Chapter Eleven
Bea was trying very hardnotto 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 washim.
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 saythat.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 hadlingered.
“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.”
