Which didn’t sit well within him.
He didn’t like the ill-defined. He liked clearly delineated parameters. A man knew where he stood within such boundaries.
Butthis, the new territory he’d entered with Beatrix, it was uncharted. It turned the earth beneath his feet—earth that had been solid as granite his entire life—into shifting sand.
Something more.
He was left with a single certainty now—one that offered no reassurance.
That simple, ill-definedsomething morewas far more powerful than it appeared on the surface.
It might even hold the power to turn his life entirely on its head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PRIMROSE PARK, TWO WEEKS LATER
Below a crisp blue summer sky, Beatrix sat with her legs tucked beneath her and held a pleasant smile on her face—a smile that she suspected was more bland than serene—and attempted to appear as if she were attending to the other ladies’ thorough discussion of London’s best and worst milliners.
The guests had begun arriving at Primrose Park this morning, bursting with excitement for the house party all society was buzzing about, and already the entertainments were underway with an afternoon picnic on a gently sloping hillside. The acres and acres of Primrose Park’s grounds had been meticulously planned with an idyllic, painting-perfect view at every turn—verdant rolling hills…elegant willow trees draped over the pond, providing a perfect frame for the stately manor house in the distance. Even the sky dared not be uncooperative today.
“And your hair, Lady Beatrix,” said Lady Farthington. “You’re doing something different with it these days.”
A dozen sets of feminine eyes narrowed on Beatrix. “Am I?” The conversation had tipped from hats to what lay beneath.
“Most definitely.” Her steely eyes narrowed. “SomethingFrench.”
Nods of agreement all around.
Until now, Beatrix hadn’t the faintest notion that a hairstyle could be a political statement.
“It’s perfect for you,” said Mrs. Shaw. “My girls were just commenting on the loveliness of your hair. Weren’t you, my dears?”
The Shaw daughters dutifully and agreeably nodded.
Now, it was a blush warming Beatrix’s cheeks. As the wife of Dev’s business partner, Mrs. Shaw was outranked by every lady present, save her three marriageable daughters who sat demurely arrayed at her side. Upon their introduction this morning, Beatrix had suspected she would like the woman, but now she knew she did.
Lady Farthington began nodding. “I shall instruct my lady’s maid to have a word with your girl.”
“Of course,” said Beatrix. She’d rarely encountered a gathering of women where hair didn’t arise as a topic.
Blessedly, the conversation carried on without her as her gaze lifted to the sky and her mind drifted along with the cotton puffs of white clouds lazily idling above.
A majority of the guests had already arrived. The highest-ranking peer who had accepted the invitation was the Duke of Richmond. Though Beatrix was convinced it was only so he could see Primrose Park’s stables and meet Little Wicked, who had gained no small amount of fame in her three years of life.
A few earls had accepted, too. The Earl of Wrexford, a man known for his unflappable amiability, and the Earl of Stoke, with whom Beatrix wasn’t acquainted, but whose reputation preceded him. A licentious earl, if the rumors were correct. Likely on his way to ruin. In other words, an earl who wouldn’t refuse an invitation to an opulent country house party.
Another earl had accepted, too—the Earl of Bridgewater.
Although, he and the countess hadn’t yet arrived.
But they would.
Of that, Beatrix was certain.
All she had to do was call to mind the way the countess’s stare had been fixed upon Dev on the night of their sensational, little engagement.
The countess would be here.
