Page 25 of To Dance with a Devil

Bonnie brought his hand to her face and kissed his knuckles. “Mostly,” she said, not looking at him. “And because I have some decisions to make about my future.”

That strange, aching sorrow rose in his chest again and it felt stronger this time, tinged with panic. “Bonnie,” he said, knowing he had to ask her again, but she reached out and pressed a finger to his lips.

“No,” she said. “Don’t. Don’t say it. Not again.”

The panicky feeling rose and expanded, making it hard to breath but he obeyed her. What choice did he have?

“All right,” he said, though he was unsettled and unhappily aware that he didn’t like the fact she’d cut him off so automatically. “Well, you’d best go and pack up again, and hurry. It’s a good couple of hours back to Mayfair and we must leave soon to have any chance of arriving before dark.”

Bonnie huffed at him but got to her feet. “You’re a blessed nuisance,” she muttered.

“I know,” he agreed.

“More trouble than you’re worth,” she added, shaking her head now.

“Undoubtedly.”

“I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

“Me either,” he said, meaning it, though the words were light. “But you love me anyway, don’t you?”

She stilled, staring at him, and Jerome realised she’d never actually told him she loved him, not in so many words. Neither of them had ever acknowledged her feelings, though he’d known, and she’d known he knew. At least, he’d thought so. Had he been wrong? Had it only been lust and desire, the excitement of it? Now his heart was thudding in his throat and he knew there had been too much emotion in the words, too much anxiety, and he desperately wanted to hear the answer to the question.

“I’d best hurry,” she said, and rushed from the room.

Chapter 9

Miss Butler,

Please find enclosed an extensive list of reading material. I believe there is enough here to keep you occupied for the foreseeable future. Certainly enough to avoid any need for further contact with me.

I hope you find the contents satisfactory.

De Beauvoir.

P.S. Do not underestimate your penmanship.

― Excerpt of a letter from Mr Inigo de Beauvoir to Miss Minerva Butler

The evening of the 24th October 1814.

Minerva stared down at the terse note in her hand and then squealed, clutching it to her chest. She cast the lengthy list of reading material to one side and instead looked at the horrifically untidy scrawl before her, and most especially the postscript. The writing on that delicious little PS was worse still. Consigned to the very bottom of the page and, unlike the note, it had obviously been dashed off in haste and as an afterthought. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he’d crossed it out before sending it to her, so begrudging were those words.

Not that she cared. Those few near illegible scratches of ink could have been dragged from him at gunpoint and it wouldn’t have made a jot of difference. It gave her a glimmer of hope, no matter how faint and fragile, and she would cling to it for all she was worth.

“What’s that, Minerva?”

“Oh, nothing, Mama,” she said, hastily stuffing the note and the list into her reticule. “Just a shopping list. Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, quite ready. We mustn’t keep dear Robert waiting. I know how he gets if he doesn’t get his dinner on time.”

Minerva suppressed the desire to roll her eyes. Though her mother had been desperately disappointed that Minerva had failed to catch the Duke of Bedwin for herself, the next best thing was for him to have married her cousin. Now she insisted on referring to him as dear Robert—though never to his face—and would namedrop shamelessly at every opportunity. Tonight they were dining with Robert and Prue and, to her great relief, Minerva would stay with them whilst her mother visited a sick friend in Bath. If her dear mama had the slightest idea that her only daughter, for whom she had such lofty ambitions, was infatuated with a lowly scientist of all things, well, she’d likely expire of shock.

Minerva was sorry for it too, but it had taken her a long time to fight her way free from the weight of her mother’s expectations and realise that she didn’t want any of the things her mother wanted. Oh, not that she was averse to being wealthy or titled; it just wasn’t on her list of requirements. No. What she wanted was to be wanted. She wanted love and romance and to be desired beyond reason. Why then, she’d become so smitten with Inigo de Beauvoir, who hadn’t given her a second glance, she couldn’t fathom. Perhaps that was why, she considered, as his grace’s luxurious carriage bore them off to Beverwyck, the duke’s London home.

Perhaps it was the challenge of capturing the attention of such a clever man? For surely, clever as he was, he’d not be foolish enough to fall head over ears in love with a pretty ninny like Minerva. Except she was coming to realise she wasn’t quite as stupid as she’d feared, and Inigo de Beauvoir didn’t believe in love. He’d said so.

Minerva smiled and clutched her reticule tighter, dreaming of eyes that were an odd grey-green, and a man who didn’t want to want her.