And Dev had the proof sitting in his suite at Mivart’s.
Her journal.
The one he’d picked up in Hyde Park and neglected to return to her.
He’d spent an entire meal entertained by its contents, for within its pages wasn’t the meaningless drivel about her day or fussy prose about her feelings. Rather, the pages were meticulously segmented—date and location at the top with a vertical row of names to the left and details to the right. Whatcertain lords and ladies were wearing; with whom they spoke; who they ignored. No salient detail was left unnoted.
Further, the entries varied with the venue. If it was a horse race, then it was wins and losses, too. If it was a ball, it was who danced with whom and who was the biggest flirt. And if it was Rotten Row, choices of horseflesh and conveyance were noted alongside names.
Names like Lord Devil.
Those few details had Dev’s eyes running over them for three straight minutes.
Face—handsome; hair—black; eyes—blue; lips—full, pillowy, kissable(?)
His lips… They were a salient detail? And their kissability, too?
In truth, he’d been told as much by no few women, but he wouldn’t have counted Lady Beatrix St. Vincent amongst their ranks.
Well.
Then he’d slipped the journal into a drawer and put it from his mind.
Yet, tonight, he couldn’t help wondering what observations Lady Beatrix was storing up about the ball—and if he and his possibly kissable lips made an appearance.
As he began making his waytowardthe ballroom, he nodded greetings toward lords and ladies along the route. He didn’t smile or gush effusively. Though he wasonlya wealthy, self-made man in the eyes of these people, he wasn’t a bootlicker.
They would come to him on his terms.
A delicate balance, that, when one was attempting to insinuate oneself into their world. And tonight, he saw he’d—mostly—done it. Of course, as he and Acaster were business partners, the duke would have invited him to this ball.
That wasn’t the achievement.
It wasn’t simply that he was mingling amongst the cream of theton.
He was being pulled into conversation by lords and treated as if he were one of them.
As one who’d come from the outside, it was in the near imperceptibilities that Dev was able to see. No plucky lordlings asking who his family was when they knew the answer full well. No condescending waggles of eyebrows when he spoke in his less-than-aristocratic accent that held a hint of Irish from his mother.
Though Dev wouldn’t make the mistake of believing they didn’t think him a slightly lower organism than themselves, they’d anointed him Lord Devil, and in giving him a title had made him—almost—one of them.
Close enough, anyway.
For now.
The gaiety of the ballroom was in full swing as happystrings sang beneath bows and buoyant feet danced in unified rhythm and the chandeliers above blessed all proceedings below with sparkling, prismatic light. Dev lifted a coupe of champagne off a passing tray and took a sip. As ever, his eyes were on the move, assessing the gathered. It was only after he’d done two full sweeps of the crowded ballroom that he realized he was looking forher.
Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.
No sign of her, though he wondered if he would recognize her. The only time he’d ever met the woman she’d been bedraggled, mud-streaked, and soaked to the bones, resembling more wet cat than daughter of marquess.
Her eyes, however…
He would know them anywhere.
Except it was a different pair of eyes that caught his gaze on its third sweep of the room.
Clear, willow-green eyes.
