“Mr. Deverill.”
An awkward beat of time ticked past as they stood silent, facing one another not unlike adversaries, before she had the presence of mind to move aside and allow him entry.
“I didn’t know ladies opened their own doors,” he said as he stepped past her.
She followed her plan and led him along the prescribed path into the drawing room, understanding his sharp blue eyes were taking in every inch—the threadbare carpets…the quarter inch of dust coating the chandeliers she’d been unable to reach… She could hardly stand it—simultaneously wanting to jump out of her skin with nerves and melt into the floor with humiliation.
Her feet led her straight to the settee where she took a seat, expecting Deverill to lower onto the settee opposite.
Except he wasn’t the sort of person to follow the expectations of others.
He remained standing.
And not only standing, but on the move, ambling from one corner of the room to the other—from the cracked marble hearth…to the bare patch of wall with a faint rectangle imprinted where a painting of some value had once hung…to the glass case of miniature animal figurines that were of no value at all or they would’ve long found their way to Lydon’s favorite pawnbroker.
All this—and more—Deverill observed.
Hands clasped tightly on her lap, Beatrix wasn’t sure she could bear another second of it.
“Your lot doesn’t believe in buying anything new, do you?”
Your lot…
Aristocrats.
Was that what he thought?
Well, who was she to disabuse him of the notion… “We take pride in our heritage.”
What a load of rot.
Still, he might buy it for a penny.
The aquamarine depths of his eyes flickered with amusement. “Is that what you call it?Heritage?”
A thin ribbon of relief fluttered through her. It appeared the universe would leave her with a shred of pride—even if it was purchased with a lie.
At last, he lowered his imposing form onto the opposite settee. She wasn’t sure she imagined a cloud of dust puffing up around him as he settled back, the ancient piece of furniture creaking ominously. He set the small parcel beside him atop frayed damask.
Which left them no option but to stare at each other across a low table whose walnut inlay curled up at the edges. Direct and unflinching, Deverill’s eyes were an otherworldly hue. But that wasn’t what was interesting about them.
His eyes weren’t cold. When he smiled, as he did now, they smiled along with his mouth.
Genuine.
Whatever else his immortal soul might be, it held not a bit of falsity.
She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
“Now,” he said. “You can start by telling me precisely why you were trespassing in my rooms last night.”
So much for small talk.
Instinctively, she squared her shoulders and was opening her mouth to reply when his head cocked to the side, as if he’d caught an irregular sound.
Then she heard it, too.
Just beyond the door…faint…
