Flirting With Fortune

Chapter Thirty

The gathered crowd was a surprise, considering the time of year. Apparently, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity really meant something to the art world.

Sitting in the back of the room, Colin kept from making direct eye contact with anyone. He didn’t wish to see the speculation in anyone’s eyes. They might all be glad for the circumstance that propelled him to sell the last and most remarkable portrait his father had ever created, but that didn’t keep them from judging.

Evidently, he was a man others found it easy to judge. For God’s sake, the woman he loved would rather live as a social outcast than be married to him. She had yet to make the split official, but he knew when he was beat. No matter how devastated he was, he couldn’t afford to sit back and do nothing. His family’s well-being came first, and that meant selling the painting to save the estate. Suing Beatrice’s family would never, ever be an option, so here he was, cloistered in a large, overwarm room filled with men coveting his only tangible link to his father.

He glanced back to the portrait, hoping to soak in his father’s likeness for the last time. He hadn’t bothered to do so the last time they had parted. Who would have known that he would never see the man alive again? So instead he memorized the portrait. At least it was static—he could better remember the painting he had spent weeks staring at than the man he had casually glimpsed his whole life.

Mr. Christie, the auction house owner, walked into the room and headed to the small podium. With his gray hair and fastidiously neat grooming, he might have looked unassuming, but the moment he spoke, he commanded attention. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. As you know, today’s auction is for the sale of a single portrait, notable as the final painting ever completed by the late Sir Frederick Tate and the only known self-portrait.”

Colin put his head down, squeezing his eyes closed. If he could live without his mother, his father, and even his betrothed, then he could damn well live without the painting.

“Now, may I have an opening bid please at one hundred pounds?”

His gut clenched. It was a long, long way to ten thousand pounds from here.

A hand lifted in the front. “One hundred pounds.”

“We are started, gentlemen, at one hundred pounds. May I have two hundred? Excellent, now three?”

“Three hundred.” Lord Northup’s man, if Colin wasn’t mistaken

“We are at three, can I have four hundred. Yes? Now five?”

A wealthy landowner raised his hand, though his name eluded Colin at that moment. Drake, was it? Derby?

Mr. Christie nodded. “Very good—we have five. Can we have six, please? There’s six and now seven? Seven hundred pounds.”

Northup’s agent raised his hand again, just as another solicitor said, “Eight hundred.”

“Eight in the room, how about nine? There’s nine, now one thousand pounds? One thousand?” Mr. Christie paused, and Colin’s eyes darted to the gathered men. For God’s sake, it had to go for more than a thousand pounds.

At last a hand slipped up, the landowner again.

A nod from the auctioneer.

Colin blew out a pent-up breath and bowed his head again. Around him, the numbers climbed as the men continued to bid. He lifted his gaze, tuning out the drone of Mr. Christie’s voice as he focused on his father’s face again.

His father had come through for him. When he needed him most, his father hadn’t let him down. Even if it wasn’t enough in the end, he had truly tried.

“We have six thousand. Who will give me seven? Can I have seven thousand—Yes, thank you, Mr. Smith. Seven, now eight, seven thousand, now waiting for eight? Can I have eight, please? Who will give me eight?”

Colin leaned forward in his seat, willing the stakes to be raised. Seven thousand wasn’t good enough. It was a huge amount of money, more than the estate made in two years, but it didn’t hold water against the debt owed.

Mr. Christie pressed on, his eyes scanning back and forth over the room. “We have seven now, can I have seven thousand five hundred? Seven thousand five hundred for a piece of history? Yes, excellent, seven five from Mr. Darcy.

“Going now to eight thousand. At seven thousand five hundred now, only need five hundred more.” He kept on with his monotonous litany, sweeping his eyes over the room, pointing to former bidders. Each time, they gave a shake of their head.

Damn it all—the painting was worth so much more than that. He knew it was a rotten time of year to move forward with the auction, but time was of the essence. If it wasn’t going to hit ten, he’d lose the estate anyway, so what was the point? It would buy them time and comfort, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to yank the portrait from its place of honor and walk away, keeping his father close to him in a way he never had in life.

“Now’s your chance, gentlemen. Don’t let five hundred pounds get in the way of you and this extraordinary painting. Seven thousand five hundred now, only need five hundred more. Can I have five hundred more, just eight thousand.”

Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement, just the smiling profile of Mr. Darcy, clearly pleased to be winning.

“Fair warning, gentlemen. It will go at seven five. Fair warning. I need to hear five hundred more. Going once . . .”

No, not going! Colin gritted his teeth, holding on to the bottom of his chair to keep from coming to his feet and making a fool of himself.

“Going twice . . .” Christie made one last sweep of the room, then lifted his knocker to seal the deal with a single slam on the desk.

“Ten thousand pounds.”

A low gasp echoed through the room as men turned in their seats, looking toward the back door. Colin jerked around, unable to believe the turn of events. A nondescript man in an understated brown jacket and with neatly cropped hair stood just inside the door. Colin had never seen the man in his life—he was quite certain—but he very nearly leapt to his feet to kiss the man.

A ripple of low conversation buzzed through the room, and Mr. Christie cleared his throat. “Ten thousand pounds. Mr. Darcy, do you want to bid ten thousand five hundred?” The man gave his head a decidedly firm shake. “Very well, fair warning at ten, ten, ten. . . . Sold, to the man in the back for ten thousand pounds.”

The strike of the knocker rang through the room, a bullet through the heart of Colin’s nightmare. He pressed his eyes closed for a brief moment, long enough to give thanks for the incredible turn of events. His financial worries were over.

He expected a rush of happiness, a joy born of the surge of relief filling his veins and setting his mind at ease. But there was none. Though the release of stress and worry was profound, there was no accompanying excitement, no elation.

He had what he had set out to attain since the moment he learned of the estate’s debt, yet it didn’t matter like it should have. How could it? His finances might be safe, but his heart had been lost.

A new awareness swept through him and he sat up straight. Well, he was free now, was he not? He was a fortune hunter no more, the proof of which would likely be in the papers by week’s end. To hell with what Beatrice said. To hell with playing by her rules.

He had proof now, and by God he intended to let her know. Coming to his feet, he headed to the front of the room, where Mr. Christie was finishing up. “Thank you, sir. I trust you can handle the rest of the transaction from here?”

The man grinned, pleasure at the coup written all over his face. “Indeed, sir. And thank you for trusting us with this incredible item. It was a privilege.”

Colin gave a perfunctory nod, accepting the praise. “Thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some very important business to attend to.” With one last look at the portrait of his father, he turned and strode from the room.

Colin was out of breath and thoroughly disheveled by the time he arrived in front of the black lacquered door of Granville House. He bent over, sucking in a lungful of frigid air just as the front door opened. The butler looked down at him, showing no reaction whatsoever to seeing a doubled-over gentleman on his front stoop. Extending a folded white piece of paper, he said, “For you, sir.”

And then he shut the door.

What the hell? Standing up straight, he turned the paper over in his hand. There were no markings of any kind, just a small dollop of red sealing wax holding it closed. Wasting no time, he ripped open the paper. His brow furrowed in surprise. There were no words, merely a sketch of a wide arching window with indistinct rooftops beyond.

Nothing more, but it was enough.

Colin’s feet were moving before he even stuffed the drawing in his pocket. For whatever reason, Beatrice wished for him to go to his father’s studio, and he didn’t wish to waste even a single moment.

He hurried down the street, dodging pedestrians and darting across the street between carriages and carts. The studio was only a few blocks away, but with anticipation powering through his veins like a drug, it had never seemed farther.

It wasn’t until he reached the building and headed up the stairs that it occurred to him that she could just want to officially end the betrothal. Well, today he was a free man, no longer a fortune hunter, and he planned to fight for what he wanted.

He didn’t even pause at the landing. The knob turned easily in his hand and he strode inside, his gaze seeking nothing but Beatrice’s face.

She stood beside the window, her eyes sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. Her gaze was made all the more brilliant by the gorgeous Eton blue of her gown, the perfect marriage for the blues and greens of her eyes. She stood straight and as tall as her petite frame would allow, her blond curls piled on her head for an extra bit of height.

He didn’t say a word, just slammed the door behind him and walked straight toward her. She opened her mouth to say something, but he wasn’t about to let her words get in the way of things now. He didn’t stop until his body was pressed firmly against hers and his hands were cupping either side of her jaw. Not allowing even a second for her to protest, he captured her mouth with his, taking full advantage of her open mouth.

He poured every ounce of him into his kiss, pulling her against him as his tongue delved into her mouth. He had expected her to fight, or resist, or even remain stock-still, but she didn’t do any of these. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with just as much passion as he did her.

Heat shot through his body at her response, and he half groaned, half growled as he backed her up against the wall. She gave a breathy little moan, unleashing whatever restraint existed within him. There was no gentleness between them, just raw passion that sent waves of sensation to every nerve ending in his body. He pressed hard against her, cursing the winter clothes that hid her skin from him.

The kiss was more all consuming than he ever imagined a kiss could be, connecting them in a way that went beyond the physical. She was his, damn it. She was meant for him and he for her.

At last he pulled away, but he didn’t give up control. His gaze burned into hers as he jerked the buttons of his greatcoat open. “I love you, Beatrice Moore.” He was still panting from the kiss as he tugged off the coat and tossed it to the floor. “You can keep your blasted money, every last penny.” He wrenched off his gloves, letting them fall to the ground without notice. “I want you to be my wife. You, not some bloody dowry.”

Her eyes were wide, her pupils huge as she watched him, her chest heaving just as much as his. He put a bare hand to the exposed skin of her chest and nearly closed his eyes at the explosion of sensation the touch caused. “Do you feel that? That is passion, pure and simple.”

With his other hand, he lifted her gloved fingers to his own chest, pressing hard. “And do you feel that? My heart beats for you, Beatrice, just as yours pounds for me. You canna hide that, or deny the truth of it.”

He drew in a deep breath, making his chest rise with her hand still upon it. “Do you feel that? I breathe for you. I can live without you, Bea, but I doona want to. Everything in my life is better when you are near. I thought I could walk away, let you have what you so obviously wanted, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll still do it, but not without a fight.”

He gathered both her hands in his, twining their fingers together. “Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Beatrice Eloise Moore, will you—”

“No, don’t say it.”

His heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach. Damn it all. After all of this—

“Not yet, anyway.”

He jerked his gaze up to meet hers. She didn’t look away, didn’t flinch at all. Instead, she gave his fingers a little squeeze.

“First, I have something I need to say.”

“All right,” he said, his voice gruff. Hope was the cruelest of all torture devices. He hoped to God Beatrice wasn’t stringing him along.

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I think it’s best if I just be as honest as possible.” She drew in a breath and licked her lips. “I, Beatrice Moore, am a complete and total imbecile.”

His mouth dropped open in a caricature of himself. “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” she said fiercely, fire coming to her eyes. “I beg your pardon. Humbly, meekly, I ask your forgiveness for being so incredibly blind. For not trusting you, or the bond between us. For taking so long to realize how very wrong I was. You deserve more than that, and I hope that you can forgive me.”

Forgive her? The relief was so acute, it was almost painful, like a limb that had gone to sleep and was roaring back to life with pins and needles. He looked down at her, hardly able to contain the joy that seemed to inhabit every part of him. “Are you finished?”

For the first time, she looked truly uncertain. With her brow coming together in a little vee, she nodded.

“In that case, Beatrice Eloise Moore, will you still marry me?”

She laughed, squeezing his hands tightly. “For heaven’s sake, don’t do that to me!”

“Is that a yes?”

“Aye,” she said in a teasing Scottish accent. She wrapped their joined hands around his back and tugged him flat against her. “And now that I’ve found my stór, I vow to never, ever let him go.”