Flirting With Fortune

Chapter Twenty-one

The air was cold but not biting, the wind gentle enough to stir the multihued fallen leaves along the path, but not so much as to sting the exposed skin of Colin’s face. The sun slipped out intermittently as the low clouds rolled overhead.

In other words, it was perfect. Since it wasn’t raining, he could escape to Hyde Park with Beatrice without raising any eyebrows, yet it was cold enough to keep most from the grounds. Colin adjusted his hand, pressing Beatrice’s fingers more firmly against his arm as they strolled along the nearly deserted banks of the Serpentine. With all the excitement surrounding the betrothal, they had had almost no time for just the two of them, and it was driving him mad.

He felt relaxed, at peace in a way he hadn’t been since the moment he knew of his father’s downfall. He had not only accomplished what he had set out to do, but he hadn’t compromised his own heart to do so. He glanced down at Beatrice, smiling at her red-tipped nose and rosy cheeks. She was a thousand times better than he had hoped for, a million times better than he deserved. And yet she was his.

Already this morning they had talked of the future—of having their families meet for the first time, of traveling to Italy for their honeymoon in order to tour the works of the old masters, and of renting a small town house here in London as he completed his last year at Lincoln’s Inn.

But there was one last thing he wanted to do just for her. “I daresay we’ll have trouble finding a place with as nice a studio as you have now.”

She gave a little shrug, unconcerned. “I don’t mind. I can always visit Granville House to use it if I need to.”

“Yes, but I thought perhaps you might wish for a place just for you. So I visited my solicitor today and had him extend the lease on Father’s studio for another year.”

She grinned up at him, her blue eyes putting the rippling water of the Serpentine to shame. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“You were? And here I thought it would be a surprise.”

“I covet that space far too much to leave such a thing to chance. I was prepared to beg if necessary.”

“Is that a fact?” he said, his eyebrows raised.

“Indeed. Fortunately for me, you saved me the trouble.” She gave him a teasing wink, pleased with herself.

“Well fine, then. But in the future, I fully intend to make you work for what you want.”

“Do you?” she said, raising a challenging eyebrow. “Well, do be careful, because I can very easily do the same to you.”

“You think so?”

She nodded imperiously, lifting her chin as though she just knew he would be putty in her hands. He loved how irreverent she could be. He would have enough seriousness in his life with his chosen career—knowing he would come home to her every day filled a part of him that had been empty almost his whole life.

“And what if it’s something you want as well? After all, I want nothing more than to make you happy. Would you still make things difficult for me?”

“Ah, a woman’s prerogative, remember? Yes, I may very well make you work for something, even if I want it as well. It’s good not to always get what you want, when you want it. Wouldn’t you agree?” Her grin was pure cheek.

“Oh sure, but I doona think you’d be able to follow through. A woman’s prerogative is generally exactly that: to have what she wants, exactly when she wants it.”

She scoffed, lifting a shoulder. “Clearly you don’t know me very well if you don’t think I’ll follow through.”

Casually, he glanced around, checking to see who might be able to see them. Few people were braving the cold, none of whom seemed to be paying them any mind.

Quickly, so as to catch her off guard, he whisked her from the path and into a copse of weeping willows. Sliding his arm from beneath her fingers until he could clasp her hand in his, he slipped between the cascading branches of the largest tree, tugging her in behind him. The tree’s limbs flowed like a waterfall down to the earth, shielding them from both the elements and any prying eyes. Golden light filtered through the autumn leaves and shimmered in Beatrice’s widened eyes.

“Colin!” she gasped, covering her open mouth with her hand. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Putting your theory to the test.” He turned to face her fully, savoring the thrill of being well and truly alone with her. The feeling of being a little reckless, carefree even, was as intoxicating as the very best scotch. Just like the night they had met, she looked every bit the nymph in this light, as ethereal and beautiful as anything he’d ever seen.

He reached out and untied the ribbons of her bonnet, then gently pulled it away. She neither helped nor hindered; she merely watched him with the bemused expression of one unsure of what was happening, but unwilling to stop it.

Pulling his own hat off, he set them both on the ground before resituating himself directly in front of her, close enough to smell the slightest hint of lilac on the cold air. He soaked in the moment, savoring the growing desire that spread with every beat of his heart.

“There now,” he said, allowing a hint of challenge to lift the corners of his lips. “Make me work for what I want.”

Beatrice drew a short breath, taken aback by his command. Her heart, not yet recovered from their sudden dash, pounded that much harder at the seductive look in his eyes and the utter wickedness of being alone in a public place with him. For heaven’s sake, someone could walk right by them and not even know they were there.

She licked her lips, looking up into his eyes, the same dark color as the web of branches around them. “And what is it that you want?”

“I should hope you’d know the answer to that by now, sweet Beatrice.” He stepped closer still, his movements slow and deliberate. “I want nothing on earth so much as I want you.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at the pleasure of his words as she exhaled. Opening them to peer up at him once more, she said, “But you already have me.” Her voice was breathy, quiet.

“So you’re prepared to relent, just like that?” He was teasing her, not only with his words, but with his closeness, making it hard for her to think straight.

“Of course not,” she said, rallying. “I never give in.”

He clasped his hands behind him and walked in a small semicircle, coming to stand just behind her. He leaned forward until his mouth was close enough to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath. “Prove it,” he murmured, daring her to play along. “I want you to kiss me. Let me see if I can make that happen.”

She loved this side of him, when the mischievousness within him outweighed the practical. She nodded, pressing her eyes closed and concentrating on the warmth of his skin mere inches from hers. Every nerve in her body seemed attuned to him, waiting for the moment he would touch her.

Only he didn’t.

Instead, he slowly exhaled, stirring the fine hairs at her nape and sending hot air fanning across her neck. She shivered; she couldn’t help it, even as she knew it was exactly what he wanted.

He chuckled softly, knowing he affected her. Oh no, she wasn’t going to let him win that easily. Taking a deep breath, she straightened both her spine and her resolve, then tilted her head to the right, granting him better access. Challenging him.

It was madness, standing there beneath a tree in broad daylight, denying her betrothed the kiss she already wanted. The feelings he stirred within her, the heady rush of emotion and anticipation was at once so much better and far worse than simply giving in to her desire.

After a rustle of fabric behind her, she felt the warmth of his bare skin as he drew a finger down the length of her jaw. He was cheating, taking off his glove like that.

“Such beautiful skin. As pure as silk and twice as soft.” Now he was using his most effective weapon—that mesmerizing accent of his.

Colin let his fingertip trail down the column of her throat and along the edge of her cashmere shawl. He pulled away, and she almost protested until his hands found her waist and slowly, inexorably, pulled her to him. When she was oh so lightly pressed against his chest, he leaned down and nuzzled the sensitive skin just below her ear.

Good heavens, she could hardly breathe and he hadn’t even touched his lips to her yet.

“I love how perfectly petite you are. You fit against me as if we were molded for each other. See how well my hands fit your waist?”

Yes, she did. His touch was still feather light, though, and she longed to feel him embrace her solidly, pulling her against him.

When his lips finally touched her neck, she sucked in a lungful of air, squeezing her eyes shut against the need to turn to him, to give him her lips and have him kiss her properly. Each kiss seemed lighter than the one before, so soft he could have been trailing her finest paintbrush across her skin. Even so, she felt every one through her whole body, as if a thread wound from each spot, and each kiss, each pull of the thread made her fingers and toes curl.

It was the sweetest torture she could have ever imagined.

“I swear, a stór, you taste every bit as good as you smell.” His whispered words were as sweet as a caress, and she bit her lip against the need to turn around.

His lips found her earlobe, a spot she had never considered anyplace of note. She was wrong. Lord have mercy, was she wrong. Of its own volition, her head tilted toward him, silently begging for more. He obliged, scraping the incredibly sensitive skin with his teeth.

And she was lost.

She turned to him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pressed her lips hard against his. He didn’t hold back, didn’t torture her with any more featherlight touches. Instead, his arms went fully around her waist, pulling her to him so tightly that her feet left the ground.

She no longer felt the cold, no longer heard the birds or smelled the leaves. All there was in the world was the heat of his body, his scent, his strength, his soul.

By the time he set her down, they were both panting, leaning against each other as they tried to catch their breath.

After a moment, he sighed and smiled down at her. “Havers, lass, perhaps we should get back before I decide to whisk you away to Gretna Green and be done with it.”

She didn’t even try to stop the giddy grin that came to her lips. Yes, they should definitely get back, because at this rate, she might just let him.

She wasn’t going to make it. Yes, Beatrice knew that she should wait to tell anyone about the betrothal until Papa and Evie had been properly notified, but she was fairly dying with the need to tell someone about it. She couldn’t possibly share all that had transpired between her and Colin, but at least she could share her happiness.

Which, incidentally, was how she came to find herself being shown into Sophie’s drawing room the very next day.

“Beatrice!” her friend exclaimed, her dark, curly brown hair fluttering about as she rushed to greet her. She was as bright and sunny as her lemon-colored gown, holding her hands out in greeting. “I’m so glad to see you. I should have known you’d come the moment I laid eyes on it this morning.”

It? Beatrice came up short, all thoughts of her good news falling by the wayside. “Laid eyes on what?”

Sophie looked at her as if her dress were on backward. “Whatever do you mean, ‘laid eyes on what?’ What else? A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion, of course. You must have seen the second letter that was printed there.”

How could she have possibly forgotten that it would be out today? It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had written the letter and drawn the cartoon. But, having already acted as though she had no idea what Sophie was talking about, Bea shook her head. “My copy must have been filched by my sisters. What does it say?”

Sophie gaped at her. “Truly? Do you mean I actually know something before you do? Gracious, what a red-letter day. And I can’t possibly do it justice from memory. Give me just a moment and I’ll go fetch it.”

She hurried away, nearly knocking over a spindly little side table in her haste. Red-letter day, indeed. Biting her lip, Bea settled on the settee beside the fireplace, extending her hands to the warmth. She couldn’t wait to see the next installment. She was doubly happy now that she had finished it while she was still so furious at Mr. Godfrey. With the sort of bliss currently flowing through her veins, she doubted she could have gotten across the force of her emotion on the subject.

The patter of Sophie’s slippered feet on the wood floor heralded her return. “This one is quite a bit bolder than last time—just wait until you see it. There is absolutely no possible way this isn’t Mr. Godfrey.”

She plopped down on the cushions beside Beatrice and thrust the magazine into her waiting hands. Ignoring the letter, Bea’s eyes went directly to the cartoon, which filled the entire lower half of the page. “I do believe you’re right,” she murmured, mainly because she could tell Sophie was waiting for her to say something.

“Of course I’m right—even a blind person could see the resemblance. Well, not a blind person, but certainly someone exceptionally shortsighted. His features are hardly even caricatured.” She swept a finger over the perfect likeness of his hair and facial features, all of which Monsieur Allard had painstakingly transcribed in the etching.

“Indeed,” Beatrice replied absently, studying the scene on the page before her. In it, two men were synchronizing their watches, all the while leering at a young woman standing nearby. The caption read, Give me three minutes to get her alone and then pretend to stumble upon us. By the end of the night, her dowry will be as good as lining my pockets.

“He must be absolutely livid to be represented this way. Do you think this is based on something that actually happened? Oh,” Sophie exclaimed, her hand going to her mouth as her eyes widened, “do you think the author is getting revenge? How utterly scandalous!”

“I don’t think it is so much revenge as the man getting what he deserved.”

Sophie’s brow knitted. “Isn’t that revenge? I mean, if he did something truly dreadful and the victim wanted him to be made to suffer for the offense, isn’t that actually the definition of revenge?”

She did have a point. “I suppose you are right. Well, if it is revenge, then I commend the author for using the experience for helping others.”

Sophie grasped her arm, leaning forward as if she had the most delicious of on-dits to share. “Did you hear then? About Miss Briggs?”

Drat it all, had she managed to miss two major events? This whole betrothal business seemed to be hindering her normal vigilance. “What happened with Miss Briggs?”

“Beatrice! You’re supposed to be the one who knows everything. I shan’t know what to do with myself if our roles were suddenly reversed. Although, if that were the case, then wouldn’t I already have known it to be so?”

“Sophie!”

“Sorry, sorry. All right, Miss Briggs. My sister—Sarah, that is; the others are much too young to have any good gossip—told me that Miss Briggs told Miss Chamberlain that she figured out from advice from the last letter that Lord Jenson was only asking the very highest dowered—is that a word? Anyway, he was asking only the ladies with the highest dowries to dance.

“Normally, she wouldn’t have minded such a thing, since she freely admits that her father hopes to purchase a nice title for the family, but she had actually quite liked Lord Jenson. Better to have seen his motives now than for her to have fallen for the man only to discover he was after her purse.”

“Are you telling me,” Beatrice said, trying to separate the meat of the story from all of her asides, “that Miss Briggs feels that the first letter saved her from the attentions of a fortune hunter?”

Sophie nodded, her brown eyes alight with the joy of having imparted information that Beatrice hadn’t already known.

“Well, isn’t that nice?” A grossly underwhelming summation of how she really was feeling. She had done it! Her words had saved an heiress’s heart. Instead of the mildly interested smile she offered her friend, she wanted to laugh with delight, to throw her hands up and declare victory for her fellow debutant.

“Yes, I’d say so. Heaven knows I’d never make it married to a man who didn’t love me. Not that I have to worry about a fortune hunter. It’s not as though we have pockets to let, but we certainly aren’t worth targeting. Not like you, you poor thing.” Sophie wrinkled her nose. “You must be constantly fighting off unwanted attention.”

“Well, it certainly won’t be a problem after this week.” She said it casually, but excitement once again sprang to life within her.

“Why ever not?”

“Because I’m getting married.”

“What?” Sophie’s already-high voice went up an entire octave. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She grabbed Beatrice’s hand and jumped from the settee, pulling them both to their feet without any care for decorum. Swallowing her in an impromptu hug, Sophie squeezed her before setting her away. “I don’t care how dreadfully familiar that was, I’m just so happy for you I could bust. You must tell me, who is your betrothed?”

“I can’t say just yet. We still are waiting until we can get word to Papa and Evie. But I am very, very pleased.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be a certain painter’s son, would it? He was quite concerned for you at the musicale.”

At the mere thought of the man, Beatrice melted a bit, her insides going all soft and warm. She lifted her shoulders, a secretive smile curving her lips. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Of course you can. Either nod your head for yes or shake it for no. It’s quite simple, really.” She looked to Beatrice with beseeching eyes, begging to be let in on the secret.

“Only under threat of death, I’m afraid. But in a few more days, all will be revealed.”

“You dreadful tease, you. Very well, have your secrets. But tell me, is it a love match?”

She looked so hopeful, so invested in the romance of it all that Beatrice couldn’t help but indulge her.

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“It’s a damn good thing you are already betrothed.”

“On that, we agree,” Colin said, not even looking up as he spread marmalade over his toast. “But in general, ‘Good morning’ is the proper way to greet one’s family.”

Setting his knife down, he took a bite of his breakfast and winked at his cousin. John shook his head and dropped a magazine beside Colin’s plate. “Good morning.” Snagging a sweet bun from the sideboard behind them, he pulled out the chair at Colin’s left and took a seat.

“Good morning to you as well,” Colin replied, the good cheer of the last several days still coloring his tone. With his toast in one hand, Colin picked up the periodical with the other. “Reading ladies’ magazines again, I see.”

“Very funny. I find myself in awe of the brashness of this person. And the magazine itself, for that matter.”

He skimmed the letter first, catching words like “fortune hunters,” “preying,” and “innocents.” As before, the author was providing possible ways to identify a nefarious fortune hunter, the very worst villain, in the humble author’s opinion. In closing, it read: At least a highwayman robs only of possessions. A fortune hunter robs a woman of her money, her dignity, and her hopes for a contented future.

Honestly, this woman was given to dramatics. Had she not thought to consider that some who seek fortunes do so with the best of intentions? She had no idea of the circumstances some may be faced with. She was probably some pampered heiress, sitting in her ivory tower with her jewels and morning chocolate, looking down upon all those whose lots in life were less fortunate.

“A bit extreme, I think.”

“Have you gotten to the engraving yet? Then we’ll talk extremes.”

Raising an eyebrow, Colin turned his attention to the drawing. The lines were bolder this time, the figures more realistically portrayed. As he took in the three figures and the finely detailed background, a sliver of dread worked its way between his ribs, like the slow winding of a silken ribbon being tied into an inescapable knot. There was no mistaking Godfrey this time—he couldn’t have been more plainly portrayed if he had posed for the thing.

But it was worse than that. It was the all too familiar balcony, the scene from a night he would rather forget. Synchronized watches, the hooked nose of Mr. Jones—all of it was there, as if plucked from his memory.

Or drawn by another who was there.

Beatrice. Muttering a curse, he dropped the uneaten portion of his toast on his plate and came to his feet.

“Like I said, it’s a good thing you are betrothed. Someone in the ton is out to expose those intent on securing a well-dowered wife. I’d say you are damned fortunate, old man.”

Fortunate? Colin had never felt less fortunate in his life. He had known, thanks to Raleigh, of Beatrice’s clear aversion of fortune hunters, but he never imagined her revulsion was so strong as to prompt her to write the letters. “Indeed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have rather a lot to attend to today. Good day.”

Her immense dislike of men like him wasn’t even the whole problem. In writing this last letter, she opened herself up for Godfrey to recognize her as the author. Only three people had been privy to the scene. It wouldn’t take the man long to put together which of the two of them was the disgruntled debutant.

Stuffing the magazine into his jacket, he paused long enough to collect his hat and greatcoat before heading out into the frosty November morning. It might be entirely too early in the morning for society’s unwritten rules, but he hardly gave a damn. He had to see Beatrice, and he intended to do so at once.