Or alone as they could be in a room full of people.
He’d decided it best to get directly to it. “We need to talk.”
“We are, in fact, talking.”
“Beatrix.”
“Lady Bridgewater is looking beautiful tonight.”
Dev could’ve groaned
He didn’t want to talk about Imogen.
Which was a problem.
After all, the arrangement with Beatrix centered around making Imogen his. Yet…he couldn’t help feeling the rules of the arrangement had shifted in some ineffable way—like they’d been amended…or amended themselves, more like.
They needed to talk about that.
But he could see from the stubborn set of Beatrix’s jaw that he would get no such conversation from her.
No, what he needed to do was rattle her.
“You know,” he said, an idea occurring to him even as he spoke the words—an idea he could very much come to regret acting on. “You have a rare opportunity tonight.”
Narrowed gray eyes met his. “I do?”
“To find that good, solid husband you’ve been yearning for.”
Even as he spoke the words, his jaw wanted to tense with aggravation.A good, solid husband.What sort of goal was that, anyway?
Her brow lifted with incredulity. “Here?”
“It’s as good a place as any.” He glanced around the room, and his gaze landed on a potential candidate. “What about Wrexford? He seems good and solid.”
Beatrix nodded contemplatively. “I believe he is a good and solid prospect, but I also believe he’s good and solidly besotted with the eldest Shaw daughter.”
She had a point. “Not Wrexford.”
Beatrix might’ve rolled her eyes ceilingward. “I’m very capable of sorting my own affairs.”
She was now looking as exasperated as he felt. How had he and Beatrix come to this? Weren’t they supposed to be friends? Now, it felt more and more like they were combatants. Dev didn’t like it. He liked the closeness that came naturally to them. They shouldn’t be on the outs.
He was just about to formally request a truce—she might’ve found it amusing—when she said, “I suppose the Earl of Stoke would be the candidate society would suggest. After all, I’m the daughter of a marquess.”
A crash of thunder roared through Dev. The woman could not be serious.Stoke?The man was debauched…a waster…anutter sot… “If you want to marry your father, I suppose Stoke would be the ideal match.”
He had no right to say it.
He couldn’tnotsay it.
Her eyes flashed fire, and Dev was bracing himself for the retort he had coming when a bright, feminine voice exclaimed, “Mr. Deverill!”
A second later, Imogen was grabbing his arm. Dev had no choice but to give over. He was the host. Fun was his duty.
For her part, Beatrix stepped to the edge of the audience, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes inscrutable as she watched Imogen pull him into the game of charades. Glittering with mischief, Imogen leaned so her mouth met his ear. Not too long ago, that single point of contact—her soft lips touching him…the whisper of her breath—would’ve been enough to spark a fiery conflagration of desire.
Now, like everything tonight, it annoyed him.
