John leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it is past time to get over your reservations and get on with the business of finding a wife. You have, what, four months before the bankers collect?”
Colin closed his eyes and nodded. Sixteen weeks before the world learned of his family’s downfall—a mere three months to convince some young lady with a fat dowry to marry him and save his family from ruin. How utterly cliché. He tried to stifle the rising resentment he felt for his father. He had loved—still loved—the man who had been a genius and yet still had managed to make such horrid business decisions.
“Do try to remember what is at stake here,” John said, coming to his feet. “Your brother, sister, and your grandmother are depending on you.” He picked up the empty glasses and returned them to the sideboard. Turning back to Colin, he said, “The sooner you find yourself a bride, the sooner you can return to normal life.” He headed toward the door, gesturing for Colin to join him. “Come. Let us weed through the merchandise, shall we?”
Colin gave a snort of laughter. “I thought I was the merchandise. Don’t tell me you were feeding me a load of bullocks, just now.”
“I? Never. Now polish up that title of yours and prepare to wear it on your sleeve; you have a wife to catch.” Grinning broadly, he slapped a hand on Colin’s back, propelling him through the doorway. “And with your secret weapon, tonight is sure to be a success.”
Chapter Three
The entrance to the ballroom was elegant and sumptuous, with a great, arching doorway framed by intricately carved whitewashed wood. There were two matching columns on either side, both fluted, with a scrolled design at the top that was reminiscent of Greek architecture, providing a dramatic backdrop for anyone hoping to make a grand entrance.
These were not the sorts of details a casual attendee might notice.
But, after fifteen minutes of surreptitiously sneaking glances that way, Beatrice was fairly certain she was as well acquainted with the entryway design as the architect himself. And now that the clock hands were perilously close to meeting beneath the twelve, heralding the hour when her mystery man would reappear, she could hardly drag her gaze away. She breathed an impatient sigh and wrapped a hand around her middle. Newton, as it turned out, must have been mistaken with his whole “gravity theory” idea. Otherwise, how could her stomach feel as though it were hovering somewhere in the vicinity of the gilded ceiling?
“Darling, what has come over you? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
Drat. Her mother was right—Bea had completely ignored whatever it was she was talking about. Lucky for her, Mama had only one topic of interest at these kinds of functions. Smiling vaguely, Bea gave a little flip of her hand, dismissing her mother’s entirely true statement. “Don’t be absurd—I’ve heard every word. Yes, there are many eligible gentlemen here tonight. No, I’m not overly inclined to dance with them. You know I’m as likely to tread on their boots as make a good impression.”
Mama came as close to rolling her eyes as Beatrice had ever seen in public, briefly lifting her gray gaze heavenward. “Hyperbole does not become you. You are a perfectly adequate dancer—I hired the best instructors in London to ensure it. And what are you so interested in across the room?”
Beatrice snapped her gaze back, not even realizing it had wandered to the ballroom entryway once again. Oops. Well, there was no harm in the truth. “I’m merely anxious for the stroke of midnight, when we will finally discover the identity of the mystery guest.”
Mama straightened, running a gloved hand down the burgundy silk of her gown. “Ah, the mystery guest. Well, let us hope he is an eligible gentleman so your interest can be for good.”
It was Beatrice’s turn to roll her eyes. With Papa’s illness striking shortly after the start of her first Season, little attention had been paid to the endeavor of finding her a husband. At the time, there were much more important issues to attend to. But now, with her sisters, twins Carolyn and Jocelyn, set to make their debut in the spring, her mother was suddenly bound and determined to remedy the situation. It was why her parents had insisted they attend the Little Season. Normally, the family spent most of their time at Hertford Hall, their country estate, making the trek to London each spring. But no—if there was hope of avoiding having three daughters on the marriage mart at once, then Mama would do everything in her power to exploit it.
Never mind that London in the winter was positively dismal, lacking the sort of inspiration Bea craved when creating her paintings. Or that her elder sister, Evie, had had no fewer than five Seasons before her own marriage. Mama had decided that Bea must marry, and that was that.
“Good evening, Lady Granville, Lady Beatrice.”
Beatrice’s jaw tightened at the all too familiar voice of Mr. William Godfrey. Curse her luck—would the man be at every event they attended this month? Pasting a humorless smile upon her lips, she turned and dipped her head in a shallow greeting. “Mr. Godfrey.”
He was dressed in clothes befitting of the youngest son of a viscount—sumptuous velvet jacket with an incredibly fussy cravat, buff pantaloons, and highly polished shoes—but Beatrice knew better than to be fooled by the display.
He was a gambler, a lush, and worst of all, a fortune hunter.
And it drove her mad that no one else seemed to have picked up on those facts. Although, to be fair, she knew of his gambling only because of her brother. But anyone with eyes and half a brain could see that he circled the daughters of wealthy men like a hungry, well-dressed vulture.
Beatrice didn’t understand it. There were those whom the ton immediately identified as fortune hunters—men with well-known debts or bankrupt estates. But for some reason, they tended to have blinders when it came to others. Generally they were the rakishly good-looking type, with pretty manners and good backgrounds. Godfrey was one; Lord Andrew Gravell was another. Bea’s fists clenched at the thought of that particular cur.
“Lady Beatrice, may I just say that you are looking particularly lovely this evening.”
“Thank you.” It was his favorite line, given every other time they met. Which, unfortunately, meant that he was about to follow up with the next line he delivered without fail. I do so hope you’ll do me the honor of dancing with me.
Her eyes darted to the front of the ballroom as she tried to think of a way to curtail the question. She had more interesting things on her mind than dancing with Godfrey. But, of course, if she denied him, she’d have to sit out dancing the rest of the evening, and she’d never hear the end of it from her mother. “My goodness, am I parched—”
A stir at the front of the room drew her attention, and this time when she looked toward the entryway, the breath froze in her lungs, crystallizing like the icy early-winter mist hanging over the Thames.
It was him.
Without thinking, she started forward, wanting nothing more than to be closer to him. Well, that, and to learn at last who he really was.
“My lady?” Godfrey said at the same time her mother exclaimed her name softly. Beatrice turned long enough to offer an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Please excuse me,” she called before allowing herself to be carried away by the building excitement of the crowd.
He looked different in the blazing candlelight of the ballroom, more aloof somehow. The hint of mischief was nowhere to be found, replaced by a passively pleasant expression directed at Lady Churly. Bea turned sideways to slip between Lord St. James and his spinster daughter, never taking her eyes from the man she had shared a secret encounter with. She slowed, her lips lifting in a tiny, private smile.