CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dev understood the plan.
In the general sense.
He and Beatrix were to end their arrangement—publicly.
Really, he felt she had a stronger sense of how the plan would unfold.
But it was theafterthat he was concentrated upon.
He would take her some place where it was only him and her, then drop to one knee and proclaim his love and ask her to make another arrangement with him—privately.
An arrangement that had naught to do with anything other than what lay within their two hearts.
He’d strode into this ballroom with the sole intention of proceeding exactly so.
Then he’d seen her, standing against an inconspicuous stretch of wall, looking so utterly lovely. And when he walked toward her, it had naught to do with the plan.
It was need that drove every step—the need to touch her…to hold her in his arms…
“May I have this dance?”
He always found the most efficient means to achieve his ends.
An uncertain beat of the heart later, she stepped into his embrace, her chin lifted so her gaze fixed on a point over his shoulder. The hand on her ribcage slid around and lower to the small of her back.Improper. Even more improperly, he pulled her close—so close their bodies brushed one another as they stepped into the whirl of dancing couples and the briskone-two-threeof the waltz and all was right with the world.
For the few minutes of this dance, she would be his.
But there was little satisfaction in it.
It wasn’t enough—and it wouldn’t be enough until it was forever.
“Are you enjoying the evening?”
The sort of banal question a man would ask the lady he was attempting to woo, which he supposed made it the perfect question.
The space between Beatrix’s eyebrows crinkled slightly. He’d surprised her. “I,erm…” she stammered. “Yes…no.”
“You look lovely tonight.” If he was courting, then he might as well do it correctly.
She blinked.
“You’re the loveliest woman in the room, in fact.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I suppose Lady Bridgewater hasn’t arrived yet.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
It was the truth.
A complete shift in his thinking had occurred.
No longer did Imogen have anything to do with what bound him and Beatrix together. She never really had. The connection had charged between him and Beatrix from that very first moment in Hyde Park.
Well, that might be overstating the case. He had, after all, nearly run her down with his horse, which wasn’t the best way to endear oneself to a woman’s heart.
Beneath the hand on her ribs, he sensed held breath. She was evaluating his words from every angle. Soon, however, she would understand there was but the one angle from which to view them—as the truth.
