Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

ST. JAMES’S SQUARE, A FORTNIGHT LATER

L ady Beatrix St. Vincent.

Dev’s gaze narrowed.

Here, writ plain in black and white in the betting book that had appeared in the Duke of Acaster’s card room, was the name of the lady he’d mostly put out of his mind this last fortnight.

He’d only intended to glance at the book casually, as one did either for a laugh or to join the action.

But that name was enough to stop his eyes cold in their tracks.

Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

A prickle of guilt needled through him.

He had come close to running the woman to ground with his horse.

Thankfully, the physician had assured him there had been no bones broken and no real harm done. The lady would recover unscathed.

And that had been the end of Dev’s association with Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

But here was her name in the gentlemen’s betting book at a ball.

Which usually wasn’t a positive development for the lady in question, as gentlemen’s betting books skewed un gentlemanly when it came to the fairer sex.

The bet regarding Lady Beatrix, however, appeared tame enough.

￡50 shall be awarded to the gentleman able to persuade Lady Beatrix St. Vincent to dance with him.

Fifty pounds? Dev’s brow dug into his forehead. To dance with a lady?

He’d met the lady in question.

He’d even put his hands on her.

Out of necessity, of course.

The point was the bet gave the impression she was a gorgon. Though Dev could attest to the fact that she was stubborn as a mule, she wasn’t a beast worthy of mythology.

Yet…she was no malleable bit of fluff either.

It was those eyes of hers— remarkable…arresting…beautiful .

Eyes that held a magnetism.

An idea teased him.

He could try his hand at winning this bet.

He might not even mind it—as a personal challenge.

As quickly as he made to act upon this surely unwise idea, a hand cut across him and penciled a line through the entry. Dev questioned the young gentleman at his side. “Did someone already win?”

“Injured ankle,” came the mostly indifferent response that explained everything.

Again pricked that needle of guilt.

Injured ankle.

He was the cause of that injury.

Another memory pushed forward and swept that feeling aside like an icy wind.

“You’re not expecting an invitation for tea, are you?”

The scorn in her voice still turned the blood to bile in his veins.

As if the idea of sharing tea with riffraff like him was too incredible to entertain.

Lest he forget his place in the hierarchy.

Right.

“I was going to win that fifty pounds,” came one voice.

“Oh, you think so?” rejoined another.

“I’m sure you’re just her type,” scoffed a third.

Dev turned to find himself surrounded by a herd of young bucks.

“Lady Beatrix has a type?” continued the first with eyebrows lifted for comic effect.

“It would take Attila the Hun, old chap.”

This got a round of laughter.

Likely, Dev should’ve walked away and left the lordlings to their nonsense. Yet…

He teetered on the edge of knowing something more about Lady Beatrix St. Vincent, and he found he wanted that information.

Very much.

“Does Lady Beatrix not enjoy dancing?” he asked.

A simple enough question.

“Oh, that’s putting it mildly.”

“How so?”

“Lady Beatrix is on the shelf.”

“A spinster?” Dev couldn’t say he was surprised. She possessed the air of a woman yet untamed by a man.

That sounded wrong, even in his own mind.

She possessed the air of a woman yet untamed by love—or even lust, for that matter.

“Decidedly so.”

“Had her come-out years ago?—”

“Weren’t you still in leading strings, Portney?”

A roar of laughter burst forth.

“And nothing came of her debut season.”

“Probably just did it out of obligation.”

“She might not be the sort who’s interested in marriage,” offered Dev.

Why was he defending her? While he didn’t pretend to know what sort of woman Lady Beatrix was, he did know she was the sort who knew her own mind.

“Oh, she’s definitely that sort.” Portney’s eyebrows crashed together with confusion. “The sort who’s not that sort.”

“And that’s what the dancing bet was about?” asked Dev in an attempt to steer the conversation toward the information he sought.

“It’s a standing bet at every ball.”

“Has been for years.”

“To see who can convince Lady Beatrix to dance a single dance.”

“And has she ever been convinced?” Dev found he wanted to know.

“Not once.”

“And there’s the father.”

Dev was getting more information than he’d bargained for, yet he couldn’t not ask… “Who is her father?”

“Lydon.”

Dev searched his mind. He knew of only one Lydon… “The marquess?”

“The very one.”

“The Marquess of Lydon is Lady Beatrix St. Vincent’s father?”

“Indeed.”

From what Dev had observed of father and daughter, two more different people couldn’t exist. How was that supremely self-possessed woman the daughter of the dissolute Marquess of Lydon? Every time Dev saw him, the old wastrel was thirty or so cups into his drink and a hundred or so pounds in debt to a dealer.

That was Lady Beatrix’s father ?

“She’s always been a bit high in the instep for us mere mortals.”

Now, that fit within Dev’s experience of the lady to a T.

A few nods all around, and talk, predictably, turned toward more felicitous conversation—horseflesh.

Dev let it proceed without him, for his mind hadn’t stopped chewing on the previous one.

So, that was Lady Beatrix St. Vincent, all laid out for him. A few surprises, yes, but his overall impression of her remained largely unchanged.

Except he knew one thing more about the lady than did anyone else in this room.

Just as they were observing her and storing up opinions, she was doing the same with them.

And Dev had the proof sitting in his suite at Mivart’s.

Her journal.

The one he’d picked up in Hyde Park and neglected to return to her.

He’d spent an entire meal entertained by its contents, for within its pages wasn’t the meaningless drivel about her day or fussy prose about her feelings. Rather, the pages were meticulously segmented—date and location at the top with a vertical row of names to the left and details to the right. What certain lords and ladies were wearing; with whom they spoke; who they ignored. No salient detail was left unnoted.

Further, the entries varied with the venue. If it was a horse race, then it was wins and losses, too. If it was a ball, it was who danced with whom and who was the biggest flirt. And if it was Rotten Row, choices of horseflesh and conveyance were noted alongside names.

Names like Lord Devil.

Those few details had Dev’s eyes running over them for three straight minutes.

Face—handsome; hair—black; eyes—blue; lips—full, pillowy, kissable(?)

His lips… They were a salient detail? And their kissability, too?

In truth, he’d been told as much by no few women, but he wouldn’t have counted Lady Beatrix St. Vincent amongst their ranks.

Well.

Then he’d slipped the journal into a drawer and put it from his mind.

Yet, tonight, he couldn’t help wondering what observations Lady Beatrix was storing up about the ball—and if he and his possibly kissable lips made an appearance.

As he began making his waytowardthe ballroom, he nodded greetings toward lords and ladies along the route. He didn’t smile or gush effusively. Though he was only a wealthy, self-made man in the eyes of these people, he wasn’t a bootlicker.

They would come to him on his terms.

A delicate balance, that, when one was attempting to insinuate oneself into their world. And tonight, he saw he’d— mostly —done it. Of course, as he and Acaster were business partners, the duke would have invited him to this ball.

That wasn’t the achievement.

It wasn’t simply that he was mingling amongst the cream of the ton .

He was being pulled into conversation by lords and treated as if he were one of them.

As one who’d come from the outside, it was in the near imperceptibilities that Dev was able to see. No plucky lordlings asking who his family was when they knew the answer full well. No condescending waggles of eyebrows when he spoke in his less-than-aristocratic accent that held a hint of Irish from his mother.

Though Dev wouldn’t make the mistake of believing they didn’t think him a slightly lower organism than themselves, they’d anointed him Lord Devil, and in giving him a title had made him— almost —one of them.

Close enough, anyway.

For now.

The gaiety of the ballroom was in full swing as happystrings sang beneath bows and buoyant feet danced in unified rhythm and the chandeliers above blessed all proceedings below with sparkling, prismatic light. Dev lifted a coupe of champagne off a passing tray and took a sip. As ever, his eyes were on the move, assessing the gathered. It was only after he’d done two full sweeps of the crowded ballroom that he realized he was looking for her .

Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

No sign of her, though he wondered if he would recognize her. The only time he’d ever met the woman she’d been bedraggled, mud-streaked, and soaked to the bones, resembling more wet cat than daughter of marquess.

Her eyes, however…

He would know them anywhere.

Except it was a different pair of eyes that caught his gaze on its third sweep of the room.

Clear, willow-green eyes.

Eyes that hadn’t met his in two years.

Imogen.

Her head tipped to one side, and her mouth lifted subtly to the other. Her fresh, pristine beauty—the brightness of her eyes…the roses of her cheeks…the perfect bow of her lips—put every other lady to shame.

Then she placed her hand into that of the gentleman standing before her and was whisked into thewhirl of the waltz.

The contact had lasted but the split of a second, yet it felt… intentional .

A feeling winged through him, but not the one he would’ve expected.

He would’ve thought to feel joy or a sense of triumph, but what he was left with felt strangely hollow.

After two years, that was all? asked a small voice.

He dismissed the voice.

Of course, that wasn’t all.

After two years— at last —it was the beginning.

Yet, surprisingly, before that instant of contact, he hadn’t thought of Imogen once tonight.

His mind had been occupied by a different lady altogether.

He conducted a fourth sweep of the ballroom and, again, yielded nothing.

“Could you tell me something?” came a sultry feminine voice at his side.

He glanced around to find a lady regarding him with a saucy smile on her rouged mouth to match the one dancing in her eyes. She possessed the twinkly look of a woman who had dared herself to do something and was surprised to find herself doing it. Yet, at the same time, she didn’t have the look of a lady who had never done such a thing.

“It would be my honor to impart any information to a lady of your consummate beauty,” he said with a slight bow.

He was laying it on with a trowel, but if one couldn’t lay it on thick at a ball where the champagne was flowing and spirits were running high and hot, then where could one? Besides, he’d told no lie. The lady was a beauty with her hazel-green eyes and lush figure.

“Why is it they call you Lord Devil?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. He knew it for his wicked smile. “I believe the title to be ironic.”

“Oh?” She poked out her bottom lip in a pout.

“Oh, yes.” His voice had gone low and conspiratorial. “I’m such an innocent.”

Appreciation shone in her eyes as they slowly roved up and down his person. “Let us hope not.”

A laugh startled from him. When he’d decided to muscle his way into the ton , nothing in his previous life had prepared him for the forwardness of its married ladies and widows. Not that he’d actually been an innocent. But these ladies could be… direct .

The lady held out her hand, each silk-gloved finger bearing a different jewel. “I’m Lady Standish.”

He lowered into another bow. “It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Standish.”

She took a step, their body positioning now implying a relationship more intimate than mere recent acquaintances. “You may call me Susan. No one has addressed me with such familiarity since my husband, the late earl, went to meet his Maker a year ago.” Her smile turned knowing. “And, oh, how I do miss the familiarities.”

So, a widow.

A willing widow.

“Perhaps you could show me…”

The rest of her words fell on deaf ears as Dev’s gaze performed another scan of the ballroom and locked onto the figure he’d been seeking.

Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

It was a miracle he’d spotted her at all, as she’d tucked herself away into a nearly hidden corner.

No longer was she sopping wet. Rather, her presumably dry sable hair was pulled back into a matronly chignon, accentuating her arresting gray eyes. Her dress was simple white muslin with no adornment, the waist a little higher than the current style dictated as waistlines were dropping. It hung loosely on her, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone, giving her a waifish appearance. He supposed one such as her didn’t overly concern herself with mundanities like sustenance.

Lady Beatrix St. Vincent was one of those aristocrats. Descended from old family that didn’t need to care about fashion or any such nonsense . The sort with nothing to prove to anyone. The sort who wore her shabby nobility like a badge of honor.

Yet he recalled a fact about her person—the feel of her waist in his hands.

A waist so small his fingers could almost meet around it.

Too small , somehow.

“Now,” said Lady Standish, the lowered octave of her voice pulling Dev back into the moment. The look in the lady’s eye said she wasn’t going anywhere until she had what she wanted.

Him .

“Come with me,” she said. “I have a secret I wish to impart to you.”

“A secret?” he asked, only too happy to play along. The lady was a welcome distraction from…other ladies. “But we’ve only just met.”

Some ladies enjoyed working for it a bit. The tease given only heightening the pleasure received.

“And after I’ve had thirty minutes of your time,” she said, seduction in her eyes, “we’ll have a secret shared.”

It was certainly no secret what she was saying beneath her words.

And… why not ?

Why not pursue a little dalliance?

After all, he as yet remained a free man, unclaimed by any woman of his acquaintance.