Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
B eatrix hadn’t experienced the feel of a man’s hands on her person in… years .
Since the last time she’d danced with a man.
Since her come-out ball, to be exact.
These hands… They were strong hands, long-fingered and most definitely up to any task set beneath them.
And the shoulders beneath her palms were broad, the dense muscles pure banked energy.
And there was his scent… woodsy and clean , like pine and sea.
All such reasonable observations were swept away, however, when those strong, long-fingered hands tightened around her waist and lifted her as if she weighed naught more than a feather pillow.
Then her sodden bottom was squeaking across wet saddle leather, and her hands were lifting away from those broad, muscled shoulders and grabbing the pommel for support. Her palms felt… tingly . She swallowed and attempted to steady herself against the novel sensation. She was clearly stirred up from having almost been run down by a horse.
And who wouldn’t be?
Indignation revived itself and pounded through her.
His head tipped back, and piercing aquamarine eyes met hers. She tried not to stare too deeply into those startling eyes. She’d heard tell of their transfixing nature and had dismissed such whisperings as hyperbolic tittle-tattle.
Now, she saw it hadn’t been exaggeration in the least.
One could sink into the depths of that aquamarine gaze and never surface again.
She gave herself a firm mental shake.
Now who was succumbing to hyperbole?
She dragged her gaze away from him and set busily about securing herself.
“It isn’t a sidesaddle,” he said. “Will you be safe once the horse starts moving?”
She nodded without meeting his eyes. She understood how she would appear to this man— haughty…cold…aristocratic…contemptuous .
She would take all the armor she could muster.
He snorted and grabbed the horse’s reins. “And I suppose you’ll tell me where we’re going?”
Beatrix opened her mouth, then as quickly closed it. He would know where she lived. A knife of panic cut through her—and as quickly dulled.
Lord Devil most definitely would not be entering her house.
“Little Stanhope Street.”
He gave an assessing nod. “Fashionable address.”
Only a fashionable address would do for the Marquess of Lydon.
She wouldn’t be saying that to Mr. Deverill.
Through the thick blanket of London fog that had replaced the pouring rain, they began picking their way through the park until they reached Chesterfield Gate. Then they were on the slick cobblestones of Park Lane, followed by a turn on Hertford Street. They weren’t the only people braving the weather, but they might as well have been, for Beatrix’s attention was decidedly fixed on Mr. Deverill. Even when she was attempting to concentrate her energies elsewhere, ready to redirect him if he made a false turn, he ever remained within the edge of her vision.
He was impossible to look away from.
Concern for her appearance wanted to rear its head, but she refused to allow it.
Soon enough, she would see for herself the rumpled mess she was.
Mortification could wait until then.
When they turned onto Little Stanhope Street, she called out, “Number Ten,” as if she were directing a servant.
Actually, she would never speak to a servant thusly.
Anyway, she could’ve just as easily have said, “Locate the shabbiest townhouse on the row, and that’s me.”
She would leave that bit unspoken.
Soon— too soon —he would see for himself.
How she hoped for the heavens to open up a second time. Rain heavy enough so one couldn’t see one’s hand in front of one’s face, much less the great black strips of paint flaking off the trim and front door of Number Ten.
But she encountered no such luck as they slowed to a stop before her address.
Mr. Deverill began moving around to the side of the horse, and an idea born of absolute necessity came to her. If she could just hook her good foot into the stirrup…and grab hold of the pommel with her good hand…while twisting her body around…it would only be a short hop to the ground and she would have dismounted without his touching her.
Her first win today—or for the last several hundred, if one was counting.
The plan, however, wasn’t as easily executed in reality as in her imagination, for she hadn’t accounted for her satchel. It would have to remain clutched in one hand while she attempted the maneuver.
But she managed with only a few grunts until… the twist .
The twist that had her sprawled on her belly and clutching the opposite side of the saddle to prevent herself from crashing to the cobblestones.
Thusly, she remained—her breath tight in her lungs…her heart rattling against her ribcage…her bottom in the air.
Behind her came a snort.
Possibly— very probably —a suppressed laugh, too.
Mortification fired through her, swift and hot.
His throat cleared, and she waited for him to ask… “May I be of assistance to you, my lady?”
“As it happens?—”
Oh, how she wanted to refuse him.
“Yes, my lady?” he asked, patiently— too patiently.
She couldn’t refuse him.
And he knew it.
“ Yes ,” she blurted without an ounce of grace.
“Your wish is my command, my lady.”
He was laying it on a bit thick with the my ladies , wasn’t he?
How she longed to tell him where he could stuff his my ladies .
But as she was entirely reliant on him at the moment, well, she couldn’t.
Yet.
Large hands found her waist, their heat penetrating layers of soaked wool and muslin, firming their grip. All rational thought flew from her brain, as he carefully eased her down…down…down…in a humiliating, inelegant slither off the saddle.
Her feet hit yet-slick cobblestones, and despite the warmth of his hands, she felt frozen. Though she faced away from him, in the space between their two bodies she sensed… something .
Something she’d never experienced in this way with another person.
Awareness .
She gave herself a brisk shake, both mental and physical, and stepped out of his grasp. A great, sudden yelp instantly followed.
She’d forgotten her injured ankle.
He reached out to steady her, and her palm shot out between them. “You’ve done enough, Mr. Deverill.”
Oh, the ice in her voice could form glaciers.
His head cocked in question. “ Mr. Deverill? ”
“Isn’t that your name?”
“It is,” he said slowly. “But how do you know it? Have we been introduced?”
She shook her head. “We haven’t. If we had, you would’ve forgotten me within ten seconds of our parting.” An edge of acid ran the length of the hollow laugh that issued forth. “All society knows Lord Devil.”
His gaze narrowed. “Then you have me at a disadvantage.”
“A rare occurrence, I dare say.”
His mouth pursed and released.
Her eyes were left with no choice but to watch.
Simply, he had the loveliest mouth she’d seen on man or woman.
“And if I might be so bold as to ask your name?”
She drew herself up to her full, inconsiderable height and resisted the urge to adjust her bonnet, which had gone precariously askew. “I’m Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.”
“A name replete with aristocratic forebears, I presume.”
She felt her mouth do something odd.
It twitched.
Then, out of the murky gray sky, for there was no clear blue around, she was restraining a sudden tide of laughter that demanded release. Hysteria, it had to be. Or…
This situation was…
Funny?
She summoned every shred of willpower yet in her possession and suppressed it.
She didn’t want to share a laugh with this man.
Instead, she asked, “You’re not expecting an invitation for tea, are you?”
Enough scorn infused her voice to turn the ocean into dry salt.
Something dark and inscrutable passed behind his eyes, and they went flinty as stone. “Of course, my lady .”
Another my lady .
Blimey.
Dignity hanging about her in fraying tatters, she tore her gaze away from the magnetic Mr. Deverill and turned, taking the steps carefully, one by one.
Once she’d made it to the top—without yelping once—she heard at her back, “A physician will be at your door within the hour.”
She glanced over her shoulder, a refusal ready on her mouth.
“ Answer it ,” he said, then turned on his heel and strode down the street.
Once the front door clicked shut behind her, Beatrix pressed her back against solid oak and exhaled the breath she’d been holding these last thirty minutes.
“Blimey.”
What in the blazes just happened?
She’d nearly been trampled by a horse…a horse ridden by none other than… Lord Devil .
And…he’d put his hands on her.
Twice .
A groan of no single emotion, but a blustery whirlwind of them escaped her.
Of a sudden, a scent hit her nose.
Was that the smell of… scorch ?
“Cumberbatch?” she called out, alarm bells ringing through her. Taking an instinctive step, she yelped from the ensuing streak of pain.
Down the corridor, a head with precisely twelve gray hairs on it popped into view. “That’ll be evening tea.” His voice lacked any sign of apology—as usual. “Did you bring the castor oil for my bunions?”
Blimey .
With all the hullabaloo with Mr. Deverill, the castor oil had completely slipped her mind.
Her hand was already wrapped around the door handle as she called over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
A decided limp to her step—with Lord Devil gone, she could call it what it was—she hobbled down the front steps and made her slow way down Little Stanhope Street. Cumberbatch would be pettish throughout evening tea if she didn’t bring the castor oil for his bunions—and massage it into them. A chore that would turn the stomach of many a lady, to be sure. But Cumberbatch was well into his dotage and his fingers had long gone knotty with arthritis and, most importantly, he had no one else.
Neither did she, really.
Most mornings over the kitchen table and most evenings across the dining room table, it was the grumpy presence of Cumberbatch who sat opposite her.
Both of them had long been discarded by Lydon.
All facts she’d reconciled herself to.
Anyway, company was company, and the truth was she didn’t think Cumberbatch viewed her as his ideal companion any more than she viewed him as hers.
They were stuck together.
Mr. Deverill’s eyes stole into her mind, hard as granite.
He hadn’t liked her dismissal of him.
Too bad.
She wouldn’t be inviting the man into her home for tea—now or… ever .
A man like Lord Devil would see her living circumstances for what they truly were.
No.
She couldn’t bear that.
And there was his unnerving effect upon her.
She couldn’t endure that for any length of time, either.
Not that it was a concern.
She’d been out of his presence for longer than ten seconds.
Which meant he would’ve already forgotten all about her.
Which meant, of course, she could forget all about him.