Yet…there had been a sliver of a moment when he’d felt the glide of a soft, tentative tongue and an inclination toward surrender.
Within her…possibly, within himself.
It was within surrender that a kiss became real.
Right.
When he’d arrived at Little Stanhope Street, however, he’d found her gone.
“It’s Wednesday, of course,” her ancient servant Cumberbatch had informed him.
“Of course.” Dev nodded slowly—and uncomprehendingly. “If you could just refresh my memory…”
“She’ll be at the race meeting in Hampstead.”
Of course.
Cumberbatch squared his sizeable, long-limbed form in the doorway. “You’re not out to make Lady Beatrix your side bit of trifle, are you?”
Dev noted the clench of Destroyer of Worlds at the old valet’s side. Arthritic or not, that fist was ready to defend Lady Beatrix’s honor.
After assuring Cumberbatch of the purity of his intentions, Dev had set off for Hampstead by way of Camden first. He and Shaw had established their factory there, as it was on the Grand Junction Canal. England’s canal system gave them water transport access to Birmingham to the north and the Thames to the south, making it an excellent logistical location for the receiving of supplies and the export of the finished product.
After having walked the factory floor, covered a few items of finance, and shared a new idea with Shaw, Dev set out again. But he hadn’t proceeded to Primrose Park, the grand estate he’d purchased for a multitude of reasons—its proximity to Camden, its vast grounds, and fine stables for keeping Little Wicked and everything and everyone that accompanied the keeping of a Thoroughbred—which included, but wasn’t limited to: trainer, grooms, stable lads, and even other horses.
No, he’d directed his coachman to Hampstead. It was only a couple of miles farther north, and Dev was curious.
In his investigation into London’s turf rags, no writer by the name of Beatrix St. Vincent had turned up.
However, one Lady Godiva Gallop did.
After he’d finished laughing—and still yet, the name produced a chuckle—he’d read her every article. She was a good writer, thorough and knowledgeable on all matters related to horse and turf.
Today, he intended to see her in action.
Hampstead was a small racecourse—if it could be even called a racecourse, for no railing ran along the track. Only a few posts marked furlongs from point to point in a large field that was filled with a different class of race-goer than would be found at Epsom Downs or Newmarket.
It certainly wasn’t the sort of racing course where one was likely to find a lady.
Unless that lady was Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.
Or Lady Godiva Gallop, as it were.
Not that she needed this work any longer. With the £2,500 she’d already received and the £7,500 she would pocket once the terms of their arrangement had been met—terms Dev was aware he hadn’t made entirely clear to either her or himself—she could live any sort of life she wanted.
Which would require her spending some of that money.
Which she had no intention of doing.
I don’t want to be ruined… I might want to marry someday.
Lady Beatrix was saving her pennies, shillings, crowns, and pounds for a chance at marriage.
In the moment, he’d been surprised by the admission, but upon reflection, it made sense.
Didn’t everyone have ambitions and dreams that they carried in their heart, but didn’t wear on their sleeve?
Yet…the idea that he was providing a dowry for her to marry another man when all society was under the impression she was to marryhimproduced a strange, unsettled feeling—one he had no interest in exploring.
