“So?”
The woman had no instinct for artifice.
“So, we’re completely besotted with one another, remember?”
Something opaque and unknowable passed behind her eyes. Her brow creased with a little crinkle.
“Now,” he said, turning them toward the picnic which had doubled in size with the return of the men, “let’s show them how mad we are for each other.” They took a few steps. “And smile, woman.”
He risked a glance to find her face assembled into what could pass for a besotted smile—in the dark…perhaps.
With the return of the men, the gathering had broken into smaller groupings. Typical of Richmond, the duke was holding court and expostulating on all matters of the turf in the direction of a few earls and similarly assorted lords. Lydon had found a group of ladies suitably in awe of his every word. Meanwhile, Blaze Jagger maintained the skeptical lift of an eyebrow as a lord was earnestly imparting a matter of serious importance to him—likely how he would be repaying an outstanding debt very soon.
Jagger had been unexpected, though Dev should’ve seen it coming. The man was audacious and ambitious. He’d seen a way in, and he’d seized it. Dev would’ve been the biggest hypocrite in the world if he didn’t understand and, further, sympathize.
Although, an eye would have to be kept on the man. Too many ladies, both married and unmarried, were casting intrigued glances in his direction.
But, really, Dev’s main concern was for the woman at his side.
The woman who had only contacted him these last two weeks through letters.
He’d let her avoid him, but he wasn’t so sure it was for her benefit.
Likely, it had been for his own.
“Deverill,” came a call and corresponding wave. Shaw, beckoning him and Beatrix over to join him and his family.
“Do you mind if we sit with the Shaws?”
He didn’t know why he was asking. This was his show.
“I like Mrs. Shaw,” said Beatrix. “She seems a woman of good sense.”
She was speaking to him again.
Progress.
As they settled onto the blanket, Mrs. Shaw asked, “Have you yet tasted a scone? They are truly scrumptious. I must have the recipe.”
A chorus of feminine snickers sounded from the adjacent blanket. Mrs. Shaw had made it obvious she baked her own scones.
“Scones, you say?” asked Dev. “Second only to chocolate, they are Bea’s favorite food.”
Questioning gray eyes flashed up to meet his.
Bea.
He’d called her Bea in society.
Was that annoyance he saw?
A feeling of satisfaction twisted through him.
Some part of him wanted to prick and annoy her, for he realized something in this moment.
Hewas annoyed withher.
“In fact—” He lifted a scone and spread a dollop of clotted cream across its lumpy surface, followed by a swipe of sticky strawberry jam. He lifted the scone and met her eyes, which had gone wide. His was intention clear.
