Without even making a conscious decision to do so, she started sliding sideways a quarter inch at a time. The edge of the drape was tantalizingly close, and if she could only make it over far enough to peek out, the burning curiosity would be satiated.
She barely breathed as she moved, pacing herself to about the speed of paint drying. At this rate, it would probably strike midnight before she could catch a glimpse of the mystery person in the room with her. For the thousandth time, she wondered who Lady Churly had secured for the ball. The woman was well respected and in all the best circles, so Beatrice knew it wouldn’t be anyone scandalous or improper, which didn’t leave much in the way of interesting people. She had pondered the topic all week—along with the rest of the
Which annoyed her to no end.
Now was her chance. She could be the first to know who it was, a thought so tantalizing, she moved the slightest bit faster the last two inches toward freedom—more like the speed of grass growing. The gold velvet brushed across her hair, then her temple, and finally slid past her right eye.
Success!
The flash of triumph was immediately trumped by something else altogether as she focused on a man leaning against the opposite wall, his arms folded and amusement lifting the corners of his mouth. Her stomach flopped to the floor with an almost audible thump.
He was staring directly back at her.
“So this is the lady who belongs to the scent of lilacs. How lovely of you to come out and join me.”
He was amused.
She was not.
Never mind that the almost musical lilt of his Scottish-tinged accent sent a shiver down the back of Bea’s already chilled neck. If he knew she was there, he should have had the decency to say as much. Embarrassment stiffened her spine—Lord, she must look a fool. With as much dignity as one in her position could muster, she extracted herself from the heavy drapes and shook out her skirts. “Yes, well, since you wouldn’t leave like a proper gentleman, it seems as though I had little choice.”
He lifted a dark eyebrow, tilting his head just enough so that a lock of midnight black hair fell across his temple. “I do beg your pardon. I should have left the moment I realized there was a debutant-shaped lump behind the curtains.”
Well, when he said it like that. She lifted her chin regally. “Pardon granted, Mr. . . . ?”
She waited, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he pushed away from the wall, closing the distance between them with measured, unhurried steps. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had a certain presence about him, as if he could command an army, if so inclined. She couldn’t have taken her eyes from him if she wanted to.
With every step he took, her heartbeat seemed to increase, until it fluttered like a caged bird beneath her breast. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not like her brother or even her brother-in-law. His appeal was much more intense than that. His jaw looked as sharp as if it were carved from granite and already possessed the slightest hint of dark stubble. His cheeks angled high, almost like a woman’s, but his bold, masculine brow provided exactly enough counterbalance to give his features exquisite symmetry and depth. Such unique beauty made her fingers itch to take up her brushes and commit his visage to canvas.
Her gaze was too bold by half, but he didn’t seem to mind her inspection. In fact, he watched her right back, his flint-colored eyes seeming to take in everything about her, leaving her feeling quite exposed. “Now, now, we haven’a been introduced. I wouldn’a want to break protocol at my very first ball. Unless, of course, it is your wish, Miss . . . ?”
Beatrice almost smiled. She’d as soon walk naked through the ballroom than tell him who she was. A lady did
She realized then the importance of what he had said: This was his first ball. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the mystery guest Lady Churly was so eager to present. Who was this man? He was five-and- twenty if he was a day, so why had he never been to a ball? Beatrice’s curiosity rebelled with an almost physical force, but she firmly tamped it down. She was dying to know who he was, this man with the lyrical voice, compelling features, and unmistakable air of mystery, but not at the price of revealing her own identity.
“Indeed.” He paused at exactly the proper distance away and folded his arms, considering her. “Although I suspect that you doona always play by the rules.” He nodded to the curtains behind her.
This time she did smile. “My character exposed in two minutes or less. Alas, I cannot deny it. Following the rules will gain you naught but a stellar reputation and a tremendously boring life.” Her older siblings, Evie and Richard, had taught her that much.
His answering smile was nearly as delicious as his accent, his perfectly bowed upper lip curving to reveal beautiful white teeth. Beatrice pressed her lips together. She hated the crooked front tooth that marred her own smile.
“Then you’d think me very tedious, indeed, I’m afraid,” he said, mock regret weighting his tone. “I must admit, I am a rule follower to a fault.”
She very nearly rolled her eyes. Any man with a face like that couldn’t possibly be boring. “I don’t believe you. If you were a rule follower, you would never have waited for me to emerge. Speaking alone with a strange female in a darkened gallery is not exactly perfect protocol.”
His grin widened as he lifted a shoulder in a sort of half shrug. “Then it is a very good thing that you doona know my name. I’d hate to have it bandied about that I was anything less than a perfect gentleman upon my entrance into society.”
“And if we encounter each other by chance?”
“Then I’ll throw myself upon your mercy to protect my reputation. In fact, perhaps I should do so now. Preemptively, so as I know I’m safe.”
She crossed her arms and nodded, unable to resist playing along. There was something about the anonymity of the moment that was almost intoxicating, like a first sip of champagne. “Very well—you may commence groveling.”
He dipped his head gravely. “As you wish. Though I wonder how I should address you.” He took in her elegant gown and the emeralds decorating her ears and neck. “Princess, perhaps?”
“I should think not,” she said, wrinkling her nose. That was the very last thing she would wish to be called. Though she was the daughter of a marquis, she was no overly privileged, dreadfully coddled princess. “I value my freedom much too fervently for that.”
“Clearly.” Even in the low light, she could see the irony in his gaze. Which was a good thing, since it was deuced hard to detect it in the lilt of his accent. “
“A story? How on earth does that suit me?”
“Not ‘a story,’” he said, pantomiming opening a book. “
She sucked in a surprised breath, warmth infusing her whole body before flooding her face. His
Before she could think of a response, he chuckled. “As in
“Of course not,” she replied, nodding as though her mind hadn’t gone directly to that “something else.” “You may call me whatever you wish. Now, on with the groveling, if you please—I’ll be missed if I remain much longer.” She hoped the soft strains of music from the ballroom disguised the breathlessness of her voice.
He stepped forward, bringing them closer than even the most liberal of hosts would have deemed proper. He put a hand to his heart and dipped his head to hers. Mischief lit his eyes, subtly challenging her. She blinked— why did he suddenly look so familiar?
“I beg you,
