“Anyway, Bran has been summoned.” From the crinkling of his brow, it was clear an irritating thought had occurred to him. “You don’t think he’s giving Bran the lot, do you?”
“I’ve never met a man who held onto every last farthing in his possession with more tenacity.”
That seemed to settle Stoke’s mind. Yet again, he reached for the whiskey decanter. Dev placed it in the earl’s hand and said, “No harm in holding on to it.”
Stoke nodded sagely and made to tap the side of his nose, but missed and struck air. “People say you’re naught but a gamester.” His words were beginning to slur together. “But in the future, I shall countenance no such aspersions to your good name, old chap.”
Lady Artemis made no attempt to mask her thorough disgust as she turned to Dev. “Shall we see what entertainments are to be had elsewhere?”
Dev was only too happy to oblige.
Upon entering the drawing room, they found a game of charades underway, led by none other than Imogen.
Imogen had always loved a game of charades.
From their place at the periphery, Lady Artemis said, “My, but the countess is skilled in games of pretend.”
No doubting the undercurrent to that observation. The truth was, even though she’d been married for a couple of years, Imogen was much the same as she’d always been. Beautiful…vibrant…keen to have her way…happy that everyone was keen to let her have it.
She hadn’t changed.
Yet…as he watched her, she wasn’t the same to him in some other, intangible way.
The change, he saw with sudden clarity, was inhim.
For example, how easily his gaze moved from her and scanned the room until he found…
Beatrix.
She stood well back from the proceedings, engaged in conversation with yet a different Shaw daughter. Her back was half turned to him, which put him out of her line of sight. Golden opportunity presented itself—and he seized it, nodding a swift farewell in the direction of Lady Artemis.
He’d closed the distance in fewer than five seconds. When Beatrix glanced up and started upon finding him at her side, he couldn’t help the smile that curled about his mouth. He’d caught her, and she knew it. Her irritated gray eyes told him as much.
“Mr. Deverill,” she said. He’d forced her hand—and she didn’t like it.
Too bad.
Wasn’t this how madly-in-love, affianced couples behaved? Talked and enjoyed one another’s company for all the world to see?
“My sweet Bea.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing the back through white satin gloves.
The Shaw daughter gasped and giggled, then blushed, too, for good measure.
“Miss Shaw,” he said. “I take it you’re finding the evening to your satisfaction?”
“I…yes.” The blush had spread to the roots of her hair.
“Do you enjoy charades?”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Then why don’t you…” Pointedly, he shifted his gaze toward the game at play. His suggestion was clear—that she leave.
It took only three or four seconds for her to catch his meaning. “Oh!” Eyes wide, she bobbed a quick curtsy—as if his moniker Lord Devil, in fact, made him a lord and a devil—and scurried away.
Beatrix crossed her arms over her chest, a single eyebrow winging high on her forehead. “That was only barely not rude.”
Dev shrugged. He wasn’t one to apologize for getting what he wanted—which was to be alone with Beatrix.
