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  He didn’t look the least bit disappointed, or the slightest bit offended. Instead, the corners of his eyes crinkled in an almost imperceptible smile. Dipping his head in the approximation of a bow, he said, “Your prerogative. However, I do feel it prudent to clarify that I was giving you the option of not being introduced, should you wish to remain anonymous. I assure you it was not meant to disparage your prospects. I, of course, shall respect your decision.”

  He certainly had a way with words. Was it the accent or his sentiment that muddled her brain and had her leaning the slightest bit forward? “Er, thank you.” Already she was feeling like a ninny for having reacted as she did.

  “You’re welcome. And just so you know,” he said, slipping a gloved hand beneath hers and lifting her fingers to his lips for a feather-soft kiss that had her holding her breath all over again, “I’ll be keeping the last dance free.”

  * * *

  As distractions went, she was a damn fine one.

  Colin watched the girl as she sashayed out of sight, her white skirts swishing around her like a windswept cloud. Whoever she was, she was a damn sight better than the debutants he had expected to encounter tonight.

  He drew in a deep breath and was treated to her lingering scent. She might have gotten away with her hiding place if it weren’t for the hint of lilacs betraying her presence. It had stopped him cold, transporting him instantly back to his childhood home outside of Edinburgh. Even though he had left Scotland years ago, the smell of home was still arresting, particularly in the darkened gallery of his aunt’s London home.

  Her presence was unexpected, but he was glad for it. He had been incredibly on edge, dreading the stroke of midnight, when he would be thrust into England’s high society once and for all. But at the moment she emerged from the drapes, his anxiety had ebbed and his spirits had lifted. The way she had looked at him . . . well, it was hard not to feel a boost of confidence. More important, she had given him something much more interesting to focus on—and damned enticing, at that. If a lady of the ton could sneak into private rooms and bury herself behind curtains, he had little to fear from high society.

  Colin smiled. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find behind the drapes, but she certainly wasn’t it. If he were feeling fanciful—which he rarely was—he’d say she put him to mind of some sort of misplaced forest nymph. Exactly like the ones Gran had liked to go on about when he was young. Luminous blue eyes, hair of burnished moonbeams, and skin so pure as to almost look porcelain. He could easily imagine her at home in a midnight garden. And then there was that impertinent mouth. Colin shook his head, allowing a small chuckle at her cheek.

  He sincerely hoped she would seek an introduction.

  With the weight on his shoulders slightly lifted, he made his way toward the study where he was to meet his cousin. As he walked, he kept his gaze from the prized portraits lining the walls. They were well known to him—intimately so. Another time he might linger on them, but tonight he didn’t want to face the tangled threads of nostalgia and resentment that he knew would unfurl within him at the sight of them.

  The study was warm and welcoming, with an assortment of crystal decanters lining the sideboard and reflecting the low fire in the grate. Colin started to reach for the scotch but decided on wine instead. It was probably best to save the imbibing for after the ball. God knew he’d need it by then. He poured himself a glass and took a hearty draft.

  “So is it as bad as all that already?” asked his cousin John as he strode into the room, his crimson coattails fluttering behind him. The man was the epitome of military elegance tonight, all sharp angles and efficient movements. He paused to shut the door before joining Colin at the sideboard. “D’you mind pouring me a brandy?”

  Nodding, Colin selected the appropriate bottle and splashed some of the amber liquid into a tumbler before handing it to John. “It depends on how you define ‘bad.’” He walked over to the desk and leaned upon the corner. “If by bad you mean that my father, God rest his soul, has damned me into a marriage of necessity from beyond the grave, then, yes, it is as bad as all that.”

  John lowered his tall frame into one of the chairs facing the desk. “Yes, we know that,” he said, waving his drink in the air by way of dismissal. “It is, after all, the entire purpose of this ball. And I am happy to report that, as promised, there are debutants aplenty filling the place. Not bad, considering the time of year.”

  It was quite a boon when John’s mother, Constance, who was Colin’s mother’s sister, remarried a wealthy earl several years after the death of her first husband. However, in the dozen years since, Colin and his family had never had reason to call on their connection.

  It was a damned nuisance that he had to now.

  “I never doubted it—especially with your mother in charge of things. I merely despise the fact that I must look at them as if they are some sort of commodities to be purchased.” Colin took another swig of the wine to wash away the distaste in his mouth, but it was no use.

  “That, my good man, is where you need to adjust your frame of mind.”

  “Oh really?” Colin asked, crossing his arms. “Care to expound?”

  “They are not commodities for you to purchase. You are the commodity for them to purchase. It is why they have dowries in the first place.” John drained his glass and leaned forward to set it on the desk with a thump.

  “I see,” Colin said, his tone clearly indicating that he did not.

  “Why do you think they dress them up like dolls and parade them around in front of us? They are all looking for the best match. You are a baronet now. There are women aplenty out there whose families would be more than happy to purchase that title from you via their dowries. It is not such a big ordeal; it’s business.”

  Colin set his own glass down on the desk and pushed to his feet. “It may be business to you, my friend, but I find I canna look at it that way. The whole idea of it makes me ill. The only thing that makes it even halfway palatable is the conviction that I’ll not lie about my situation if asked directly.”

  John leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it is past time to get over your reservations and get on with the business of finding a wife. You have, what, four months before the bankers collect?”

  Colin closed his eyes and nodded. Sixteen weeks before the world learned of his family’s downfall—a mere three months to convince some young lady with a fat dowry to marry him and save his family from ruin. How utterly cliché. He tried to stifle the rising resentment he felt for his father. He had loved—still loved—the man who had been a genius and yet still had managed to make such horrid business decisions.

  “Do try to remember what is at stake here,” John said, coming to his feet. “Your brother, sister, and your grandmother are depending on you.” He picked up the empty glasses and returned them to the sideboard. Turning back to Colin, he said, “The sooner you find yourself a bride, the sooner you can return to normal life.” He headed toward the door, gesturing for Colin to join him. “Come. Let us weed through the merchandise, shall we?”

  Colin gave a snort of laughter. “I thought I was the merchandise. Don’t tell me you were feeding me a load of bullocks, just now.”

  “I? Never. Now polish up that title of yours and prepare to wear it on your sleeve; you have a wife to catch.” Grinning broadly, he slapped a hand on Colin’s back, propelling him through the doorway. “And with your secret weapon, tonight is sure to be a success.”

  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 surreptitiou
sly 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.