“Well, is that all?” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided grin.
“No,” she admitted, focusing on his shoulder for a moment before looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “You shared your father with me. You, Colin, made my dreams come true.”
Colin could hardly think straight with the way she watched him, as if he were some sort of knight in shining armor. He was allowing himself to be caught up in the liquid fire of her gaze, and he really needed to remember that this was just a simple dance with an off-limits woman. “I wouldn’a go as far as all that, surely. Perhaps you could say I made your day?”
She looked up at him with those huge blue eyes, which were a thousand times more brilliant than the sparkling aquamarine necklace hugging her slender throat. Damn, he really needed to watch himself. Two weeks among the ton and he was turning into a bloody poet.
“You made my life. No one on earth could have crafted a more intimate portrait of Sir Frederick, sharing all those little things that made him who he was, over and above his mastery of painting.”
He couldn’t deny the truth of that. As much heartache and trouble as his father had brought to Colin’s life over the years, he had still loved the man. It felt good to share the harmless, interesting little bits about him with Lady Beatrice—someone who had genuine respect and admiration for the man.
Instead of denying her sentiment, he merely cocked a brow, allowing a bit of levity to show in his eyes. “You, Lady Beatrice, need to reach for higher goals in life.”
She rolled her eyes at him, unoffended. “So you say. I’m content with them, thank you very much. And I meant it when I said no more ‘my ladying’ me, if you please. Lady Beatrice in public because we have to, but when next we find ourselves alone, I expect you to drop the ‘lady’ altogether.”
His mind skipped right past her request—demand?—and landed on the fact that she clearly intended to spend more time with him.
Alone.
Swallowing the surge of satisfaction that spread through his chest, he gave a brief nod. Yes, he knew very well that he should be distancing himself from the addictive woman in his arms. But that was the thing about vices—the fact that they should be avoided only made them that much more enticing.
As if his little stór needed any help in that department.
He tightened his grip on her, sliding his hand across her back as he led them across the dance floor. Neither one of them was an excellent dancer, but they were a good match for each other.
This was what he liked best about Beatrice. She made him feel like a normal gentleman, enjoying being with a normal lady. No thoughts of what she could do for him, only what he could do for her. The self-disgust of being a fortune hunter slipped away, like the hood of a dark cloak falling back. She had sought him out, had she not? In every instance, in fact. She had sought the introduction, invited him to call on her, and even asked him to waltz, in a roundabout way.
“Well?”
He glanced back down at her. “As you wish.”
“That’s more like it. Now, I’d like for you to do something for me. Please,” she added belatedly.
He didn’t even pause to think. “Anything.”
The music came to a close then, and he reluctantly pulled away. Beatrice curtsied as he bowed, and he held out his arm to escort her off the dance floor.
“I’d like for you to meet me in Green Park on Monday. Around noon?”
There she went, seeking out his company again. It was the sort of thing that could easily go to a man’s head. “I’ll be there.” He cut a sideways glance at her and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You do realize that at some point I should probably be the one to suggest a meeting?”
Beatrice raised a single golden brow, her eyes alight with mischief. “Yes, but what is the fun in that?”
“Do you truly think it was Mr. Godfrey?”
The whispered question brought Beatrice up short. She glanced around casually, as if looking for someone she knew, but really she was trying to overhear what the response would be.
Lady Chester and Mrs. Langford had their heads bent toward each other, their fans lifted strategically to shield their mouths. “It did rather look like him, but it doesn’t make sense. His father is a viscount, after all. And a wealthy one at that,” Mrs. Langford replied, her trilling voice carrying over the din.
“But didn’t I hear somewhere that his father wishes for him to work?”
Beatrice almost rolled her eyes. Yes, working would be so much more scandalous than marrying a person he had no affection for in a bid to get his hands on her dowry.
“Shhh, he’s coming.”
The hushed admonishment had Beatrice’s stomach sinking. There were a good ten minutes before their dance was at hand. Perhaps he was just passing by. She tried her best to blend into the clump of matrons loitering in the area. Please don’t let him want to speak to me. Please don’t let him want to—
“Lady Beatrice, I’m so glad that I found you.”
Drat. She turned, raising her brows. “Oh? Is it time for our dance already, Mr. Godfrey?”
He looked quite a bit worse for the wear since she had seen him earlier in the evening, with his pale skin looking waxen and his hair finger-combed to the side. “That’s just it,” he said, his spirit-laced breath assailing her. “I’ve had some unexpected business come up. I do hope you’ll forgive me if I miss our dance.”
Beatrice bit the inside of her lip. Her emotions couldn’t seem to figure out whether to be joyful at the news or to swamp her with guilt. “Well, I can certainly understand if you have more pressing matters to attend to. Thank you for letting me know.”
He offered a slightly off-kilter bow. “Of course, my lady. And I do hope you’ll save a dance for me next time.”
“Absolutely,” she assured him, nodding for emphasis—too much emphasis. Apparently, the guilt won out. Although there was a smidge of happiness, as well. “Good evening to you, sir.”
With a nod, he turned and bobbed his way through the crowd, his body adopting the sort of loose-limbed movements of one well and truly in his cups. So had he discovered his likeness in the drawing? It was hard to tell. She didn’t detect any anger in him, just . . . distress. Worry. But what else could have caused the change in mood?
She supposed she was going to have to make a greater effort to be nice to the man now. If he was suffering any ill effects from the inadvertent likeness in the letter, then it was the least she could do. As she watched him disappear around the bend, another face in the crowd caught her attention—Diana. Beatrice hurried toward her, anxious to hear how she was doing. She needn’t have rushed—her friend stayed where she was, planted beside a potted tree near the wall as she scanned the assembly. When Diana saw her, her face brightened and she lifted a hand in greeting. “I was hoping I’d see you here tonight.”
“Were you?” Beatrice replied, innocence coloring her tone. Diana was the only person Beatrice could think of who might suspect the truth of the letter. “Well, I’m always delighted to see you. Shall we take a turn about the room?”
Her friend glanced around the crowded hall. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”
Nodding, Beatrice linked arms with her and started forward. “I stumbled upon the library earlier. Why don’t we try there?”
It took only a few minutes to return to the room, and Beatrice was happy to see that a fire still burned in the grate. Lighting a few candles with it, she turned to Diana and smiled. “You look much improved from when last I saw you.”