Page 7

“Which is?” He raised a brow.

She took a deep breath. “There is this book I love very much. It’s called The Scoundrel.”

Mr. Lewis let out a snort, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “If you want to hear the story, I would thank you not to interrupt.”

He waved a hand. “Please, proceed.”

She straightened in her seat. “Well, in this book, the author—a woman—tells a story about the Hades Hell. It is based on real events but written as fiction. It is not autobiographical, I do not think. In any case, it is a beautiful love story about the owner of the hell and a gentle lady.”

He raised a brow. “And?”

Beatrice raised one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s my favorite book. I wanted to see the real location. The real place.”

Mr. Lewis reclined in his seat, not taking his all-too-perceptive gaze off her. “Why now? Why not go there after your marriage? It would probably be safer, and definitely more appropriate, to go there once you’re a married lady.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know if I shall be allowed to go to London after my marriage. What if my husband locks me up at his estate until I give him a son or two? Or maybe forever. Or perhaps the Hades Hell will close before I am free, or I shall die in childbirth. You can’t know all the odds.”

“And?” he prompted with a raised brow. He looked very relaxed, the dratted man, while Beatrice was ready to jump out of her skin from nerves.

“And”—she swallowed, oh, very well, I might just tell him—“perhaps I thought I could live out my dream fantasy. Meet the owner of the hell, dance with him, catch some sparks, and if only for a moment, escape the real hell that is destined for me.”

He let out a bark of laughter.

Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him. She wasn’t telling him the full truth, of course. But it was as close to the truth she could reveal without showing herself as what she was. Pathetic.

So, all she could do now was hide behind her book and adopt a blasé attitude. “You’re free to laugh at me as much as you want. Your disregard for my dreams doesn’t insult me. You think me foolish and naive, while you’re a jaded man with no dreams of his own.”

It might have been her imagination, but it seemed as though a shadow passed his features and his eyes dimmed for a single moment.

She continued, “Perhaps, I am laughing at you, too. But the truth is, I have nothing to lose. In less than two months, I am to marry a man thrice my age. And yes, I know that it is unlikely that I shall find passion at a scandalous masquerade, but there is a chance. And if I am to ever take this chance, it is now. Before I am married. I made a deal with your brother to spend a month in London, and if you think I shall waste this month embroidering tapestries and enjoying tea with disapproving matrons, you are wrong. This is my chance, and I am going to seize it.”

Mr. Lewis cleared his throat, stifling another bout of laughter. “Your chance to meet the owner of the Hades Hell and fall in love?”

Beatrice pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, pretending his callous tone and all too perceptive gaze didn’t faze her. “I can’t see why not. This year, the old owner is passing the torch to the new owner, is he not? Which means the new one is probably young, possibly handsome, and definitely rich.”

“Definitely,” Mr. Lewis said, swallowing the last remnants of his laughter. He leaned toward her, placing his elbows on his knees again, a bored expression returning to his face once more. “First of all, the new owner of the Hades Hell is a woman. I suppose it is not out of the realm of possibility for you two to—how did you put it?—catch some sparks, but I doubt she would save you from your inevitable marriage. Second of all, if you don’t even know about such trivial things as who the owner of your beloved hell is, how were you going to get him, or in this case her, to dance with you, much less anything else? And third of all, what kind of nonsensical drivel was that book that made you believe you’d be better off with a person who owns the most notorious hell in London than with a titled lord?”

Beatrice crossed her arms across her chest. “The book is called The Scoundrel. You might want to read it to thaw your cold, unfeeling heart. And it’s not the only book about London I’ve read.” She paused. “There are a few more.”

He narrowed his eyes on her again in suspicion. “You are not going to tell me that you have more of these outrageous outings planned.”

She confidently met his stare. “I am not going to tell you that.”

A satisfied smile appeared on his face for a moment before his suspicious look re-emerged. “You are not going to tell me that, but that’s what you’re planning, isn’t it?”

Beatrice looked away.

“Isn’t it?” he growled.

“I told you that I am not going to tell you.”

“Miss Fowley.”

“Yes, Mr. Lewis?” She turned toward him, her eyelashes fluttering. She found that she enjoyed ruffling him quite a bit.

“What. Have. You. Planned?”

She licked her lips, and for a moment, she could swear his gaze dropped to her mouth. She caught her breath and had to shake herself before she could answer. “I have a list.”