She gave a small curtsy and giggled. “We’ve been introduced, actually. Last week at your aunt’s ball, in fact. But with the scores of people clambering for an introduction to the great Sir Frederick Tate’s son, it’s little wonder you don’t remember. But it’s ever so nice to meet you again.”
Colin tried not to cringe. There was no accusation in her words at all, but he should have remembered meeting the girl. She definitely wasn’t on his list, but that was no excuse. “I must have been terribly overwhelmed not to remember one as lovely as you. Perhaps you will allow me to make amends, and dance with me tonight? Actually, a man could do no better than to be granted dances by the both of you.”
Miss Wembley shook her head, her brown eyes sparkling affably. “I hadn’t taken you for the charmer, Sir Colin, but I am happy to find you are. I know you are just being polite, but I would be delighted to share a dance with you.” She offered up her dance card, and he chose a quadrille toward the end of the evening.
“Thank you, Miss Wembley. Hopefully you won’t mind dancing with a half-Scottish barrister baronet with less than impressive rhythm.”
“You’ve wonderful rhythm,” Lady Beatrice said, her lips tilted up with a nearly imperceptible hint of mischief. No one standing around them would have any idea she was referring to a rogue Scottish reel in the middle of a staid portrait gallery.
He loved that about her. Playfulness in the midst of all this proper society nonsense. Keeping his expression utterly bland, he nodded. “Why, thank you, Lady Beatrice. The same could be said about you. I wonder, do you have room on your dance card for one more?”
“Hmm,” she murmured, producing her card and frowning down at it. “It appears all I have left is the next waltz. Will that do?”
This time he did grin, imagining what it would be like to hold her in his arms. “I think I can handle that.” He accepted the card and the little pencil from her, then looked for the open spot. He blinked, confusion knitting his brow. Every spot was empty save for a single dance, which appeared to be claimed by Godfrey. He glanced back up at her, and she gave him a completely innocent smile.
It was all he could do to keep a straight face as he returned his attention to the card and filled in his name in the appropriate slot. Breaking the rules again, his little
When he was finished, he bowed to both girls. “Miss Wembley, I look forward to our dance later this evening. Lady Beatrice,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’m sure this dance will be as delightful as our last.”
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
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.
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
