Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

NEXT EVENING

T urmoil.

The only word that described how Beatrix had spent this day—in a state of turmoil.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true.

She’d spent most of the day being fitted for the gown she was now wearing in Dev’s magnificent ballroom.

A colorful array of ten silk ballgowns had arrived in her bedroom just as the hour struck noon—along with Madame Dubois and a few of her apprentices. From there, it was all turning this way and that and striving for perfection with every stitch.

Several hours later—and several pots of tea and all the cakes that went with it, too—they’d achieved it. The dress Beatrix now wore was, indeed, perfection—a lilac silk so pale it could be mistaken for silver.

“Lovely,” said Madame Dubois in her French accent by way of London’s East End. She stood back from Beatrix, head tilted, assessing her work with a critical eye. “You’ll be the loveliest lady at the dance.”

“Oh, no,” said Beatrix. “That honor will go to Lady Bridgewater the instant she steps foot inside the ballroom.” She’d regretted the words even as she spoke them—and the acid contained within.

Madame Dubois subtly narrowed her gaze. Now, she was assessing the woman within the dress. “I’ll grant you that Lady Bridgewater is one of the most beautiful women in the haut ton . Rather like a summer rose in full bloom. Complete with the thorns, too, you can trust me on that.” She cleared her throat. “But she isn’t lovely like you. There’s a difference, and Mr. Deverill has a discerning eye. He sees it.”

Dev.

Of course, he’d sent this dress—along with the nine others and the modiste, too.

Dev.

The source of her turmoil.

Perhaps I don’t want to marry at all.

When she’d spoken those words, it hadn’t been a case of the dramatics and there was no perhaps about it.

She no longer wanted a good, solid future—not after Dev.

She would never have what she’d shared with Dev with anyone else, so it only followed she wouldn’t have anyone else.

Oh, the logic was bleak.

A slick of perspiration coated her palms. The time was nearing that she would have to finish the job— publicly .

What had come over her to make such a suggestion?

The question was disingenuous.

She knew.

Their end didn’t need to be public for the sake of the ton .

It needed to be public for her —a clear dividing line between before and after .

Before —the time when their arrangement bound them…when something more bound them, too.

After —the remainder of her days.

“Your future is yours to decide.”

He’d paid off Jagger.

It annoyed her.

How very presumptuous and high-handed of him.

It was sweet.

And that annoyed her, too.

“You owe me nothing, Beatrix.”

With those words, he’d set her free.

They should’ve been everything she wanted to hear…a weight lifted off her shoulders.

Except…with those words, nothing bound them any longer.

She was free—free of Lydon’s debt…free of Blaze Jagger’s threat…free of Dev.

Freedom never felt so bad.

“I thought I’d find you here,” came a welcome voice behind her.

Beatrix turned to find Artemis approaching her quiet patch of wall. “Habit, I suppose.”

“Let’s speak our farewell now,” said Artemis. “I’ll be setting out before dawn. It’s a long road back to Yorkshire.” She gave Beatrix a thorough once-over before narrowing her eyes. “Exquisite dress, but you look terrible.”

A miserable laugh chirruped from Beatrix.

“No, it’s true,” continued Artemis. “If this is how being blissfully engaged affects your looks, then you might consider breaking it off.”

“That dire?”

Artemis narrowed her eyes with assessment. “It’s the dark circles under your eyes. Your cheeks have lost their roses.”

“Is that all?”

“What you need is—” Artemis signaled a passing footman. “ Champagne. ” She plucked two sparkling coupes off the tray and handed one to Beatrix. “Now, drink that.”

Beatrix took a compulsory sip.

Artemis shook her head, as if Beatrix had failed a test. “All the way in one go.”

Understanding she had no choice, Beatrix began drinking. What could it hurt, anyway?

Once she’d downed every last drop—and emitted a small burp into the back of her hand—Artemis nodded and took the empty glass, replacing it with a full one. “Now, sip that one.”

Strangely, Beatrix was starting to feel…not better, exactly…but lighter . “I’ll miss you, my friend.”

“You must visit me at the Grange.”

“You have no plan to return to London?” Beatrix wasn’t surprised, but still sorely disappointed. Her future in London was looking so very decidedly bleak.

Again, that awful word.

“I shall,” said Artemis. “But the time isn’t yet right. A few matters have come to my attention and must be dealt with.”

She pulled Beatrix into one of her fierce embraces, then was off, Bathsheba trailing behind her. Only Artemis would bring a dog to a dance.

Beatrix remained fastened to her patch of wall and cast her gaze across the room. The affair was an informal one, as it was outside London and the number of attendees was too few to deem it a ball. Except one wouldn’t know it from the opulence of the ballroom with its gleaming mahogany dancing floor and three matched, five-tiered crystal chandeliers that threw warm, sparkling light in every direction. Then there were the quality of the diamonds gracing the necks and wrists of the ladies and the exalted titles of the lords that were of equal quality and flamboyance. Any ball in London would be deemed the success of the Season with such a resplendent gathering.

Her eye caught upon two figures on the opposite end of the dancing floor— Lord Wrexford and Miss Shaw . They weren’t dancing, but rather their heads were bent close in deep conversation. Beatrix wasn’t sure whose eyes shone brighter or cheeks bloomed redder. A match was only a matter of time—he, an earl and future marquess…she, an heiress and lovely with impeccable manners and a fine mind. It would be that rare love match that was also socially appropriate.

Of a sudden, the air in the ballroom changed, as if a match had fired and sparked it to life. Beatrix knew that change in the air. Her heart a variable butterfly in her chest, she scanned the crowd until she located the source— Dev .

Oh, but he was handsome in his impeccable evening blacks.

Lord Devil.

That was the man the ton wanted him to be—to fill that role for their entertainment.

And wasn’t she, too, guilty? Only last night, in his bed, she’d indulged in fantasy with Lord Devil.

Her thighs still ached from the experience.

Yet she saw more to him, and she wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

Was it better to see him beyond his surface? To see more beyond his handsomeness and wealth? To see his intelligence, ingenuity, and genius? His thoughtfulness… His sweetness… To see all those qualities and know he would never be hers?

Over the shoulder of a lady who had planted herself firmly in his path, his gaze lifted and met Beatrix’s. Without a word, he sidestepped the lady, leaving an irritated feminine humph in his wake. As he erased the distance between them, one sure step at a time, he dared Beatrix to look away—as if she could. Lord Devil was coming to claim her.

Oh, the champagne was having its way with her thoughts.

Somewhere between an eternity of years and the snap of her fingers, he came to a stop before her. Close —too close…uncomfortably close. So close she could feel the familiar pulse of his energy and heat…pick up his scent of pine and sea and him … reach out and caress his stubble-shadowed cheek and tangle fingers through the hair that curled against his collar.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, the question a low, velvet rumble that quaked through her one syllable at a time.

Was music playing?

She couldn’t hear it.

Her senses could take in nothing beyond what related to him.

The entire room was watching, either directly or from the corner of their eyes.

But that wasn’t why she nodded and allowed her hand to be taken into his and her entire self to be led onto the dancing floor.

She wanted to dance with Dev.

To experience the enlivening, buoyant feeling dancing stirred within her—with him.

To feel herself in his arms once again.

It was the latter feeling she wanted most.

With all her being, in fact.

And the two coupes of champagne she’d consumed had blurred the reasons that stood between wanting and having.