Beauty in Breeches(22)

When the dance ended, he put his hand under her elbow and guided her towards the supper room where they were joined by a jolly group of Julius’s friends. Over food and wine and easy, lighthearted conversation, they both relaxed. Confident that the firestorm of gossip surrounding Beatrice and Julius had subsided, Lord and Lady Merrick left the ball early with friends to attend a quieter function in Mayfair.

In no mood for dancing and suspecting that in her nervousness, to boost her confidence, Beatrice had drunk too much wine over supper, Julius suggested they get some air on the terrace.

Beatrice glanced at him in mock horror. ‘The terrace? But is that proper? Should I not have a chaperon?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he murmured softly, staring at her with a half-intimate smile. ‘We are already betrothed—and after the amount of wine you consumed over supper, I think some fresh air would not go amiss.’

He flashed her a smile that made her heart rebel against all the strictures she had placed on herself.

‘Ah,’ he said in amusement when he saw her eyes darken with warmth. ‘I think you’re beginning to like me in spite of yourself.’

‘That is merely a delusion,’ she replied, fighting back her laughter.

He knew better, said his eyes.

‘And don’t look at me like that,’ she reproached lightly. ‘You can’t read my mind.’

‘I am older and more experienced than you, Beatrice. I see what is written on your face.’

She laughed. ‘Then I shall have to learn to school it better.’

‘An impossibility for you,’ he said in a husky murmur.

Taking her gloved hand, he tucked it into the crook of his arm and led her towards the French doors that opened on to the moonlit terrace. They went down some steps into the lantern-lit gardens. Strolling along the paths, they nodded politely to other couples they passed. At the end of the garden they turned off the path and stepped into a shaded arbour. Beatrice stood and looked at Julius, suffused with trepidation and a tingling excitement that was the result of being alone with him in such a dark, intimate setting. The voices of others died away, leaving only distant strains of soothing music.

‘Dance with me, Beatrice,’ he said suddenly, his voice like rough velvet.

Beatrice stared at him, the lilting notes of the waltz floating around her. When he opened his arms, feeling as if she were in a dream, she walked into them and felt his right arm slide around her waist, bringing her close against his solid strength. His left hand closed around her fingers and suddenly she was being whirled gently about the arbour in the arms of a man who danced the waltz with the relaxed grace of one who has danced it countless times. She should have felt overpowered—threatened—but surprisingly she felt protected instead.

Suddenly his arm tightened around her waist, forcing her into closer proximity with his powerful body. ‘You are very quiet, Beatrice. Have you nothing to say? It is customary to engage in some form of conversation with your partner.’

Tilting her head back, she smiled teasingly up at him. ‘What am I to say? That you dance divinely?’

Julius smiled down at her. ‘That is what I’m supposed to say to you. We could engage in some kind of harmless flirtation. It is quite acceptable for couples to do that when they are dancing.’

‘Why? Is it because otherwise onlookers will perceive they don’t like each other? Well, don’t expect me to do that because I haven’t any experience with flirting—unlike you.’

‘Would you like some lessons?’

‘Are you offering to show me how it’s done?’

Julius stared down into her dark-green eyes and momentarily lost himself in them. Desire surged through his body and he pulled her closer still. ‘I’d like to try—although you’re doing very well at it right now.’

‘Julius, will you kindly take me seriously!’

‘I’m going to marry you,’ he said coolly, loosening his hold on her as the music ended. ‘That’s serious enough.’

‘Do you realise,’ she said with a winsome smile as she tilted her head to the side, ‘that you become positively grim when you speak of our marriage? Are you happy—with your life, I mean? Has the breach with your father affected you very badly?’

He looked irritated by her question, but he answered it. ‘Why this curiosity to know? I’ve already told you that the Chadwick history is nothing to be proud of.’

‘That’s it. I’m curious. You told me you come from a long line of gamblers. Is that what you do when you want to replenish your coffers?’

He looked at her steadily. ‘You really think I make my money at the gaming tables, don’t you?’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ He stepped closer, his gaze on her mouth.

Beatrice frowned, trying to ignore the tug of his eyes and his voice. ‘Why is it that when you don’t wish to answer a question, you divert the conversation to something else and…’ Her words died as he placed his hands gently on both sides of her face, his fingers sliding into her hair, grateful she didn’t favour the fashion for silk flowers and silly ribbons so many other women seemed fond of.

‘Stop talking,’ he whispered, then lowered his head and kissed her.

Her lips were soft and they parted slightly to receive his. Accepting her invitation, Julius deepened the kiss with ease. She was happy to submit, even though she had the feeling she was getting in over her head. She closed her eyes, exploring the sensations of delight that flooded through her. The beauty of the setting, the romantic sense of the evening and the intoxicating nearness of this man overpowered her judgement. His kiss was exquisite, transporting her to further delights.

Lost in pure sensations of wanton yearnings, warm, strong and exciting, when his mouth left hers and trailed to her neck, she melted against him, her palms sliding up over his chest. He moved against her in the most intoxicating way that sent a shiver up her spine. Lifting his head from devouring her neck, Julius let his gaze settle on her lips. Beatrice considered him the most handsome man she had ever seen; when she thought how he had manoeuvred her into the kiss, with all his worldly elegance and experience that could instruct her in every pleasure that a woman could discover with a man, she accepted he was also a silver-tongued charmer.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ a man’s voice intruded. ‘If it isn’t the Marquess of Maitland.’

At once Julius stiffened and released Beatrice, then turned to face an old acquaintance. It was Lord Percival Canning, a ponderous, mincing fop who was dressed like a peacock in yellow coat, red-satin waistcoat and yellow-satin breeches that swelled over his protruding midsection. Two of his friends hovered behind him.

‘I’m happy to see you back among us, Chadwick.’ Lord Canning’s eyes shifted to Beatrice. ‘By all accounts we have the lovely Miss Fanshaw to thank for bringing you out of isolation.’

‘Not really,’ Julius replied drily. ‘I’ve only recently returned from one of my trips abroad. It’s impossible to be in two places at once.’

‘So it is. Then you won’t have been down to Highfield. Pity.’

‘Why?’

Lord Canning shrugged. ‘I hoped to discuss that little business matter with you I mentioned when you were last down there. Maybe we could meet up while you are in London.’

Julius stared at him icily. ‘I don’t think so, Canning. The matter you speak of is not open for negotiation.’

Anger briefly flashed into Canning’s eyes and Julius’s steely body tensed as the dandy drew close, striking an arrogant pose.

‘Think about it. I would give you a fair price.’ He turned his attention to Beatrice, his fleshy lips opening in a salacious, gargoyle-like grin from ear to ear as he ran his eyes over her in an insulting manner. ‘I regret that I did not see the race at Standish House. Everyone’s talking about it, Chadwick—of how the high and mighty Marquess of Maitland has been caught like a fish on a hook by a mere slip of a girl! How could you have let that happen—you of all people?’ he taunted. ‘I hear Miss Fanshaw beat you on a high-spirited brute of a horse. Why, I’d have put money on her myself had I been there.’

‘Indeed,’ Julius replied blandly. The men— Canning’s companions snickering foolishly behind him—would have been dumbfounded to know that as he languidly listened to Canning, he was seething inside.

‘Yes, indeed—and she’s a beauty all right. Ye Gods, had she challenged me I’d have willingly thrown the race for the pleasure of paying her forfeit.’

Insulted and outraged to the core of her being by this obnoxious fop, Beatrice was furious, but, seeing the rigidity in Julius’s back and knowing how he was struggling to hold his temper, she did not retaliate. But she could not bear the way he was being mocked.