Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

D ev understood his role today—and the two opportunities it presented.

First, as host, he had the opportunity to give society what it wanted—opulence, the fulfillment of whims, and the general pleasure-seeking they so enjoyed. Since they did little else, he supposed frivolity was what they lived for.

This morning, pleasure came in the form of archery.

“It’s too bad Richmond couldn’t stay,” opined the Earl of Bridgewater from behind his open Times .

Yesterday, once the Duke of Richmond had completed his thorough inspection of Little Wicked and the stables, he’d been gone by the evening meal.

“I have a filly I think would suit his stables,” continued Bridgewater, offhand.

As he’d been a fringe member of the haut ton for nearly a year, Dev had gained the ability to parse between the lines of Bridgewater’s offhand statement.

The earl needed money.

Which Dev knew, of course, as the fact was a central element of his plan to win Imogen.

Yet what aristocrat didn’t need money?

Dev still didn’t understand how that worked. Nobs took it as their right to have the finest of everything in life, yet they did nothing to earn the blunt to attain it.

The economics simply didn’t work.

Except those very same economics worked for a man like Dev—and others like him on the rise. Those economics had yielded him Little Wicked, Primrose Park, and…

Beatrix.

What a strange thought.

But it was true when viewed from a certain angle.

If Lydon had managed his finances better, his daughter wouldn’t have entered into an arrangement with a man like Dev.

Well, a man had to take his luck where he found it.

The absence of Richmond notwithstanding, the house party seemed to be a success with close to forty members of the highest echelon of society attending. Beatrix had been correct. If he invited them, they would attend and happily partake of his hospitality.

Most were still abed and would be so until the middling hours of the afternoon—the haut ton loved its late nights—but others were interested in partaking of activities and archery had been the one this lot had agreed upon.

His eye caught on a small cluster of figures. There stood Shaw, supervising his eldest daughter’s shooting lesson, which was being taught by the Earl of Wrexford. Even from here, Dev could see both earl and young lady were blushing furiously. He was no matchmaker, but there was no mistaking how the wind blew there—a young earl and a young heiress.

Those economics added up.

“Mr. Deverill?” he heard at his back.

He knew the voice to the marrow of his bones— Imogen.

He turned and found her looking as exquisite as ever, her plain brown wool shooting costume somehow only enhancing her lush beauty.

Being a countess did suit her.

“Would you care for a friendly round of archery?”

And here was the second of Dev’s two opportunities as host presenting itself.

Time with Imogen.

His entire reason for hosting a country house party in the first place—lest he forget.

“Of course,” he said. Her husband didn’t take notice as he settled deeper into his newspaper.

The glint of competition shone in Imogen’s eyes and smile. She was an expert in the sport of archery. Far superior to Dev, in fact.

He moved toward the target-shooting area where pairs of haystacks were set up beside each other. Fifty yards opposite stood corresponding pairs of haystacks. As they competed, they would shoot from one end to the other in rotation.

Dev couldn’t understand why his feet felt heavy. He was getting what he wanted—time with Imogen. Yet his eyes kept darting toward the house every time a new figure emerged. But it was always a servant moving to this or that task set by the guests.

It was never Beatrix.

Where had she got off to this morning, anyway?

Shouldn’t she be here, making Imogen jealous?

Really, she might be in breach of their arrangement.

But mostly, he was genuinely curious what she was doing this very moment.

She’d disappeared into the house yesterday evening—and he hadn’t seen her since.

They still needed to talk.

Except…perhaps they didn’t.

Now, he had this golden opportunity to spend time with Imogen.

It was possible the rest was up to him, and he didn’t need Beatrix anymore.

The idea didn’t sit comfortably inside him.

In fact, every cell of his body rejected it.

“Dev?” Imogen was smiling, but a question flicked in her eyes.

He’d been staring at the house again.

He accepted a bow from a waiting footman and joined her at the nearest pair of haystacks.

“Remember how we would spend entire afternoons seeing who could hit the most bullseyes?”

“I remember you always winning,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”

He didn’t know why he said that last part—except it was the truth.

It was a long time ago.

More than ten years… fifteen ?

Long enough for him to have been an entirely different person.

Imogen positioned herself at the line and fitted nock to string. Her body perpendicular to the target some fifty yards distant, she gracefully bent the bow, only an instant’s hesitation to confirm her aim, then released her fingers. The arrow buried itself confidently in the center of the target, as if it had been an inevitability.

Dev couldn’t begrudge Imogen the smugness of the smirk she turned on him. “Match that,” she said.

She truly loved winning. She was at her most beautiful when she won.

It had been why, ten or fifteen years ago, he hadn’t minded losing to her—the opportunity to view her beauty in full blossom.

Today, however, he felt mostly indifferent.

He followed suit and…didn’t match that . He’d barely even notched the outermost white ring. “I’m a bit out of practice,” he offered apologetically.

Imogen enjoyed winning, yes, but mostly she enjoyed a close competition that was, of course, followed by her win.

With the next arrow, she struck the heart again.

Dev missed the haystack altogether.

“Dev!” she exclaimed in frustration. “Are you even trying?”

He wasn’t.

He cared not a whit who won.

He was just about to tell her exactly that when two figures appeared on the periphery of his vision. Two ladies, strolling into view from the direction of the pond. Was that a dog with them?

He didn’t know the dog or one of the ladies. But he did know the other lady on sight…and feel…

And every which other way, too.

His heart lifted in his chest.

Beatrix.

“Dev,” Imogen said—at his back.

His feet had begun moving—toward Beatrix.

“We still have two rounds.”

“Of course.” He couldn’t keep the indifference from his voice.

As the contest resumed, he tracked Beatrix from the edge of his eye as she mingled through the gathering, which had grown in size since he and Imogen had begun shooting. She did so easily, as this was the world to which she was accustomed.

Further, he recognized the other woman. Lady Artemis Keating , sister of the Duke of Rakesley. As Lady Artemis was rumored to be both intelligent and a woman who went her own way, Dev immediately saw how the women would be friends. Birds of a feather, those two.

At last, the round concluded—which happened to coincide with Beatrix and Lady Artemis venturing within speaking distance.

“You’re looking lovely today,” he called out.

A delighted laugh trilled from Imogen, but her smile fell when she saw she wasn’t the object of the compliment.

A light blush pinked Beatrix’s cheeks.

He was speaking the words of courtship one would say to a fiancée. So, there was an element of speaking for show. But these words… He meant them.

Beatrix did, indeed, look lovely in her delicate ivory muslin gown and silver-threaded navy velvet spencer that brought out that hint of violet from her eyes.

Lady Artemis cleared her throat, prompting Beatrix to say, “Lady Artemis, may I introduce Mr. Deverill to you?”

Dev bowed, and the lady dipped in a shallow curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deverill. It’s the rare man who could sweep Beatrix off her feet. I look forward to discovering how you accomplished it.” The serious glint in her eye said she would be successful, too.

Another throat cleared with a light, feminine lilt.

Imogen.

He’d rather forgotten her for a moment. She was waiting for him to perform another introduction. “Lady Bridgewater, may I introduce Lady Artemis to you?”

As Imogen held the higher rank through marriage, Lady Artemis dipped in a shallow curtsy. “Ah, Lady Bridgewater, what a delight.”

Imogen nodded like a queen, as if the world had been set right with her place in it acknowledged. “Dev and I were just enjoying a shooting contest.”

The air went suddenly too still.

Dev .

She’d called him Dev—publicly.

Further, she’d placed a hand on his arm.

It felt… proprietary .

He wanted to shake free, but resisted.

Beatrix and Lady Artemis noticed, with the latter subtly lifting an eyebrow. Beatrix glanced away.

“Do you ladies enjoy archery?” asked Imogen.

“I shoot the odd round here and there,” said Lady Artemis.

Imogen’s gaze narrowed on Beatrix. “And you, Lady Beatrix?”

“Can’t say it’s been a pursuit of mine.”

“It’s very simple, really.” Imogen appeared to make up her mind about something on the spot. “I shall give you a lesson.”

Before Dev could think through the consequences of his actions, he was stepping forward and saying, “I’ll show her the basic steps.”

Beatrix’s gaze darted between him and Imogen, as if unsure which prospect horrified her more.

Imogen’s mouth curved into a tight smile. “What a generous and thoughtful fiancé you are, Dev.”

“I’ll shoot with you, Lady Bridgewater.” Lady Artemis signaled for a servant to bring her a bow. “Though I’m not dressed for it as you are. Could you lend me your brace and shooting glove as we go?”

“Of course,” Imogen tossed over her shoulder, as she strode to the haystacks and plucked arrows from the targets.

Lady Artemis followed—which left Dev alone with Beatrix.

She met his gaze with the lift of an eyebrow. “I haven’t the least interest in archery.”

As he was naturally wont to do, Dev saw opportunity. “You’re my fiancée, remember?”

“How can I possibly forget?”

“Then be a good fiancée for all these nice aristocrats observing us and humor me.”

She was annoyed, as she had every right to be. Dev was playing dirty by alluding to their arrangement to influence her compliance. Well, hadn’t she learned by now he wasn’t above it?

Bow in one hand and quiver of arrows in the other, he led her to the last pair of haystacks in the row, which kept them in view of all, but not within hearing. She crossed her arms over her chest.

He held up one hand. “This is a bow.” He held up the other. “These are arrows.” He pointed. “That is the target.”

“I’m not a complete dunderhead.”

“You fit the nock of the arrow—that’s this little notch—to the string.” He illustrated each instruction with the corresponding action. “Then you lift the bow, pull the string on an inhalation, aim, and…release.” He left out the bit about offering a quick prayer heavenward that it would hit the target.

Proving that prayer worked, the arrow— improbably… miraculously —buried itself into the very heart of the gold circle.

A reluctant smile curved Beatrix’s mouth. “Impressive.”

So he wouldn’t follow the compulsion to bask in the not-quite-warm glow of her praise, he extended the bow and an arrow. “Your turn.”

Her smile fell. “Dev,” she began, her tone absolutely reasonable. “Must I truly?—”

“You must,” he cut in. “ Truly. ”

He knew why he insisted—and she would, too, in a moment.

She took the proffered implements without joy, the lift of her chin mutinous.

“Now…” He stepped closer.

Her brow creased with alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Instructing you, of course,” he said, all innocence—and anything but. “Position your body perpendicular to the target. Like so…” He touched his hand to her waist and applied light pressure until she followed the movement. “Now, you’ll want to fit the bowstring into the nock.”

Telling, that rasp in his voice.

Not only to him.

She would know it, too.

His hands remained on her waist, even as the rest of him remained apart from her, separated by a sliver of air. How his body ached to close that distance.

“Like this?” she asked.

And there it was—the telling rasp in her voice.

He angled and peered over her shoulder. “Yes,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He imagined a shiver purling down her spine.

She lifted the bow and began pulling the string. “Here,” he said, reaching around and placing his hands over hers—purely in the interest of instruction, of course.

As they bent the bow together, he felt her tremble. It could’ve been down to typically unused muscles being put to work. But it wasn’t. It was their bodies touching, him flush against her back, his cockstand rising. The ragged tremor of her inhalations and exhalations matched his.

How intimate and precious was the air around them.

“Now,” he muttered. “ Release. ”

As one, their fingers unclenched, and the arrow let fly, hitting the haystack, but missing the target.

It mattered not.

Her head angled, her gaze lifted, black-fringed gray eyes meeting his. “Like that?”

Their mouths weren’t an inch apart, so close her words whispered across his lips. It would be so easy…so natural…to shift that complicated increment and press his mouth to hers…

Then he felt it—a wet splat square on the bridge of his nose, followed by another on the tip of an ear.

She blinked, as if waking from an altered state, but remained as she was. “Rain?”

A drop landed on her nose, and he resisted the impulse to lick it off.

“Of course,” he said on a wry chuckle.

Her expressive eyes rolled toward the darkening sky. “We might be the cure for drought.”

And Dev felt it—an echo of the friendship they’d formed before they’d become something more .

“Beatrix!” Dashing straight for them was Lady Artemis, her three-legged dog keeping pace at her side. “Let’s go inside!”

Dev held Beatrix’s gaze for a full second longer, willing her to stay, the elements be damned. Then she inhaled a steadying breath and called out, “I’m coming!”

And she was off—and Dev was alone, watching her sprint for cover beneath the solid slate roof of the manor house. He didn’t blame her, but how he wished she’d stayed.

Though both guests and servants alike scurried and scrambled this way and that—a good, hard rain ever held the power to turn humans into squirrels—Dev felt no need to rush. Instead, he assisted the servants as they collected tea service, blankets, chairs, bows, arrows, and scattered newspapers—all the equipment of a morning’s archery outing.

A solid half hour had passed before he stepped into the boot room, thoroughly soaked.

Which was precisely what he’d needed after the archery lesson with Beatrix—a good, bracing cool down.