He was, she noted, no longer at the piano with Fancy. He stood with an arm resting on the mantel, a glass of whisky in hand. His casual posture belied his brooding expression. She couldn’t blame him; she’d feel the same way if he was having an intimatetête-à-têtewith a female who had intentions for him.
To Knighton, she said, “You do me an honor with your offer, Your Grace, but I cannot accept.”
“May I ask why?”
Because the only man I’d consider marrying is Wick.
“When it comes to marriage, I am looking for more than mutual respect,” she said.
Knighton surprised her by taking her hand. “It is not only respect I offer, my lady. I am open to other delights of marriage,”—he brushed his lips over the back of her hand with startling warmth—“which, I assure you, can be thoroughly enjoyed without complicating emotions.”
Wasn’t it strange that this precise idea—that tupping could be enjoyed without sentiment—had led her to the masquerade? And that fate had seen fit to pair her with Wick, the one man who could make her realize the truth?
Emotionless coupling could indeed be pleasurable. Butintimatecoupling was far better.
“Lady Beatrice, I believe it is my turn to escort you around the room?”
Wick’s low, lethal tones broke her reverie. He’d approached, looking none too pleased.
She pulled her hand from Knighton’s grasp.
“Yes, of course,” she said, flustered. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”
Knighton inclined his head, a flicker of amusement in his grey eyes. “I look forward to continuing our conversation at a later time, my lady.”
15
Nearing midnight,Wick opened the panel from the servants’ hallway and entered Beatrice’s bedchamber. He saw that his lover’s private domain was as well-appointed as the rest of her home. Airy and high-ceilinged, the room had celestial blue walls and white moldings, which suited the angelic beauty of its occupant…who, as it turned out, had a devilish streak.
Beatrice was waiting for him in her bed, a canopied white confection that made him think of clouds. Ordinarily, the sight of her with her white-gold hair loose and shining, dressed in a simple white nightgown, would have made him instantly randy.
Come to think of it, hewasrandy. But he was angry too.
He stalked over to her side. “What the devil does Knighton want from you?”
She peered up at him with those rare lavender eyes. Eyes that had been focused on the bloody duke all night. Eyes that ought to have been turned toward Wick, her lover and husband-to-be. It had taken all of Wick’s willpower not to call Knight—Knighton, damn the duke’s eyes—out.
He hadn’t wanted to look like a jealous fool, although he’d felt like one. Which irked him further. How did Beatrice manage to tie him up in knots when no lady ever had before?
She set aside the book she’d been reading. “Hello to you, too.”
“You didn’t want to talk about it in the drawing room, said we would do so later.” Crossing his arms, he informed her, “This is later.”
She sighed. “The gist of it is, along with his title, Knighton inherited four illegitimate half-siblings. He wants a duchess who has the pedigree and wherewithal to launch them into Society.”
Wick narrowed his eyes. “And he asked you to fulfill this role?”
She toyed with the coverlet. “I do meet the requirements.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“There’s no need.” She gave him a smile that was probably meant to be pacifying. “I declined the offer. Told him that I wanted more than a marriage based on mutual goals and respect.”
“And he let it go?”
“Actually, he said he could offer more than that,” she hedged.
“What exactly did he offer?”
