As they crunched across the gravel of the forecourt’s circle drive, a coach-and-four rolled past and came to a stop before the wide, stone staircase that led up to the front doors, which were now swinging open in anticipation of the newly arrived guests.
Beatrix shot him a tetchy glance. She understood just as he did they would have to play the welcoming hosts and greet these guests.
Objectively and collectively, they were an utter, bedraggled mess—hair still damp and tossed about, clothing rumpled, and generally mussed by the elements and…each other.
Blessedly, Beatrix was still wearing his greatcoat, so she wouldn’t be starting any scandals with the damp transparency of her muslin dress.
With nimble alacrity, the uniformed tigerhopped down from the carriage’s back bench and opened the door with a great flourish. From its depths emerged the Earl of Bridgewater, looking his usual thunderous self. Dev’s teeth reflexively clenched at the sight of the man.
“Deverill,” he said, his gaze catching on Dev and Beatrix at once. “You’re looking rather…” The lift of a single eyebrow finished the observation for him.
“Yes, well, rainstorms and picnics are rather like oil and vinegar. They don’t mix.”
Bridgewater sniffed. “Indeed.”
Behind him emerged Imogen.
As ever, she looked the picture of exquisite perfection, from the artful arrangement of sun-streaked curls around her heart-shaped face to the delicate pink glisten of bow-shaped lips. She was the sort of woman who could make a man’s lungs forget how to breathe. A rainstorm wouldn’t dare touch a single hair on her head.
A perfect goddess.
Movement to his left caught Dev’s attention.
Beatrix.
Discomfort shimmering about her, she held the look of a woman who would rather sink into the wet earth than stand here in idle chit-chat. “I must—” she began.
“Oh, Mr. Deverill,” Imogen cut in, her voice dripping with delight.
A voice that usually held the power to make him drop everything.
Except in this instant, he had a different concern—Beatrix.
“Primrose Park is absolutely stunning,” continued Imogen, oblivious to any concern but her own. A quality he usually found charming. “Isn’t it, Bridgy?”
Bridgygrunted.
“But…” Imogen cast her gaze over Dev in assessment, as if she were only now really seeing him. “I’ve seen you look better.”
“We,erm, got lost.”
“And there was the rain,” supplied Beatrix, which only drew the attention of Bridgewater and Imogen.
Dev saw he had a host’s duty to perform. “My lord, my lady, may I introduce Lady Beatrix St. Vincent to you?” he asked and hastily added, “My fiancée.”
My fiancée.
For the pulse of a single second, a feeling pinged through him.
Rightness.
For that flicker of time, that concept in relation to him and Beatrix felt…right.
Which, of course, was all wrong.
Bridgewater offered an indifferent bow in Beatrix’s direction, and Imogen’s head subtly canted as she took Beatrix in.
Drawing upon generations of noble forebears, Beatrix lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Dev could only admire the effort. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” She turned toward Dev. “Now, I shall see myself to my rooms for a much-needed bath and tea.”
