“Such beautiful skin. As pure as silk and twice as soft.” Now he was using his most effective weapon—that mesmerizing accent of his.
Colin let his fingertip trail down the column of her throat and along the edge of her cashmere shawl. He pulled away, and she almost protested until his hands found her waist and slowly, inexorably, pulled her to him. When she was oh so lightly pressed against his chest, he leaned down and nuzzled the sensitive skin just below her ear.
Good heavens, she could hardly breathe and he hadn’t even touched his lips to her yet.
“I love how perfectly petite you are. You fit against me as if we were molded for each other. See how well my hands fit your waist?”
Yes, she did. His touch was still feather light, though, and she longed to feel him embrace her solidly, pulling her against him.
When his lips finally touched her neck, she sucked in a lungful of air, squeezing her eyes shut against the need to turn to him, to give him her lips and have him kiss her properly. Each kiss seemed lighter than the one before, so soft he could have been trailing her finest paintbrush across her skin. Even so, she felt every one through her whole body, as if a thread wound from each spot, and each kiss, each pull of the thread made her fingers and toes curl.
It was the sweetest torture she could have ever imagined.
“I swear, a stór, you taste every bit as good as you smell.” His whispered words were as sweet as a caress, and she bit her lip against the need to turn around.
His lips found her earlobe, a spot she had never considered anyplace of note. She was wrong. Lord have mercy, was she wrong. Of its own volition, her head tilted toward him, silently begging for more. He obliged, scraping the incredibly sensitive skin with his teeth.
And she was lost.
She turned to him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pressed her lips hard against his. He didn’t hold back, didn’t torture her with any more featherlight touches. Instead, his arms went fully around her waist, pulling her to him so tightly that her feet left the ground.
She no longer felt the cold, no longer heard the birds or smelled the leaves. All there was in the world was the heat of his body, his scent, his strength, his soul.
By the time he set her down, they were both panting, leaning against each other as they tried to catch their breath.
After a moment, he sighed and smiled down at her. “Havers, lass, perhaps we should get back before I decide to whisk you away to Gretna Green and be done with it.”
She didn’t even try to stop the giddy grin that came to her lips. Yes, they should definitely get back, because at this rate, she might just let him.
* * *
She wasn’t going to make it. Yes, Beatrice knew that she should wait to tell anyone about the betrothal until Papa and Evie had been properly notified, but she was fairly dying with the need to tell someone about it. She couldn’t possibly share all that had transpired between her and Colin, but at least she could share her happiness.
Which, incidentally, was how she came to find herself being shown into Sophie’s drawing room the very next day.
“Beatrice!” her friend exclaimed, her dark, curly brown hair fluttering about as she rushed to greet her. She was as bright and sunny as her lemon-colored gown, holding her hands out in greeting. “I’m so glad to see you. I should have known you’d come the moment I laid eyes on it this morning.”
It? Beatrice came up short, all thoughts of her good news falling by the wayside. “Laid eyes on what?”
Sophie looked at her as if her dress were on backward. “Whatever do you mean, ‘laid eyes on what?’ What else? A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion, of course. You must have seen the second letter that was printed there.”
How could she have possibly forgotten that it would be out today? It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had written the letter and drawn the cartoon. But, having already acted as though she had no idea what Sophie was talking about, Bea shook her head. “My copy must have been filched by my sisters. What does it say?”
Sophie gaped at her. “Truly? Do you mean I actually know something before you do? Gracious, what a red-letter day. And I can’t possibly do it justice from memory. Give me just a moment and I’ll go fetch it.”
She hurried away, nearly knocking over a spindly little side table in her haste. Red-letter day, indeed. Biting her lip, Bea settled on the settee beside the fireplace, extending her hands to the warmth. She couldn’t wait to see the next installment. She was doubly happy now that she had finished it while she was still so furious at Mr. Godfrey. With the sort of bliss currently flowing through her veins, she doubted she could have gotten across the force of her emotion on the subject.
The patter of Sophie’s slippered feet on the wood floor heralded her return. “This one is quite a bit bolder than last time—just wait until you see it. There is absolutely no possible way this isn’t Mr. Godfrey.”
She plopped down on the cushions beside Beatrice and thrust the magazine into her waiting hands. Ignoring the letter, Bea’s eyes went directly to the cartoon, which filled the entire lower half of the page. “I do believe you’re right,” she murmured, mainly because she could tell Sophie was waiting for her to say something.
“Of course I’m right—even a blind person could see the resemblance. Well, not a blind person, but certainly someone exceptionally shortsighted. His features are hardly even caricatured.” She swept a finger over the perfect likeness of his hair and facial features, all of which Monsieur Allard had painstakingly transcribed in the etching.
“Indeed,” Beatrice replied absently, studying the scene on the page before her. In it, two men were synchronizing their watches, all the while leering at a young woman standing nearby. The caption read, Give me three minutes to get her alone and then pretend to stumble upon us. By the end of the night, her dowry will be as good as lining my pockets.
“He must be absolutely livid to be represented this way. Do you think this is based on something that actually happened? Oh,” Sophie exclaimed, her hand going to her mouth as her eyes widened, “do you think the author is getting revenge? How utterly scandalous!”
“I don’t think it is so much revenge as the man getting what he deserved.”
Sophie’s brow knitted. “Isn’t that revenge? I mean, if he did something truly dreadful and the victim wanted him to be made to suffer for the offense, isn’t that actually the definition of revenge?”
She did have a point. “I suppose you are right. Well, if it is revenge, then I commend the author for using the experience for helping others.”
Sophie grasped her arm, leaning forward as if she had the most delicious of on-dits to share. “Did you hear then? About Miss Briggs?”
Drat it all, had she managed to miss two major events? This whole betrothal business seemed to be hindering her normal vigilance. “What happened with Miss Briggs?”
“Beatrice! You’re supposed to be the one who knows everything. I shan’t know what to do with myself if our roles were suddenly reversed. Although, if that were the case, then wouldn’t I already have known it to be so?”
“Sophie!”
“Sorry, sorry. All right, Miss Briggs. My sister—Sarah, that is; the others are much too young to have any good gossip—told me that Miss Briggs told Miss Chamberlain that she figured out from advice from the last letter that Lord Jenson was only asking the very highest dowered—is that a word? Anyway, he was asking only the ladies with the highest dowries to dance.
“Normally, she wouldn’t have minded such a thing, since she freely admits that her father hopes to purchase a nice title for the family, but she had actually quite liked Lord Jenson. Better to have seen his motives now than for her to have fallen for the man only to discover he was after her purse.”
“Are you telling me,” Beatrice said, trying to separate the meat of the story from all of her asides, “that Miss Briggs feels that the first letter saved her from the attentions of a fortune hunter?”
; Sophie nodded, her brown eyes alight with the joy of having imparted information that Beatrice hadn’t already known.
“Well, isn’t that nice?” A grossly underwhelming summation of how she really was feeling. She had done it! Her words had saved an heiress’s heart. Instead of the mildly interested smile she offered her friend, she wanted to laugh with delight, to throw her hands up and declare victory for her fellow debutant.
“Yes, I’d say so. Heaven knows I’d never make it married to a man who didn’t love me. Not that I have to worry about a fortune hunter. It’s not as though we have pockets to let, but we certainly aren’t worth targeting. Not like you, you poor thing.” Sophie wrinkled her nose. “You must be constantly fighting off unwanted attention.”
“Well, it certainly won’t be a problem after this week.” She said it casually, but excitement once again sprang to life within her.
“Why ever not?”
“Because I’m getting married.”
“What?” Sophie’s already-high voice went up an entire octave. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She grabbed Beatrice’s hand and jumped from the settee, pulling them both to their feet without any care for decorum. Swallowing her in an impromptu hug, Sophie squeezed her before setting her away. “I don’t care how dreadfully familiar that was, I’m just so happy for you I could bust. You must tell me, who is your betrothed?”
“I can’t say just yet. We still are waiting until we can get word to Papa and Evie. But I am very, very pleased.”
“It wouldn’t happen to be a certain painter’s son, would it? He was quite concerned for you at the musicale.”
At the mere thought of the man, Beatrice melted a bit, her insides going all soft and warm. She lifted her shoulders, a secretive smile curving her lips. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“Of course you can. Either nod your head for yes or shake it for no. It’s quite simple, really.” She looked to Beatrice with beseeching eyes, begging to be let in on the secret.
“Only under threat of death, I’m afraid. But in a few more days, all will be revealed.”
“You dreadful tease, you. Very well, have your secrets. But tell me, is it a love match?”
She looked so hopeful, so invested in the romance of it all that Beatrice couldn’t help but indulge her.
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
* * *
“It’s a damn good thing you are already betrothed.”
“On that, we agree,” Colin said, not even looking up as he spread marmalade over his toast. “But in general, ‘Good morning’ is the proper way to greet one’s family.”
Setting his knife down, he took a bite of his breakfast and winked at his cousin. John shook his head and dropped a magazine beside Colin’s plate. “Good morning.” Snagging a sweet bun from the sideboard behind them, he pulled out the chair at Colin’s left and took a seat.
“Good morning to you as well,” Colin replied, the good cheer of the last several days still coloring his tone. With his toast in one hand, Colin picked up the periodical with the other. “Reading ladies’ magazines again, I see.”
“Very funny. I find myself in awe of the brashness of this person. And the magazine itself, for that matter.”
He skimmed the letter first, catching words like “fortune hunters,” “preying,” and “innocents.” As before, the author was providing possible ways to identify a nefarious fortune hunter, the very worst villain, in the humble author’s opinion. In closing, it read: At least a highwayman robs only of possessions. A fortune hunter robs a woman of her money, her dignity, and her hopes for a contented future.
Honestly, this woman was given to dramatics. Had she not thought to consider that some who seek fortunes do so with the best of intentions? She had no idea of the circumstances some may be faced with. She was probably some pampered heiress, sitting in her ivory tower with her jewels and morning chocolate, looking down upon all those whose lots in life were less fortunate.
“A bit extreme, I think.”
“Have you gotten to the engraving yet? Then we’ll talk extremes.”
Raising an eyebrow, Colin turned his attention to the drawing. The lines were bolder this time, the figures more realistically portrayed. As he took in the three figures and the finely detailed background, a sliver of dread worked its way between his ribs, like the slow winding of a silken ribbon being tied into an inescapable knot. There was no mistaking Godfrey this time—he couldn’t have been more plainly portrayed if he had posed for the thing.
But it was worse than that. It was the all too familiar balcony, the scene from a night he would rather forget. Synchronized watches, the hooked nose of Mr. Jones—all of it was there, as if plucked from his memory.
Or drawn by another who was there.
Beatrice. Muttering a curse, he dropped the uneaten portion of his toast on his plate and came to his feet.
“Like I said, it’s a good thing you are betrothed. Someone in the ton is out to expose those intent on securing a well-dowered wife. I’d say you are damned fortunate, old man.”
Fortunate? Colin had never felt less fortunate in his life. He had known, thanks to Raleigh, of Beatrice’s clear aversion of fortune hunters, but he never imagined her revulsion was so strong as to prompt her to write the letters. “Indeed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have rather a lot to attend to today. Good day.”
Her immense dislike of men like him wasn’t even the whole problem. In writing this last letter, she opened herself up for Godfrey to recognize her as the author. Only three people had been privy to the scene. It wouldn’t take the man long to put together which of the two of them was the disgruntled debutant.
Stuffing the magazine into his jacket, he paused long enough to collect his hat and greatcoat before heading out into the frosty November morning. It might be entirely too early in the morning for society’s unwritten rules, but he hardly gave a damn. He had to see Beatrice, and he intended to do so at once.
Chapter Twenty-two
The one true advantage to Granville House over Hertford Hall was that the morning sun, on those rare cloudless days, seemed to shine through the haze over the city differently than it did in the country, creating a soft, diffused pink-tinged light that seemed to glow in Beatrice’s studio.
On mornings like this, the inspiration was so heady, she could hardly seem to paint fast enough. Each stroke felt exactly right, every line just so—it was as if someone else guided her hand. She was so intent on her work, she didn’t hear the quiet clip of footsteps until they were practically at her door. Turning Colin’s portrait away from where it could be seen from the doorway, she slipped around toward another painting when the scratch at the door came.
When she bade them to enter, Finnington pushed open the door and dipped his head. “Pardon the interruption of your studio time, my lady, but I thought you might like to know that Sir Colin has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.”
Colin? Her eyes darted to the clock. She hadn’t lost track of time—it was only eleven o’clock. “Thank you, Finnington. I’ll be down in ten minutes.” She waited until the door clicked shut again before yanking off her apron and scrubbing at the paint spots on her fingers. If he was here this early, it was either an exceedingly good thing or a terribly bad thing.
Eleven minutes later, with a fresh gown and tidied hair in place, she paused outside the drawing room door, drew a steadying breath to slow her pounding heartbeat, and glided into the room.
Colin stood by the window, his arms crossed as he looked out onto the square. She stopped just inside the room, watching him while he wasn’t yet aware of her presence. He looked . . . striking. His black hair, glossy in the late-morning sun, was combed back from his forehead. The sharp line of his jaw was even harsher than usual, the muscles tensed. So somber and serious—exactly the way she imagined he would look in a courtroom.
He looked up suddenly, his gaze going straight to her. The sternness didn’t leave altogether, but his brow relaxed consid
erably, and he held out a hand to her. “Good morning.”
The music of his voice so early in the day was like an unexpected present, tied with a satin bow and set in her lap. She was definitely going to like waking up to him each morning.
She went to him, a slight blush heating her cheeks and a not so slight grin on her lips. “Good morning to you as well.” Lifting onto her toes, she kissed him full on the lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your morning visit? And how can I make it happen again?”
He chuckled reluctantly, as if wanting to remain stern, but unable to do so. Good. If he was going to surprise her for a visit, she wanted it to be on good terms.
“I’d have come earlier, if I had known it was your wish. As it happens,” he said, his voice reverting to Serious Colin, “I came after my breakfast was interrupted with a certain magazine being dropped on my plate.”
Beatrice’s enthusiasm slipped, sliding backward toward caution. “Oh?”
He reached into his jacket and extracted a rather rumpled copy of A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion. “Imagine my surprise when I opened it this morning.”
His voice was soft, not at all accusing. How best to proceed? He didn’t seem angry or censorious, but clearly he wasn’t happy. Now that he was so close, she could see the faint lines creasing the skin surrounding his eyes. She accepted the magazine, looking over her handiwork once more. “Recognize my superior drawing skills, did you?” Her words were light and teasing even as worry tightened her throat. There was no telling what he would say.
“I recognized something, to be sure.”
“Sir Godfrey?”
“Him, the background, the point of the scene.” He shook his head, running a hand at the back of his neck. “Did you not consider that he would see this? He’d know in moments that it was one of the two of us, and we all know I am not the artist of my family.”
Dread coiled within her, just like when she first realized that she had unintentionally drawn Mr. Godfrey in the last letter. She lifted her chin. “I don’t know about that. All I know is that he had tried to ruin my life—and very nearly succeeded.” The familiar fire of righteous anger sparked to life within her as she looked at the scene again. “So what if he recognizes me? If he says anything, it will only be confirming that he is a heartless fortune hunter.”
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