“Broad handles for broad hands, my lady. They would rest like bricks in your fingers.” Brushing off his hands, he straightened slowly, eyeing her over the rims of his spectacles. “Was there something you needed?”
It was beyond her why the man was so endearing to her. He was abrupt with her at every turn. Although, come to think of it, that might be exactly why. So many people groveled or kowtowed to a woman of her station. Monsieur Allard gave no special treatment, and his gruff manner made her like him all the more. And there was the small issue of him helping her with the engravings.
“Yes, indeed. Apparently, I have quite a fascination with shades of gray lately. I’m very nearly out of both black and white pigments.”
Nodding, he turned and rifled through his stores, coming up with two small pots. “Is that all?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He shook his head, wrapping up her purchase with slow but steady hands. “You do realize that footmen are very good at fetching such things.”
“Remarkably, so am I,” she said, not at all offended by his usual grumbling, “especially when I have good news to share. Or perhaps you may think it bad, since you soon may be deprived of my patronage.”
His bushy eyebrows rose the slightest amount—a veritable outpouring of emotion for him. “Yes?”
She grinned hugely, not caring for once that her crooked front tooth was on display. “I’m getting married.”
She had his attention now. “Married?”
“Indeed. And you will never guess who my betrothed is—or, rather, who his father was.” She could hardly wait to tell him, a fellow artist. Normal people might appreciate what Tate had achieved, but a true artist was in awe of him. With her hands gripping the edge of the counter, she leaned forward. “Sir Frederick Tate.”
Monsieur Allard’s mouth opened in surprise, and his eyes blinked rapidly behind his spectacles. “The famous painter? That is . . . I mean to say . . . My lady, I don’t know what to say.”
“Congratulations is perfectly acceptable, I assure you,” she teased, floating with happiness. It was hard to imagine how a single person could be so unaccountably fortunate.
“But . . . your letters.” He shook his head, his brow crumpled together like a discarded piece of parchment. “I do not understand.”
She cocked her head. “What do the letters have to do with this? I can still write them, after the marriage.” The Frenchman wasn’t making a lick of sense.
“That’s not what I meant. Your letters were so fiercely against the fortune hunter.” He raised his shoulders to his ears, his hands spread palm up. “How could you marry a man who is
en faillite
?”
“E
n faillite?”
she repeated, at a complete loss. She knew French fairly well, but the word was unfamiliar. She had no idea why he somehow seemed upset instead of elated, or at the very least mildly happy for her.
“Eh, how to say . . . ?” He shook his head, trying to recall the translation. All at once his expression cleared, and he snapped his fingers. “Bankrupt!”
T
he word reverberated in her head like a cannon shot, echoing over and over as she stared at him with her mouth wide open. “Bankrupt?” Her voice was a ragged whisper, unfamiliar to her own ears. “Sir Colin Tate is
bankrupt
?”
Saying the words together was almost as absurd as saying Sir Colin Tate is purple, or Sir Colin Tate is Chinese. Her brain couldn’t seem to reconcile them.
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
The whole situation was made all the more odd by Monsieur Allard’s use of his native language. He was just as unnerved as she was, especially as it became obvious she had no idea what on earth he was talking about.
“That can’t be right. Monsieur, you must be mistaken.”
“Perhaps,” he said, rubbing a hand over the raspy afternoon stubble on his cheek. “But I do not think so. Please, my lady, sit down.” He gestured to the ancient stool at the end of the counter.
She shook her head. No, this was all some mistake. She wasn’t going to sit down and have a fit of vapors because it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. “Explain yourself, please. Why do you think this?”
He sighed and pulled his work stool over, the legs screeching as they dragged over the old floor. Settling onto it, he leaned an elbow on the counter and studied her. “I know my business, my lady. A year ago, old Georges received an offer to work in a new engraving company in Edinburgh, headed by the great Frederick Tate himself. He wished for me to be his master engraver and to help train new recruits in the art.
“I did not wish to leave the shop, so I turned him down. My competitor, John Gotter, was hired instead. It was a decision that Gotter bitterly regrets, since not only did the business fold before it ever even really began, but the journal he worked for had already replaced him.”
Beatrice held a hand over her stomach, but it did nothing to stop the turmoil. “How could this be? Why wouldn’t anyone know about it?”
“Because of so much mishandling, it never actually opened. Tate’s business partner ran off with much of the money from investors, venders refused to refund the cost of equipment that was never used, and voilà, there wasn’t even a farthing to pay Gotter for his trouble. The word never got out because no announcements were made. It could be called a silent catastrophe.”
A silent catastrophe. The perfect description for the agony of discovering the man she had pledged her life to had in fact been the exact thing she’d thought to avoid. Her blood turned to ice in her veins, making her shake in a way she could not seem to stop.
A scurrilous, duplicitous, deceitful fortune hunter.
“I’m so sorry, my lady. I see that I have brought you much pain.”
She looked up to him, her gaze meeting his. Compassion and empathy reflected from within. Or was it pity? She swallowed and nodded, using every bit of willpower she possessed in the world to hold back the tears that stung the backs of her eyes, demanding to be freed. “
Merci, monsieur
,” she said, her voice choked with the force of her emotions.
“Please, can I—”
“No.” The word was wrenched from deep within her, from the place unwilling to hear even another word from anyone until she had a moment to think. She swallowed, lifting her chin with the effort to maintain her crumbling composure. “But thank you. I’ll just see myself out.”
It was all she could do to turn and walk from the store, leaving behind all of the hopes and dreams on which she had floated in. They lay like shattered china on the floor where she had stood, forever marking the loss of her innocence.
• • •
Beatrice had devised a thousand different ideas for how best to respond to Monsieur Allard’s shocking news. She could burst into Colin’s home—or rather, his aunt’s home—demanding to know the truth. But whether it proved to be true or not, such a tactic was unlikely to result in anything good. Besides, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was simply no way for her to approach him with any amount of rationality right now.
She could go to her brother and insist he tell her every last detail of what transpired during the meeting he had with her betrothed. However, she was loath to bring such a thing to her brother’s attention if it were false. If it were true and he knew about it, she might have to kill him, and she
really
didn’t want to deal with the mess.
Of all the ideas that had come and gone during her walk home, only one seemed to make any sense.
“Ah, Benedict, there you are.”
Beatrice’s brother-in-law glanced up from the ledger book he was studying, one dark brow raised in a wary greeting. “Here I am. Is there something I can do for you?” No doubt he had already noted her puffy eyes and reddened nose.
Glancing behind her, she ducked into the study and eased the door closed. By some small miracle, her mother and sisters had stepped out to do some shopping while she was gone, which enabled her to come this far without being noticed by anyone other than Finnington and a handful of servants. She wasn’t taking any chances with her family stumbling upon the conversation she was about to have.
“You may very well regret asking that,” she said, plopping down onto the chair in front of the desk. She had made it this far without faltering by sheer will alone. “I have a very big, very important favor to ask of you.”
“Name it.”
That was it. Two words, so simple but perfectly sincere. She took a shuddering breath, thankful beyond reason for Evie’s choice of husband. “Don’t you think you should ask what it is first? I may want for you to steal the crown jewels.”
He shrugged, his expression relaxed even as his dark gaze missed nothing. “If you have want of them, then I am quite certain you have a good reason for it. You are rarely given to fancy. And all that aside, without your interference, things might have gone very differently between your sister and me. Therefore, no favor could be too large.”
He was so kind. A good man. Wasn’t that what she had wanted in her own husband? She thought that was exactly what she had found, but apparently Beatrice in Love was tantamount to Beatrice the Overtrusting Nitwit. “I know you gave up your old career years ago, but I need for you to dust off your skills, if you please.”
Both brows rose at this. “I see. In what capacity, do you think?”
“In whatever capacity it takes to find out if I am marrying a lying, heartless villain or not.”
“Very well,” he said, not missing a beat. “Is there something in particular you would like to know, or shall I simply prepare a general report on him?”
“Before I tell you, will you promise to keep this conversation between us?” It was asking a lot, she knew, but she couldn’t bear to drag the rest of her family into it if by some miracle Monsieur Allard was mistaken.
“You must know I won’t lie to your sister. However, I see no reason to bring up the subject unless she should inquire specifically.”
Much the same promise she had once made him. “Thank you, Benedict. You are the very best brother-in-law anyone could ever hope for.”
“Be sure you remember that when your sisters marry my competitors someday,” he said, offering her a quick wink. “Now, I think perhaps you should start at the beginning.”
By the time she was back in her chambers later that evening, she was feeling marginally better. Benedict would find out exactly what the truth was. There could easily be some sort of mistake, some miscommunication. Monsieur Allard was old, after all. It’s possible he had confused the facts. Wouldn’t she have known of the business venture otherwise? She was one of Sir Frederick’s most ardent admirers.
Still, as she picked at the tray of food her mother had sent up when she had pleaded a headache, Beatrice couldn’t deny the hollowness lurking inside of her. She would have sworn before God and man that Colin felt as strongly about her as she did him. And yet . . . how could she know? Until she heard back from Benedict and his mysterious sources, she could do little more than wait.
I
n the week since Beatrice’s entire family had taken up residence at Granville House, Colin had seen her exactly two times. Two exceedingly well-chaperoned, impossible-to-be-alone visits that had driven him near crazy with her close proximity without the benefit of a single kiss. Hardly even a touch, for that matter. He had been forced to make do with little more than fleeting eye contact and shared conversation.
Meanwhile, all he could think about was the day, only six weeks away, when she would be all his and he could whisk her away without a word of explanation to her exceedingly large and ever-present family.
A sharp scratch at the door interrupted Colin’s thoughts, and he looked away from his vacant study of the coffered ceiling, blinking to focus on the here and now. “Enter.”
Aunt’s butler let himself into the room, his eyebrows pulled together in a look that bordered on disapproval. Colin sat up a little straighter, though it wasn’t as though his boots were on the table or anything. And really, so what if they were? The man had no say in how Colin lived.
“The Lady Beatrice is here to see you, sir.”
Colin came to his feet in one motion. “Lady Beatrice?” An incredibly bold move, if that was the case. Either she missed his private company as much as he did hers, or her family had finally driven her mad. He hoped it was the former, but could understand if it was the latter.
“Indeed. I’ve put her in the green room, and due to the highly unusual nature of the visit,” he said, the disapproval dripping from his tone like tar, “I have notified her ladyship. Lady Churly is with her now.”
Two things were immediately apparent to Colin. First, he really didn’t care why she had decided to come see him. He was simply damn glad for it. The second was that Simmons was a bit of an arse.
Without bothering to acknowledge the man, Colin brushed past him, heading for the green room with long, swift strides. He strode into the room, immediately seeking Beatrice, anxious to see her face. She looked up at him, her bearing as regal as a queen, despite the simple and sweet white muslin gown she wore.
Something wasn’t right.
He slowed, taking care to temper his expression with his aunt’s keen eyes observing them both. Everything about Beatrice just seemed a little bit off. Her lips were turned down, her shoulders unusually taut. Either his aunt had said something in offense, or his betrothed was here for a reason far less pleasant than he imagined.
“There you are, Colin,” Aunt Constance said, her lips tipped up in a knowing smile. “Your lovely betrothed and I were just discussing how delightful the exhibit was last month. I’m ever so glad she decided to pay us a visit.”
Aunt was in full form, her fingers lined with a rainbow of gems, her heavy burgundy gown draped elegantly from her tall, willowy form, and her hair pulled back in glossy braids, which were piled on her head like a silvery crown. She looked as though she had been expecting the queen, not the young future bride of her nephew. Still, nothing about her demeanor suggested that she was anything but polite to their guest.
Colin took his time making his way to the sofa to have a seat beside Beatrice, evaluating her as a barrister would a witness during an examination. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, her breaths shallow. Her chin was tipped up in the way it always was when she wished she were taller. Her cheeks were flushed, rosy against the alabaster white of the rest of her skin.
But it was her eyes that gave him the greatest concern. The ever-present sparkle that always lit her eyes from within, that gorgeous fire that called to him with its life and vitality, was gone. Completely. What remained was the dull, deep blue of dried paint, flat and dimensionless.
“It was indeed a great success,” he said, sliding his gaze toward his aunt. “I wonder, Aunt, if you would indulge us with a few minutes alone. With the door open, of course, but I find I’d like nothing more than a few private words with my betrothed.”
It was a bold, almost rude request, but Aunt Constance was no fool. With the wealth and status of Beatrice’s family, she was more than happy to indulge the two young lovers in a few minutes of time alone. She smiled and came to her feet. “I believe I have a few things to attend to. I shall return in ten minutes. And mind, the door shall stay open. We are nothing if not proper in this household.”
Colin smiled his thanks, all the while clenching his jaw against the growing impatience to know what was going on. When she swept through the door, he waited until the sound of her footsteps died before he turned to Beatrice. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She looked up at him, her face nearly angelic in its sweetness, framed so prettily by her golden curls. She looked at home in the green room, the emerald hues accentuating the subtle color in the center of her eyes. She didn’t say anything, just looked.
A weight formed in his chest, growing larger with each tick of the tall clock behind him. He sank down onto the sofa beside her, the cushions giving beneath his weight and shifting her further toward him. “Did you know that you have the prettiest hint of green in your eyes?”
The words seemed to break the spell, and she averted her eyes to her lap. “I don’t think I should have come.”
“Why? I’m happy to have you here.”
She half snorted, half laughed. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
Colin narrowed his eyes, working to decipher the odd mood that had taken hold of his betrothed. “As you never should. I’d rather be with you above all people.”
“Is that a fact? Above all people?”
“Beatrice, what has gotten hold of you? If I dinna wish to be with you more than any other person on earth, I wouldn’a have asked you to marry me.”
For the first time since he’d entered the room, a spark flared in her eyes. “Well, how convenient. What a serendipitous moment to realize that you actually have some amount of affection for the woman attached to the dowry you seek.”
It all came together with utter clarity in that moment. Hellfire and damnation. She knew.
“Beatrice, it’s not what you think—”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking,” she said, the words pushed from behind clenched teeth. “How dare you even presume—”
“I know exactly what you are thinking. You think I am marrying you for your dowry.” He didn’t even know how to begin to fix this. He could already see the resentment burning in her eyes, branding him a liar and a coward.
“And why,” she said, her voice dangerously low, “would I think such a thing?”
Bloody hell. To say the words out loud would be to cement whatever bitterness she had ever felt for men like him. He could never recover. “I doona know, but clearly something has transpired.”
“No. You do not get to take the easy way out of this. Tell me why I might ever come to the conclusion that you wished to marry me only for my money.”
The future depended on what he said next. He could see it in her every shaky breath, in her flared nostrils and fisted hands. He didn’t give a damn just then what her brother would say if Colin broke his promise. All he cared about was Beatrice, and not breaking her heart.
As if it weren’t already too late.
“Because my family is in debt. Because it is up to me to correct the problem. Because you canna believe that a man in need of money can have a heart.”
She came to her feet as if spring-loaded, staring down on him as if he were an insect on the street. “Don’t you dare turn this back on me. You are the one who lied. You are the one who represented yourself as something you are not. You are the exact fortune hunter I have spent the past year trying desperately to avoid.”
“Why? Because I’m not some wealthy highborn aristocrat, sitting on piles of old money? Because I have a family who depends on me to see to its well-being and I happened to be lucky enough to fall in love with the woman who has the power to correct the sins of my father?”
She jerked back as if he had slapped her. “Love? For love of money, I should think.”
A rattle from outside stopped her cold, and her eyes darted to the doorway. A servant carried a tray laden with Aunt’s best tea set, steam rising from the spout of the fine bone pot. Setting the tray onto the sofa table, he turned to address them, but one look at Colin’s fierce expression and he promptly retreated, leaving them in icy silence.
The clock continued its relentless ticking behind him as they watched each other. “For love of
Beatrice
,” he finally said, pouring his soul into her name. “For the love of an artist, and a woman, and all the things she makes me feel.”
“Oh, so you’d like to talk about feelings, would you? Well, there is a subject about which I can speak with great authority. Let’s talk about what it feels like to have a passing acquaintance tell me about my own betrothed’s father’s business failure. Let’s talk about the denial, and the shock, and the inability to believe the truth of it. Let’s discuss what it feels like to go to a trusted source and have him use his contacts to investigate these horrible accusations, all the while desperately hoping they’ll be disproved.”
Her hand went to her chest, as if she could hold together the broken pieces. “And then we can delve into exactly what it feels like to learn that, if anything, the truth was even worse than feared.” She swallowed, the pain in her eyes ripping at his heart. “On second thought, I don’t want to discuss anything. A fortune hunter will say anything to qualify his selfish ways. If it were any other way, you would have told me the truth before ever proposing marriage. You would have given me the opportunity to
choose
.”
Colin raked a hand through his hair. The air seemed to have gotten thinner, like the highest peaks of Scotland, making it impossible to breathe. He could defend himself, tell her that her own brother had stipulated that he not reveal his financial situation, but he had more honor than that. Her brother didn’t deserve to be dragged into it when all he wanted was his sister’s happiness.
“I was wrong. Stupid, and selfish, and wrong. But my offer had nothing to do with money and everything to do with finding the perfect person with whom to share my life. For God’s sake, you experienced our kisses—you know the fire that burns between us.”
She held a hand up, leveling an accusing finger at his chest. “Don’t you dare bring that up. None of it meant anything—not when it was based on lies.”
“It was based on
passion
,” he exclaimed, stepping closer to her, but only pushing her farther away. “It was based on what happens when two souls find each other in the world and know without a shred of doubt that they were meant for each other.”
“
Everything
is thrown into doubt when secrets stand between them.”
They were talking in circles, and with every circuit, he could feel her slipping away. “I’m not the only one with secrets here. Should not you have told me of your letters? To inform your future husband of an activity that could have—and still may—impact how society views us?”
Her mouth pressed into a mutinous line, her eyes narrowed to slits. “That isn’t the same at all.”
“Isn’t it? I argue that it is. After the wedding, my family’s debts will be settled for good. A short-term issue, at most. If you are revealed as the author of those scandalous letters, our standing could be impacted for years—perhaps even tainting our children.”
“Tainting?” she exclaimed, backing up another step and bumping into the table, rattling the untouched tea service. “If that is what you think of what I do—”
He didn’t let her finish. He stepped forward, grabbing her hand and tugging her hard against him. Her eyes went huge, wide with shock as her breasts rose and fell against his chest with each ragged breath. “I think you are brilliant. I think you are bold, and brave, and incredibly clever. But we both know society wouldn’t look at us the same way.”
She didn’t speak, just watched him with her fierce sapphire gaze. He held her tight against him, forcing her to feel his agitation, to witness it in his rapid breath and pounding heart. To see it in his intense gaze. After almost half a minute, she licked her lips, raising her chin in defiance. “I don’t know about society, but I know all about never being able to look at someone the same way again.”
“Damn it, Beatrice,” he breathed, frustration building within him, like hot steam begging for release. “Doona let your stubbornness ruin what could be.”
“How could I ruin what was never really there?”
That was it; he couldn’t take another word. With a growl of frustration, he let go of his iron control, swooping down to claim her lips in a kiss that was searing and raw, brutally honest in its passion.
She resisted, holding herself as stiff and unyielding as a marble statue. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t force her to see reason. But he
could
coax her. Gentling his kiss to the barest of touches, he released his hold on her waist and slipped his hands up to cup her jaw. He poured every ounce of the love he felt for her into the moment, worshipping her as the goddess she was.
He pressed hot kisses on her cheek, sliding his thumbs along the sensitive skin of her temple. This time he wasn’t holding her to him with his arms; he was holding her to him with a sensual assault, designed to remind her of exactly what they shared, of exactly what their life together would be like.
Desire flooded his veins, drowning out every distraction except her. Her scent of lilacs, her taste of reluctance, the sound of her uneven breathing, the searing heat of her skin wherever his lips touched. In that moment, his entire world was wrapped up in the woman before him, beginning and ending with every beat of her heart.
“You must believe that my desire for you is exactly that,” he breathed, his words a caress upon the curve of her cheek as he continued his sensual assault. “Please give me a chance to prove it to you.”
• • •
Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut against the need to lean into him, to accept his words and give in to her body’s traitorous need to be touched by him.
Persuaded
by him.
She was nearly shaking with the desire to give in, to believe his quiet words, to trust the sincerity in his voice. His lips moved across her skin, leaving tiny kisses that seemed to have a direct connection to her heart, melting her anger a little more with every one.