Mouth dry as dust, all Beatrix could do was nod.
A few delighted titters floated on the air. “Now the party shall be a lively one,” chimed another lady.
Lady Farthington squinted into the distance. “And who is that young man with him?”
Beatrix swallowed. She must answer. “That is Mr. Blaze Jagger.”
No few gasps inhaled. “The infamous blackleg?”
“He now runs The Archangel,” answered Beatrix.
To a one, the ladies fixed the entirety oftheir titillated gazes upon Jagger. The fact was her brother—no matter that he was from the other side of the blanket, that was how she’d come to think of him—was too appealing for his own good. The large diamond flashing in his ear only enhanced his dangerous magnetism. And the mischief in his smile…
Well, he would be seated well away from Mr. and Mrs. Shaw’s impressionable, marriageable heiress daughters.
She would have a little chat with this come-lately brother of hers.
Of course, Dev had insisted on inviting Lydon. He was Beatrix’s father; it was only proper. That Lydon was also a marquess, well, that was a bonus.
By the time Lydon and Jagger joined the picnic, there was no denying the frisson of excitement that had enlivened the ladies in a way discussions of milliners and fashionable hairstyles simply couldn’t.
These were men—untamed, possibly dangerous men.
Untamable?
Few women were above wanting to know—or even finding out for themselves.
She would most definitely have a chat with Jagger.
A jolly smile in place—he was well versed in those—Lydon clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. “What’s this harem of English roses I’ve happened upon?” He wasn’t above mixing his cultural references.
The ladies, predictably, tittered. Lydon held a sort of charm, Beatrix supposed. That, and he was a marquess. Ladies naturally tittered and cooed over the charms—paltry though they might be—of a marquess.
Beatrix only realized she’d snorted after she’d done it.
Lydon’s attention shifted. “Ah, there’s my lovely daughter.”
Until this moment, she had been merely annoyed.
Now, it was as if the Devil himself was fiddling on her last nerve.
“Lydon,” she said, tightly, certain her face was making a mess of itself in its attempt to remain composed.
If he thought she was about to address him asFatherfor the benefit of appearances, he was destined to be sorely disappointed.
He sniffed and carefully lowered himself onto the pallet of blankets and pillows the servants had hastily arranged for him.
Seeing him there, lying about like a sultan on holiday and accepting a coupe of champagne from a footman, was altogether too much for Beatrix’s continued well-being. She shot to her feet. “I,erm, I’m off for a walk.”
Lifted eyebrows directed themselves her way, and Jagger shot her a wink.
Cheeky man.
She didn’t bother glancing at Lydon as, without another word, she set out. Not for the manor house, but rather in the opposite direction—toward a dark and as-yet mysterious copse of woods.
They suited her mood.
She’d only made it thirty yards or so when she felt it—a hand on her upper arm. She threw an irritated glance over her shoulder.
