nearly so, in any event. Completely by her design, of course. Normally at a function like this, the terrace would be filled to bursting with other people. But it was October, and Beatrice knew full well that it would likely be empty.
They paused by the door as a servant appeared with the wrap her mother had summoned, and when she was properly bundled, they stepped outside. Cold air immediately engulfed her. She gave a little shiver—half excitement, half chill.
“Are you certain you wish to remain, my lady? If you’re cold, we can take a turn about the room, instead.”
He kept his eyes trained ahead, but pulled his arm—and by extension, her—closer to his side. She didn’t resist in the slightest. “An hour ago I dinna know you were a lady. I’d never have been so familiar if I’d had any clue you were the daughter of a marquis.”
“And I’d have never been so bold if I’d known you were the son of Britain’s most celebrated painter.”
He paused beside the stone balustrade and looked down at her, his eyes reflecting the dancing torchlight. With her fingers still resting on his arm, she could feel his muscles relax now that they were away from the crowd, farthest from the glass doors. The hint of mischievousness that had so enticed her in the gallery lifted the corners of his lips once more. “Well, then,” he said, his voice low and intimate in the yawning darkness of the garden beyond, “I suppose we are very fortunate indeed to have had such an unorthodox non-introduction.”
She lifted a single eyebrow. “Perhaps more providence than fortune. I shouldn’t have even been there at all, but I so wanted to see your father’s portraits.” Realization dawned then. No wonder he had seemed so familiar when she met him—moments earlier she had been looking at a portrait of him! The very thought sent a shiver of delight through her.
What must it have been like, not only to be the son of a master, but to have been his subject as well? She smiled, hoping she didn’t look as awestruck as she felt. “I imagine you were there for the same reason.”
His jaw tightened the slightest bit. Blast—she hadn’t intended to be so insensitive. It had been only six months since he’d lost his father. She pressed her eyes closed—for heaven’s sake, she was still shaky about her father’s illness last Season, and he was mostly recovered. “I truly am sorry for your loss. I imagine knowing that the whole country mourns with you does little to ease the pain.”
He let out a harsh breath, the evidence of which rose in a cloud between them. “Thank you. It is . . . hard to think on him sometimes, but I need to move forward.” He set his lips into a determined smile. “Tell me, are you so great an admirer of his, then? Was a glimpse of his work worth being discovered by an ill-mannered brute such as myself?”
She chuckled, relieved that he was smiling once more. “Hardly a brute. And, yes, seeing such incredible skill and talent would be worth all manner of punishments. I am a painter myself—not nearly so talented as he, of course—and seeing his work is nourishment for my soul.”
“Ah, a painter,” he said, nodding as if everything made sense to him now. “Are you a portrait painter, or are you fond of still life?”
“Whatever moves me. I’ve done a few portraits, but I think my favorites are landscape—particularly where man and nature meet. I think your father’s earliest work is the most inspirational to me. I only wish I had the opportunity to see another of his early Scottish landscapes.”
She’d surprised him, judging by the quick cocking of his head and the wrinkling of his brow. “You know of his early works, then? And you’ve seen one?”
“Indeed. I was absolutely enthralled when I saw his portrait of Lord and Lady Hamilton several years back. I’m embarrassed to tell you I may have become slightly obsessed, and set out to learn as much as possible about the man. As a gift for my sixteenth birthday, my father arranged a showing at the Earl of Northup’s personal collection. Among the works were three portraits and one small but magnificent landscape.”
Sir Colin whistled low under his breath. “Father’s very first patron. I dinna think he allowed anyone into his home anymore.”
“He doesn’t,” she confirmed, biting her lip against her satisfied smile. “But my father can be very persuasive when he chooses.” It was far and away the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. There was no doubt that Papa wanted the best for each of his children, but nothing else had better demonstrated to her his desire for them to be happy as well.
“They were his favorite, you know,” he said quietly, looking out into the blackness beyond the balustrade.
“What were?”
“The landscapes.” He turned to face her, the sharp angles of his jaw somehow softened. “He loved them most. He had incredible talent for portraits and realized early on that was how he could make his living, but he never forgot his first love.”
It was intoxicating, learning such intimate details of Sir Frederick’s life before fame from the man’s own son. She found herself leaning forward, close enough to feel the heat of his body and smell the teasing hints of his masculine scent. “I had no idea,” she breathed.
The door rattled open and a pair of men stepped out onto the terrace, bringing reality back with them. They nodded as they walked past, apparently headed for the mews. Sir Colin straightened, putting distance between them. “Perhaps we should return before your mother starts to worry.”
Beatrice sighed, knowing he was right. “Yes, I suppose so. I must say, however, that I enjoyed our conversations very much this evening—both of them.”
“As did I.”
They should have started for the door, but neither of them moved. Beatrice looked up at him, her heart suddenly pounding in her ears as their gazes met and held. She expelled a slow breath, mindful of the fact that the cold air would betray her if she wasn’t careful. “Sir Colin . . .”
“Colin, please.”
“Colin, then,” she said, savoring the return to more intimate terms. It gave her the courage to say the words that no proper debutant should. “When might I see you again?”
There—she’d said it. Exhilaration at her boldness heated her from the inside out, warming her chilled body. He’d have to be a simpleton not to catch her meaning. She really didn’t want to come right out and ask him to call on her. She would do it, if it meant the only way to see him again, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to. She swallowed. The very thought of Sir Frederick’s son knocking on the black lacquered door of Granville House was enough to bring butterflies to her stomach.
His smile was small but genuine. “Then, you wouldn’a mind if I called on you, Lady Beatrice?”
They both knew that she had as good as asked him to say it, but she didn’t particularly care, and he didn’t seem to mind either. When a woman gets what she wants, there is no point in worrying about the method. Feeling playful, she nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes, you’d mind?”
“Yes,
He gave a surprised laugh. “Well, then, it sounds as though I can please only one. I suppose we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see whose wish is granted.”
He had lost his bloody mind.
As he returned Beatrice to her mother, Colin’s analytical brain outlined all the reasons he should have left well enough alone. She was a lady. Her father was a powerful marquis. He had absolutely nothing to offer her.
And yet, for once, he didn’t give a damn about his difficult situation. Something about her brought out the carefree side of him, something he thought smothered years ago. Despite the worst possible timing, what harm could a single visit do? Fifteen minutes certainly wasn’t going to disrupt his plans.
“Careful, man.” John handed him a glass of champagne and smiled, nothing in his countenance betraying his warning tone. “That one may be a path to trouble. Her family is not only powerful, but also somewhat eccentric. Best stick to the list we came up with earlier.”
