She would never know, of course, but she found it refreshing to dip her toe into these unexpected waters of his.
She lifted the dress that was laid out on the bed. Brown…slightly worn…able to be buttoned by its wearer…incongruous with its surroundings…
It was the dress of a servant—and meant for her.
The dress was dry and clean; she didn’t mind.
Outside, the weather continued its offensive, lashing the windows and tossing solid oak canopies as if they were willow trees.
She would be staying the night.
Extraordinary.
She would be staying the night in Lord Devil’s house.
Beyond extraordinary.
It stretched the limits of belief.
The only silver lining she could think of was that she wouldn’t be ruined, as society didn’t know of her presence here.
She’d just finished buttoning the dress, scented subtly of lavender, when a lighttap-tap-tapsounded on the door. She opened it to find a servant waiting to lead her to the dining room. As she navigated one long, freshly painted corridor after another, she saw that the rest of Primrose Park was as newly refurbished as the bedroom.
Blimey, how much money did Deverill have, anyway?
The dining room, of course, dazzled, with its plush Aubusson carpets, rich mahogany wainscoting and long central table to match. White marble fireplaces mirrored one another to either end of the rectangular room, and a solid wall of windows surely overlooked an exquisitely manicured garden during daylight hours. But this was night, and the storm continued to rage outside, so the sparkling panes would have to wait until morning to reveal their delights.
Her gaze immediately found Deverill, one arm comfortably propped onto the fireplace mantle as he held a whiskey tumbler and conversed easily with two older servants—a tall, uprightman who bore the air of an estate manager and a woman of middling height who could be none other than Primrose Park’s housekeeper with her tidy appearance and quick, darting eye that kept abreast of all happenings within a fifty-foot radius of her. She’d noted Beatrix’s presence before Beatrix had noted hers.
An odd thought occurred to her.
Here was Primrose Park, a decidedly aristocratic country estate, being run in a uniquely democratic, even bourgeois manner.
Deverill’s gaze found Beatrix’s. His ease held, as she felt herself tense. She couldn’t yet relax around him—even if they werefriends.
She only just didn’t snort.
“Lady Beatrix,” he said, pushing off the mantle, “I see you managed to get dry.”
As all eyes landed on her, she managed not to squirm. She never did like being the center of a room’s attention. “Only just.”
That got a smile from the other man and a cant of the head from the housekeeper. “A hot meal will set you to rights,” said the woman, efficient feet already on the move. Her voice held more than a hint of the Irish.
Deverill stepped to the dining table and pulled out a chair. “My lady,” he said, indicating she take the seat.
As she stepped around him to take the proffered seat, she couldn’t resist a quick inhalation—just a sip of air. The air smelled so delicious around that man.
“Are your footmen out for the night?” she asked as she lowered onto saffron velvet.
It was a distancing question, but also one of genuine curiosity. An estate like Primrose Park should have a footman attending the master’s dinner. Several, in fact.
But Primrose Park, clearly, wasn’t like other estates.
“We haven’t yet gotten the knack of footmen,” said Deverill, taking his own seat at the head of the table, to Beatrix’s left.
Her eyebrows lifted.We?Was the man now referring to himself in the royalwe?
Before she could inquire, the housekeeper returned and set a large dish in the center of the table. A shepherd’s pie, if Beatrix had to hazard a guess. A stray thought wondered if the formal dining room of Primrose Park had ever served a dish of shepherd’s pie before Mr. Blake Deverill had become its owner? The scrumptious scent of savory meat and veg hit her nose, and her mouth watered and she decided she didn’t care.
