“One never enjoys oneself at a society ball, dear boy. One merely tolerates the evening as best one can.”
Every now and again, her dry humor made an appearance. Colin chuckled, clinking his glass to hers. “Well, then, here is to enduring the evening in style.”
She chuckled and took a sip, glancing out over the attendants as if she were surveying her kingdom. “Of course, it’s always slightly more entertaining when the ton is abuzz about something. Just look at the number of people here tonight. That dreadful letter has created quite a bit of interest for the Little Season.”
“Don’t I know it,” he said, the words low to prevent them from traveling. Just another reminder to stay vigilant. He must not give the ton any reason to doubt his family’s standing. If someone asked a direct question about his finances, he refused to lie about it, which made keeping up appearances all the more vital.
As he started to lift his goblet, something made him look to the right, as if an unseen hand turned him by the chin.
And that was when he saw her.
He froze, his glass halfway to his lips, as his gaze locked on Lady Beatrice’s small form slipping through the crowd. Her dark blond hair was studded with tiny jewels that flashed with every step she took. Her gown, a pale blue creation that shimmered in the candlelight as if shot with slivers of silver, suited her perfectly. She looked ethereal, and beautiful, and completely enchanting.
He lowered his glass and took a steadying breath. “Will you excuse me, Aunt? I’ve still a few dances free for the night, and I’d best get to filling them before it’s too late.”
She waved him away with her free hand. “Go, go. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything on my account.”
He wove his way through the crowd, but it was slow going. Damn, he’d never catch up to her in this crush. As he stepped around a pair of matrons chatting behind opened fans, he lost her completely. He paused, scanning the vicinity for another glimpse of her, and saw that she had stopped by the refreshment table.
He hurried in that direction, arriving just as she turned away from the table, lemonade in hand. Her lips parted in surprise before she broke into a pleased grin.
“Well, if it isn’t Sir Colin Tate.”
It was hard not to think of the last time he had seen her, when they had indulged in their illicit, impromptu dance. He offered her a perfectly polite smile, even as he allowed his eyes to convey his pleasure at seeing her again. “Lady Beatrice, lovely to see you here.”
Her eyes, dark, glittering sapphires in the warm glow of the chandelier above her, offered nothing but delight as she took a small step closer. “And you, sir. Allow me to introduce my friend Miss Sophie Wembley.”
It had totally escaped his attention that the lady beside them was turned toward the conversation as well. At mention of her name, the girl beamed up at him with a broad smile. He bowed and said, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Wembley.”
She gave a small curtsy and giggled. “We’ve been introduced, actually. Last week at your aunt’s ball, in fact. But with the scores of people clambering for an introduction to the great Sir Frederick Tate’s son, it’s little wonder you don’t remember. But it’s ever so nice to meet you again.”
Colin tried not to cringe. There was no accusation in her words at all, but he should have remembered meeting the girl. She definitely wasn’t on his list, but that was no excuse. “I must have been terribly overwhelmed not to remember one as lovely as you. Perhaps you will allow me to make amends, and dance with me tonight? Actually, a man could do no better than to be granted dances by the both of you.”
Miss Wembley shook her head, her brown eyes sparkling affably. “I hadn’t taken you for the charmer, Sir Colin, but I am happy to find you are. I know you are just being polite, but I would be delighted to share a dance with you.” She offered up her dance card, and he chose a quadrille toward the end of the evening.
“Thank you, Miss Wembley. Hopefully you won’t mind dancing with a half-Scottish barrister baronet with less than impressive rhythm.”
“You’ve wonderful rhythm,” Lady Beatrice said, her lips tilted up with a nearly imperceptible hint of mischief. No one standing around them would have any idea she was referring to a rogue Scottish reel in the middle of a staid portrait gallery.
He loved that about her. Playfulness in the midst of all this proper society nonsense. Keeping his expression utterly bland, he nodded. “Why, thank you, Lady Beatrice. The same could be said about you. I wonder, do you have room on your dance card for one more?”
“Hmm,” she murmured, producing her card and frowning down at it. “It appears all I have left is the next waltz. Will that do?”
This time he did grin, imagining what it would be like to hold her in his arms. “I think I can handle that.” He accepted the card and the little pencil from her, then looked for the open spot. He blinked, confusion knitting his brow. Every spot was empty save for a single dance, which appeared to be claimed by Godfrey. He glanced back up at her, and she gave him a completely innocent smile.
It was all he could do to keep a straight face as he returned his attention to the card and filled in his name in the appropriate slot. Breaking the rules again, his little stór. He loved that about her. She was daring without being reckless, bold but not brazen.
When he was finished, he bowed to both girls. “Miss Wembley, I look forward to our dance later this evening. Lady Beatrice,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’m sure this dance will be as delightful as our last.”
Chapter Eleven
Sometimes a lady had to do what a lady had to do to get what she wanted. And by Jove, she wasn’t sorry for it. He was just so blasted handsome, in his unconventional way. His lean build was perfectly accentuated in his plain black jacket and deep charcoal waistcoat that was almost the exact color of his eyes.
With plenty of time until their dance, Beatrice strolled along the perimeter of the ballroom, keeping an ear out for conversation related to the article. Sophie had been snagged by her mother, and Beatrice wanted to do a little reconnaissance now that she was alone. The trick to blending was skirting around pods of conversation without pause so people didn’t think she was eavesdropping.
Already she had heard the whispers, young ladies bandying about words like “magazine,” “fortune hunter,” and “dowry.” It seemed as though, with a few exceptions, the chatter was more or less positive, thank goodness. If nothing else, it had certainly raised awareness. What more could she ask for, really?
The corridor leading to the retiring room came up on her right, and as she glanced down the empty passageway, she came up short.
Something was different. She glanced up and down the corridor until she saw it: A door, about halfway down, was slightly ajar, with the subtle glow of firelight flickering from within.
Her inquisitiveness flared to life, that old familiar need to know what was going on around her. She glanced to the clock; she had minutes still before she needed to meet Colin. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she casually rounded the corner and headed toward the door. As the sounds of the ball receded, she could hear the murmur of voices up ahead. Instinctively, she slowed, quieting her already muted footsteps and calming the rustling fabric of her gown. The voices were male and they were speaking in tones just hushed enough to justify her curiosity. Normal conversations rarely interested her, but the moment voices were dropped and two heads were put together, she knew something interesting was going on.
She stepped closer, moving her head back and forth in an effort to see through the crack where the door wasn’t quite closed. She could see the multicolored spines of rows upon rows of books as she moved—so this was the library, then. She stepped further sideways. There! She finally caught a flash of a burgundy jacket and the deep forest sleeve of another man beside him. Hadn’t Mr. Godfrey been wearing that shade of burgundy? She crept forward a few more steps, adjusting her angle until—aha! It was him. His movements were agitated, almost jittery as he shoved a hand through his hair.