Flirting With Fortune

Chapter Three

The entrance to the ballroom was elegant and sumptuous, with a great, arching doorway framed by intricately carved whitewashed wood. There were two matching columns on either side, both fluted, with a scrolled design at the top that was reminiscent of Greek architecture, providing a dramatic backdrop for anyone hoping to make a grand entrance.

These were not the sorts of details a casual attendee might notice.

But, after fifteen minutes of surreptitiously sneaking glances that way, Beatrice was fairly certain she was as well acquainted with the entryway design as the architect himself. And now that the clock hands were perilously close to meeting beneath the twelve, heralding the hour when her mystery man would reappear, she could hardly drag her gaze away. She breathed an impatient sigh and wrapped a hand around her middle. Newton, as it turned out, must have been mistaken with his whole “gravity theory” idea. Otherwise, how could her stomach feel as though it were hovering somewhere in the vicinity of the gilded ceiling?

“Darling, what has come over you? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

Drat. Her mother was right—Bea had completely ignored whatever it was she was talking about. Lucky for her, Mama had only one topic of interest at these kinds of functions. Smiling vaguely, Bea gave a little flip of her hand, dismissing her mother’s entirely true statement. “Don’t be absurd—I’ve heard every word. Yes, there are many eligible gentlemen here tonight. No, I’m not overly inclined to dance with them. You know I’m as likely to tread on their boots as make a good impression.”

Mama came as close to rolling her eyes as Beatrice had ever seen in public, briefly lifting her gray gaze heavenward. “Hyperbole does not become you. You are a perfectly adequate dancer—I hired the best instructors in London to ensure it. And what are you so interested in across the room?”

Beatrice snapped her gaze back, not even realizing it had wandered to the ballroom entryway once again. Oops. Well, there was no harm in the truth. “I’m merely anxious for the stroke of midnight, when we will finally discover the identity of the mystery guest.”

Mama straightened, running a gloved hand down the burgundy silk of her gown. “Ah, the mystery guest. Well, let us hope he is an eligible gentleman so your interest can be for good.”

It was Beatrice’s turn to roll her eyes. With Papa’s illness striking shortly after the start of her first Season, little attention had been paid to the endeavor of finding her a husband. At the time, there were much more important issues to attend to. But now, with her sisters, twins Carolyn and Jocelyn, set to make their debut in the spring, her mother was suddenly bound and determined to remedy the situation. It was why her parents had insisted they attend the Little Season. Normally, the family spent most of their time at Hertford Hall, their country estate, making the trek to London each spring. But no—if there was hope of avoiding having three daughters on the marriage mart at once, then Mama would do everything in her power to exploit it.

Never mind that London in the winter was positively dismal, lacking the sort of inspiration Bea craved when creating her paintings. Or that her elder sister, Evie, had had no fewer than five Seasons before her own marriage. Mama had decided that Bea must marry, and that was that.

“Good evening, Lady Granville, Lady Beatrice.”

Beatrice’s jaw tightened at the all too familiar voice of Mr. William Godfrey. Curse her luck—would the man be at every event they attended this month? Pasting a humorless smile upon her lips, she turned and dipped her head in a shallow greeting. “Mr. Godfrey.”

He was dressed in clothes befitting of the youngest son of a viscount—sumptuous velvet jacket with an incredibly fussy cravat, buff pantaloons, and highly polished shoes—but Beatrice knew better than to be fooled by the display.

He was a gambler, a lush, and worst of all, a fortune hunter.

And it drove her mad that no one else seemed to have picked up on those facts. Although, to be fair, she knew of his gambling only because of her brother. But anyone with eyes and half a brain could see that he circled the daughters of wealthy men like a hungry, well-dressed vulture.

Beatrice didn’t understand it. There were those whom the ton immediately identified as fortune hunters—men with well-known debts or bankrupt estates. But for some reason, they tended to have blinders when it came to others. Generally they were the rakishly good-looking type, with pretty manners and good backgrounds. Godfrey was one; Lord Andrew Gravell was another. Bea’s fists clenched at the thought of that particular cur.

“Lady Beatrice, may I just say that you are looking particularly lovely this evening.”

“Thank you.” It was his favorite line, given every other time they met. Which, unfortunately, meant that he was about to follow up with the next line he delivered without fail. I do so hope you’ll do me the honor of dancing with me.

Her eyes darted to the front of the ballroom as she tried to think of a way to curtail the question. She had more interesting things on her mind than dancing with Godfrey. But, of course, if she denied him, she’d have to sit out dancing the rest of the evening, and she’d never hear the end of it from her mother. “My goodness, am I parched—”

A stir at the front of the room drew her attention, and this time when she looked toward the entryway, the breath froze in her lungs, crystallizing like the icy early-winter mist hanging over the Thames.

It was him.

Without thinking, she started forward, wanting nothing more than to be closer to him. Well, that, and to learn at last who he really was.

“My lady?” Godfrey said at the same time her mother exclaimed her name softly. Beatrice turned long enough to offer an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Please excuse me,” she called before allowing herself to be carried away by the building excitement of the crowd.

He looked different in the blazing candlelight of the ballroom, more aloof somehow. The hint of mischief was nowhere to be found, replaced by a passively pleasant expression directed at Lady Churly. Bea turned sideways to slip between Lord St. James and his spinster daughter, never taking her eyes from the man she had shared a secret encounter with. She slowed, her lips lifting in a tiny, private smile.

Secret encounter, indeed.

That made it all sound rather illicit. Anticipation rippled in her belly as she resumed her pace. Was it wrong to wish that he would look her way? To want their eyes to meet and to see his teasing grin once more?

Lady Churly clapped her gloved hands, her thin face alight with excitement. “Lords and ladies, gentlemen and misses, may I have your attention?”

She didn’t have to ask. Everyone’s full attention was riveted on her dark-haired mystery man, the hush unnatural in the huge space. He didn’t look nearly as uncomfortable as Beatrice would have expected, knowing that this was his very first ball. Instead, he stood straight and tall, his hands resting loosely at his sides as he politely deferred to his host. Captain Andrews stepped up behind him and nodded in his direction. Bea tilted her head. Was he one of the captain’s men?

“As you know,” Lady Churly began, her voice slow and clear, “I am a great admirer of the late Sir Frederick Tate.”

Tate? Beatrice’s confusion at the mention of her idol brought her up short. What did he have to do with this?

“After the unfortunate and untimely passing of the master six months ago, a hole opened up in the hearts of many art lovers—my own heart included. Tonight, dear friends, I am honored to offer up a man who may help to bridge the gap.”

Curiosity overwhelmed her initial surprise, and Beatrice brushed past a clump of awestruck debutants, all watching the dark stranger with rapt attention. Her own heart squeezed with the lingering sadness for Tate’s passing.

As Beatrice stepped closer to the front of the crowd, Lady Churly held out her hand, beckoning for the man to stand beside her. “Without further ado, allow me to present my nephew, Sir Colin Tate—elder son and heir to the late Sir Frederick.”

Beatrice rocked back on her heels, her breath leaving her lungs all at once. He was Tate’s son? It was that moment that their eyes met, and his cool gray gaze sparked to life. So she did what any normal, rational young lady would do.

She turned and dashed off in the other direction.

It happened all at once.

His aunt introducing him, the collective gasp from the crowd, the collision of his gaze with that of the woman from the gallery, his sudden rush of pleasure at seeing her, then the all-consuming confusion as her eyes widened and she turned and fled in the other direction.

What the devil?

Colin’s first instinct was to follow, but he immediately realized it was impossible on several levels—not the least of which was the tide of curious people surging forward like an ocean wave to meet him. He couldn’t begin to imagine what had made the girl retreat like the blasted hounds of Hades were at her heels, but he didn’t have the luxury of finding out just yet. His task for the evening had begun.

Straightening his shoulders, he turned to the first of the people that Aunt Constance wished to introduce him to, his smile as good as painted on. He knew his role well. John had spent an entire afternoon schooling him as to the best candidates—daughters of nobility and cits alike. He was leaning toward the merchants’ daughters as default, since one, his becoming a barrister was less likely to be an issue, and two, his title would mean the most to them, therefore allowing him to bring something of value to the marriage.

“How very naughty of you, Constance, not to share your relationship to Sir Frederick sooner.” An older woman dripping in jewels and condescension eyed Colin as if he were a morsel to be eaten. Her gown was easily twice the cost of his monthly rent, with gold fibers woven among the cream fabric.

Aunt chuckled, completely unfazed by the overly direct statement. “Colin, allow me to introduce Lady Kimball.”

“My lady,” he murmured, bowing over her multiringed hand.

“So you’re the son of the great Sir Frederick Tate,” she said, her dark eyes sweeping up and down his form. She clearly was a woman used to indulging her desires and made no effort to hide her perusal. “Are you in town for his memorial exhibit, then?”

“Indeed.” Colin dipped his head in assent, pushing away the flash of grief that seared his lungs. “It was exceedingly kind of the committee to invite me to be a part of it.” And fortuitous, in a ghastly sort of way.

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.”