Flirting With Fortune

Chapter Eleven

Sometimes a lady had to do what a lady had to do to get what she wanted. And by Jove, she wasn’t sorry for it. He was just so blasted handsome, in his unconventional way. His lean build was perfectly accentuated in his plain black jacket and deep charcoal waistcoat that was almost the exact color of his eyes.

With plenty of time until their dance, Beatrice strolled along the perimeter of the ballroom, keeping an ear out for conversation related to the article. Sophie had been snagged by her mother, and Beatrice wanted to do a little reconnaissance now that she was alone. The trick to blending was skirting around pods of conversation without pause so people didn’t think she was eavesdropping.

Already she had heard the whispers, young ladies bandying about words like “magazine,” “fortune hunter,” and “dowry.” It seemed as though, with a few exceptions, the chatter was more or less positive, thank goodness. If nothing else, it had certainly raised awareness. What more could she ask for, really?

The corridor leading to the retiring room came up on her right, and as she glanced down the empty passageway, she came up short.

Something was different. She glanced up and down the corridor until she saw it: A door, about halfway down, was slightly ajar, with the subtle glow of firelight flickering from within.

Her inquisitiveness flared to life, that old familiar need to know what was going on around her. She glanced to the clock; she had minutes still before she needed to meet Colin. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she casually rounded the corner and headed toward the door. As the sounds of the ball receded, she could hear the murmur of voices up ahead. Instinctively, she slowed, quieting her already muted footsteps and calming the rustling fabric of her gown. The voices were male and they were speaking in tones just hushed enough to justify her curiosity. Normal conversations rarely interested her, but the moment voices were dropped and two heads were put together, she knew something interesting was going on.

She stepped closer, moving her head back and forth in an effort to see through the crack where the door wasn’t quite closed. She could see the multicolored spines of rows upon rows of books as she moved—so this was the library, then. She stepped further sideways. There! She finally caught a flash of a burgundy jacket and the deep forest sleeve of another man beside him. Hadn’t Mr. Godfrey been wearing that shade of burgundy? She crept forward a few more steps, adjusting her angle until—aha! It was him. His movements were agitated, almost jittery as he shoved a hand through his hair.

Her triumph turned to worry as a wisp of unease floated through her, like a drop of paint in a glass of water, slowly spreading outward from her chest. She took a quiet step forward, straining to hear what they were talking about. Blast the noise from the ball; it was making it impossible to catch actual words. Had he discovered his infamy? What would he do if he had? She took a calming breath, reminding herself that there was no way for him to know that she had written the letter and drawn the cartoon.

Music rose above the low roar of the crowd from down the corridor, and she pressed her lips together in frustration. The waltz would be starting in a minute or two. Of course—just when things were proving to be interesting. Her curiosity almost always won, but in this case, nothing was going to keep her from her waltz with Sir Colin. Taking one last look at Godfrey, she backed away, turned on her heel, and hurried to the ballroom.

Perhaps she could glean some small bit of information from Godfrey during their dance. He’d chosen the second waltz, so she had a good half hour to cool her heels until she could speak with him.

As she emerged from the corridor into the bright candlelight of the ballroom, Beatrice rose on her toes and looked around. She didn’t see Sir Colin anywhere. His black jacket was fairly distinctive among the fussy colors of the rest of the ton. When she spotted him, all thoughts of Godfrey and the magazine and even the heat of the room seemed to fall away with the lift of a single corner of his mouth.

He was looking right at her, moving toward her with a purposeful stride. All those around him seemed to fade into the background while he remained in stark relief, crisp and perfectly clear.

Oh my.

She blinked, mentally framing the image. That’s how she would paint him. Colin, bold and sharply detailed in the dead center, with the rest of the world soft and indistinct behind him. The painter’s son, lacking the artist’s touch, but blessed with looks that positively begged to be painted.

Lord, he was gorgeous. His gaze didn’t falter from hers, the whole of his attention settled on her and her alone. She swallowed, trying to remember how on earth to breathe properly when a herd of butterflies had suddenly overtaken her stomach.

He stopped directly in front of her and offered a languid bow. “My lady,” he said, his accent somehow transforming the words into a caress, “I believe this dance is mine.”

She nodded, words seeming quite beyond her in that moment. He extended his hand, a completely proper and acceptable gesture, and yet the intensity in his smoky gaze seemed to make the simple task of accepting his hand seem like a declaration of something . . . more. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she placed her hand in his.

He smiled, giving her a wink so subtle, she almost doubted she had seen it at all. “Let’s see how we do at a proper dance, shall we?”

His teasing grin quieted her rioting nerves, and she offered him one of her own. “I should warn you again, sir, that I am not the most accomplished dancer in the world. If I trod on your foot, you cannot say I didn’t warn you.”

“It will be worth it, my lady, if that is the price of having you to myself for a moment.”

So much for calmed nerves. The honesty in his voice matched the sincerity in his eyes, even if his lips were still curled in his charming smile. Good heavens—was a single sentence really all it took to turn her to putty in this man’s arms?

Apparently, it was.

His fingers tightened on hers as he led her onto the dance floor. They took up the proper position, a perfectly respectable distance between them to the casual observer. What the others in the room couldn’t see was the tingling nerves of her back where his hands rested against her skin.

“Do you know,” he murmured, holding his position as they waited for the start of the dance, “as beautiful as you are in daylight, I think I prefer you in the candlelight?”

“You do?” she squeaked, taken off guard by the unexpected statement.

“I do. Sunlight makes your eyes sparkle, but candlelight illuminates the fire within. It’s more true to your personality.”

Before she could utter a word in response, the music started and he swung them into motion. For once she didn’t focus on counting out the steps in her head. How could she? Her mind whirled faster than even their bodies as she basked in the compliment. Did he think her fiery then? That thought made her feel the slightest bit reckless and a great deal more bold.

His steps were smooth, his rhythm sure. Somehow, her body just seemed to follow his, to give up to the authority of his lead. He wasn’t the most graceful dancer in the world, but he moved with a certain confidence that suited her much more than an exceedingly polished partner might. She didn’t need someone whose elegant moves would make her look clumsy—she needed someone who knew how to lead. She wouldn’t have thought a man of his background would have such command of the waltz, but here they were, gliding along with the dozens of other couples as if he’d done such a thing his whole life.

“And here I thought your specialty would be the Scottish reel. Who taught you to dance so well? From what I know, Sir Frederick attended many a ball, but never danced.”

“You can thank my aunt for that. My mother died when I was five years old, and no matter how accomplished my father was, Aunt Constance always feared that he was raising her sister’s only son to be some sort of Scottish brute. It dinna help that my father moved us back to Scotland shortly thereafter. Determined to bring culture to her nephew, she arranged for private tutors for my education, elocution, and etiquette.”

“So she’s the one responsible for that singular accent of yours.”

He raised a dark brow, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Singular accent? I’ve heard it called many a name, but that is a first.”

“Why would anyone call it names? Your accent is”—divine, intoxicating, toe-curling—“lovely.”

She’d pleased him. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of the compliment, tucking his chin in a way that was almost bashful. “Why, thank you, my lady. I think the problem is I doona quite fit any molds. Most Scots find my way of speaking annoyingly English, and most Englishmen find it dreadfully Scottish.”

“Well, then, most Scots and Englishmen are idiots.”

He laughed out loud at this, drawing the attention of several of the couples around them. He ignored them as he smiled down at her, his fingers giving her a little squeeze. “I’m inclined to agree, my lady.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

She’d said the words almost to herself, but clearly he heard them. “‘My lady’?”

She nodded. She would never have said such a thing to anyone else, but he thought her fiery, did he not? She allowed the space between them to close just the slightest amount, her heart pounding all the while. “It’s what servants and strangers call me, and even formal acquaintances. I don’t think of you that way.”

His eyes met hers, his gaze seeking. “Doona you, now?”

“How could I? You’ve unearthed me from the curtains, braved the elements to sit in my drawing room and defend my sister, and danced the Scottish reel with me among your father’s most priceless works of art. If that doesn’t do away with the ‘my lady’ nonsense, I don’t know what would.”

“Well, is that all?” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided grin.

“No,” she admitted, focusing on his shoulder for a moment before looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “You shared your father with me. You, Colin, made my dreams come true.”

Colin could hardly think straight with the way she watched him, as if he were some sort of knight in shining armor. He was allowing himself to be caught up in the liquid fire of her gaze, and he really needed to remember that this was just a simple dance with an off-limits woman. “I wouldn’a go as far as all that, surely. Perhaps you could say I made your day?”

She looked up at him with those huge blue eyes, which were a thousand times more brilliant than the sparkling aquamarine necklace hugging her slender throat. Damn, he really needed to watch himself. Two weeks among the ton and he was turning into a bloody poet.

“You made my life. No one on earth could have crafted a more intimate portrait of Sir Frederick, sharing all those little things that made him who he was, over and above his mastery of painting.”

He couldn’t deny the truth of that. As much heartache and trouble as his father had brought to Colin’s life over the years, he had still loved the man. It felt good to share the harmless, interesting little bits about him with Lady Beatrice—someone who had genuine respect and admiration for the man.

Instead of denying her sentiment, he merely cocked a brow, allowing a bit of levity to show in his eyes. “You, Lady Beatrice, need to reach for higher goals in life.”

She rolled her eyes at him, unoffended. “So you say. I’m content with them, thank you very much. And I meant it when I said no more ‘my ladying’ me, if you please. Lady Beatrice in public because we have to, but when next we find ourselves alone, I expect you to drop the ‘lady’ altogether.”

His mind skipped right past her request—demand?—and landed on the fact that she clearly intended to spend more time with him.

Alone.

Swallowing the surge of satisfaction that spread through his chest, he gave a brief nod. Yes, he knew very well that he should be distancing himself from the addictive woman in his arms. But that was the thing about vices—the fact that they should be avoided only made them that much more enticing.

As if his little stór needed any help in that department.

He tightened his grip on her, sliding his hand across her back as he led them across the dance floor. Neither one of them was an excellent dancer, but they were a good match for each other.

This was what he liked best about Beatrice. She made him feel like a normal gentleman, enjoying being with a normal lady. No thoughts of what she could do for him, only what he could do for her. The self-disgust of being a fortune hunter slipped away, like the hood of a dark cloak falling back. She had sought him out, had she not? In every instance, in fact. She had sought the introduction, invited him to call on her, and even asked him to waltz, in a roundabout way.

“Well?”

He glanced back down at her. “As you wish.”

“That’s more like it. Now, I’d like for you to do something for me. Please,” she added belatedly.

He didn’t even pause to think. “Anything.”

The music came to a close then, and he reluctantly pulled away. Beatrice curtsied as he bowed, and he held out his arm to escort her off the dance floor.

“I’d like for you to meet me in Green Park on Monday. Around noon?”

There she went, seeking out his company again. It was the sort of thing that could easily go to a man’s head. “I’ll be there.” He cut a sideways glance at her and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You do realize that at some point I should probably be the one to suggest a meeting?”

Beatrice raised a single golden brow, her eyes alight with mischief. “Yes, but what is the fun in that?”

“Do you truly think it was Mr. Godfrey?”

The whispered question brought Beatrice up short. She glanced around casually, as if looking for someone she knew, but really she was trying to overhear what the response would be.

Lady Chester and Mrs. Langford had their heads bent toward each other, their fans lifted strategically to shield their mouths. “It did rather look like him, but it doesn’t make sense. His father is a viscount, after all. And a wealthy one at that,” Mrs. Langford replied, her trilling voice carrying over the din.

“But didn’t I hear somewhere that his father wishes for him to work?”

Beatrice almost rolled her eyes. Yes, working would be so much more scandalous than marrying a person he had no affection for in a bid to get his hands on her dowry.

“Shhh, he’s coming.”

The hushed admonishment had Beatrice’s stomach sinking. There were a good ten minutes before their dance was at hand. Perhaps he was just passing by. She tried her best to blend into the clump of matrons loitering in the area. Please don’t let him want to speak to me. Please don’t let him want to—

“Lady Beatrice, I’m so glad that I found you.”

Drat. She turned, raising her brows. “Oh? Is it time for our dance already, Mr. Godfrey?”

He looked quite a bit worse for the wear since she had seen him earlier in the evening, with his pale skin looking waxen and his hair finger-combed to the side. “That’s just it,” he said, his spirit-laced breath assailing her. “I’ve had some unexpected business come up. I do hope you’ll forgive me if I miss our dance.”

Beatrice bit the inside of her lip. Her emotions couldn’t seem to figure out whether to be joyful at the news or to swamp her with guilt. “Well, I can certainly understand if you have more pressing matters to attend to. Thank you for letting me know.”

He offered a slightly off-kilter bow. “Of course, my lady. And I do hope you’ll save a dance for me next time.”

“Absolutely,” she assured him, nodding for emphasis—too much emphasis. Apparently, the guilt won out. Although there was a smidge of happiness, as well. “Good evening to you, sir.”

With a nod, he turned and bobbed his way through the crowd, his body adopting the sort of loose-limbed movements of one well and truly in his cups. So had he discovered his likeness in the drawing? It was hard to tell. She didn’t detect any anger in him, just . . . distress. Worry. But what else could have caused the change in mood?

She supposed she was going to have to make a greater effort to be nice to the man now. If he was suffering any ill effects from the inadvertent likeness in the letter, then it was the least she could do. As she watched him disappear around the bend, another face in the crowd caught her attention—Diana. Beatrice hurried toward her, anxious to hear how she was doing. She needn’t have rushed—her friend stayed where she was, planted beside a potted tree near the wall as she scanned the assembly. When Diana saw her, her face brightened and she lifted a hand in greeting. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight.”

“Were you?” Beatrice replied, innocence coloring her tone. Diana was the only person Beatrice could think of who might suspect the truth of the letter. “Well, I’m always delighted to see you. Shall we take a turn about the room?”

Her friend glanced around the crowded hall. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”

Nodding, Beatrice linked arms with her and started forward. “I stumbled upon the library earlier. Why don’t we try there?”

It took only a few minutes to return to the room, and Beatrice was happy to see that a fire still burned in the grate. Lighting a few candles with it, she turned to Diana and smiled. “You look much improved from when last I saw you.”

She smiled, not hugely, but it seemed completely genuine. “Well, a few things have transpired, giving me reason for a bit of happiness.”

“Such as?”

“A certain letter in a magazine, for starters.” She drew a finger across the spines of the books at her shoulder as she strolled the perimeter.

“It does seem to be the talk of the evening, does it not?” Beatrice would admit nothing to no one, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t allow her friend to draw her own conclusions. After all, if it weren’t for Diana, Beatrice would have never printed such a thing.

“Indeed.” She looked a bit of the old Diana, with her eyes bright and her head held high. “It rather begs the question: What inspired the author to publish such a thing? And it occurred to me that perhaps her own misfortune prompted her to help others avoid her fate.”

“It’s possible.”

“Or perhaps,” she said, pausing to send an entirely too knowing look in Beatrice’s direction, “it was the author’s friend who suffered the misfortune, and that was what inspired the letter.”

Beatrice leaned against a stout writing table placed beneath the shuttered window. “We may never know.” She couldn’t contain an impish grin. It made her exceedingly happy that Diana approved of her tactics. It was far too late for Beatrice to help her, but clearly she had brought her friend some amount of satisfaction.

“More’s the pity. I do hope, however, that we haven’t heard the last of the Daring Debutant.”