There was more to the pretend engagement they were about to embark upon than he was telling her.
But what she’d decided was—and this was the important part—she didn’t care.
£5,000.
It was the windfall she needed.
Sure, it wasn’t enough to make her an heiress, but it was enough to start her life over.
Start over?
The end of her twenties was in sight. It wasn’t a stretch to say her life had never gotten started in the first place.
This arrangement with Deverill… While it felt like a whirlwind had taken over her life, it also felt like momentum—forwardmomentum.
Her life had never had that sense of progressing from one stage to another. Oh, after years of saving her meager horse race winnings, she’d once thought it had—but that had been an illusion. The truth was, eight years ago, she’d fallen into a bog and had lacked the means to pull herself out of it. All she’d been doing in the intervening time was keeping her head just above the muck.
But this arrangement with Deverill… It held the allure of possibility coming within reach.
For the first time in a very long time, a forgotten feeling blossomed within her—hope.
She could have a life.
It wouldn’t be what she’d envisioned at twenty, but that was all right. She was realistic about her prospects. A widower, perhaps… A third or fourth son, even… With a dowry of £5,000, she could be wed. A possibility she hadn’t allowed herself to consider in years.
But now…she could dream again.
“Is Lydon about perchance?” came a question at her back.
She turned to face her interlocutor, Lady Berenger, and nearly groaned. The mention of her father tended to elicit that response. “I do not believe he is,” she replied neutrally.
A condescending smile curved the lady’s lips. “Ah, well, he wouldn’t, would he?”
Beatrix didn’t want to ask—truly, she didn’t—but she must. Though to do so was to fall into Lady Berenger’s trap. “And why is that?”
The lady gave a bright, tinkling laugh. “The card room is closed tonight,” she said. “And even if it were open…”
Beatrix braced herself. As bad as this conversation was, it was about to get worse.
Lady Berenger leaned in conspiratorially. “The play would be too rich for his coffers, I dare say.”
Beatrix couldn’t control the clench of her hands at her sides. “Indeed, you do dare say.”
The lady’s eyes narrowed with gratification. She’d hit her mark. “No need to get uppish, Lady Beatrix. A new dress notwithstanding, everyone in society knows the House of Lydon is in shambles.”
Swift anger soared through Beatrix, whipping her blood into recklessness. “Is that Lord Spivey I see near the terrace doors?”
Lady Berenger shrugged a creamy shoulder. “Why should I know?” However, the blush creeping up her décolletage told a different story—one of keen awareness.
“Oh, I thought you would since he and your husband are bosom friends and known to be generous with one another. By all accounts, they share absolutely everything.” Now, it was Beatrix leaning in conspiratorially. “I’ve even heard it whispered they share?—”
She left theyouunspoken.
But Lady Berenger heard it. The blood drained from her face, and she blinked before hastily excusing herself.
Beatrix shouldn’t have done it, she knew that. She didn’t think herself a petty or uncharitable person, but when one stood on the fringes, one gathered insights about others and heard little whisperings, too.
She experienced a niggle of doubt regarding the arrangement she’d made with Deverill.
