“And as we’ve established, I have no one to answer to but me, and I tend to be very understanding with myself.”
“Good to know.”
“Well, then, lovely to meet you,” he said, coming to his feet and offering a perfunctory nod. “If you’re ever in the mood for sports, do seek me out at Gentleman Jackson’s. As one of his longest-standing and most proficient patrons, I’m there every week, without fail.”
Colin nodded, and the earl took his leave, striding from the room without a backward glance. Well, that had quite possibly been the most singular conversation of his life. Oddly enough, he didn’t seem to be warning him away from Beatrice, only from hurting her. It was like asking his intentions without coming right out and actually doing so.
Finishing off the contents of his tumbler, Colin set it on the wide arm of the leather chair and leaned back. The question was, what were his intentions?
His original intentions—which, truly, were none at all—had changed in the space of a single kiss. All along he had rejected Beatrice as a wife candidate because he had absolutely nothing to offer someone of her wealth and status. But much had changed since then. In almost every instance, she had been the one to show her preference for him, not the other way around. Learning about his father, becoming part of his world through her association with Colin seemed to be of higher currency than even the loftiest title or the wealthiest coffers to her.
But all that aside, she seemed to want him. To be attracted to him almost as much as he was to her. She had kissed him, well and truly kissed him of her own volition. The desire he felt for her—and not just physically—seemed to be wholly requited.
Therefore . . . why not have intentions toward her? Why not consider her as a possible bride? Heaven knew she would bring more than enough to the table monetarily speaking. But more important than that, he could actually envision having her by his side . . . and in his bed.
He swallowed, letting the pleasure of that thought linger.
His search for a wife went from distasteful to delectable just that fast. He came to his feet, discarding the glass on a side table on his way to the escritoire. It was time he took the reins in their relationship.
Chapter Fifteen
Music was most assuredly not Beatrice’s forte. In fact, it probably went hand in hand with her lack of dancing prowess. She could appreciate fine quality and exceptional playing, but it just didn’t speak to her the way it did others. She did, however, have a well-developed sense of loyalty, which was why she was seated beside her mother at her friend’s second recital in six months.
Situated in a middle row close to the outside edge, she refrained from nodding her head or tapping her foot as some of the others were doing, lest she betray her terrible lack of rhythm. Instead, she smiled at Sophie and her sister as they did a lovely if slightly incongruous duet. Sophie had a true talent with her oboe, hitting soft, pure notes time and again. Her older sister was as accomplished on the bassoon as Beatrice imagined anyone could be. But when the two totally opposite range instruments were pitted against each other, well, it did rather make one question the wisdom of the pairing.
At least the performance was as memorable as their mother hoped it would be, if not quite for the same reason as she had envisioned. She famously believed that the more unique the instruments, the more memorable the musician.
Poor Sophie. She had asked to have the opportunity to perform a solo, but her mother felt it would be unjustly stealing attention from her older sister. Perhaps Sarah would marry before the next musicale, and Sophie would have her chance.
Movement out of the corner of Beatrice’s eye made her glance right just as a man slipped into the empty seat beside her. In the half second before she actually saw his face, the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up at his presence, and she just knew who it would be.
Colin.
When their gazes collided, he flashed her his beautiful smile, all white teeth and masculine perfection. He lingered for the space of a breath before he nodded to Mama, then turned his attention toward the front of the room.
It was all Beatrice could do to turn her gaze back to the musicians. Even with her eyes trained steadfastly forward, she could positively feel him beside her. All the pent-up emotions that had been bouncing around inside of her for days came roaring back to life. The last time she had seen him, she had been wrapped in his arms, his lips pressed to hers. . . . She shifted in her seat, trying to distract herself from the direction of her thoughts.
Which, of course, was impossible.
The music seemed oddly distant as every part of her focused in on Colin. Was he as aware of her as she was of him? Did he think of their kiss as often as she did, or remember her touch as keenly as she did his? And that wasn’t all she was curious about. She was dying to know what had happened when her nosy brother had called on Colin two days earlier, but Richard had remained annoyingly closemouthed, saying only that they “understood each other.” What the devil was that supposed to mean?
Now, at least, she knew that whatever the understanding, Richard had not scared poor Colin away. He could have sat in any one of the available seats around the room, but he had chosen to join her. To be near to her.
That had to be a positive sign.
She held perfectly still, looking straight ahead as if she actually saw the Wembleys and wasn’t trying to master the art of peripheral vision. He’d worn another dark jacket this evening, with what appeared to be an emerald waistcoat and efficiently tied white cravat. Simple, unfussy, and attractive, just like him.
She had ascertained from Sophie yesterday that he would be here, but when the music started and he still hadn’t arrived, she had stopped watching the doorway and had resigned herself to a night without him. She really should not be so giddy to have him here now.
The first hints of his fresh and clean yet perfectly masculine scent teased her senses, and she drew a long, slow, utterly indulgent breath. She was instantly put to mind of the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips, of the warmth of his breath upon her cheek, of his lips tasting hers. . . .
She drew another breath, this one trying to quiet her pounding heart. It was a wonder no one could hear it over the music. For heaven’s sake, she couldn’t very well go to pieces just because a man sat beside her.
Bowing her head, she focused on her clasped hands on her lap. Her heart seemed to rise with the notes of the oboe, reaching higher with each beat. Cutting a glance toward Colin, she realized that his hand was only inches away from her skirts, settled close enough that if she adjusted her position at all, she could easily close the space between them.
Not that she would do such a thing in the middle of a musicale. Even with the lamps turned down and everyone’s attention on the musicians, she’d be a fool to indulge the impulse. With a simple glance around, anyone could see if his fingers brushed against her skirts, or if her hand settled beside his, or if their fingers should somehow become entwined with one another’s.
Beatrice snapped her head up, diverting her gaze from his closeness and focusing on Sophie as if her life depended on it. The next fifteen minutes were the longest of her life. Knowing that he was so close, yet being unable to speak with him, or even look at him, was a new kind of oddly sweet torment.
When Sophie’s last note finally rang out, the gathering politely clapped and the girls made their curtsies. The lamps were turned up, and with anticipation burning like a torch within her belly, Beatrice stood and met Colin’s smoke-colored gaze.