Colin accepted the drink and nodded mildly in response. Nothing he didn’t already know. He didn’t need to ask to know that John wouldn’t approve of the impulsive offer he had just made her. “Agreed.”
“You’ve many a young lady’s interest piqued. High time you get on with the dancing.”
“Suggestions for my first dance?”
John’s gaze swept the ballroom, a soldier surveying the battlefield. “Miss Briggs is looking right your way, cousin. Number two on the list, if I am not mistaken.”
Miss Henrietta Briggs. Granddaughter of a prominent silk merchant who mushroomed some thirty years ago. Father active in the House of Commons and mother was the granddaughter of a viscount. The family made no bones of their desire to land a title for Henrietta. Dowry was quite respectable, but not indecently so. Her looks were rather unfortunate, and according to John, she had a tendency to chatter, which, combined with her origins, explained why she was as of yet unmarried.
Damn but he hated that he knew all of this about the girl.
Colin pushed aside his self-disgust, focusing on the image of his sweet sister, Cora, and his brother, Rhys. They needed him. Gran needed him. And as John said—this was business. Taking a bracing breath, he nodded for his cousin to lead the way, then smiled toward Miss Briggs and started toward her. She
But even as he approached, his mind wandered to the memory of his nymph emerging from the curtains, her eyes wide with surprise that he was waiting for her. No matter how ill conceived his offer to her may have been, he couldn’t wait for the moment he could speak with her again.
Beatrice cursed her unfortunate luck. Clearly Mr. Godfrey was determined to dance with her this evening. She had managed to elude him twice, but she was in his sights again. So far tonight she had seen him dancing with the heiress Miss Briggs, the Earl of Kilmartin’s youngest daughter, Lady Sarah, and the newly widowed Lady Brighton, whose husband had reportedly left a great fortune. And that was it. He had sat out several sets, despite the number of young ladies lingering near the dance floor, trying to hide their hopefulness at being asked to dance.
She could feel his determined gaze on the back of her neck like an unwanted insect, skittering across the fine hairs at her nape. She subtly increased her pace. As soon as she spotted him striding along the perimeter of the ballroom toward her, she’d taken off in the opposite direction, and now they both circled the dance floor in a sort of slow-motion game of cat-and-mouse. She scanned the room for a viable escape route, all the while nodding pleasantly and smiling vaguely to those she passed. She didn’t want to get trapped into conversation, giving her pursuer a chance to catch up.
“If you’re in need of rescue,” a deep, teasing voice murmured at her ear, “I happen to know of someone who is sans white horse at the moment, but still very much a Knight in shining armor.”
Bea grinned in relief, glad to have a suitable diversion. “I must say, Mr. Knight, your jacket looks more velvet than steel.” At one-and-twenty, he was one of the youngest gentlemen present tonight. He knew full well how handsome he was, but somehow always came across as confident as opposed to arrogant or pretentious.
“True enough, my lady,” he said, brushing a hand at the chocolate fabric, which was a shade darker than his amber eyes. “But armor is dreadfully gauche this Season, don’t you think?”
Beatrice had little more than a passing acquaintance with the man, but with Mr. Godfrey bearing down on them, she seized the escape Mr. Knight offered, stepping close and bending her head toward his. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that. Perhaps you could start a trend.”
She was blathering, but at least her tactic was working. Mr. Godfrey brushed past them without a word, his posture stiff. Beside her, Mr. Knight said something, and she turned her attention back to him. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“I said, it looks as though your rescue was a success. Shall we dance, for good measure?”
Oh drat, she hadn’t meant to encourage him. He was a nice enough person, but he reminded her far and away too much of Richard when he was a young buck. Back when wild oats had been the only thing worth sowing. Besides, next to Colin, Mr. Knight looked more like a boy than a man—never mind that he was still two years her senior.
“Actually, I was just on my way to the retiring room for a bit of a rest. Perhaps later?”
He grinned and nodded, reaching forward and catching her hand before lifting it to his lips for a brief kiss. “I should be so fortunate.”
She smiled as he spoke, but really her attention was leveled on her own hand, which rested limply in his. After the fireworks that the same gesture had elicited with Colin, it was a bit jarring to realize that she felt absolutely nothing now.
With a nod, she freed her hand and made a beeline for the corridor leading to the ladies’ retiring room. Here, at least, she would have sanctuary. She slipped through the door, closed it behind her, and leaned against it gratefully. Perhaps she could hide in here until Mama was ready to return home at last. After all, it was impossible to imagine anything better happening tonight than meeting Colin.
She allowed her eyes to close, putting a hand to the side of her neck, feeling the pounding of her own pulse. She could spend ages trying to get the color of his eyes just right on canvas. Not gray, not brown, not dark or light. Like smoke rising from wood still too green to be burned. His face—now that, she could get exactly right. Bold slashes for his dark eyebrows, sharp angles for his high cheekbones, a decisive brushstroke for the perfect line of his jaw.
Now, if only there were a way to translate that accent to paints. She shivered just thinking about it. Even Sir Frederick couldn’t have captured that particular delight, talented as he was. She really, really did hope Colin came to call on her tomorrow.
Blowing out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, she pushed away from the door and made her way to one of the mirrors hung above a large bureau. It was a pleasant space, with golden light shimmering from the low lamps interspersed along the floral-papered walls. The air was warm and lavender scented, helping to calm her nerves after her little escape.
A sniffle behind one of the screens brought her up short. With three sisters, Beatrice knew the watery sound of someone in tears. She held still, listening carefully over the low strains of music filtering through the closed door. There, from the very back of the room, came the soft hitching of someone trying not to sob. She put her hand to her heart—she hated when others were hurting.
Softly, so not to startle the poor girl, Beatrice whispered, “Is everything all right?”
The cessation of noise was so abrupt, Beatrice suspected the girl had stopped breathing altogether. She turned and stepped closer to the screen. “Can I get you something to drink, perhaps? Or a cool cloth for your face?”
“Beatrice? Is that you?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Yes. Who is that?”
Fabric rustled before a woman with silky brown curls peeked around the partition. Beatrice blinked in surprise. “Diana! Whatever is the matter?” She instinctively held out her arms, and Diana stepped into them. She pressed her wet cheeks against Bea’s shoulder and shook with a quiet sob.
At a loss for what to say, Bea patted her back awkwardly, making the soft, soothing sounds she used to quiet her niece when Emma was fussy. She had barely seen Diana, the new Mrs. Rochester, since her marriage last summer. They had debuted together and had become fast friends, but they had lost touch by the end of the Season, after Bea’s father had become ill. Beatrice hadn’t even attended the wedding, since it was the same week as her brother, Richard’s.
At last Diana pulled away, sheepishly wiping her tears with her already damp gloves. Beatrice leaned forward to retrieve a linen from the bureau and handed it to the soggy Diana.
“Thank you.” She sniffled, dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose.
“Of course. Here now, let us sit down and be comfortable.” She led her to the plush pink settee pushed against the back wall. Once they were seated, Bea patted Diana’s arm. “Now, then, what on earth has you so upset?”
“I’m just such an idiot,” she said, twisting the square of linen in her hand. “I’m only coming to realize exactly how much of a fool I truly am.”
