“Blasphemy, I declare,” Sophie said, shaking her head with great dramatic flair. “Well, fiddlesticks. In my mind, assembling a trousseau would be the most fun of all of it. I think I’ll pretend we never had this conversation, thank you very much.”

“I warned you I was dreadful company.”

The butler’s measured footsteps caught Bea’s ear, and she turned to the doorway. He appeared a few seconds later, holding a silver salver. That got her attention. Generally, any correspondence would be held until after a guest had left. “What is it, Finnington?”

“A letter, my lady, sent from Sir Colin Tate. He asked that it be delivered at once and his family’s footman is awaiting your response.”

Colin was back? She didn’t even wait for the butler to reach her before jumping up and meeting the man halfway. “Thank you, Finnington. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”

She waited while he nodded and headed back to his post. Sophie popped up and hurried to join her, her dark eyes sparkling like sunlit bronze. “He sent you an urgent missive? How romantic—he must miss you! Don’t you think it’s romantic? Oh, I wonder what he wants.”

Nodding vaguely, Beatrice turned the note over in her hand, her heart racing so fast, it robbed her of her breath. If he was in town, this could mean only one of two things. Either he was willing to concede defeat, or he had found a way to prove his intentions.

A flutter of nerves started deep in her belly as she slipped a finger beneath the wax seal, almost ripping the paper in her haste. The handwriting was crisp and clean, exactly as she would have expected. As angry at the situation as she was, she hadn’t expected the sudden welling of emotion as she held his words in her hands.

My dearest Beatrice,

I have returned this very day, and I must see you as soon as possible. Can you meet me at my father’s studio? Ever your servant, I await your response.

Yours,


Colin

“Well? Yes, I know, it is dreadfully rude to ask, but is it a romantic letter?” Sophie put her hands to her heart, clearly already expecting it to be so.

Beatrice looked back down at the letter, reading his brief missive once more. What had happened on his journey? He seemed anxious to see her. After what the blackguard Godfrey had said, Beatrice was determined to shield her heart, but it seemed to defy her wishes. Her wildly fluttering pulse was proof enough of that.

“Not romantic, really—just matter-of-fact.”

Sophie’s face fell. “Oh. Well, I suppose he doesn’t wish to put such sentiments in writing—I imagine many men wouldn’t. But now that he’s back, he wishes to see you, doesn’t he? I’ll bet he’s thought of little else since he’s been gone.”

It was likely true—but what were his real intentions? For a person who prided herself on being able to read others, there could be no more frustrating or infuriating question. She refolded the paper and turned her attention to Sophie. “In fact, he does wish to see me. Today, actually.”

That was all the encouragement Sophie’s romantic mind needed. “See? I knew it. Of course you probably already knew it as well, knowing you. Are you going to see him?”

“That depends. Would you mind terribly if we cut short our visit?”

Grinning broadly, she gave a little wink. “Would you look at the time? I simply must be on my way. Enjoy your evening, Beatrice.”

Easily said, impossible to do. Two hours later, she and her maid stood on the landing outside the studio, Bea’s heart pounding so loudly, she could scarcely hear the traffic on the street below. “Rose,” she said, her voice a bit unsteady, “you do realize that Sir Colin and I are betrothed?”

Her maid flushed at once, from her neck all the way to her hairline. “Yes, my lady.”

“For heaven’s sake, I’m not going to say or do anything untoward. I was merely going to say that we were hoping for a private conversation. That is why I said we were going out for art supplies. I don’t wish for everyone to be privy to our conversation. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You wish for me to . . . give the pair of you some privacy?”

“Yes, that’s it exactly. If you wouldn’t mind reading in the back room, I would very much appreciate it.” She might as well use the betrothal card while she still had it. Heaven knew where things would stand after this conversation.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she said, offering the best smile she could muster. Turning toward the door, she drew a deep, bracing breath, lifted her hand, and knocked.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Finally.

Colin exhaled the breath he had been holding since he heard quiet footsteps on the stairs, waiting for Beatrice to knock. Counting to three, he whisked open the door. God, but she was beautiful. In her own special Beatrice way, but absolutely beautiful nonetheless.

“Beatrice.” He should have probably said something much more eloquent, but for the life of him he could barely breathe, let alone make a proper sentence. He wanted to snag an arm around her waist, pull her to him, and kiss her until they were both gasping for air.

“Colin,” she returned, her eyes giving away nothing as to what exactly she was thinking. She turned and nodded to her maid, and the girl scurried past her, headed for the back room.

Well, that worked out rather better than he had hoped. The moment she was out of view, he turned to Beatrice, ready to do exactly what he had just imagined.

As if sensing his intention, she held up both hands. “I’m here only to talk.” Even as she said the words, her gaze traveled over him, burning a path everywhere it touched. Her lips were parted, her pupils so large as to make her eyes seem fathomless. But he knew the significance of her words. She hadn’t softened in his absence.

He pressed his lips together and nodded, inviting her in. She walked past him, maintaining an arm’s distance between them. The air stirred around him, chilled from outside and flavored with the faintest hint of lilac. It didn’t last nearly long enough as it carried past him and mixed with the warmth from the fire he’d lit when he arrived almost an hour earlier.

Her eyes flitted around the room, tripping past the easel that held the primed, blank canvas from his father’s cabin—another gift for her. His gaze lingered for a second on the object hidden beneath an inconspicuous white sheet, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal it with all the pomp and circumstance due the painting that would save a marriage.

Closing the door, he turned to face her, not even trying to hide the emotion from his eyes. “I missed you.” The words were quiet. Sincere.

She swallowed, accepting them without comment. She met his gaze, but with the wariness of a woman meeting a strange man on the street. Reluctance was one thing, but why the hell did she look so blasted wary? All he could think about was wrapping his arms around her and kissing her senseless, and she looked like judge and jury at a case he knew nothing about.

“Is something amiss? More than the obvious, I mean?” Damn it, now he was wary. He sensed something significant had shifted since he left.

Her eyes flared with the spark he knew so well, but she held the rest of herself in icy, rigid control. His stomach dropped as if he’d walked off an unexpected step. “That depends,” she said, her voice too tight to be called neutral.

“On?”

She tilted her head, watching him through slightly narrowed eyes, as if trying to peer into his soul. He left himself as open as possible to her scrutiny—he had nothing to hide.

“On how well you know Mr. Godfrey, for starters.”

“Mr. Godfrey?” What the hell did that jackass have to do with anything? “You’ve been with me both times I have encountered the man. I’d say I know him not at all, other than his status as a wastrel.”

“You know he’s a gambler?”

“Vaguely.”

She started pacing, slowly, but with pent-up energy that bespoke agitation. “Could ‘vaguely’ be used to encompass something as quickly done as, say, making a wager?”

“I beg your pardon?” His impatience with this line of questioning made his voice sharper than he intended, but what the bloody hell was she getting at?

She stopped abruptly, turning to face him straight-on. “A wager. As in, did you make a wager with Mr. Godfrey?”

“Of course not! Why would you think such a fool thing?”

She was not happy with his wording, but he wasn’t happy with the insinuation he was somehow colluding with Godfrey. “Because he said as much.”

“And you believed that?” He shook his head, at a loss for what to even think, let alone say. “You couldn’a believe that I loved you, or that my intentions were toward you and not your dowry, but you believed that rat’s tale? And what were you even doing talking to the man?”

Her spine went as stiff as mortar. “I didn’t believe him—not straight out. That’s why I’m asking. How else is one to know?”

“Oh, I don’t know, by not thinking me some sort of conniving scoundrel who would fraternize with a man who tried to force your hand in marrying him?” The joy of only moments earlier faded to black. Was he so bloody untrustworthy in her eyes? “And what sort of bet am I supposed to have made, exactly?”

For the first time, she looked uncomfortable, twisting her hands together. “He said you had a wager to see who could win my hand in marriage. I should point out, by the way, that he knew all about your financial situation. How would he have known that if you didn’t tell him?”

He was speechless, utterly speechless. He stared at her for a good three seconds before gathering his wits enough to respond. “I never hid the truth of my situation—I merely didn’t speak of it. If anyone had made serious inquiries into me, they might have stumbled across it. You did, did you not?”

“I stumbled upon it because I was going to marry you. Why on earth would he be making inquiries into you? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Perhaps because you publicly shamed him, and he set out to find a way to exact revenge.”

“Don’t put this back on my shoulders. If you had been honest with me, I wouldn’t have had reason to doubt anything about you. Now I can’t help but question everything!” Her cheeks were fiercely pink. Good—then he wasn’t the only one fighting against a rising tide of emotions.

“I couldn’t tell you everything.”

Her lip curled in derision. “Of course you could—you chose not to.”

“I would have, but—” He slammed his mouth shut. This wasn’t about her brother, damn it.

“But what?”

“Do you want the truth? Here it is: You wouldn’a have given me half a chance if you had known about the debt. You would have seen me as the enemy, no matter what.”

“So you are admitting that you purposely withheld that information in a bid to secure my affection.”

He growled in frustration, raking both hands through his hair. “You are so blasted blind. You doona see that a man without money can be just as fine a person as a wealthy man—or better, for that matter. You decided fortune hunters were the devil, no matter who he was. Well, you know what? That’s wrong.”

Her eyes became hooded, and she crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “You’ll say anything to—”

“I’ll say the truth.” He stalked closer to her, forcing her to look up at him, to witness the truth of his words. “You cannot judge a man—or his passions—by his coffers. Am I a bad person for not wanting my grandmother, sister, and brother to be tossed on the streets? For wanting to preserve my father’s legacy and give my siblings a future? Does being relieved that I fell in love with a woman whose dowry would save my family make me an evil person?”

He lifted a hand and trailed a finger down her cheek. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “Because, as God is my witness, I would have fallen for you either way. The difference, my dear, is that I wouldn’a have been able to marry you, were you poor.”

Still she didn’t move, but he heard her intake of air, saw the darkening of her eyes. He dropped his hand from her cheek, seeking instead her gloved hand. “That doesn’a mean that I would stop loving you.” He tugged on the buttery kid leather, sliding it from her fingers. “It would mean that I would be miserable for the rest of my life because I would have had to sacrifice you in order to marry a woman who could save my family.”