Without another word, she swept past him and out of the room.
Now, he was alone—with his racing mind.
He still had tonight.
Indeed, they would be parting ways in front of theton. But that was necessary. They needed to put the paid aspect of their relationship behind them. Only then, could they start anew without artifice.
Or…it was the entirely wrong approach.
And he risked losing her altogether.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
NEXT EVENING
Turmoil.
The only word that described how Beatrix had spent this day—in a state of turmoil.
Actually, that wasn’t quite true.
She’d spent most of the day being fitted for the gown she was now wearing in Dev’s magnificent ballroom.
A colorful array of ten silk ballgowns had arrived in her bedroom just as the hour struck noon—along with Madame Dubois and a few of her apprentices. From there, it was all turning this way and that and striving for perfection with every stitch.
Several hours later—and several pots of tea and all the cakes that went with it, too—they’d achieved it. The dress Beatrix now wore was, indeed, perfection—a lilac silk so pale it could be mistaken for silver.
“Lovely,” said Madame Dubois in her French accent by way of London’s East End. She stood back from Beatrix, head tilted, assessing her work with a critical eye. “You’ll be the loveliest lady at the dance.”
“Oh, no,” said Beatrix. “That honor will go to Lady Bridgewater the instant she steps foot inside the ballroom.”She’d regretted the words even as she spoke them—and the acid contained within.
Madame Dubois subtly narrowed her gaze. Now, she was assessing the woman within the dress. “I’ll grant you that Lady Bridgewater is one of the most beautiful women in thehaut ton. Rather like a summer rose in full bloom. Complete with the thorns, too, you can trust me on that.” She cleared her throat. “But she isn’t lovely like you. There’s a difference, and Mr. Deverill has a discerning eye. He sees it.”
Dev.
Of course, he’d sent this dress—along with the nine others and the modiste, too.
Dev.
The source of her turmoil.
Perhaps I don’t want to marry at all.
When she’d spoken those words, it hadn’t been a case of the dramatics and there was noperhapsabout it.
She no longer wanted a good, solid future—not after Dev.
She would never have what she’d shared with Dev with anyone else, so it only followed she wouldn’t have anyone else.
Oh, the logic was bleak.
A slick of perspiration coated her palms. The time was nearing that she would have to finish the job—publicly.
What had come over her to make such a suggestion?
The question was disingenuous.
She knew.
