Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

D ev understood the plan.

In the general sense.

He and Beatrix were to end their arrangement— publicly .

Really, he felt she had a stronger sense of how the plan would unfold.

But it was the after that he was concentrated upon.

He would take her some place where it was only him and her, then drop to one knee and proclaim his love and ask her to make another arrangement with him— privately .

An arrangement that had naught to do with anything other than what lay within their two hearts.

He’d strode into this ballroom with the sole intention of proceeding exactly so.

Then he’d seen her, standing against an inconspicuous stretch of wall, looking so utterly lovely. And when he walked toward her, it had naught to do with the plan.

It was need that drove every step—the need to touch her…to hold her in his arms…

“May I have this dance?”

He always found the most efficient means to achieve his ends.

An uncertain beat of the heart later, she stepped into his embrace, her chin lifted so her gaze fixed on a point over his shoulder. The hand on her ribcage slid around and lower to the small of her back. Improper . Even more improperly, he pulled her close—so close their bodies brushed one another as they stepped into the whirl of dancing couples and the brisk one-two-three of the waltz and all was right with the world.

For the few minutes of this dance, she would be his.

But there was little satisfaction in it.

It wasn’t enough—and it wouldn’t be enough until it was forever.

“Are you enjoying the evening?”

The sort of banal question a man would ask the lady he was attempting to woo, which he supposed made it the perfect question.

The space between Beatrix’s eyebrows crinkled slightly. He’d surprised her. “I, erm …” she stammered. “Yes… no .”

“You look lovely tonight.” If he was courting, then he might as well do it correctly.

She blinked.

“You’re the loveliest woman in the room, in fact.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I suppose Lady Bridgewater hasn’t arrived yet.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

It was the truth.

A complete shift in his thinking had occurred.

No longer did Imogen have anything to do with what bound him and Beatrix together. She never really had. The connection had charged between him and Beatrix from that very first moment in Hyde Park.

Well, that might be overstating the case. He had, after all, nearly run her down with his horse, which wasn’t the best way to endear oneself to a woman’s heart.

Beneath the hand on her ribs, he sensed held breath. She was evaluating his words from every angle. Soon, however, she would understand there was but the one angle from which to view them—as the truth.

“Shall we get this over with, then?”

“Define this .”

“Our arrangement.”

It was, in fact, what he wanted more than anything.

Then they could get on with the matter of the rest of their lives together.

He nodded and said, “Do you have a plan for how?—”

Without warning, she planted her feet in the center of the dancing floor, bringing them to a sudden standstill and stopping the rest of the question in his mouth. Events moved so fast he had no opportunity to grasp the intent of her plan when she lifted her right hand off his shoulder and, with unaccountable fury in her eyes, delivered a decisive, walloping slap to his left cheek.

The moment and ballroom were shocked into silence, as she tore the white silk glove from her left hand, jerked the ruby engagement ring off her finger, and flung it at his chest. He only just caught it when her voice rang out, clear and indignant, “Enjoy the rest of your life without me, Lord Devil.”

Then she whirled in a swish of silken skirts and fled the ballroom, a chorus of shocked gasps and titters at her back.

As plans went, it was effective.

In the newly scandalized eyes of society, Lord Devil and Lady Beatrix St. Vincent were finished.

Now, they could begin a real future—as Dev and Bea.

Yet…a feeling niggled within him.

A bad feeling.

That slap and the fury in her eyes… In combination, they felt like more than a bit of theater performed for the sake of society.

The slap… She’d really put her back into it.

The fury in her eyes… It had been real.

This plan… It had been a mistake.

He’d thought to wait a short while before following her. Allow enough time to pass where he could receive commiseration from the other males, who were already sending him condoling shakes of the head.

But, no, that would be a mistake, too.

He must catch her— now .

He’d taken not three steps when a hand closed around his upper arm. Annoyance shot through him as he glanced over his shoulder. Imogen , mouth curled into a satisfied smile.

The bad feeling curdled into a solid mass in his stomach.

He’d gotten everything wrong tonight, hadn’t he?

He should’ve broken things off with Imogen today. Except… In reality, there was nothing to break off . He and Imogen weren’t actually together—or in any way connected.

Not anymore.

Not in years.

How had he missed that fact for so long?

“May I help you, Lady Bridgewater?” he said, cold and indifferent—and not for the benefit of others.

“Don’t you think it’s time you told me something?” No missing that self-pleased light in her eyes.

He began nodding. Actually… yes .

He’d made a right mess of matters—there was no denying it—but a quick conversation with Imogen would be a pivot in the right direction.

He’d been too unclear—with himself…with Beatrix…with Imogen, too, apparently—which was unlike him.

He was known for clarity of mind and purpose.

For knowing what he wanted and pursuing it—and achieving it.

But somewhere along the way that clarity had become clear as mud.

Everyone, it seemed, thought they knew what he wanted—including himself.

Yet it wasn’t what he wanted, not at all.

And now the time had arrived to clear the waters.

Beginning with Imogen.

He allowed her to lead him down the corridor, up a staircase, and down another corridor, at the end of which they entered a disused room. As she shut the door behind them, it became obvious she’d planned for this little tête-a-tête .

She arranged herself on the room’s chaise longue in a seductive pose and curved her mouth into a practiced smile. Had she always been this transparent? “You’ve made your point, Dev.”

He propped a shoulder against the closed door and crossed his arms over his chest. “What point is that?”

She trilled a light, feminine laugh that sounded rehearsed. “With Lady Beatrix, of course.”

Dev went very still. He didn’t like that laugh. It held an edge of malice—aimed squarely at Beatrix.

Imogen didn’t notice the sudden snap of tension in the air. “As if you would marry her.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Another laugh—the same malicious note ringing through. “Of course not. Why would you spend the rest of your days with her when…”

Her eyes glittered with expectancy. Impatience struck through Dev. He shouldn’t be here.

Yet another mistake made.

“ When what, Imogen?” He was in no mood for games.

“When you could spend them with me ?”

It took the split of a second for his mind to catch up. “Are you saying you would—” The thought was too incredible to finish.

“Run away with you?”

A single wary nod was the only response he was capable of at the moment.

“Yes, I believe I shall.”

Imogen was speaking the words he’d been waiting to hear for years…

And they inspired nothing in him beyond…absolute panic.

Bloody hell.

“I rather fancy being a ruined lady.” Her tone was that of someone describing the weather.

“Imogen…” He scraped his mind for something— anything —to say to this woman he truly didn’t know. “When you were sold into marriage to Bridgewater?—”

“ Sold? ” Her brow creased and her head canted, as if she were conversing with the biggest dunderhead in England.

Actually…maybe he was.

“Well, weren’t you?”

She flicked her wrist. “Oh, I don’t care about being a countess.”

See? he wanted to say to an imaginary Beatrix. Imogen didn’t care about such things.

He’d been right about something, at least.

Her smile turned positively feline. “Not when I can be so much more.”

Dev’s brow furrowed deep trenches into his forehead. A glint had entered Imogen’s eye. “ More? ” he asked and braced himself for whatever next was about to issue from her mouth.

“I can be more than a countess. I can be infamous. Bridgewater was merely a stepping stone.” She shifted forward, her eyes alight with excitability. “Without him, you and I would simply be a mister and missus when we set out for our notorious future.”

Was Imogen possibly… mad ?

No, not mad.

Ambitious.

All this time, Imogen had a plan of her own.

“My beauty will achieve legend,” she continued. “If we put our minds to it, I could best the Duchess of Devonshire or Lady Worsley for notoriety. Where on the Continent shall we go first?”

This future wasn’t based on revenge or conquest or even love.

Her intention was to use him as the instrument of her ruination.

Use him.

Had it always been so?

From the moment they met all those years ago… Had he been doing her bidding all this time?

The answer his mind suggested…

He didn’t much like it.

“Oh, first,” she said, a new thought occurring to her, “there’s the matter of your little business.”

“My little business ,” he repeated. “Are you speaking of my factory?”

“You’ll be selling it, of course.”

“The first I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s served its purpose, hasn’t it?”

“Which is?”

“To achieve… me .”

Beatrix would never think or say such a thing. Strangely, though his arrangement with her involved money, she wasn’t the sort of woman who could be bought.

But Imogen was.

Further, Beatrix respected his work. She understood it was a fundamental part of him and his identity. Which led him to yet another logical conclusion…

Imogen didn’t know him at all.

Beatrix’s words returned to him.

What she represents to you is a fantasy.

Beatrix had seen that truth from the beginning.

And just as Imogen had been a figment of fantasy for him, he’d been the same to her.

They didn’t actually know each other in a meaningful way.

And as was the way with one truth, it led to another…

He and Imogen never had the spark that he and Beatrix shared.

Oh, it had been a spark, but one born of youth and infatuation…of lust and inexperience.

A fleeting spark that didn’t hold the necessary heat to catch.

But what he and Beatrix shared burned brighter and hotter with every moment of each passing day…

That was love.

Of course, he could be wrong— yet again .

“But Lady Beatrix St. Vincent?” Imogen gave her head a disapproving, little shake. “I know she’s the daughter of a marquess, but really… truly .”

“What about her?”

“She’s not exactly a diamond of the first water,” she scoffed. “The woman’s practically a spinster, and you’re Lord Devil , Dev.”

“Meaning?”

Imogen ignored the question. “Not to mention she rather thinks highly of herself, that Lady Beatrix.”

“Why shouldn’t she?”

“As if she’s more intelligent than the rest of us,” continued Imogen, unwittingly venturing deeper into dangerous territory. “You wouldn’t be able to suffer such a woman for long.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Dev, his voice betraying none of his barely contained fury. “Intelligence has its uses in a woman.”

Imogen’s perfect eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Like what, pray tell?”

“Like it would prevent a woman from making a fool of herself and throwing herself at a man who no longer loves her and who suspects he never did.”

Her brow darkened. “Dev, what are you saying?”

“I don’t love you, Imogen.”

A laugh of disbelief escaped her. “Of course, you do. You’ve always loved me, Dev.”

“Perhaps what we’ve always wanted isn’t what we want now.”

Words he’d spoken to Beatrix.

The context had been different then, but the truth contained within was the same.

“But what else could you want, if not me?”

“Imogen, I wish you well in life, but that life will not be spent with me. A little advice,” he added as he swung the door open. “Be happy with your earl. You earned him.”

She pushed upright on the chaise longue, her eyes ablaze. “How dare you?—”

But the remainder of her words were cut off when he pulled the door firmly closed behind him.

How dare he, indeed.

Through the house, he strode, a man focused on his mission, ignoring greetings from guests and queries from servants.

They could wait.

When he reached Beatrix’s bedroom, the door was cracked an inch. Warily, he pushed it open. Empty. He stepped inside and understood immediately.

She was gone.

Not a trace of her remained.

He’d had it all perfectly planned. Payment for services rendered was to have been delivered during the dance, putting an official end to their business dealings and making it possible to start their future from a fresh place.

What he hadn’t anticipated was a pair of arresting gray eyes glaring up at him with hurt and anger.

Too late.

Two simple words, but when arranged in that configuration, they held the power to fill the rest of one’s life with regret.

All his life he’d vanquished.

But there was no vanquishing in love.

Only surrender.

And he’d surrendered too late.

He’d once thought nothing would ever be enough until Imogen was his.

But that wasn’t the truth of the matter.

It was the shallow thinking of a young man.

What he felt for Beatrix shafted deep into the core of him.

Simply, nothing meant anything without her.

Her absence stripped all meaning from his life.

But it wouldn’t last.

Surely.

Surely, she would see that truth and understand she felt the same.

Through hurt and frustration came another emotion— annoyance .

He loved her.

And against her will, she had come to love him, too.

He knew it with absolute certainty.

Someone like Beatrix wouldn’t give herself so entirely to another person, like she had with him, without love.

So, why had she fled?

Why hadn’t she stayed and fought for him…for them ?

He wouldn’t pursue her tonight.

Or tomorrow.

Or even for the next month, if necessary.

He would give her time to sit and reflect—and stew.

He would give her time to miss him.

To see if she could live without him—to see that she couldn’t.

They weren’t finished.

That much, he knew.

He just needed her to realize it, too.