Flirting With Fortune

Chapter Sixteen

His instincts had been dead-on.

As Colin stepped out onto the terrace, he was greeted with exactly the scene he had feared most. Beatrice, wrapped in Godfrey’s arms, his lips planted firmly over hers. Without stopping to consider the consequences, he started forward. At the sound of his footsteps, Godfrey broke the kiss and looked up, a gleam of satisfaction illuminating his dark eyes.

Beatrice scrambled backward, turning to him with widened eyes that shone with horror.

The rat bastard— Colin came at the other man with his fists flying. He might not spend his days at Gentleman Jackson’s, but even a half Scot knew how to throw a bloody good punch when needed. And oh, the satisfaction he felt at seeing the man’s expression go from smugness to fear in the space of a second would be worth every consequence that would await him when he was done with the bastard.

His fist connected with Godfrey’s mouth with exacting precision. Not only did it wipe away all traces of the self-satisfied smirk; it made damn sure that the man wouldn’t be kissing anyone for a while. The punch was angled in just the right way to bust a lip but not break any teeth—not that the man deserved any mercy from Colin.

He fell backward against the stone railing, flipping over it and into the bushes a few feet below. It would have been amusing, if Colin weren’t so angry. Heaving a deep breath, he turned to Beatrice, whose features were drawn and pale. “Are you all right?”

“Y-yes. I think so.” She shook her head, clearly a bit dazed. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Yes, I know.” He would have said more, but the bushes rustled as Godfrey extracted himself. After a moment of struggling, he came back to his feet, leaves sticking out of his hair as a trickle of blood dribbled down his chin and onto his once pristine cravat.

“You bastard,” he grunted, slurring the words just a bit. “I’ll see you bloody gaoled for that.”

“I highly doubt that.” Colin’s voice was cool and collected, his barrister’s training finally reemerging. “You surely wouldn’t want the world to know that you tried to trap a woman into marriage, since clearly you couldn’t procure one by her consent.”

Godfrey’s eyes narrowed to slits as his gaze darted in between Colin and Beatrice. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” He yanked at the twigs embedded in his hair, tossing them angrily to the ground.

“Well, I do,” Beatrice said, crossing her hands tightly over her bodice. “You forced yourself on me just now. If it had been anyone else walking through that door, we’d be betrothed by now.” Her voice held such utter disgust, if he had possessed even the slightest doubt as to whether or not she had welcomed Godfrey’s advances, they would have been banished.

Colin shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be just anyone walking out to find you. I saw Mr. Jones as he watched the two of you head outside. He checked his watch three times before making a beeline for the doors. Lucky for me, Miss Sophie didn’t bat an eyelash when I snagged the man on his way out the door and told him she wished to speak with him.”

Beatrice’s jaw dropped open in outrage as she rounded on Godfrey. “You scurrilous beast! Not only did you force yourself upon me, but you arranged for us to be caught?”

The bastard in question dragged the back of his hand across his bloodied chin. “I don’t have to take this. You want her?” he asked Colin, his face contorted with disgust. “Fine, you can have her. She may have the best dowry of the Season, but the rest of her sure as hell isn’t worth it. Good riddance.”

He stormed through the garden and disappeared around the corner like the slithering jackass he was. Colin breathed a deep sigh and turned to Beatrice. She looked furious, her sparkling eyes radiating an internal fire as she clenched her jaw tight. She was a study in contrasts, like a small, vulnerable avenging angel. He laid a calming hand on her shoulder, wishing he could pull her into his arms and soothe away her upset. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Are you certain you are all right?”

She waved an angry hand toward the direction Godfrey had escaped. “Much better now that he’s gone. For heaven’s sake, he is everything that is wrong with society. Do you know, it wouldn’t have even mattered that he forced his attentions on me? If we had been discovered, I would have been forced to marry him or suffer the brunt of society’s censure. And he knew it.” Despite the relative warmth of the air, a shiver racked her body.

“Perhaps we should go inside, where it’s warmer. You’ve had quite a shock.”

“Not so huge a shock,” she murmured, stepping toward the house. “I never liked the man. I just knew he was a fortune hunter.”

“Yes, well, that infamous cartoon made that particular trait quite clear to most of society, I’m afraid. I don’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing.”

She glanced up at him, her eyes cautious. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if he had not been subjected to increased censure this week, he may not have felt the need for desperate measures. On the other hand, clearly it’s a good thing that young women have been warned away from him.”

Her mouth quirked sideways as she chewed the inside of her cheek. Even in her ruffled state, she was so 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, a stór.”

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 dedicated to his art than his family was a bit . . . demoralizing, shall we say.”

She sucked in a surprised breath. Tate had always been such a paragon in her mind. Was Colin saying that he’d had more regard for painting than for his child? “But by working, he was providing for you, was he not? Perhaps that was what he worried about in the early days.”

He nodded, looking down for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “Yes, though it might have been helpful if he had more sense with the commissions he was earning. It wasn’a long before I realized that if the accounts were to be paid and our bills not lost, it was up to me to see to it.”

Beatrice offered him a sympathetic smile. “Is that how you came to be the responsible barrister?”

Even as her heart went out to him, she could scarcely make herself believe that his legendary father could have such a failing. Everything she had heard about him had been in the vein of charming, affable, and eccentric. A little odd, as artists can sometimes be, but a great addition to any social event. She had been devastated that he had died just as she was to make her debut.

“I suppose one could say I spent my whole life in training.”

“Did things not change when your father remarried?” She knew little about Tate’s second wife, other than the fact she had died several years earlier.

“They did, actually. She was determined to get my father’s life in order and to provide a good upbringing for her two children and me. But old habits die hard, I suppose. After four years alone with my father, letting go of the worry dinna come easy.”

He was so sweet with her, so easy to be with, it was hard to imagine him as the stoic little boy he described. Her own childhood had been so carefree; it made her heart clench to imagine his staidness. She set down her pencil, picked up her brush, and began mixing paints on her palette. “Tell me about her children. Do you get along?”

It was the perfect question to ask to break the tension that had tightened his jaw and beetled his brow. “Very well. They are quite a bit younger than me, but they have always been sweet-tempered and good company. Although they were both terribly unhappy with me for leaving them behind in Scotland while I made my grand debut, so to speak.”

“Now, that I can understand. I hated never being able to join in the fun when Evie was out in society. Ironic, really, since she would have rather been anywhere else.”

He chuckled. “I think I’m with your sister on this one. As for you, I think you would like Cora. She has always been fascinated with Father’s work and would sneak up to his studio after bedtime to watch him paint sometimes. She got caught more often than not, sent to bed with a scolding, but it never stopped her from trying again.”

Happy with the color on her palette, she took a deep breath, set the bristles against the canvas, and made her first stroke. “A girl after my own heart, apparently. And your stepbrother?”

She glanced up just in time to catch a look of disgust contort his features. “I’m so sorry. Are you on bad terms with him?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that I hate that term. They are as much my brother and sister as your siblings are to you.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t intend to insult you.”

“No, I dinna think you did. But when half the family you have in the world is distanced by the word ‘step,’ it tends to become distasteful. We were raised together from when I was nine, and my life became infinitely better when they came along.”

That was quite possibly the sweetest thing Beatrice had ever heard. Her heart softened toward the two children she had never even met. “I’m so glad to hear it. What is your brother’s name?”

Any remaining stiffness fled completely from his shoulders. “Rhys. He’s a born leader. I could easily see him running the estate, or even making his way into politics. He argues almost as well as I do,” he said with a wink. “If he had gotten his way, he’d be here in London with me now. Luckily, I convinced him that Cora and Gran needed a man in the house to keep them safe.”

“The same Gran who fought the bear?”

He laughed, beautiful amusement lighting his features. “The very one. A more terrifying woman, I have never known.”

“I don’t believe you. You positively glow when you speak of her.”

“She is one of a kind. Half Scottish, half Irish, and with twice the superstition of either people. When I first saw you, her fanciful descriptions of forest nymphs immediately came to mind.”

She paused midstroke, her eyes flitting to his. The sweet smile on his perfect lips made her belly do a little flip. “Forest nymph? Me?”

“Absolutely. The luminescent skin, those huge blue eyes, hair like moonbeams—it all seemed to fit.”

Hair like moonbeams? She sincerely hoped her grin wasn’t as foolish looking as it felt. She ducked her head a bit, giving more care to loading her brush with paint than absolutely necessary. “Perhaps it had something to do with me emerging from the curtains like some sort of mischievous mystical creature.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed, the warmth of his gaze heating her insides from clear across the room. “But I’m glad for the way we met. It was pure, in a way.”

“Pure?” she echoed, knitting her brow at his choice of words as she worked on his outline.

“Neither of us knew a single thing about the other. The only thing I knew for sure was that you were beautiful and damn entertaining, and I dinna want to leave you to go meet a horde of strangers I dinna care about.”

The strangest sensation bloomed in her heart, carried by each beat to the rest of her body, until she felt as though she were floating in a cool lake. She swallowed, slowly raising her gaze. The way he was looking at her, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist and there was only the two of them, held her riveted in place. She licked her lips. “I’m glad for it as well.”

“Are you, now?”

She nodded. “I don’t know if I would have had the nerve to talk to you if we’d met after I learned who your father was.”

“Nonsense,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve nerve enough to do anything you set your mind to.”

Perhaps he was right. But was that a good thing? Coming from his lips, it certainly seemed like it, even if many of society wouldn’t agree. She thought of the letters to the magazine, biting her lip against sharing her secret with him. Yes, if anyone would approve, it would be him, but she wasn’t ready to share such a secret just yet.

Feeling light and happy, she grinned. “You, Sir Colin, are a shameless flatterer. It’s a wonder my head doesn’t float away.”

“I haven’a flattering bone in my body—just ask my siblings. I am exceedingly good at speaking the truth, however. And I’m delighted to hear you approve.”

For the next half hour, Colin watched in fascination as Beatrice went about the task of committing his countenance to canvas. It was much more interesting to watch her work than it ever had been to watch his father. And it wasn’t just because she was infinitely more attractive. No, it was more because of the joy she radiated as she worked. Father had always been so severe, determined to get it exactly the way he wanted in a way that seemed to indicate that death would be the penalty for an imperfect stroke.

Colin held perfectly still, not wanting to distract her work. He liked watching her this way. She was so at ease, as if standing in front of an easel was her natural state of being. She was strong and spirited, not at all the wilting violet, as she had put it, that one might expect from one so petite. And best of all, he affected her. He could see it, anytime he complimented her, or stood too close, or met her gaze—she felt for him as much as he did her.

Could he really be so lucky? Could the woman who was about as close to his perfect match as he could think of truly be standing right in front of him? She was clever and sweet, beautiful and talented. She had the fortune that he required, but it was not at all what he saw when he looked at her.

To him, she was simply his stór.

Slowly, deliberately, he straightened and began walking toward her. She glanced up, a single brow raised. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I thought to take a look at what you’ve done so far. A man can lean against a window only so long, my dear.”

She came around the easel, standing defensively in front of it with her hand stretched out between them. “Oh no, you don’t. An artist’s work is not to be seen until it is done.”

“Nonsense. How am I to know you are doing me justice?” He made to sidestep her, and she jumped to her left to block his way, mock outrage bringing her hands to her hips, which had the unexpected benefit of pushing up her small but perfect breasts.

“Don’t even think about it. I shall never forgive you if you ignore me.”

“Mmhmm, that’s nice,” he said, moving to step around her.

Both hands came up this time as she widened her eyes in laughing earnestness. “Sir Colin Tate, if you so much as take one more step, I’ll—”

He stepped forward, bringing his chest flush against both of her palms. “You’ll what?”

Beatrice’s mouth fell open, her eyes darkening almost to navy. The fragrance of lilacs rose above the smell of paint, teasing him with its familiarity. She wasn’t perfect, but she was perfect for him. He stood there, letting her feel his heart race beneath the fabric of his clothes. Letting her feel how much she affected him. Not even trying to hide the desire in his eyes.

After a moment, her arms relaxed a bit, bringing her wrists down against his body as well. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips before she looked back up at him through her golden lashes. This close, he could see the halo of green around her pupils, flecked with a bit of gold.

He licked his own lips, waiting, wanting her to make the next move. When it came, it was much more bold than he could have hoped for. Drawing a deep breath, she slid both hands up his jacket and grabbed his lapels. His blood roared in his ears as want rushed through him, testing his willpower. His heart beat in a heavy rhythm once, twice, three times, and just when he thought she might change her mind, she tugged him hard and brought his lips to hers.