A good question. She looked away from his ensnaring gaze as she moved to the next painting, trying her best to maintain a casualness that she didn’t feel. “Well, we never did have that dance. You need to make good on your promise, like a proper gentleman.”
“Who said I was a proper gentleman?” He leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the painting, his body as lithe and lean as one of the great cats she’d seen in the Tower Menagerie. She had a sudden image of painting his portrait in just that position but stripped bare to the waist.
Heat swamped her cheeks, and she hastily dropped her gaze to the floor. Lord have mercy, where had that thought come from? She drew a deep breath, trying to get herself under control. She wasn’t a blusher, and she certainly wasn’t shy. Gathering her scattered wits, she put a hand to her hip and met his gaze head-on. “You did—when you decided to attend that first ball.”
“Ah, is that how it works? I’d argue the point,” he said, a bit of mischief lifting a single dark brow, “but it wouldn’a be very gentlemanly of me. Now, as for the dance, it was your decision to take a stroll outside over my offer to dance. You canna expect me to leave the door open indefinitely for that particular delight.”
“Of course I can. It’s one of the few perks of being a female. We may make unreasonable demands upon men until our hearts are content. Of course, it’s up to them as to whether or not they choose to indulge us.”
“And that, I suppose, separates the men from the gentlemen?”
“No, that separates the gentlemen from the rakes.”
“So my choice is to honor a lady’s wishes or be labeled a rake?”
“More or less. And truly, you are entirely too generous to be a rake—otherwise I would never have had the chance to be here. Therefore,” she said, grinning as she presented her victorious argument, “your offer to dance still stands. And I accept.”
“Do you now?” He pushed away from the wall and took a slow, languid step toward her. “Well, far be it from me to keep a lady waiting.”
A spark flared to life within her as he extended his gloveless hand. He couldn’t mean to dance now. Could he? She considered the slight upward curl of his lips and the genuine amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.
He most definitely did.
She swallowed, dropping her gaze to his boldly offered hand. Did she know that accepting his offer was highly imprudent, given that her maid was right outside the door and at least three men were at work in the front room? Absolutely. Did she care?
Not particularly.
Not while he was looking at her with those charcoal gray eyes, daring her to accept his teasing offer. The spark grew to an effervescent burn as she took a step closer, lifted her chin, and slid her hand into his. The soft, supple leather of her kid gloves did nothing to shield the heat of his skin or the strength of his grip as his fingers closed around hers.
“You really don’t play by the rules, do you?”
She allowed him to draw her a step closer to him, all the while savoring that unmistakable thrill of being just the slightest bit wicked. “No. But you knew that. Isn’t that why you asked me to dance in the first place?”
“Perhaps,” he said, giving a quiet chuckle, “which is very interesting, since I like rules. I follow them by nature.”
Beatrice lifted their joined hands. “Could have fooled me.”
He chuckled, tugging her forward. “You, my lady, must be a bad influence on me.”
With that, he snagged her other hand in his and swung them both around in a dizzying circle. It was such an unexpected move, she gave a little squeak, tightening her grip. “What are you doing?” she half gasped, half laughed. It was the sort of thing she might have done in the meadow by the lake at their estate in Aylesbury, when the flowers were blooming and there was no one around to see. Certainly not something she would have done in the middle of the stark white walls of a London gallery filled with priceless paintings.
“Dancing, of course,” he said, releasing one hand to swing her out before changing directions and rejoining hands. “Don’t you just love a good Scottish reel?”
She giggled as he spun them around, her skirts swirling out with the movement as the paintings whooshed by in a blur of muted color. It was by far the most fun she’d had in months—years, perhaps. In a move so fast her head was spinning, he brought them both to an abrupt stop, facing one of the portraits.
“As you can see, Father decided to use a brilliant sunset as the backdrop for Lady Westmoreland’s portrait.”
She gaped at him, at a complete loss as to his sudden shift of demeanor. He sounded like a bored guide at a museum, not even a hitch in his breathing while she huffed like a racehorse to regain her breath.
“Is everything all right in here, Sir Colin?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Swanson. Thank you for your concern.” Colin’s smile was utterly polite and disengaged as he nodded to the man standing in the doorway.
Sucking in a breath, Beatrice followed suit, offering her own bland smile even as her heart pounded wildly within her chest. How on earth had she missed the approach of the gallery worker? She was more perceptive than most spies, or so her brother-in-law, Benedict, had once teased. She never missed what was going on around her.
His brow creased in confusion, Mr. Swanson nonetheless dipped his head and retreated back to the front room. Letting go of the pent-up air in her lungs, Beatrice turned widened eyes to Colin. “Thank you so much. Can you imagine if he would have caught us?”
He shrugged, the motion drawing her attention to the strong line of his shoulders, encased in a simple black jacket that suited him perfectly. “I see far too many cases where people break the rules without paying close enough attention to the possibility of being caught. In fact, it is exactly what keeps the courts full and barristers in demand.” He paused and gave a little tip of his chin. “And you’re welcome.”
She lifted a brow imperiously, a gesture passed down from Mama. “Learned a thing or two about getting away with murder, did you?”
“Murder, theft, dancing with a beautiful lady—only the most grievous of crimes.”
The compliment caught her by surprise and sent an immediate flush of pleasure through her. He thought her beautiful? She turned the compliment over in her mind, inspecting it as one might a stumbled-upon treasure. Her sisters were beautiful. Her mother was beautiful. Even her sister-in-law was gorgeous. Beatrice had always been the passably attractive one in the bunch. The one whose eyes weren’t quite as blue, whose hair wasn’t quite as blond, whose teeth weren’t quite as straight, and whose bosom was more a hint than a reality.
She would say that he was just making a pretty statement, with no real meaning behind it, but he struck her as a man of honesty. He was nothing like the hordes of men who paid her empty praise and waxed poetic about her beauty and charm. Those men had agendas, and heaven knew they wouldn’t look twice at her if she were separated from her ever-present dowry.
But Colin seemed different somehow. She got the impression that if it wasn’t true—in his mind, at least—then he probably wouldn’t say it. She tucked the comment away and nodded gravely. “All the worst crimes, punishable by death or marriage, no?”
“Precisely.”
They grinned at each other a moment, her heart still elevated from their romp. The afternoon sun bathed half his face in slanted light, illuminating his sculpted jaw and cheekbones, and she wished that she had her paints with her. He looked like a fallen angel, half human and half heavenly creature. As he turned his attention back to the priceless masterpieces lining the walls and continued with his thoroughly interrupted tour, Beatrice realized that something rather shocking had happened in the course of their time at the gallery.