Chapter 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

DOVER, NIGHT

D ev rattled the dice in his loosely closed fist, a silent chorus of held breath surrounding him as he prolonged the suspense for a few more shakes, then let fly. Dull ivory skittered and bounced across worn, knife-scarred oak, showing all combinations of numbers until they, at last, fell still.

A one and a one— aces .

The collective groan that followed was instantaneous.

Dev had thrown out.

The weathered sea dog to his right scooped up the dice and blew on them for luck, and the impromptu Hazard game moved on.

Relieved of his throwing duties, Dev settled back on his bench and crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn’t been at all interested in the play, as he wasn’t a gambler, but it was a way of passing the time before the Channel crossing, which wouldn’t be for another few hours, if the storm presently raging outside had its way.

It was all manner of folk presently crowded beneath the roof of The Crown—reputable sailors…disreputable smugglers…those of the middling class and gentry…a few lords and ladies… the other sort of ladies, too. The ones of the night. Locals and foreigners, alike. Nothing like a blowing storm to bring all and sundry together beneath any roof that offered shelter and sustenance.

When everyone had first crammed into the taproom, the air had fizzed with barely contained annoyance that wanted to give way to all-out fractiousness. Then the drinking had commenced, the cards and dice revealed, and all found themselves in a jollier and more accepting frame of mind.

Everyone, except Dev.

His frame of mind had been decidedly, immutably dour these last two weeks.

Drink and gaming weren’t the answer for him, either. He’d witnessed the attempt to drown one’s sorrows in the bottom of a bottle on too many occasions. The endeavor never met with success. No, drink wasn’t the answer—work, however, was.

He’d accomplished more work in this last pair of weeks than he had in the last pair of years. Tethered to his draftsman’s table, he’d been.

It was the only way.

The only way to stay away from her.

For that was his true accomplishment these last few weeks.

He’d kept away from Beatrix.

Though it had been necessary to give up his rooms at Mivart’s. One mad night, he’d drawn a detailed street map of Mayfair and had begun charting routes to her house—which hadn’t been a useful exercise. The knowledge that a full-on sprint could have him at her doorstep in a matter of four minutes and fifty-three seconds hadn’t been good for his peace of mind.

So, he’d decamped to Primrose Park, where he spent his nights, then his days at the Camden factory. A far better use of his time and mental faculties, which had mostly served to keep her in a back corner of his mind.

Mostly.

Shaw inquired about Lady Beatrix once a day, as did Mama and Papa. They were rather ruthless in their inquiries, in fact.

He’d thought Beatrix would’ve come to her senses by now.

Wasn’t it as obvious to her as it was to him?

They were meant for each other.

But he’d heard not a single, solitary word from her.

Which was why he’d agreed to accompany the steam engines to France. London wasn’t big enough for the both of them—and neither was England. Not if he were to keep away from her.

Not if he were to allow her to come to him.

Possibly it was a terrible plan.

No.

It wasn’t.

For them to have a chance at happiness together, they needed to leave what had brought them together behind— money…his idiotic pursuit of another…

For them to be happy, apparently they needed to be miserable first.

The fact was he missed her—as a friend…as a lover…

It was an ache that ever strummed in the center of his chest. He woke with it in the morning and took it to bed with him at night. He’d experienced nothing like it in his life—and that was how he knew it was true.

This wasn’t about winning or losing…vanquishment or defeat.

It was about something bigger.

It was about the possibility that he might not spend his life with her.

Actually… Was his plan a good one? Didn’t plans need to be discarded sometimes? He understood that from his own work. Sometimes a plan contained a fundamental, catastrophic flaw and needed to be scrapped and tossed into the rubbish.

Oh, he was a fool.

Beatrix wanted to see Paris… He was going to Paris… Didn’t a new plan work itself out from there?

Perhaps the storm was a sign… That he return to London, bundle Beatrix into a carriage, and haul her to Paris. Except he wasn’t sure kidnapping was the most expedient way to achieve a viable future with a woman.

Yet…he couldn’t put two countries and a large body of water between them without talking to her.

A new plan came to him with sudden urgency.

He would pay the ship captain an exorbitant amount of blunt to hold anchor for a few days—and return to London.

He wouldn’t cross the sea without knowing his fate.

“Well, aren’t you a dark and stormy one?” came a throaty voice that sounded as if it had been worn out by all manner of life.

He angled back to address the lady who had replaced the sea dog at his side. She wasn’t one of the respectable ladies, but rather the other sort said the saucy smile on heavily rouged lips.

“If you will pardon me.” He made to stand.

A hand clamped around his forearm, preventing his progress. “I never did mind a storm-tossed bed,” she continued, as if her invitation hadn’t been clear. “With the right sort of chap.”

He had no time for this. He dug a crown from his pocket with his free hand and held it up in the scant space between them. “Not tonight.”

Or ever.

The coin was plucked and tucked within the considerable depths of the strumpet’s bosom before he could blink. “Your loss,” she said with a toss of the head.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he shot to his feet and zigzagged through the taproom, a majority of whose patrons had begun belting out rollicking sea shanties, before finding himself outside beneath a shockingly clear night sky. The storm had blown itself out, leaving an almost eerie stillness in its wake. The Channel crossing would be possible inside an hour.

No matter.

His mind was made up.

He was returning to London.

Beneath a fresh indigo sky glittering with rain-washed stars, he made straight for the packet, determination in every step. On his way to seek out the captain, the first mate intercepted him on the deck. “Is that Mr. Deverill?”

“Aye.” He hardly slowed. “What is it?”

“Your, erm, friend arrived.”

Dev’s eyebrows crashed together. “ Friend? ”

Even as the question emerged, his feet stumbled to a stop, and he knew.

Imogen.

She was another reason he’d left London.

She’d taken to writing him, daily—at first.

Then twice a day.

When he didn’t respond to her letters—letters that were by turn angry and accusatory, then cajoling and repentant—she’d taken to arriving at his door in the middle of the night.

Imogen had never been rejected in all her life, and she wasn’t taking it well.

Now, she’d tracked him to Dover—and would have to be dealt with.

“Lady Godiva Gallop,” the first mate informed him.

Lady Godiva Gallop?

Belief refused to take hold inside Dev.

Could there be another Lady Godiva Gallop ?

The first mate shook his head. “She insisted, so I put her in your cabin. I didn’t know what else to do with her.”

Dev tossed a hasty, “Thank you,” over his shoulder, his feet already on the move.

Lady Godiva Gallop.

There couldn’t be another one, yet he was too afraid to let hope in.

Not until he burst through his cabin door and beheld her with his own eyes.

Beatrix —seated primly on a three-legged stool, pencil suspended mid-air, journal flat on her lap, she scratched out one last thought, then lifted her gaze.

Oh, how he’d missed this.

The way she could look at him as if she could see straight into him.

And, tonight, he hoped she did.

Straight through to his heart.

“Lady Godiva Gallop, I presume?”

He hadn’t intended those to be his first words, but as they were the only ones that came to him, he supposed they had to suffice.

Her mouth curled to one side, even as the intensity within her eyes remained, and she nodded.

Sometimes, it was easier to speak the truth as someone else.

But there was also a time to speak the truth as oneself.

That time had arrived.

“Beatrix, what took you so long?” Before she could open her mouth to reply, the reality of the moment struck him. “What are you even doing here?” And another reality… “Did you travel through the storm?”

She gave an indifferent shrug. “Blaze’s coachman is quite skilled with the team of horses, although the weather did deliver a few vicious swipes here and there.”

“ Blaze? ”

“He lent me his coach-and-four,” she stated, utterly unflustered and matter-of-fact.

Dev’s anger only amplified. “He let you travel in this weather?”

“I knew it wouldn’t harm me.”

The certainty with which she spoke something so wholly unreasonable had him gently asking, “Bea, did you hit your head?”

“Of course not,” she said with a light laugh. “Don’t you see the weather has been bringing us together from the beginning?”

He supposed her reasoning held a sort of logic.

Uncertainty flickered within her eyes. “Was I wrong to come?”

In an instant, she appeared so vulnerable and small, her composure suddenly shaky. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and, in fact, took a step to do precisely that when she held up a hand. “I think it’s best if we keep our distance for the moment.”

She did have a point. They tended to let instinct, rather than intellect, guide them when they were close. Still, it was with great difficulty that he crossed his arms over his chest and propped a shoulder against the cramped stretch of cabin wall.

“Our arrangement,” she began. “It really was a bit of foolishness, wasn’t it?”

Dev’s brow creased. He wasn’t sure he liked the direction she was taking this conversation. Still, honesty would be the only way through. “Poorly motivated on my end,” he admitted.

Imogen had been the poor motivator, to say the least. That knowledge shone in Beatrix’s eyes.

“But,” he continued, because he had to, “I don’t regret it.”

“Oh, neither do I.” She had yet more to say. “But how could I when it was the best thing that ever happened to me?”

Again, he had to suppress the urge to close the distance between them. The words Beatrix was speaking, they weren’t simply honest words.

They were brave words.

And he needed to let her brave them.

“You, Dev,” she continued. “ You were the best thing that ever happened to me.” She set pencil and journal aside, placing them carefully on a table, every movement deliberate as she came to her feet, her hands clutched before her. “In my life, good things never just happened to me. Any good, I made happen. Then you came charging into my life.”

“I am still very sorry about running you down with my horse.”

A smile teetered about her mouth. “I’m not. The twisted ankle was worth it.”

Dev groaned. He truly was going to have to spend a lifetime proving to this woman that one didn’t have to suffer the bad for the good to happen.

But one step at a time.

They had to get through this conversation first.

“Then I kept finding excuses to be near you—sneaking into your hotel suite…agreeing to play the role of your fiancée. I told myself it was about the money, but really it was something else.”

“It was?”

“Well, it was somewhat about the money, but it was also what I sensed in you. Contrary to the Lord Devil society christened you, you are good, Dev. I’d never had any good in my life, not beyond my friendship with Artemis. And I couldn’t keep away from you. So, I told myself every lie, even when the truth stared me in the face. Especially when the truth stared me in the face.”

“What truth is that, Bea?”

“You said to me that perhaps what we’ve always wanted isn’t what we want now.”

“Yes?”

“But I couldn’t hear what it was you were actually saying.”

He waited, his heart a solid lump in his throat.

“You don’t love the Countess of Bridgewater.”

“I don’t.”

“You…” She blinked back the tears that had begun pooling in her eyes. “You love me , don’t you?”

“I…yes.”

“Well, I love you, too.”

It was likely the most unromantic declaration of love in history.

This wasn’t the stuff of poets.

It was better.

Their love didn’t need flowery adornment.

It was simple and true.

“You showed me love, Dev. That I can love and be loved. That love— true love—is a safe harbor. I can surrender to it—with you.”

“Beatrix—”

She held up a hand, staying the words in his mouth. She wasn’t finished. “Dev, you excite me in ways I’d never thought possible from a good, solid man.”

“Now, wait a minute,” he protested.

A good, solid man …

Him?

They would have to discuss that.

She went on, undeterred. “You’ve shown me I can have it all. I can have the good in life, and the love, and the magic, too. The fact is you’ve ruined me for any future that doesn’t involve you.”

She’d erased the distance between them, her head tipped back so she could hold his gaze.

At last, she’d come to him.

His plan hadn’t been rubbish, after all.

Yet still they didn’t touch.

Which had to be rectified— immediately .

“Can I please touch you now?” he nearly growled.

“Yes, my love,” she whispered, as she hooked her arms around his neck.

He just held off from kissing her. There were words he must speak to her, too. “All my life,” he began, “I’ve had this ability to narrow my mind to a singular focus and use it to inspire and drive me. A drive to vanquish and a craving for more beyond—to have what I wanted when I wanted. Somehow, Imogen became tangled inside that idea, and I used her—the idea of her—as fuel. But that was all she was. I never knew the true her, you were correct on that point. I only saw a fantasy, but I was too blind with my own drives to understand that—until I met you, Bea.”

A smile wobbled about her mouth. “Oh, Dev, how I do love being correct.”

His own mouth gave way to a smile. “I didn’t know what caring and friendship and love were before I met you,” he continued. “I didn’t know that love— true love —could be intense and fun and every emotion between. I want to please you…love you…make love to you. From the moment I met you, there was no other, only it took me too long to see it.”

She gave her head a firm shake. “Not too long. We both had the blinders on.”

“Now, they’re off.”

“At the right moment.”

“You taught me there is no vanquishing in love, only surrender,” he uttered into the intimate space between their mouths. “And I surrender to you, my sweet Bea—body, soul, mind, and heart.”

He angled down and, at last, pressed his mouth to hers in a slow, languorous kiss that was in no rush. This kiss had all the time in the world—and he intended to use it.

He scooped her into his arms, and she muttered against his neck, “Are you taking me to Paris with you?”

“Aye,” he said, his feet already on the move. “But first, I’m taking you to bed.”

He’d always needed more —and perhaps that wouldn’t change.

But with the woman in his arms, he had not simply more, but everything .