When her teeth started chattering, Dev made a decision. “We’re not returning to London.”
“We’re not?” she asked through clenched jaw.
“Primrose Park is a few miles from here.”
“Primrose Park?”
“My estate.”
Her mouth curved into what would’ve been a smile—of sorts—if it didn’t look so painful. “Is there no problem you can’t solve?”
“I haven’t encountered one yet.” In fact… He thrust his greatcoat across the footwell. “Here.”
“I can’t take your coat.”
“You can.” A stubborn second ticked past. “And you will.”
She made no move to accept the garment. Instead, the blasted woman crossed her arms over her chest.
If she wanted to play it that way… “Or I take the seat beside you, and you use my body for warmth.”
She simmered with pique before grudgingly accepting the coat. She slipped one arm, then the other, into the sleeves and brought the collar to her chin, wearing it backwards so it resembled more blanket than garment. Large, wet-lashed gray eyes stared out at him. She muttered something, but through thecacophony of rain on the carriage roof, he couldn’t make out her words.
“What was that?”
She exhaled a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Thank you.” What might’ve been a smile curled a corner of her mouth. “Friend.”
Dev knew the smile that curved his own mouth was a smug one and that it would irritate her no end, but there was no help for it. His sense of gratification was too strong. He gave the ceiling three firm raps to differentiate the sound from the rain. “Primrose Park,” he called outside to the coachman who was hunkered into his duck-cloth overcoat that was imperviable to all varieties of English weather.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Dev settled back into plush leather, his only view the woman before him, who was fixedly staring out the window.
He resisted the urge to right her hat, which sat on her head at an askew angle.
It might prove too large a test for their fledgling friendship.
So, he, too, directed his gaze out the window and let the carriage drive him home.
The evening would be an interesting one.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PRIMROSE PARK
All done in sky blue and cream, every available inch of wood gilded to within an inch of its life, the bedroom was nothing less than what Beatrix would’ve expected—spectacularly opulent.
And new.
She’d expected that, as well.
Too new—its silks too shiny, its colors too vibrant to be seen as anything resembling tasteful in the eyes of society.
Gauche.
Old titles and older money didn’t appreciate vivacity in its displays of wealth. Since the French aristocrats had gotten their heads lopped off for such obvious flaunting, English aristocrats had learned their lesson from their cousins on the other side of the Channel and kept their privilege relatively muted these days. They rather liked having their heads attached to their necks.
Yet this bedroom belonged to Mr. Blake Deverill…Lord Devil—a man who wasn’t a lord in any real sense, yet he existed in a world without limits.
What must it feel like? To experience life thusly?
