To Desire a Devil by Elizabeth Hoyt Page A

confusion?”
    Lottie cocked her head, looking skeptical.
    Beatrice hurried on. “And there’s more to consider. If Lord Hope attains the title, he might take his vote in parliament and
     cast it for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
    “I’m as much in favor of Mr. Wheaton’s bill as you,” Lottie said, “but I don’t know if I want it passed at your expense.”
    “If it was just me, I don’t think I’d mind,” Beatrice said. “I know it would be hard to live in reduced circumstances in the
     country after being in London all these years, but I think it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s Uncle Reggie I worry about. I’m truly
     afraid that losing the earldom might kill him.” She pressed her hand to her chest to ease the ache there.
    “There is no way for everyone to win, is there?” Lottie said somberly.
    “I’m afraid not,” Beatrice replied. They strolled in silence for a moment before she said, “The whole thing was terrible,
     Lottie. Poor Henry was quite soaked in his own blood, Uncle Reggie was shouting, the servants were in an uproar, and Lord
     Hope was striding about with a dueling pistol, looking like he wanted to kill someone. Then, two hours later, he says I kissed
     him when clearly he kissed me. And until that point, I didn’t even think he
liked
me.”
    Lottie cleared her throat delicately. “Well, to be absolutely correct, he doesn’t have to
like
you to want to kiss you.”
    Beatrice looked at her, appalled.
    “I’m sorry, but there it is.” Lottie shrugged and then said entirely too innocently, “Of course, generally speaking, the lady
     does like the gentleman when they kiss.”
    Beatrice pressed her lips together, though she knew her face was warming.
    Lottie cleared her throat. “Do you? Like Lord Hope, that is?”
    “How could I like him?” Beatrice asked. “He’s surly and sarcastic and quite possibly mad.”
    “And yet you kissed him,” Lottie reminded her.
    “
He
kissed
me,
” Beatrice said automatically. “It’s just that he has such an intense way of looking at one, as if I’m the only other human
     in the world. He’s so full of passion.”
    Lottie raised her eyebrows.
    “I’m explaining it badly,” Beatrice said. She thought a moment. “It’s as if the only music one had ever heard was a penny
     whistle. One would probably think it was quite all right, that music was a rather nice thing but nothing very special. But
     what if one then attended one of Mr. Handel’s symphonies? Do you see? It would be overwhelming, beautiful and strange and
     complex, and so utterly compelling.”
    “I think I understand,” Lottie murmured. Her brows knit.
    Across the room, one of the gentlemen misjudged the chair’s weight and dropped it. The chair smashed to the ground, the other
     gentlemen doubled over in laughter, and the young lady’s chaperone escorted her from the showroom, scolding her all the way.
     The proprietor hurried over to the scene of his wrecked merchandise.
    Beatrice shook her head. “I’ll never understand men.”
    “Listen, dear,” Lottie said. “Do you know what my husband did this morning?”
    “No.” Beatrice shook her head. “But I don’t really—”
    “I’ll tell you,” Lottie said without regard for her friend’s answer. “He came down to breakfast, ate three eggs, half a gammon
     steak, four pieces of toast, and a pot of tea.”
    Beatrice blinked. “That seems like quite a lot of food.”
    Lottie waved her hand irritably. “His usual breakfast.”
    “Oh.” Beatrice frowned. “Then why—?”
    “He said not a word to me the entire time! Instead, he busied himself reading his correspondence and muttering over the scandal
     sheets. And mark this—he left the room without bidding me good-bye. And when he came back in a minute later, do you know what
     he did?”
    “I haven’t a clue.”
    “He walked to the sideboard, picked up another piece of toast, and strode right by me again without speaking!”
    “Ah.” Beatrice winced.