“It’s a compliment,” laughed Mr. Shaw. “No one can puzzle out how you come up with your ideas.Devilryis the easiest explanation.”
Dev shook his head. “Nothing so interesting, I can assure you. Time spent tethered to the draftsman’s table into the wee hours.”
Mr. Shaw winked at Beatrix. “Night is the best time to catch stardust. Now,” he said, “I’ll continue with our guests, shall I?”
As he went on with the factory tour, Beatrix remained at the back with Dev.
“So, what do you think?” The way he was watching her—intently… He wanted to know.
“It’s amazing what you do here.”
A chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Is that all?”
She couldn’t help laughing, too. “Everyone knows this is how you made your fortune, but to see it makes it real, if that makes sense.” She couldn’t help adding, “I’m impressed.”
His brow lifted. “I’ve impressed you?”
“You have.” Her smile grew pensive. “Daily, more and more, it seems.”
The moment stretched beyond the limits of one second to the next as their gazes held. Beatrix could neither draw nor release her breath. Into the moment, Dev said, low and gravelly, “Bea, can we talk…please.”
Please.
Thatpleasepenetrated and quaked through her.
Apleasethat couldn’t be denied.
It wasn’t in her to deny it.
Except…mustn’t she?
One day—today…tomorrow…or the next day—she must deny him.
She must deny herself him.
A change of subject was necessary. “Where will this batch of steam engines be heading off to?”
Dev looked as if he wanted to press her, but he answered smoothly, “They will be going to France. I was thinking of seeing them to Paris myself.”
Beatrix felt a smile tip about her mouth. “I’ve always wanted to visit Paris. I hear it’s lovely.”
“You should come with me.”
“I…”
She couldn’t finish the thought aloud. She didn’t need to, for he knew how it ended as well as she.
She wouldn’t be going to Paris with him.
“Such intense conversation the two of you are having.”
The Countess of Bridgewater was approaching, a feline smile perched on her lips, and Beatrix wondered if anyone had ever told her to shut her mouth.
“Of course,” continued the countess, “Lady Beatrix could be speaking of the weather, and it would be an intense conversation.”
It was meant as a put-down, a joke at Beatrix’s expense.
The countess would have to do better than that if she was aiming to needle under her skin.
