The rest of her words fell on deaf ears as Dev’s gaze performed another scan of the ballroom and locked onto the figure he’d been seeking.
Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.
It was a miracle he’d spotted her at all, as she’d tucked herself away into a nearly hidden corner.
No longer was she sopping wet. Rather, her presumably dry sable hair was pulled back into a matronly chignon, accentuating her arresting gray eyes. Her dress was simple white muslin with no adornment, the waist a little higher than the current style dictated as waistlines were dropping. It hung loosely on her, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone, giving her a waifish appearance. He supposed one such as her didn’t overly concern herself with mundanities like sustenance.
Lady Beatrix St. Vincent was one ofthosearistocrats. Descended from old family that didn’t need to care about fashion or any suchnonsense. The sort with nothing to prove to anyone. The sort who wore her shabby nobility like a badge of honor.
Yet he recalled a fact about her person—the feel of her waist in his hands.
A waist so small his fingers could almost meet around it.
Too small, somehow.
“Now,” said Lady Standish, the lowered octave of her voice pulling Dev back into the moment. The look in the lady’s eye said she wasn’t going anywhere until she had what she wanted.
Him.
“Come with me,” she said. “I have a secret I wish to impart to you.”
“A secret?” he asked, only too happy to play along. The lady was a welcome distraction from…other ladies. “But we’ve only just met.”
Some ladies enjoyed working for it a bit. The tease given only heightening the pleasure received.
“And after I’ve had thirty minutes of your time,” she said, seduction in her eyes, “we’ll have a secret shared.”
It was certainly no secret what she was saying beneath her words.
And…why not?
Why not pursue a little dalliance?
After all, he as yet remained a free man, unclaimed by any woman of his acquaintance.
CHAPTER SIX
Every ballroom had one.
The perfect stretch of wall from where one could stand and observe, unobserved.
The Duke of Acaster’s ballroom was no exception.
From here, Beatrix could memorize all the details, both large and small, that she would note in the journal she kept expressly for the purpose.
The journal.
It had been a casualty ofthatafternoon in Hyde Park—lost.
She’d returned to the very spot where she’d practically been trampled by Mr. Blake Deverill’s horse. It hadn’t been there—and left no sign of ever having been.
The panic she’d been holding carefully at bay had immediately assailed her. What if someone had found it? She would be exposed and shunned from society.
The next instant, her good sense had come to her rescue. Her name wasn’t written inside, and she couldn’t be identified by her handwriting. The fact was no one could point a finger in her direction as the author—or authoress, as the case was.
Besides, what had she written that was particularly scandalous? Names…dates…locations…adjectives…a few adverbs.
Well, some of those adjectives and adverbs could’ve been construed as somewhat…pointed. Further, she supposed one might wonder about all those names, dates, and locations in relation to thosepointedadjectives and adverbs.
