Money.
That was what Lydon saw when he looked at Dev.
So, it would be a negotiation.
“The question is, my lord,” began Dev, his voice gone to stone, “what’s she worth toyou?”
Lydon gave a shrug. “A little here, a little there.”
That answer had Dev’s hackles rising. “A hundred quid?” He measured the sum as a decent starting point for a negotiation with a marquess.
“Per week?” Lydon nodded contemplatively. “That should about do me.”
A strangled noise sounded in Beatrix’s throat. Dev paid it no heed as he held Lydon’s gaze, wondering if he should demand a shake on it. This pretend future father-in-law would be an expensive one.
Sudden insight struck him.
Beatrix had been dealing with this all her life.
Lydon directed a too-serious bow toward Beatrix. “Daughter.” He turned to Dev. “Welcome to the family.”
And with that, he was off, sauntering into the distance, a whistling tune trailing in his wake.
Welcome to the family.
An unexpected feeling expanded within Dev. Those parting words—and one in particular—imbued the exchange with a strange solidity.
Family.
Of a sudden, this pretend engagement to Beatrix felt less like a game of pretend and more…real.
Her gaze remained affixed to the distant point in the crowd where the marquess had disappeared from sight. “When I was a child,” she began, “Lydon didn’t allow me to call him Papa or even Father.Lydon, he’d insisted.” Her eyes rolled toward the sky. “He’s impossible.”
Family.
Dev was about to say as much when he felt it—a raindrop on his nose.
Beatrix must’ve experienced a similar sensation for she held out her hand and tipped her head back, directing her attention toward clouds that had grown considerably blacker in the last five minutes. “We have about thirty seconds before?—”
But she was unable to complete the sentence before the clouds opened and unleashed their heavy burden directly on top of their heads. Without hesitation, he grabbed her hand. “Come with me,” he shouted, feet already on the move toward his waiting carriage.
She offered no resistance as they dashed across the racecourse grounds, race-goers and horses alike running around in a mad scramble as they attempted to secure shelter from the sudden onslaught. A few more minutes of this deluge, and one would need a rowboat to paddle home.
Soon, they reached Dev’s carriage and clambered gracelessly inside. With the rain belting an unrelenting tattoo on the roof, they each collapsed onto opposite benches. Soaked to the skin, hair clinging to her face in sodden strings, Beatrix was a mess.
“Have you caught a chill?” he asked, already shrugging off his overcoat.
“I’m all right,” she dismissed, curtly. The shiver that visibly ran up and down her body told the lie.
“Your lips are turning purple.” It needed to be said.
“I just need to get home.”
“London will be a tangle of traffic. It’ll take three hours to get to Mayfair in this weather.”
“Best we get rolling, then.”
She was a headstrong one.
