The question was simple—a natural progression of the conversation. It should’ve been expected.

Instead, it rocked him back on his heels.

He opened his mouth, knowing the answer expected of him. All he had to do was speak that single word— yes .

Beatrix’s eyes lifted and found his.

Dev closed his mouth.

He couldn’t.

For it felt strangely transgressive to speak that yes to these people.

It felt… complicated .

Much like a first kiss was supposed to be, it was meant for the intimate space between two people.

In a sudden flurry of skirts, Beatrix pushed off the ground and shot to her feet. “I think I’ll take that walk now.”

And she was off, marching up the short rise of the hill as if she owned it.

Dev sprang to his feet. “Isn’t she delightful?”

And he was off, too, in pursuit.

A few seconds later, he was by her side and threading his arm through hers.

For the sake of appearances, of course.

When they entered the woods and disappeared into its daytime shadows, however, she pulled away and he let her.

He let the silence between them expand, too.

Except a copse of woods was never silent, if one listened. The muted crunch of their footsteps. The soft susurration of a light summer breeze whispering through the trees. Crickets and birds singing their ancient songs. Toads croaking their chorus. A dog or a fox barking in the distance.

On, they wandered, her leading the aimless way that Dev was content to follow.

Content.

He wasn’t content.

He was, in fact, dis content.

She behaved as if they’d never been friends or… something more .

Enough was enough.

“Do you plan on ever speaking to me again?”

“We’ve spoken,” she tossed over her shoulder without breaking stride. “We’re speaking now.”

“You’re being childish.”

She let her forward-marching feet be her answer.

Discontent tipped over into bloody irritation. “Do we need to talk about it?”

He detected a hiccough in her step, even as she asked, “Talk about what?”

“The night,” he said. “Or shall I explain in minute detail which night?”

She whirled around, eyes brimming with fear and fire in equal parts. “Don’t you dare.”

He had her—and it felt good to provoke her into genuine emotion beyond studied indifference. “Then I suggest you start talking about something else.”

Gray eyes sparked with annoyance. At last, she said, “How did you acquire Primrose Park?” She began striding through the woods again, him at her back. “The same way you acquired Little Wicked? In a card game?”

Again, irritation snapped through him. “I’m not an actual scoundrel, you know,” he fired back. “Everything I’ve acquired has been done so honestly.” Well… “More or less.”

She shot him a sheepish glance over her shoulder. “That was rather low of me. I apologize.”

He nodded his acceptance, even if he didn’t quite believe her. “Primrose Park was unentailed, and the lord who owned it deeply in debt.”

“A common enough story.”

“Indeed.”

“You’re good at it, you know.”

“Good at what?” He was good at many things—a few of them she’d experienced intimately.

“At playing the aristocrat.”

He snorted.

“Better than most aristocrats.”

“All it takes is a mountain of money and a willingness to spend it on expensive things, like racehorses and country estates.”

A laugh drifted over her shoulder. “That reminds me. I suppose I must thank you.”

“Beatrix,” he said. “May I walk beside you?”

Her hesitation was borne out by the dozen or so yards that passed beneath their feet. “If you must.”

A few strides later, he was by her side. “Now, you may thank me.”

Her mouth twitched, but she managed to hold a smile in check. “I must thank you for sending your parents on holiday.”

“Oh? I was under the impression you liked them.”

“I do,” she said. “Very much, in fact, but I don’t relish the idea of playing pretend as your fiancée beneath their observant eyes.”

Playing pretend.

He didn’t know why the phrase rubbed him the wrong way, except it did.

A thought for another time, perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

“Are they enjoying the Lake District?”

“According to the letter I received yesterday, yes.”

“Good.”

They walked on for a while in silence before she stopped and looked around. “Do you know where we are?”

“In the woods.”

She heaved a great, dramatic sigh. “Where are we in relation to the manor house?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

She lifted a bewildered eyebrow. “But these are your woods. How can you not know your

estate lands?”

He lifted empty hands. “Alas.”

“We’re lost?”

“Define lost.”

Her eyebrows dug trenches into her forehead.

“Beatrix,” he said in a tone that could calm a spooked horse, “did you never go off adventuring in the woods as a child?”

“No.”

For an instant, Dev was flummoxed. How could that be?

Then he remembered.

She’d spent many of her childhood days and years at racecourses with Lydon and his band of jolly rotters.

“Well,” he said, “I can assure you we shan’t be lost for long. England only has so much land. We would hit the sea from any direction, eventually. You can take the word of the son of an estate manager.”

Her eyes searched his for another instant, then she nodded and started walking again. “You had a wonderful childhood, didn’t you?”

He’d never given it much thought, but… “Yes.”

Ahead, a clearing came into view—a second, smaller pond. The forest surrounding it lent a feeling of privacy. One could indulge in summer swimming here. It would’ve even felt wild, but for the Greek-columned folly on the other side with its grand, domed roof.

“You might be the owner of the most beautiful estate in all England, Lord Devil.”

Before he could reply, a thunderclap sounded directly overhead, eliciting a startled cry from Beatrix before the sky opened— one…two…three… heavy raindrops followed by a sudden torrent. Lost as they were, a mad dash to the manor house wasn’t an option. By unspoken agreement, they sprinted straight for the folly, arriving soaked through to skin.

Well, Beatrix was soaked to the skin.

He had his greatcoat for protection.

She stared out at him, sodden, stringy tendrils of hair clinging to her cheeks, lashes heavy with raindrops. The wet-cat metaphor came to mind. “Are there two people in England more likely to get caught out in a rainstorm?”

Dev laughed. He couldn’t help it.

Beatrix didn’t join.

She was serious.

His brow gathered. “Are you actually angry with the weather?”

“I’m not going to take it anymore,” she exclaimed and strode out from beneath the protection of the folly—and straight into the rain.

All Dev could do was watch, bewildered, even as he admired her spirit. If anyone could take on the elements, it was Beatrix.

She made it about twenty yards.

Then she stopped. Her shoulders heaved up and down with, presumably, a great frustrated sigh, before she whirled around and dashed back to the folly.

She was now irredeemably soaked. Hair, a clumpy, tangled mess…boots emitting a soupy squish-squosh with every step…the fine muslin of her dress utterly ruined.

And utterly transparent.

Below her spencer, ivory fabric had found every inch of wet skin and clung on as if for dear life. Outlining…framing…displaying…every valley and hill… Her mons pubis a dark shadow beneath gossamer muslin.

Oh, she was a mess.

An utter, ravishable mess.

“You’re staring.”

His gaze lifted, and he didn’t deny it.

Instead, he shed his greatcoat and held it out, bridging the few feet between them. “Here.”

“I don’t need your?—”

“Spare us the ten minutes of back and forth and take the blasted coat, woman.”

She looked as if she might fight on, then she snatched the coat from him and shrugged it on— grudgingly .

It wasn’t only she who needed protection.

But he from himself—and his baser urges.

Urges which were presently rioting through his body and making their case.

Again, he experienced that contradictory spark of irritation.

She’d only taken his coat when presented with no other choice.

As if she couldn’t bear any part of him touching her, even if it was only the residual warmth from his body.

As if she were playing another game of pretend below their other game of pretend.

This game of pretend, however, was solely between the two of them.

It sounded complicated, but really, it was simple.

She was pretending their night together had never happened.

That he’d never touched her.

That she’d never touched him.

That they’d never taken pleasure from one another.

Huddled into his greatcoat, she lowered onto the bench to wait out the storm.

But really, he suspected, it was to keep an eye on him.

As if he couldn’t be trusted.

Or…

As if she couldn’t trust herself.

That irritated him, too.

He propped a shoulder against a column and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, who’s staring?”

She ignored the question. “You’ll catch a chill now that I have your coat.”

“A real conundrum.”

He didn’t care about the blasted coat or potential chills.

The deeper source of his irritation with this woman struck him.

He was a man with something to prove.

He wanted to prove to her how he’d made her feel.

And how it could feel even better the second time.

Nay , the third.

He wanted to prove it so thoroughly, she couldn’t ever deny it again.

He wanted her to blush simply from setting eyes on him.

He wanted… surrender .

He recognized another desire, too.

A too-familiar desire.

The desire to vanquish.

He ever carried it within him, this desire.

“We could share the coat.” She made the offer offhand, as if it didn’t matter all that much to her one way or the other.

But her eyes told a different story.

“Would you like me to share the coat with you?”

“I would be warmer.”

He pushed off the pillar. “Once we start sharing the coat, there’s no going back.”

“I need you to share this coat with me, Dev. It’s all I can think about.”

It wasn’t irritation or the need to prove her wrong or himself right that had him closing the distance between them, but rather a sort of will.

The will to possess her—and for her to know herself possessed.

It likely wasn’t his best idea, but this desire wouldn’t be denied.

And something in him wouldn’t let her deny it in herself.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“Nothing… yet .”