Flirting With Fortune (2 page)

“S
o this is the lady who belongs to the scent of lilacs. How lovely of you to come out and join me.”

He was amused.

She was not.

Never mind that the almost musical lilt of his Scottish-tinged accent sent a shiver down the back of Bea’s already chilled neck. If he knew she was there, he should have had the decency to say as much. Embarrassment stiffened her spine—Lord, she must look a fool. With as much dignity as one in her position could muster, she extracted herself from the heavy drapes and shook out her skirts. “Yes, well, since you wouldn’t leave like a proper gentleman, it seems as though I had little choice.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow, tilting his head just enough so that a lock of midnight black hair fell across his temple. “I do beg your pardon. I should have left the moment I realized there was a debutant-shaped lump behind the curtains.”

Well, when he said it like that. She lifted her chin regally. “Pardon granted, Mr. . . . ?”

She waited, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he pushed away from the wall, closing the distance between them with measured, unhurried steps. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had a certain presence about him, as if he could command an army, if so inclined. She couldn’t have taken her eyes from him if she wanted to.

With every step he took, her heartbeat seemed to increase, until it fluttered like a caged bird beneath her breast. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not like her brother or even her brother-in-law. His appeal was much more intense than that. His jaw looked as sharp as if it were carved from granite and already possessed the slightest hint of dark stubble. His cheeks angled high, almost like a woman’s, but his bold, masculine brow provided exactly enough counterbalance to give his features exquisite symmetry and depth. Such unique beauty made her fingers itch to take up her brushes and commit his visage to canvas.

Her gaze was too bold by half, but he didn’t seem to mind her inspection. In fact, he watched her right back, his flint-colored eyes seeming to take in everything about her, leaving her feeling quite exposed. “Now, now, we haven’a been introduced. I wouldn’a want to break protocol at my very first ball. Unless, of course, it is your wish, Miss . . . ?”

Beatrice almost smiled. She’d as soon walk naked through the ballroom than tell him who she was. A lady did
not
get caught hiding behind curtains. “Yes, well . . . I suppose rules are rules.”

She realized then the importance of what he had said: This was his first ball. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the mystery guest Lady Churly was so eager to present. Who was this man? He was five-and-twenty if he was a day, so why had he never been to a ball? Beatrice’s curiosity rebelled with an almost physical force, but she firmly tamped it down. She was dying to know who he was, this man with the lyrical voice, compelling features, and unmistakable air of mystery, but not at the price of revealing her own identity.

“Indeed.” He paused at exactly the proper distance away and folded his arms, considering her. “Although I suspect that you doona always play by the rules.” He nodded to the curtains behind her.

This time she did smile. “My character exposed in two minutes or less. Alas, I cannot deny it. Following the rules will gain you naught but a stellar reputation and a tremendously boring life.” Her older siblings, Evie and Richard, had taught her that much.

His answering smile was nearly as delicious as his accent, his perfectly bowed upper lip curving to reveal beautiful white teeth. Beatrice pressed her lips together. She hated the crooked front tooth that marred her own smile.

“Then you’d think me very tedious, indeed, I’m afraid,” he said, mock regret weighting his tone. “I must admit, I am a rule follower to a fault.”

She very nearly rolled her eyes. Any man with a face like that couldn’t possibly be boring. “I don’t believe you. If you were a rule follower, you would never have waited for me to emerge. Speaking alone with a strange female in a darkened gallery is not exactly perfect protocol.”

His grin widened as he lifted a shoulder in a sort of half shrug. “Then it is a very good thing that you doona know my name. I’d hate to have it bandied about that I was anything less than a perfect gentleman upon my entrance into society.”

“And if we encounter each other by chance?”

“Then I’ll throw myself upon your mercy to protect my reputation. In fact, perhaps I should do so now. Preemptively, so as I know I’m safe.”

She crossed her arms and nodded, unable to resist playing along. There was something about the anonymity of the moment that was almost intoxicating, like a first sip of champagne. “Very well—you may commence groveling.”

He dipped his head gravely. “As you wish. Though I wonder how I should address you.” He took in her elegant gown and the emeralds decorating her ears and neck. “Princess, perhaps?”

“I should think not,” she said, wrinkling her nose. That was the very last thing she would wish to be called. Though she was the daughter of a marquis, she was no overly privileged, dreadfully coddled princess. “I value my freedom much too fervently for that.”

“Clearly.” Even in the low light, she could see the irony in his gaze. Which was a good thing, since it was deuced hard to detect it in the lilt of his accent. “
A stór
, then. It suits you, I think.”

“A story? How on earth does that suit me?”

“Not ‘a story,’” he said, pantomiming opening a book. “
A stór
. My treasure.”

She sucked in a surprised breath, warmth infusing her whole body before flooding her face. His
treasure
? Her heart shuddered within her. There was something shockingly intimate about being called such a thing by a near-complete stranger.

Before she could think of a response, he chuckled. “As in
buried
treasure. Unearthed from the depths of the curtains. I dinna mean to imply anything else.”

“Of course not,” she replied, nodding as though her mind hadn’t gone directly to that “something else.” “You may call me whatever you wish. Now, on with the groveling, if you please—I’ll be missed if I remain much longer.” She hoped the soft strains of music from the ballroom disguised the breathlessness of her voice.

He stepped forward, bringing them closer than even the most liberal of hosts would have deemed proper. He put a hand to his heart and dipped his head to hers. Mischief lit his eyes, subtly challenging her. She blinked—why did he suddenly look so familiar?

“I beg you,
a stór
, from the very depths of me—could you find it in your heart to have mercy on my depraved soul? Could you carry this encounter close to your breast, not to be revealed under threat of death, or worse—gossip?”

Good heavens, he was positively mesmerizing when he put his mind to it. The soft, lilting tones of his voice washed over her skin like warm silk, and she only just suppressed the shiver that flitted down her spine. Doing her best to sound lightly amused, she said, “Very well. You have my mercy. It was a pleasure
not
to meet you, sir. I do hope you enjoy the ball.”

With a reluctance that surprised her, she started to turn.

“Perhaps,” he said, drawing her attention to him once more, “you’d save a dance for me.”

She lifted her brow. “Ah, but that would require an introduction, would it not?” Even so, the offer was absurdly tempting. The idea of being pulled into his arms was almost enough to make her forget that dancing wasn’t her forte.

“An excellent point, to which I offer this solution: If by the end of the night, you wish to take me up on my offer, then I leave it to you to seek an introduction to me. Seeing how I now have assurance of your mercy, of course.”

Beatrice drew back in surprise. “Seek an introduction to you? I do hate to disabuse you of whatever opinion you have formed of me in these past few minutes, but I am not a desperate woman. I assure you, I will be seeking an introduction to no one.”

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.”