Her triumph turned to worry as a wisp of unease floated through her, like a drop of paint in a glass of water, slowly spreading outward from her chest. She took a quiet step forward, straining to hear what they were talking about. Blast the noise from the ball; it was making it impossible to catch actual words. Had he discovered his infamy? What would he do if he had? She took a calming breath, reminding herself that there was no way for him to know that she had written the letter and drawn the cartoon.
Music rose above the low roar of the crowd from down the corridor, and she pressed her lips together in frustration. The waltz would be starting in a minute or two. Of course—just when things were proving to be interesting. Her curiosity almost always won, but in this case, nothing was going to keep her from her waltz with Sir Colin. Taking one last look at Godfrey, she backed away, turned on her heel, and hurried to the ballroom.
Perhaps she could glean some small bit of information from Godfrey during their dance. He’d chosen the second waltz, so she had a good half hour to cool her heels until she could speak with him.
As she emerged from the corridor into the bright candlelight of the ballroom, Beatrice rose on her toes and looked around. She didn’t see Sir Colin anywhere. His black jacket was fairly distinctive among the fussy colors of the rest of the ton. When she spotted him, all thoughts of Godfrey and the magazine and even the heat of the room seemed to fall away with the lift of a single corner of his mouth.
He was looking right at her, moving toward her with a purposeful stride. All those around him seemed to fade into the background while he remained in stark relief, crisp and perfectly clear.
Oh my.
She blinked, mentally framing the image. That’s how she would paint him. Colin, bold and sharply detailed in the dead center, with the rest of the world soft and indistinct behind him. The painter’s son, lacking the artist’s touch, but blessed with looks that positively begged to be painted.
Lord, he was gorgeous. His gaze didn’t falter from hers, the whole of his attention settled on her and her alone. She swallowed, trying to remember how on earth to breathe properly when a herd of butterflies had suddenly overtaken her stomach.
He stopped directly in front of her and offered a languid bow. “My lady,” he said, his accent somehow transforming the words into a caress, “I believe this dance is mine.”
She nodded, words seeming quite beyond her in that moment. He extended his hand, a completely proper and acceptable gesture, and yet the intensity in his smoky gaze seemed to make the simple task of accepting his hand seem like a declaration of something . . . more. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she placed her hand in his.
He smiled, giving her a wink so subtle, she almost doubted she had seen it at all. “Let’s see how we do at a proper dance, shall we?”
His teasing grin quieted her rioting nerves, and she offered him one of her own. “I should warn you again, sir, that I am not the most accomplished dancer in the world. If I trod on your foot, you cannot say I didn’t warn you.”
“It will be worth it, my lady, if that is the price of having you to myself for a moment.”
So much for calmed nerves. The honesty in his voice matched the sincerity in his eyes, even if his lips were still curled in his charming smile. Good heavens—was a single sentence really all it took to turn her to putty in this man’s arms?
Apparently, it was.
His fingers tightened on hers as he led her onto the dance floor. They took up the proper position, a perfectly respectable distance between them to the casual observer. What the others in the room couldn’t see was the tingling nerves of her back where his hands rested against her skin.
“Do you know,” he murmured, holding his position as they waited for the start of the dance, “as beautiful as you are in daylight, I think I prefer you in the candlelight?”
“You do?” she squeaked, taken off guard by the unexpected statement.
“I do. Sunlight makes your eyes sparkle, but candlelight illuminates the fire within. It’s more true to your personality.”
Before she could utter a word in response, the music started and he swung them into motion. For once she didn’t focus on counting out the steps in her head. How could she? Her mind whirled faster than even their bodies as she basked in the compliment. Did he think her fiery then? That thought made her feel the slightest bit reckless and a great deal more bold.
His steps were smooth, his rhythm sure. Somehow, her body just seemed to follow his, to give up to the authority of his lead. He wasn’t the most graceful dancer in the world, but he moved with a certain confidence that suited her much more than an exceedingly polished partner might. She didn’t need someone whose elegant moves would make her look clumsy—she needed someone who knew how to lead. She wouldn’t have thought a man of his background would have such command of the waltz, but here they were, gliding along with the dozens of other couples as if he’d done such a thing his whole life.
“And here I thought your specialty would be the Scottish reel. Who taught you to dance so well? From what I know, Sir Frederick attended many a ball, but never danced.”
“You can thank my aunt for that. My mother died when I was five years old, and no matter how accomplished my father was, Aunt Constance always feared that he was raising her sister’s only son to be some sort of Scottish brute. It dinna help that my father moved us back to Scotland shortly thereafter. Determined to bring culture to her nephew, she arranged for private tutors for my education, elocution, and etiquette.”
“So she’s the one responsible for that singular accent of yours.”
He raised a dark brow, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Singular accent? I’ve heard it called many a name, but that is a first.”
“Why would anyone call it names? Your accent is”—divine, intoxicating, toe-curling—“lovely.”
She’d pleased him. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of the compliment, tucking his chin in a way that was almost bashful. “Why, thank you, my lady. I think the problem is I doona quite fit any molds. Most Scots find my way of speaking annoyingly English, and most Englishmen find it dreadfully Scottish.”
“Well, then, most Scots and Englishmen are idiots.”
He laughed out loud at this, drawing the attention of several of the couples around them. He ignored them as he smiled down at her, his fingers giving her a little squeeze. “I’m inclined to agree, my lady.”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
She’d said the words almost to herself, but clearly he heard them. “‘My lady’?”
She nodded. She would never have said such a thing to anyone else, but he thought her fiery, did he not? She allowed the space between them to close just the slightest amount, her heart pounding all the while. “It’s what servants and strangers call me, and even formal acquaintances. I don’t think of you that way.”
His eyes met hers, his gaze seeking. “Doona you, now?”
“How could I? You’ve unearthed me from the curtains, braved the elements to sit in my drawing room and defend my sister, and danced the Scottish reel with me among your father’s most priceless works of art. If that doesn’t do away with the ‘my lady’ nonsense, I don’t know what would.”