Flirting With Fortune swak-3

by Erin Knightley

  The woman’s sly eyes seemed to miss nothing as she allowed a small grin. “Yes, well, since you didn’t see fit to hold his funeral here, I think it entirely appropriate that you should attempt to make up for it now.”

  Colin clenched his jaw, biting back the retort that sprang to his lips. God forbid he go home to comfort his family and see to the burial rather than stay in London for the parade of insincere idiots who had seen his father as little more than a novelty. Father had lapped up the attention, but Colin knew the ton had no real respect for him, their shiny little plaything. “I’m so glad you approve.”

  Another matron stepped forward, her eyes bold and her color high. “Lady Churly, how could you keep such a delectable treat from us? You must introduce me.”

  The introductions went on and on, until Colin’s head began to swim with all the Lord This and Lady Thats. He’d been in the same place for nearly half an hour, an island in the midst of a shifting sea of multicolored gowns and curious gazes. He was glancing longingly toward the terrace doors when Aunt Constance greeted yet another society matron.

  “Lady Granville! Do please come meet my nephew.”

  Suppressing a sigh, Colin turned back to his aunt with a polite smile. Beside her were two women, one in deep burgundy and the other in a cloud of white. The tension fell away all at once as he looked down into the wide sapphire eyes of his little nymph.

  She’d come to him after all.

  Triumph heated his blood as his brittle smile transitioned to something he recognized as genuine and honest. He dutifully turned his gaze to his aunt as she made the introductions.

  “Colin, allow me introduce to you the Marchioness of Granville and her daughter Lady Beatrice.”

  Good God, he knew exactly who she was: the Marquis of Granville’s second-oldest daughter. Colin mentally flipped through the details of the family that he’d learned from John’s lessons. Well-regarded family with an ungodly fortune, mostly from their vast estates, but also from the family’s horse-breeding venture. There was a hazy bit of gossip about her brother, the heir, from the previous Season, but Colin couldn’t recall the details just then. Lady Beatrice was nineteen years old, with twin sisters only a year behind her.

  Most important of all, she was not on his short list.

  Her family was too important, too powerful. His paltry title was child’s play in comparison, and it would be an insult to even imagine the girl would be a good match for him. And yet, for the first time since entering the ballroom, he felt a spark of interest in a debutant. All he could think about was how endearing she’d been in the quiet of the gallery earlier and how she had intrigued him. He was so exquisitely aware of her just then, it was all he could do to properly acknowledge her mother first.

  He forced himself to look to Lady Granville, who was taller than her daughter, with bluish gray eyes and blond hair shot with silver. He bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

  “And yours as well, Sir Colin.”

  He smiled his acknowledgment of the comment before allowing his gaze to slide to her daughter. Lady Beatrice’s eyes glittered even more brilliantly than her jewels in the bright candlelight, and for a moment he savored the secret that hung between them like an invisible thread. “I’m delighted to meet you as well. Lady Beatrice, was it?”

  She nodded, taking his slight teasing in stride. He liked that—clearly she wasn’t at all the simpering miss the ton seemed to prize. “It is an honor to meet the son of one of the greatest painters to have ever lived. I hope you don’t mind us seeking the introduction.”

  He almost laughed. The sentence was a bold challenge, acknowledging her part of the bargain. She wasn’t afraid to swallow her pride after all, and he respected her all the more for it. “Not at all. In fact, I am honored in turn.” He hadn’t expected her to be the daughter of a marquis, for heaven’s sake, when he had asked her to save him the dance, but he wasn’t going to back down now. “And I wonder, do you have room on your dance card for a latecomer?”

  She lifted a blond brow, her expression betraying a hint of mischief. “I’m afraid I do not, Sir Colin.”

  Colin’s smile slipped the slightest amount as her words sank in. What was she playing at?

  Leaning the slightest bit forward, she confided, “But I would sincerely love a turn about the terrace.”

  Chapter Four

  Sir Frederick Tate’s son.

  Beatrice tried unsuccessfully to keep the giddy grin from her lips as Sir Colin escorted her toward the terrace doors. She could scarcely believe it—she was touching the sleeve of the man who was the direct descendant of an artistic legend. His son!

  The moment she had realized who he was, she promptly abandoned all her intentions of not seeking an introduction and went off to locate her mother, who had been delighted at Beatrice’s enthusiasm. But she decreed that they should wait until the crowd around him died down before approaching him and his aunt. The ensuing half hour had felt more like a half a day as Bea waited impatiently for the moment she could speak with him once more.

  And now, instead of dancing in front of a roomful of people, they would be able to be alone again—or very 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.”

  My lady. It’s what she’d been called her whole life—rightly so—but for some reason the words wrinkled her nose. “Only an hour ago you called me a stór. Are we to be so formal now?”

  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 glim
pse 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, Lady Beatrice would mind. Beatrice, however, would be delighted.”

  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.”

  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 wanted a husband like him. Someone with a title and the favor of the Prince Regent. He just had to remember that.

  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.”