Chapter Eleven
Bea was trying very hard not to think about what Nicholas had said to her in the park yesterday.
He had meant to provoke her. That much was certain.
Maddeningly beautiful?
Ridiculous.
Though it was equally ridiculous that she had called him terribly handsome. Out loud!
She adjusted her gloves for the third time in as many minutes and ignored the fact that her palms were the slightest bit damp.
The Countess of Everly’s ballroom sparkled with candlelight, music, and the scent of far too many roses. The Season was well underway, the crowd glossy and chattering, the air thick with perfume and ambition.
She had a revolt to plan. And yet all she could think about was him.
Nicholas stood beside the refreshment table, speaking to someone’s great-aunt, of all things, with that amiable smile and those unreasonably broad shoulders.
Maddeningly beautiful. Unexpected. Beautiful. Riotous. Unconventional.
Why had he said all those words? It didn’t make sense. Men like him didn’t court women like her and say that. They said predictable, flowery things and recited poetry and a bunch of nonsense. Things that would get on her very last nerve.
And yet, when she’d finally met his eyes across the room earlier, his expression hadn’t wavered. It had warmed.
It had lingered.
“Lady Beatrix.”
The voice, deep and amused, came from just behind her.
It was him. Of course it was. He was obliged to use her title in public.
She turned slowly, chin tilted at a deliberate angle. “Lord Vanover.” She would call him that (to his face at least) until the day she died. Anything else was far too intimate.
He inclined his head. “May I claim this dance?”
“Are you in danger of running out of willing partners?” she asked with faint amusement.
“Not at all,” he said, offering his arm. “But I find I’ve no interest in the willing ones.”
She glanced over to see her father glaring at her from across the room. Under his watchful eye, she had no choice but to place her hand on Nicholas’s sleeve. The touch was scandalously warm through her gloves.
The music began anew—something slow, sweeping—and Nicholas guided her onto the floor with practiced ease. They fit together too well. She hated that she noticed it, which just made her even more annoyed.
“You’re scowling,” he murmured as they turned.
“I’m concentrating.”
His smile was serene. “On how not to enjoy yourself?”
“On how to keep my slippers from sliding. This floor is far too polished.”
“Then allow me to distract you properly,” he murmured. “You mentioned Manchester once. You think unrest there will spread?”
She blinked. “When did I mention Manchester?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I suppose it’s been a few months ago now. At dinner. At Lord Henson’s house.”
Her brow furrowed. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you say,” he replied, unembarrassed. “Do you believe Parliament is underestimating the unrest?”
She hesitated, then exhaled. “They aren’t underestimating it. They’re dismissing it. That’s far worse.”
“Why?”
The single word—quiet, intent—undid her.
Bea forgot the room. Forgot the music. “Because dismissal breeds desperation. And desperation always finds a voice.”
Nicholas watched her with undisguised fascination. “You should be in the House,” he said.
Her laugh came sharp and humorless. “I would be invisible there.”
“No,” he said firmly now. “You would be impossible to ignore.”
The thought hit her harder than his earlier compliments.
He wasn’t flattering her.
He was evaluating her.
It was too much. She didn’t trust it. “What are you aiming at?”
His brows shot up. “Am I that obvious?”
Her brows drew together. “Yes.”
“Then I confess I’m hoping you’ll agree to accompany me to the veranda,” he replied with a sly smile. “Though that has nothing to do with my interest in your thoughts on Manchester. But I’d happily agree to continue the conversation on the veranda, seeing as how this dance is about to end.”
She didn’t want to smile. She refused to smile. But her mouth betrayed her. “You hope in vain.”
Another slow grin spread across his face. “So quick with the refusals.”
She lifted her nose in the air. “You’re not the only man who’s asked me to meet him on the veranda tonight.”
“Perhaps,” he replied. “But I may be the only one who asks twice.”
She arched a brow. “Then consider this my second refusal.”
His grin deepened. They danced without speaking for a few moments, and Bea became acutely aware of the way his hand settled at her waist—confident, careful. The way his gaze didn’t stray. The way he watched her expectantly, as if he couldn’t wait to hear what she would say next.
She glanced over at her parents once more. They were both nodding and smiling at her. It was enough to make her want to cast up her accounts.
When the music ended, Nicholas released her hand and bowed. “Thank you for the dance, Lady Beatrix.”
She curtsied, her spine so straight it could have sliced glass. “Lord Vanover.”
Bea had no earthly idea what she was doing outside.
The moon was far too smug tonight.
She leaned against the stone balustrade, breathing in the night air, half-convinced she’d lost her mind.
She should have gone home. She should have danced with Viscount Merton twice to start rumors, accepted that glass of champagne from Lady Alderidge to settle her nerves, and left without a second thought to Nicholas Archer.
Instead, she had excused herself to the retiring room, walked in the wrong direction on purpose, and now found herself in the shadows of the east-facing veranda like a ninny waiting to be compromised.
Brilliant.
To make matters worse, Georgie and Poppy weren’t here. Georgie was traveling with her new husband, and Poppy probably hadn’t been invited. With her mother’s reputation, Poppy was often left off a guest list.
Bea turned toward the rose bushes, willing her cheeks to cool. She told herself she was here as a test. Did Nicholas truly care about her thoughts on politics, or was he merely asking her about Manchester to get her to agree to meet him? She supposed she’d soon find out.
“There you are.”
She spun around.
Nicholas stepped out of the doorway, his emerald-green coat open, hair just slightly tousled by the breeze. He was smiling.
“I confess,” he said, “I half thought you wouldn’t come.”
Her chin lifted. “And yet here you are. Why?”
“Hope,” he said simply, “is a powerful thing.”
That earned him a reluctant, entirely unwilling smile.
Nicholas approached slowly, hands behind his back like a man with no particular agenda, which was surely untrue.
“I must admit,” he said lightly, “I’m flattered.”
“By what?”
“That I am, apparently, impossible to resist.”
“Oh, I am resisting you,” she said crisply.
His smile was smug. “You’re doing it from a moonlit veranda, alone, with me.”
Bea glared at him. “You really are insufferable.”
“So I’ve been told.” He took another step closer, not touching her but near enough that her pulse did something deeply unhelpful. It jumped. “So…about Manchester. You said—”
“Wait. I don’t want to talk about politics. I have a question for you this time.”
He arched a brow. “By all means.”
She turned to face the garden again. “You said something yesterday. In the curricle.”
“Only one thing?” he drawled.
She spared him a quick look. “You said the middle should come last. And the last should come in the middle.”
“I did.” He nodded.
“What did you mean?”
He was suddenly very near, his voice a dark, amused murmur. “I fear I’d scandalize you if I told you.”
She turned her head, one brow arching. “You vastly overestimate my fragility.”
He exhaled a slow, pleased breath.
Then his voice dropped into something wicked and velvet-smooth. “Very well. What if I told you I have every intention of seducing you?”