Flirting With Fortune swak-3

by Erin Knightley

  A new awareness swept through him and he sat up straight. Well, he was free now, was he not? He was a fortune hunter no more, the proof of which would likely be in the papers by week’s end. To hell with what Beatrice said. To hell with playing by her rules.

  He had proof now, and by God he intended to let her know. Coming to his feet, he headed to the front of the room, where Mr. Christie was finishing up. “Thank you, sir. I trust you can handle the rest of the transaction from here?”

  The man grinned, pleasure at the coup written all over his face. “Indeed, sir. And thank you for trusting us with this incredible item. It was a privilege.”

  Colin gave a perfunctory nod, accepting the praise. “Thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some very important business to attend to.” With one last look at the portrait of his father, he turned and strode from the room.

  * * *

  Colin was out of breath and thoroughly disheveled by the time he arrived in front of the black lacquered door of Granville House. He bent over, sucking in a lungful of frigid air just as the front door opened. The butler looked down at him, showing no reaction whatsoever to seeing a doubled-over gentleman on his front stoop. Extending a folded white piece of paper, he said, “For you, sir.”

  And then he shut the door.

  What the hell? Standing up straight, he turned the paper over in his hand. There were no markings of any kind, just a small dollop of red sealing wax holding it closed. Wasting no time, he ripped open the paper. His brow furrowed in surprise. There were no words, merely a sketch of a wide arching window with indistinct rooftops beyond.

  Nothing more, but it was enough.

  Colin’s feet were moving before he even stuffed the drawing in his pocket. For whatever reason, Beatrice wished for him to go to his father’s studio, and he didn’t wish to waste even a single moment.

  He hurried down the street, dodging pedestrians and darting across the street between carriages and carts. The studio was only a few blocks away, but with anticipation powering through his veins like a drug, it had never seemed farther.

  It wasn’t until he reached the building and headed up the stairs that it occurred to him that she could just want to officially end the betrothal. Well, today he was a free man, no longer a fortune hunter, and he planned to fight for what he wanted.

  He didn’t even pause at the landing. The knob turned easily in his hand and he strode inside, his gaze seeking nothing but Beatrice’s face.

  She stood beside the window, her eyes sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. Her gaze was made all the more brilliant by the gorgeous Eton blue of her gown, the perfect marriage for the blues and greens of her eyes. She stood straight and as tall as her petite frame would allow, her blond curls piled on her head for an extra bit of height.

  He didn’t say a word, just slammed the door behind him and walked straight toward her. She opened her mouth to say something, but he wasn’t about to let her words get in the way of things now. He didn’t stop until his body was pressed firmly against hers and his hands were cupping either side of her jaw. Not allowing even a second for her to protest, he captured her mouth with his, taking full advantage of her open mouth.

  He poured every ounce of him into his kiss, pulling her against him as his tongue delved into her mouth. He had expected her to fight, or resist, or even remain stock-still, but she didn’t do any of these. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with just as much passion as he did her.

  Heat shot through his body at her response, and he half groaned, half growled as he backed her up against the wall. She gave a breathy little moan, unleashing whatever restraint existed within him. There was no gentleness between them, just raw passion that sent waves of sensation to every nerve ending in his body. He pressed hard against her, cursing the winter clothes that hid her skin from him.

  The kiss was more all consuming than he ever imagined a kiss could be, connecting them in a way that went beyond the physical. She was his, damn it. She was meant for him and he for her.

  At last he pulled away, but he didn’t give up control. His gaze burned into hers as he jerked the buttons of his greatcoat open. “I love you, Beatrice Moore.” He was still panting from the kiss as he tugged off the coat and tossed it to the floor. “You can keep your blasted money, every last penny.” He wrenched off his gloves, letting them fall to the ground without notice. “I want you to be my wife. You, not some bloody dowry.”

  Her eyes were wide, her pupils huge as she watched him, her chest heaving just as much as his. He put a bare hand to the exposed skin of her chest and nearly closed his eyes at the explosion of sensation the touch caused. “Do you feel that? That is passion, pure and simple.”

  With his other hand, he lifted her gloved fingers to his own chest, pressing hard. “And do you feel that? My heart beats for you, Beatrice, just as yours pounds for me. You canna hide that, or deny the truth of it.”

  He drew in a deep breath, making his chest rise with her hand still upon it. “Do you feel that? I breathe for you. I can live without you, Bea, but I doona want to. Everything in my life is better when you are near. I thought I could walk away, let you have what you so obviously wanted, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll still do it, but not without a fight.”

  He gathered both her hands in his, twining their fingers together. “Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Beatrice Eloise Moore, will you—”

  “No, don’t say it.”

  His heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach. Damn it all. After all of this—

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  He jerked his gaze up to meet hers. She didn’t look away, didn’t flinch at all. Instead, she gave his fingers a little squeeze.

  “First, I have something I need to say.”

  “All right,” he said, his voice gruff. Hope was the cruelest of all torture devices. He hoped to God Beatrice wasn’t stringing him along.

  “There’s no easy way to say this, so I think it’s best if I just be as honest as possible.” She drew in a breath and licked her lips. “I, Beatrice Moore, am a complete and total imbecile.”

  His mouth dropped open in a caricature of himself. “I beg your pardon?”

  “No,” she said fiercely, fire coming to her eyes. “I beg your pardon. Humbly, meekly, I ask your forgiveness for being so incredibly blind. For not trusting you, or the bond between us. For taking so long to realize how very wrong I was. You deserve more than that, and I hope that you can forgive me.”

  Forgive her? The relief was so acute, it was almost painful, like a limb that had gone to sleep and was roaring back to life with pins and needles. He looked down at her, hardly able to contain the joy that seemed to inhabit every part of him. “Are you finished?”

  For the first time, she looked truly uncertain. With her brow coming together in a little vee, she nodded.

  “In that case, Beatrice Eloise Moore, will you still marry me?”

  She laughed, squeezing his hands tightly. “For heaven’s sake, don’t do that to me!”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Aye,” she said in a teasing Scottish accent. She wrapped their joined hands around his back and tugged him flat against her. “And now that I’ve found my stór, I vow to never, ever let him go.”

  Epilogue

  “They love you.”

  “I definitely wouldn’t go that far.” Beatrice peered over Colin’s shoulder to where his grandmother was conversing with Mama over a cup of tea. The older woman looked up, catching Beatrice’s stolen glimpse. Inwardly cringing, she smiled serenely before ducking back behind him. “I think your gran is still suspicious as to why I didn’t love you unconditionally instead of sending you on a fool’s errand.”

  “Good question, actually,” he murmured, seeming to enjoy her discomfort a bit too much. “Why was that?”

  She smacked his arm lightly, rounding her eyes at him. “Oh no, I forbid you to mention that little lapse in judgment ever again.” She didn’t know why he tho
ught it was so adorable—his word—that she was so discomfited around his family. Attempting to make a good impression on people that were predisposed to dislike a person was more than a little daunting.

  “Very well. Shall I mention all the things I’d like to do with you in less than a fortnight, when we are married?”

  “Colin,” she admonished, glancing around the room even though she knew full well that no one else could hear them as they strolled around the perimeter, especially with Carolyn playing the pianoforte in the adjoining room.

  “Is that a yes? Let’s see. First I shall unbutton—”

  “Oh, good Lord in heaven, shush!” She didn’t care if no one else could hear him. She could hear him, and it was already bringing a blush to her face. It was one thing to think such things, but to speak of it with one’s grandmother fifteen feet away was another thing entirely.

  “I do so love seeing you blush. I almost never have the pleasure.” His hand covered hers where it rested on his arm, giving it a little squeeze. “I shall endeavor to make it happen more often.”

  The music came to an end, and both families paused in their conversation to applaud. Beatrice snuck a glance at the clock on the mantel. It was almost time. “Come. Let’s go have a seat on the sofa. I have a bit of a surprise for you.”

  “For me? Well, I do like the sound of that. Have you finally come to your senses and decided to elope with me to Scotland to get this wedding over and done with?”

  “Not a chance. No, this is a little something I planned to give to you when I had you come to me in your father’s studio, but your—eagerness, shall we call it?—” she said with a mischievous lift of her brow, “told me it wasn’t quite the right time. But now, with your family here with mine, is perfect, I think.”

  Behind her, the clock struck five, and Finnington appeared in the doorway, right on time. Disengaging her hand from Colin’s arm, she motioned for him to have a seat on the sofa beside his grandmother.

  “If I could have your attention for a moment, there is something that I would like to share with you all on this special occasion of our families coming together for the first time.” She looked to Colin, smiling in earnest.

  “Sir Frederick is the entire reason that we met, and I am forever grateful to him for bringing you to me. And now, as my betrothal gift to you—and your family, for that matter—I’d like very much to bring him to you.”

  On cue, two footmen came into the room, carrying a framed canvas covered by a sheet. Colin watched it with interest, then turned his charcoal gaze back to her. “Is this what’s become of the portrait you painted for me?” He smiled broadly, softening the angles of his face. “I told you to use your own techniques, not his.”

  She bit her lip and shook her head, suddenly swamped with unexpected butterflies. His portrait was completed. In fact, she had finished just this week, signing the mainly black, white, and gray painting with a crimson kiss in the bottom corner. But that was for later—this was for his whole family. His siblings watched her with curious gazes, while Gran eyed her with a spark lighting her whole face. Did she suspect?

  A third footman set up a small easel, and the others set their bundle on it before retreating. “I’m sorry to say it’s not that painting, but I’m hoping this one will be infinitely more dear.”

  Watching her soon-to-be family, she grasped the edge of the sheet and drew a deep breath. Her life with them wouldn’t begin when she exchanged her vows, but when she lifted the sheet, returning to them all that they had sacrificed because of her stubbornness. She caught Colin’s eye and basked in the love and joy held in his gaze. With her heart bursting with excitement, she counted down to the rest of her life.

  Five, four, three, two . . .

  And don’t miss the next book in

  Erin Knightley’s Sealed with a Kiss series!

  Read on for a special preview.

  Hell and damnation, was he to have no peace at all?

  Hugh Danby, the new and exceedingly reluctant Baron Cadgwith, pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, pushing back against the fresh pounding that the godforsaken noise next door had reawakened.

  “Go to Bath,” his sister-in-law had said. “It’s practically deserted in the summer. Think of the peace and quiet you’ll have.”

  Bloody hogwash. This torture was about as far from peace as one could get. Not that he blamed Felicity; clearly the news of the first annual Summer Serenade in Somerset festival hadn’t made it to their tiny little corner of England when she offered her seemingly useful suggestion. Still, he’d love to get his hands on the person who thought it was a good idea to organize the damn thing.

  He tugged the pillow from the empty spot beside him and crammed it over his head, trying to muffle the jaunty pianoforte music filtering through the shared wall of his bedchamber. The notes were high and fast, like a foal prancing in a springtime meadow. Or, more aptly, a foal prancing on his eardrums.

  There was no hope for it. There would be no more sleep for him now.

  Tossing the useless pillow, he rolled to his side, bracing himself for the wave of nausea that always greeted him on mornings like this. Ah, there it was. He gritted his teeth until it passed, then dragged himself up into a sitting position and glanced about the room.

  The curtains were closed tight, but the afternoon sunlight still forced its way around the edges, causing a white-hot seam that felt as if it burned straight through his retinas. He squinted and looked away, focusing instead on the dark burgundy-and-brown Aubusson rug on the floor. His clothes were still scattered in a trail leading to the bed, and several empty glasses lined his nightstand.

  Ah, thank God—not all were empty.

  He reached for the one still holding a good finger of liquid and brought it to his nose. Brandy. With a shrug, he drained the glass, squeezing his eyes against the burn.

  Still the music, if one could call it that, continued. Must the blasted pianoforte player have such a love affair with brain-cracking high notes? Though he’d yet to meet the neighbors who occupied the adjoining town house, he knew without question she was a female. No self-respecting male would have the time, inclination, or enthusiasm to play such musical drivel.

  Setting the tumbler back down on the nightstand, he scrubbed both hands over his face, willing the alcohol to deaden the pounding in his brain. The notes grew louder and faster, rising to a crescendo that could surely be heard all the way home in Cadgwith, some two hundred miles away.

  And then . . . blessed silence.

  He closed his eyes and breathed out a long breath. The hush settled over him like a balm, quieting the ache and lowering his blood pressure. Thank God. He’d rather walk barefoot through glass than—

  The music roared back to life, pounding the nails back into his skull with the relentlessness of waves pounding a beach at high tide. Damn it all to hell. Grimacing, he tossed aside the counterpane and came to his feet, ignoring the violent protest of his head. Reaching for his clothes, he yanked them on with enough force to rip the seams, had they been of any lesser quality.

  It was bloody well time he met his neighbors.

  * * *

  Freedom in D Minor.

  Charity Effington grinned at the words she had scrawled at the top of the rumpled foolscap, above the torrent of hastily drawn notes that danced up and down the static five-lined staff.

  The title could not be more perfect.

  Sighing with contentment, she set down her pencil on the burled oak surface of her pianoforte and stretched. Whenever she had days like this, when the music seemed to pour from her soul like water from an upturned pitcher, her shoulders and back inevitably paid the price.

  She unfurled her fingers, reaching toward the unlit chandelier that hung above her. The room was almost too warm, with sunlight pouring through the sheers that covered the wide windows facing the private gardens behind the house, but she didn’t mind. She’d much rather be here in the stifling heat than up north with her parents and the
ir stifling expectations.

  And Grandmama couldn’t have chosen a more perfect town house to rent. With soaring ceilings, airy rooms, and generous windows lining both the front and back—not to mention the gorgeous pianoforte she now sat at—it was a wonderful little musical retreat.

  Exactly what Charity needed after the awfulness of the last Season.

  Dropping her hands to the keys once more, she closed her eyes and purged all thoughts of that particular topic from her mind. It was never good for creativity to focus on stressful topics. Exhaling, she stretched her fingers over the cool ivory keys, finding her way by touch.

  Bliss. The pianoforte was perfectly tuned, the notes floating through the air like wisps of steam curling from the Baths. Light and airy, the music reflected the joy filling her every pore. Freedom.

  Free from her mother and her relentless matchmaking. Free from the gossip that seemed to follow her like a fog. Free from all the strict rules every young lady must abide by during the Season.

  The notes rose higher as her right hand swept up the scale, tapping the keys with the quickness of a flitting hummingbird. Her left hand provided counterbalance with low, smooth notes that anchored the song.

  A sudden noise from the doorway startled her from her trance, abruptly stopping the flow of music and engulfing the room in an echoing silence. Jeffers, Grandmama’s ancient butler, stood in the doorway, his stooped shoulders oddly rigid.

  “I do beg your pardon, Miss Effington. Lady Effington requests your presence in the drawing room.”

  Now? Just when she was truly finding her stride? But Charity wasn’t about to make the woman wait—not after she had single-handedly saved Charity from a summer of tedium in Durham with her disgruntled parents. “Thank you, Jeffers,” she said, coming to her feet.

  She headed down the stairs, humming the beginning of her new creation. Her steps were in time with the music in her mind, which had her moving light and fast on her feet. The town house was medium sized, with more than enough room for the two of them and the four servants Grandmama had brought, so it only took her a minute to reach the spacious drawing room from the music room.