Beatrice turned slightly when he drew near, her hand hovering over a cup of punch. He could almost hear her sigh before she spoke.
When he reached her, she looked up calmly, not the least bit pleased.
“Lady Beatrice,” he greeted, bowing slightly. “Are you avoiding me?”
“I am standing beside the lemonade table, Your Grace,” she replied evenly. “Hardly an inconspicuous hiding place.”
“True. But I couldn’t help noticing you chose the farthest corner from the door.”
She sipped her drink. “I prefer to keep away from drafts. And trouble.”
“Ah,” he drawled, “so it’s trouble I represent now.”
Her lips curved, without the faintest trace of amusement. “I only repeat what Society has already decided.”
“Cruel thing, Society,” he murmured. “It gives a man a reputation and expects him to live up to it.”
“You seem to manage very well.”
“So I’m told. Though if I believed everything written about me, I’d be far more interesting than I actually am.”
Beatrice’s eyebrow rose slightly. “TheMayfair Gazettemight disagree.”
“Ah, yes,” he said with mock gravity. “My anonymous executioner. I believe ‘Miss Verity’ is what she calls herself?”
She inclined her head. “I couldn’t say. I do not make a habit of keeping company with writers.”
“A pity.” He tutted. “You sound remarkably like her, though she’s said far worse about me than you ever have.”
“If I were her,” Beatrice replied, her tone sweet like spun sugar, “I would have said worse.”
That coaxed a low laugh from him. “Heaven help me, I almost believe you.”
“Then I must be careful. You’d find a way to make that sound improper.”
“I would never malign a lady,” he said solemnly, though the look in his eyes was unmistakably teasing. “Even one determined to ruin me in print. Tell me, do you practice such precision of cruelty, or is it a natural gift?”
“I could ask the same of your arrogance,” she said, lifting her glass. “Though I suspect you were born with it.”
“Only because you were not there to temper it.”
She nearly choked on her punch. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said lightly, leaning in just enough to make her breath catch, “you never seem to leave a room soon enough to prove otherwise.”
Her gaze flickered briefly to her mother, who was watching from across the room, fan moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “I’m sure you’ll survive the evening without further ruin, Your Grace.”
He cocked his head. “Only because my executioner shows mercy.”
Lady Moreland’s fan snapped once, and Beatrice exhaled softly. “On that note, I believe my mother wishes to leave.”
“A tragedy.” Edward gave a rueful smile. “Just as our conversation was becoming enjoyable.”
“Good night, Your Grace.”
He bowed again, though his grin lingered as she moved toward her mother and sister. “Good night, Lady Beatrice.”
He watched her go. She was the perfect picture of composure… until her sister whispered something that made her laugh. That sound followed him long after she disappeared into the crowd.
