The housekeeper stood aside while two maids brought in a few more dishes and finished setting the table. Then the estate manager pulled out a chair for the housekeeper, and they settled into their places across the table from Beatrix.
Eyebrows crinkled together, she flashed a question toward Deverill. The blasted man was regarding her with clear amusement. “Lady Beatrix,” he said, “may I introduce my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Deverill, to you?”
Beatrix felt her mouth wanting to gape open. She didn’t allow it. Instead, she summoned every good manner that had been instilled within her—at finishing school,notat home—and said, “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance.”
That got a smile from each of the Deverills, and Beatrix felt a measure of relief. “No need to stand on formality with us, my dear,” said Mr. Deverill.
“Blake,” said Mrs. Deverill, reproachfully. It only occurred to Beatrix that, of course, his mother would call him by his given name. “You’ve gone and played a jape on poor Lady Beatrix?”
A sheepish smile acknowledged his mother’s admonishment. “I might’ve been having a bit of fun,” he said in the manner of a son who had charmed his mother from the moment of his birth.
It actually explained much about the man.
“No, I thought…” In her attempt to mitigate the situation, she might make it worse by finishing that sentence. Beatrix closed her mouth.
“You thought my parents were Primrose Park’s estate manager and housekeeper?”
“I…”
At last, she was saved from digging herself deeper into the hole of her own making when Deverill said, “Well, you would’ve been right.”
Again, Beatrix felt her eyebrows lift. Honestly, she’d never felt so aristocratic in her life.
“Now, Blake,” said Mrs. Deverill without heat.
Deverill shrugged in a gesture of resignation. “I can’t stop them.”
“A lordly life of leisure isn’t for the likes of us,” said Mr. Deverill.
“How can you know if you don’t try it?” asked his son, but there was no mistaking the wink in his voice. The argument had the worn-in timbre of one that would remain ever unresolved.
“A man must make himself,” said Mr. Deverill. “Otherwise, what’s the point of him?”
Mrs. Deverill nodded approvingly at her husband and reached for the shepherd’s pie. She began spooning portions onto everyone’s plates. “My son’s favorite meal.”
Beatrix cut a quick glance toward Deverill, who caught it and gave a little shrug. A smile pulled at her mouth.
When she took her first bite of the pie, her eyes drifted shut and she might’ve moaned. “I think,” she began, “your shepherd’s pie might now be my favorite meal, too, Mrs. Deverill.”
It had been the truthandthe right words to say. Now, everyone could relax and tuck in with ease.LadyBeatrix might be an aristocrat, but she wasn’t a hoity-toity one.
As the meal progressed, she was able to sit quietly as talk proceeded around her. It was the conversation of a family who not only knew the details of one another’s lives, but also shared in them. She rarely enjoyed a meal like this. Simple, delicious food…the company of people who adored one another.
And she liked one thing more.
Deverill hadn’t introduced her to his parents as his fiancée. Their ruse for thetondidn’t extend here—into the realm of his true family.
He had lines he didn’t cross.
Which spoke well of him.
It was a question from Mrs. Deverill, however, that pricked her ear—and curiosity.
“And that Imogen?”
Composed of but three words, the question held a sharp blade running through its abbreviated length.
“Now, now, dearest heart,” said Mr. Deverill, quelling.
