watching the dark stranger with rapt attention. Her own heart squeezed with the lingering sadness for Tate’s passing.
As Beatrice stepped closer to the front of the crowd, Lady Churly held out her hand, beckoning for the man to stand beside her. “Without further ado, allow me to present my nephew, Sir Colin Tate—elder son and heir to the late Sir Frederick.”
Beatrice rocked back on her heels, her breath leaving her lungs all at once. He was Tate’s
She turned and dashed off in the other direction.
It happened all at once.
His aunt introducing him, the collective gasp from the crowd, the collision of his gaze with that of the woman from the gallery, his sudden rush of pleasure at seeing her, then the all-consuming confusion as her eyes widened and she turned and fled in the other direction.
What the devil?
Colin’s first instinct was to follow, but he immediately realized it was impossible on several levels—not the least of which was the tide of curious people surging forward like an ocean wave to meet him. He couldn’t begin to imagine what had made the girl retreat like the blasted hounds of Hades were at her heels, but he didn’t have the luxury of finding out just yet. His task for the evening had begun.
Straightening his shoulders, he turned to the first of the people that Aunt Constance wished to introduce him to, his smile as good as painted on. He knew his role well. John had spent an entire afternoon schooling him as to the best candidates—daughters of nobility and cits alike. He was leaning toward the merchants’ daughters as default, since one, his becoming a barrister was less likely to be an issue, and two, his title would mean the most to them, therefore allowing him to bring something of value to the marriage.
“How very naughty of you, Constance, not to share your relationship to Sir Frederick sooner.” An older woman dripping in jewels and condescension eyed Colin as if he were a morsel to be eaten. Her gown was easily twice the cost of his monthly rent, with gold fibers woven among the cream fabric.
Aunt chuckled, completely unfazed by the overly direct statement. “Colin, allow me to introduce Lady Kimball.”
“My lady,” he murmured, bowing over her multiringed hand.
“So you’re the son of the great Sir Frederick Tate,” she said, her dark eyes sweeping up and down his form. She clearly was a woman used to indulging her desires and made no effort to hide her perusal. “Are you in town for his memorial exhibit, then?”
“Indeed.” Colin dipped his head in assent, pushing away the flash of grief that seared his lungs. “It was exceedingly kind of the committee to invite me to be a part of it.” And fortuitous, in a ghastly sort of way.
The woman’s sly eyes seemed to miss nothing as she allowed a small grin. “Yes, well, since you didn’t see fit to hold his funeral here, I think it entirely appropriate that you should attempt to make up for it now.”
Colin clenched his jaw, biting back the retort that sprang to his lips. God forbid he go home to comfort his family and see to the burial rather than stay in London for the parade of insincere idiots who had seen his father as little more than a novelty. Father had lapped up the attention, but Colin knew the
Another matron stepped forward, her eyes bold and her color high. “Lady Churly, how could you keep such a delectable treat from us? You must introduce me.”
The introductions went on and on, until Colin’s head began to swim with all the Lord This and Lady Thats. He’d been in the same place for nearly half an hour, an island in the midst of a shifting sea of multicolored gowns and curious gazes. He was glancing longingly toward the terrace doors when Aunt Constance greeted yet another society matron.
“Lady Granville! Do please come meet my nephew.”
Suppressing a sigh, Colin turned back to his aunt with a polite smile. Beside her were two women, one in deep burgundy and the other in a cloud of white. The tension fell away all at once as he looked down into the wide sapphire eyes of his little nymph.
She’d come to him after all.
Triumph heated his blood as his brittle smile transitioned to something he recognized as genuine and honest. He dutifully turned his gaze to his aunt as she made the introductions.
“Colin, allow me introduce to you the Marchioness of Granville and her daughter Lady Beatrice.”
Good God, he knew exactly who she was: the Marquis of Granville’s second-oldest daughter. Colin mentally flipped through the details of the family that he’d learned from John’s lessons. Well-regarded family with an ungodly fortune, mostly from their vast estates, but also from the family’s horse-breeding venture. There was a hazy bit of gossip about her brother, the heir, from the previous Season, but Colin couldn’t recall the details just then. Lady Beatrice was nineteen years old, with twin sisters only a year behind her.
Most important of all, she was not on his short list.
Her family was too important, too powerful. His paltry title was child’s play in comparison, and it would be an insult to even imagine the girl would be a good match for him. And yet, for the first time since entering the ballroom, he felt a spark of interest in a debutant. All he could think about was how endearing she’d been in the quiet of the gallery earlier and how she had intrigued him. He was so exquisitely aware of her just then, it was all he could do to properly acknowledge her mother first.
He forced himself to look to Lady Granville, who was taller than her daughter, with bluish gray eyes and blond hair shot with silver. He bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“And yours as well, Sir Colin.”
He smiled his acknowledgment of the comment before allowing his gaze to slide to her daughter. Lady Beatrice’s eyes glittered even more brilliantly than her jewels in the bright candlelight, and for a moment he savored the secret that hung between them like an invisible thread. “I’m delighted to meet you as well. Lady Beatrice, was it?”
She nodded, taking his slight teasing in stride. He liked that—clearly she wasn’t at all the simpering miss the
He almost laughed. The sentence was a bold challenge, acknowledging her part of the bargain. She wasn’t afraid to swallow her pride after all, and he respected her all the more for it. “Not at all. In fact, I am honored in turn.” He hadn’t expected her to be the daughter of a marquis, for heaven’s sake, when he had asked her to save him the dance, but he wasn’t going to back down now. “And I wonder, do you have room on your dance card for a latecomer?”
She lifted a blond brow, her expression betraying a hint of mischief. “I’m afraid I do not, Sir Colin.”
Colin’s smile slipped the slightest amount as her words sank in. What was she playing at?
Leaning the slightest bit forward, she confided, “But I would sincerely love a turn about the terrace.”
Sir Frederick Tate’s son.
Beatrice tried unsuccessfully to keep the giddy grin from her lips as Sir Colin escorted her toward the terrace doors. She could scarcely believe it—she was touching the sleeve of the man who was the direct descendant of an artistic legend. His son!
The moment she had realized who he was, she promptly abandoned all her intentions of not seeking an introduction and went off to locate her mother, who had been delighted at Beatrice’s enthusiasm. But she decreed that they should wait until the crowd around him died down before approaching him and his aunt. The ensuing half hour had felt more like a half a day as Bea waited impatiently for the moment she could speak with him once more.
And now, instead of dancing in front of a roomful of people, they would be able to be alone again—or very
