damn lovely. Any other woman might have fallen to pieces after such a horrid experience. Not only was she not in hysterics, but she looked to be plotting her revenge.
“I see your point. Both of them. You know, I think I may plead a headache and go home.”
He wanted to ask if she was really all right, but decided to let it be. She had a right to take her time to recover from such a traumatic episode.
“Of course. Shall we reschedule our plans as well?”
She gave a quick shake of her head, jostling the slightly worse for wear blond curls framing her face. “No, of course not. I can think of nothing I would like to do more.” She drew a deep breath, her creamy skin rising above the embroidered bodice of her gown. “And thank you. By the time I got my wits about me well enough to inflict the defensive maneuver my brother once showed me, we likely would have been discovered.”
“Glad to be of service.” And he was—immensely so. And not only for her sake—though that was the brunt of it. But if he hadn’t arrived in time, any hope of making a match with her would have been dashed. It was a thought he could hardly bear to consider. It had absolutely nothing to do with her fortune and everything to do with . . . her.
The lead moved so forcefully against the paper, the ominous tearing sound that rent the air was hardly a surprise. “Blast and damn,” Beatrice muttered, confident that no one would hear her curse.
She was too angry to be doing this now. She gathered up the paper between her hands, balling it up and tossing it in the low fire burning in the grate. The problem was, she needed to do it now. Drawing the cartoon for the next letter to the magazine while her stomach still churned and her anger simmered was a good thing—it would make her do what needed to be done to prevent this sort of thing from happening to someone else.
She could write the letter later; she could carefully redraw the cartoon later, but right then, the most important thing was capturing her emotions on the page. No other woman should ever be forced into an unwanted betrothal because of a clever, conniving fortune hunter.
Drawing in a deep breath, she pulled out another sheet of paper and laid it out, picking up her pencil once more. This time, she wasn’t going to pull her punches.
“How on earth did you arrange all this?” Beatrice shook her head in wonder, sweeping a hand around to encompass the remarkably clean easel, the fresh, white canvas, the neatly arranged paints, and the selection of brushes. It was such a fantastic display, even Rose raised an eyebrow before taking out her book and retreating to the bench just outside the door. Yes, technically she should be in the same room with them, but could Beatrice help it if there were no places to sit in the small studio?
One side of Colin’s mouth tipped up in a pleased grin. “Connections. I told them I wished to have a reproduction of one of my father’s paintings before it was sent back to the owner after the exhibit. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of leaving the gallery with one of the pieces, so they arranged for this.”
“You clever, clever man. What happens if they discover your fib?”
“I’ll simply say that it turned out that genius could not be copied.”
Beatrice grinned. “Well, that much is true. I suppose we should get started right away. Mama will expect me back in a little over an hour and a half.” It was more time than she’d expected to get, but not nearly enough for what she wanted. “Can you lean against the window, the way you did in the studio?”
“I am yours to command,” he said, bowing before dutifully carrying out her bidding. Beatrice ignored the gooseflesh that peppered her arms at his melodic voice. He was absolute trouble, and she loved him for it.
After a few adjustments, he was in place, his gorgeous face bathed in half-light as he leaned casually against the casing. Instead of angling his gaze out the window, his stormy eyes were cut toward her, watching her as she sketched the outline onto the canvas. She worked quickly, trying to avoid those watchful eyes, lest her concentration falter.
“Are you certain you are recovered from your ordeal?” His voice was soft with concern and undemanding in a way that made her want to confess her plans for her letter.
Completely imprudent, of course. The fewer people who knew, the better. Instead, she simply nodded as she kept her eyes on the drawing. “Quite certain. I wouldn’t let a scoundrel like him ruin a day like this.”
“Are you certain there isn’a some amount of Scot in your blood?”
A smile curved her lips as she outlined the angles of his jaw. “We English are made of sterner stock than you realize, I think. My sister Evie once crossed two counties on horseback with her injured arm in a sling.”
“Really? Then the both of you must have the Scottish blood. You are siblings, after all.”
She flicked a light sarcastic glance his way before concentrating on the two-dimensional version of the man. “And are Scottish lasses really as hearty as all that?”
“Certainly. Legend has it Gran once fought a bear with naught but a cast-iron pan, a spoon, and a bit of ribbon.”
“My, that is impressive. With such stalwart females to choose from, it’s little wonder you’ve avoided us wilting English violets.”
He chuckled, managing to stay perfectly still as he did so. “I canna think of a single person who is further from being a wilting violet than you,
Pleasure at both his comment and the endearment slipped across her skin like a warm breeze, making her shiver in delight. Some women, perhaps even most, might have considered such a statement to be a bad thing, as if disparaging their femininity. But for Beatrice, he could hardly have offered a more pleasing compliment. “Mama would be devastated to hear you say that.”
“No, I doona think so.”
She paused, looking up with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t you? Between us sisters, she’s forever correcting our heathen selves.”
He pursed his lips, as if considering this, then shook his head. “She wants you to do well in society, but I think she’s proud of you all. You can see it in her eyes every time she looks at you.”
His comment made her smile. She didn’t doubt it, either—no matter how much she fussed at them, Mama had always been free with her love when it came to her family—unlike many in the beau monde.
Beatrice tilted her head at the sketch on the canvas, her critical eye passing back and forth between the drawing and her subject. She sighed—she was never going to get him to look out the window as she wanted. She might as well portray him as his father had, looking directly at the artist. “I think perhaps it would be more natural if you simply looked at me. Turn your head a bit more in my direction. No, not that much. Yes, that’s good.”
Setting to work correcting the angle of his head, she thought of how different their upbringings had been. How different would her life have been without Mama’s constant presence? Turning a critical eye toward him, she studied his expression for a moment before turning back to the sketch. “Do you miss your mother?”
“Every day,” he said without hesitation. “Maybe it would be different if she had died when I was younger, but at five, my entire world revolved around her.”
She didn’t doubt it. If something happened to her parents, as had almost happened to Papa earlier in the year, Beatrice doubted she would ever get over the loss. “How did she die?” It was a bold, nosy question, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Her heart squeezed for the little boy in the portrait, his eyes so serious and challenging at such a young age.
“The usual,” he said, his shoulder hitching up in a halfhearted shrug. “She and my brother died in childbirth.”
Beatrice’s breath caught—he’d lost his mother and his brother in the same day? Her heart melted for the man, let alone the boy she’d never known. “I’m so sorry. How heartbreaking to lose them both at a time that should have been joyful.” She shuddered to think of how things could have been different when Evie had Emma.
“Yes.” The single word was filled with a wealth of emotions. For a moment he was quiet, doing nothing more than holding his pose. “It might have been different if my father had handled it better—not that I blame him. He loved my mother very much. When he lost her, he lost his wife, his helpmate, his son’s mother, and his greatest champion.”
Perhaps it was his hollow tone, or the sudden sadness weighing the corner of his lips down, but for some reason she felt as though she had hit upon a nerve. “But your father loved you, too, of course.”
“He did, I think. In his own way. Just as I loved him in my own way. But growing up with a man more
