The kiss that had naught to do with calculation or confirmation.
A kiss born of the stuff of the best kisses—pure, naked wanting.
A kiss with the power to crack open a dichotomy in a man’s mind.
And like the sky above, he suspected a storm would have to sweep through before all became clear again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LONDON, A FEW DAYS LATER
Beatrix nodded approvingly at the tea presentation, and the maid gave a small curtsy and departed.
She released the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.
Every day was like this.
Every morning, her eyes opened on a new day, expecting this life she’d somehow fallen into to have been a dream.
Then the chambermaid arrived to open the curtains and deliver the hot chocolate she’d become positively addicted to and Beatrix realized she would be living inside the dream one day more.
Now, it was evening, and her nighttime tea had been delivered, along with a separate tray that overflowed with correspondence.
It had been a long while since she hadn’t served herself tea.
How different her life was since Blake Deverill had entered it—a house full of servants…said house rendered spotless due to said servants…a pantry full of food…a French cook to prepare said food…a wardrobe stuffed with new dresses…and a tray full of correspondence.
And not just any correspondence.
Invitations.
Her status as the daughter of a marquess had always ensured she was invited everywhere—to balls…to soirées…to musicales…and such.
But the invitations now filling her correspondence tray were of a different variety. They were invitations for morning strolls and afternoon teas. The sort of invitations extended from one lady to another so they might further their acquaintance.
And it was down to a single lie: Lady Beatrix St. Vincent was the fiancée of Mr. Blake Deverill.
These ladies wanted to meet with her to get to the bottom of a single, fundamental question.
How had the unremarkable, spinster-adjacent daughter of the wastrel Marquess of Lydon secured the most exciting man to enter thetonsince Lord Byron took himself off to the Continent?
How had such a woman captured the affections of such a man?
Members of thetonwere beside themselves attempting to uncover that particular truth.
Oh, doubtless the gossip was bursting with theories abundant. But that was all they were—guesses. There were no facts.
Only she and Deverill knew the truth.
And she planned to keep it that way.
To distract herself from thoughts of that man, she poured herself a cup of tea, and while it cooled, she reached for a raspberry biscuit. A sweet ever held the power to consume her entirely—for a blissful moment, at least.
But it was no use.
As had become usual, one thought of Deverill led to another, then on to an inevitable destination.
The kiss.
