A Most Delicate Pursuit (2 page)

“Thank you,” she said, eyeing the door and the balcony beyond. “You're most kind.”

“I am a proper gentleman, I assure you. You are safe with me.”

Safe from the outside, perhaps, but from him? She doubted that. “I never doubted it, my lord. But the ladies will talk.”

“Then we shall leave the curtains partly opened.” Reaching out, he separated them but a few spare inches.

“You are most thoughtful,” Bea said in a tone that bordered on sarcasm. “I do apologize for not being of a more jovial temperament. To be honest, I find these soirees to be most exhausting.” She then covered her mouth and performed a most perfect yawn.

“I completely agree. But perhaps it's not the event so much as your lack of a worthy companion. I cannot imagine how distressing it must be to face the social whirl without a strong arm to lean on.”

“Oh, truly, I manage quite well.”

He shook his head, the jowls of his neck bobbling like thick gelatin. “You are most brave, Miss Hawkins, but I can see how very discerning you are. Passing over so many mindless dolts cannot be an easy task.”

“It is far easier than you'd think, my lord.”

Bea's stomach tightened. The circumstances were quickly deteriorating. By the heavens he'd be down on his knee if she didn't do something soon.

He waved at her. “You are indeed a brave one. I have a confession to make…”

“You do?” Bea's mouth went dry and a lump of clay started to form in her stomach.

He nodded. “I've been watching you these many months, and over that time I've realized what has kept you from falling to the feet of so many eager young clods.”

Bea licked her lips. “You have?”

“Indeed, the truth is, you've been waiting for a man of maturity to offer for you. One who is as solid in his years as he is in his bank accounts.”

“Oh, dear,” she muttered, suddenly feeling as if she sat on the bench of a runaway carriage.

“See,” he proclaimed. “You're already referring to me with endearments…dear…”

Glancing through the drapes' slender opening, Beatrice saw a single ray of hope. Her friend, Michael Carver, the Earl of Bladen, slipped through the crowd, passing right by her enclosure. He'd been so close that if she'd called out, he might have even heard her over the din of the party.

And, to be honest, she very much wanted him to rescue her. What girl wouldn't? He was a fish that had escaped the baited hook of matrimony many times. A line she'd thrown out herself once. Despite his lack of interest, he was a man a woman could depend on. If only there were a way to change his mind about her…

Bea shook her head. Foolish thoughts for a foolish girl. It was high time she accepted the fact that, like Michael, marriage was not for her. She'd already set things in motion to earn her freedom and the day would soon come that she'd be set on her own path.

Unfortunately, such decisions did little to ease the ache in her when she thought of Michael. He'd been a true friend since their very first meeting and she was glad to at least have that. But her heart wanted more…so much more…

Attempting to maneuver an exit from the crowded ballroom, Michael decided that a direct route was impossible. He began to navigate around the circumference of the room. Just as he reached the first alcove, he heard distressed voices beyond the curtain.

“Lord Henderson. You flatter me,” the duke's sister-in-law said. She laughed, her tone not that of good humor but rather one of discomfort. “I assure you, I've considered your offer quite seriously. The truth is, I cannot now, or ever, accept your proposal of marriage.”

Michael hadn't meant to eavesdrop. It was no surprise that Beatrice was refusing yet another suitor. Was that nine? Or ten now? Michael shook his head. It was really none of his affair how many men she turned down, now, was it?

Standing near the open door, he made eye contact with the only other person in the room, a maid attending the tea service by the window, as propriety dictated. Michael shook his head and placed his finger up to ensure her silence. She nodded and went back to arranging her trays.

Michael peered through the cloth. A pale-haired beauty, Beatrice wore an emerald green gown, the bodice, sleeves, and hem decorated with white lace. At the base of her neck, she wore a pink and white cameo framed in gold that hung from a single strand of pearls.

The woman was a vision, and since her sister's marriage to the duke, all manner of men had thrown themselves at her feet. But not a single one had gained her affections. Deep down, Michael knew that if he'd had the stones to approach her, she might have considered him. But, for her own good, he'd never let that happen. He'd already caused one woman's misfortune. He wouldn't cause harm to another.

Pulling back, Michael leaned against the wall and waited for the couple to finish their discussion. He couldn't help but hear what was going on inside.

“Nonsense, Miss Hawkins,” the gentleman's voice boomed. He stepped closer, taking Beatrice's hand in his. “I assure you that I own many acres of prime farmland, an estate in the Lakes District, a generous livery, and several businesses that are quite profitable.”

“My lord, please…” Beatrice began, stepping back, trying to pull her hand from his grasp and failing.

“I would be happy to have my solicitor bring you a full accounting of my worth. Or, rather, bring it to His Grace.”

“It's most kind of you to offer, but we don't suit. A mismatch in marriage can be a most disastrous thing. I assure you, it's no fault of yours, but rather my own rebellious nature.”

“I would do my utmost to make you happy,” Henderson promised.

“You're too kind, but my answer remains the same. I simply cannot marry you,” she said, her tone one of forced politeness. “Now, if you would but let go of me…”

Michael felt the change in the room. The air of a gentleman wooing a lady became angry words called out. Michael stood at the ready in case Miss Hawkins might need his protection. It wouldn't be the first time a disgruntled suitor tried to force a union between himself and a young lady.

“Madam, you and your family have misled me. I came many miles to offer for your hand. I simply will not be pushed aside so easily.”

“Misled you? That's mad. We would never do such a thing.”

“I'm an invited guest. It's common knowledge that the dowager threw this abomination for the mere purpose of procuring you a husband. And not just any man would do, but surely one with a strong hand and a temperate nature, for you, miss, need to be brought to heel.”

“Brought to heel? Like a hound? If you took some other meaning in the dowager duchess's invitation, I apologize for your inconvenience.”

“I'm not finished with you, miss. Rest assured this matter is not settled. Surely others know what's needed here. I will request an immediate audience with the duke.”

Though she made no overt threats, Beatrice's tone was that of a snake backed into a corner. “Do what you must, sir. We shall see with whom my brother-in-law sympathizes.”

That was it, Michael decided, boldly tearing back the drapery and stepping into the alcove.

“Is there some problem, my lord?”

Old Henderson stepped back a pace, red-faced and sputtering. “Lord Bladen. How good to see you, sir…”

He held out his hand and Michael looked down for the barest of seconds and then turned his attention toward Beatrice.

“Miss Hawkins, I trust you are unharmed?”

“Lord Bladen,” she said, clearly startled by his sudden appearance. “Of course, I'm fine,” she added, through a forced smile. “His lordship was merely broaching the subject of offering for me, to which I, in turn, was telling him that we wouldn't suit.”

Michael sent an eye to the other man, who had stepped back yet again, dropping Beatrice's hand as if it had suddenly turned into a hot coal.

“And he was agreeable to your refusal?” He sent a scathing expression toward the other man and was rewarded when he shrank back even more.

“Not yet, but I assure you, I had things well in hand.”

It was all Michael could do to keep from grinning at her pluck. Looking very much like the mouse that roared at the lion, she stood on tiptoes and stared up at him. What an enthralling creature she was.

“Very good, miss. I shall leave you to it.” He turned to Henderson. “But, should you need my services, I shall be available at your call.”

Though he'd finished speaking, he hesitated a moment more, gazing down at her, drawn to her like a moth tempted by candlelight.

A pure vision, Beatrice had a lovely heart-shaped face, smooth porcelain skin, and the most enthralling green-eyed gaze Michael had ever seen. If that weren't enough to drive a sane man crazy, she wore her blond hair twisted in small, delicate braids and piled high on her head with little ringlets bouncing at her neck. No doubt about it, Beatrice Hawkins was the most beautiful and alluring woman of the ton.

Sparing a final glance at the now frantic potential suitor, Michael couldn't help tweaking the old man's temper. Aside from his own personal enjoyment of Henderson's discomfort, he could not abide rude behavior to a woman. Whether she was a scullery maid or a princess mattered not. Though he'd been a child, he'd seen how deplorably his own father had behaved toward women and Michael vowed he would defend them to his last breath.

“Well.” Henderson coughed. He bowed, clumsily. “A most pleasant visit, Miss Hawkins. If you'll excuse me.”

Henderson bobbed his head several more times and then shot out of the enclosure like an arrow from a bow.

Michael watched as he fled the alcove and dove into the crowd, pushing people aside as if he were a lumbering barouche on a crowded Sunday in Mayfair.

Michael turned to Beatrice. “You are ever near disaster, Beatrice. One day you'll have to choose among them, you know. It's bad form to keep knocking down suitors like this.”

“Him a potential suitor? I'd rather cover myself in mud and walk naked down Mayfair.”

“Hmm. That's a picture.” Of course, his mind went sideways at the thought of seeing Beatrice undressed, her perfect, trim figure caught in the morning sunlight streaming through his chamber window…

She waved her hand at him. “Besides, I was managing just fine on my own.”

“I'm sure you were. But I couldn't help myself. Making popinjays like Henderson tremble in their trousers is most enjoyable.”

She grinned. “It is, isn't it?” She giggled and he couldn't help laughing with her. “Please say you have time for a visit,” she begged, placing her hand on his arm. “It's been forever since we've had a chance to chat.”

Michael inwardly shook himself. What in the devil was wrong with him?

“Believe me, there is nothing more I'd rather do. Unfortunately, the dowager duchess has summoned me and one does not disappoint Her Grace.”

Bea's smile dimmed. “She'll send the royal guard after you if you do. Don't bother to ask how I know what she's capable of. Still, Amelia does care deeply.”

“That she does. So perhaps we can meet later?”

Bea shrugged. “I'm practically chained to this dreadful affair. Do come and find me.”

“I promise,” Michael said, both relieved and sad to leave her company. The truth was, whenever they were together, he became more flummoxed than a cat in a house of bells. His senses went wild and his rational thought escaped him completely. He started to move away, and then he saw her grin. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, really.”

He saw it again—a glimmer in her eyes. “I doubt that. Please, share your good humor with me. I could use something to smile about when I go to face Her Grace.”

“I was just thinking that she'll probably have you leg-shackled by the end of the season.”

Michael scoffed. “I've been avoiding wedded bliss for my entire life. What makes you think she can best me?”

Bea waved her hand. “In the two years I've known her, Amelia has been behind every major engagement. She's quite the expert at it. I hear many influential parents have come to her for help with their offsprings' betrothals. She's known as the matchmaker extraordinaire.”

“Is she?” Michael crossed his arms. “And you think she'll maneuver me into marriage?”

“I do.”

“And what about your own situation?”

“I've managed to avoid her matchmaking thus far. I intend to keep doing so.”

“As do I,” he said.

“Well, you can try…”

That was when he decided that he was going to have a bit of fun with her. Her smugness practically begged him to challenge her.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

“Because I am.”

“Care to place a little wager on it? Say, a farthing or two?”

“You mean gamble?”

He shrugged. “Nothing but a friendly competition between us.”

Beatrice sent him a guarded expression. “That's just the sort of thing a devil like you would say.”

“So, you're hesitant to wager against me. What's the matter? Afraid you'll lose?”

That was when he knew he had her.

“Not at all. Very well, sir. I'll take your wager.”

“Done.” He bowed and took her hand, placing a reverent kiss just above her knuckles. It was so soft and warm and smelled of rosewater, he found it damned hard to let it go. Thoughts of pulling her into an intimate kiss resounded in his head, but experience had taught him that a hasty retreat was warranted lest he fall victim to passion and a forced marriage.

Beatrice nodded and curtsied in a most ladylike fashion. The woman could crumble the resolve of a saint.

All gambles aside, one did not trifle with a lady such as Beatrice and not pay the matrimonial piper after all, he thought.

Doing his best to maintain his unruffled outer appearance, he said goodbye and left Beatrice standing alone in the alcove. Though he'd not looked forward to his visit with Amelia, at least it gave him a reason to avoid his involving himself in a scandalous tryst with Beatrice. He was only a man, after all.