“And I suppose you have ideas for how to go about that.” The statement left her mouth dry as dust.
No mistaking that glint of wickedness in his eyes, curling one side of his mouth. “Myriad,” he said. “But one will do.”
She swallowed. His gaze, which caught everything, followed the movement.
“I’ll place my hand on your waist.” His voice held a dark, raspy edge. “With your permission, of course.”
Beatrix supposed that fell within the boundary of alittle sensation. Still… “Not too low on my waist. On the ribs.”
His brow lifted in question.
“I don’t want to be ruined,” she said, tightly.
“Aren’t I compensating you enough for your services?”
No denying the implication within thatservices. She could choose to be insulted—or to stand her ground. “I might want to marry someday.”
His head cocked. “Oh?”
Her back was beginning to ache beneath the rigid squareness of her shoulders. “I would like for my options to remain open.”
A strange conversation to be having when one hand was holding one of hers and his other hand was settled on her waist andherother hand was resting on his shoulder, the heat of his body meeting hers through superfine, his delicious scent mixing with the floral aroma of exotic flowers in bloom.
The close, humid atmosphere of a conservatory was most…intoxicating.
She picked up a sound—muted footsteps…the low murmuration of voices punctuated by the odd trill of sudden laughter…
Another group of ladies was approaching.
“Ready?” he murmured.
She nodded a barely perceptibleyes, even as a panickedno, no, notore through her.
The group reached the open iron-and-glass doors, and Beatrix thought she might’ve caught a few second glances from the corner of her eye. Yet there was no indication that alittle sensationhad been achieved. She wasn’t even sure they’d inspired the lift of a mildly scandalized eyebrow.
Deverill’s brow furrowed with perplexity.
Though it pained her, Beatrix had to say something. Though it meant she would have to return the money—and the dresses…and the servants…and possibly the food…and most definitely the French cook who prepared the most divine hot chocolate in the whole world… “I fear,” she said, “you may have been wrong in your choice of partner for alittle sensation.”
Deverill’s eyes narrowed into aquamarine slits. “How do you mean?”
“Well,” she began, “I’m Lady Beatrix St. Vincent, all but confirmed spinster. And you—” She leaned back and swept her gaze up and down his person. “Areyou.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaningthe casual observer likely thinks you’re picking a stray palm frond from my hair.” She took a sip of air to brace herself for what she must say next… “Bluntly, no one would expect a dalliance between us. Society would think everything else first.”
Oh, the mortification that burned through her. The heat of a thousand suns couldn’t touch it.
But it had to be faced.
Yet Deverill didn’t release her or demand the return of his £2,500 or the dress off her back. He simply said, “I see.”
He possessed the look of a man who had made up his mind about something.
More lively conversation drifted into the conservatory from the corridor. Another group was approaching.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, wary.
