Colin smiled. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find behind the drapes, but she certainly wasn’t it. If he were feeling fanciful—which he rarely was—he’d say she put him to mind of some sort of misplaced forest nymph. Exactly like the ones Gran had liked to go on about when he was young. Luminous blue eyes, hair of burnished moonbeams, and skin so pure as to almost look porcelain. He could easily imagine her at home in a midnight garden. And then there was that impertinent mouth. Colin shook his head, allowing a small chuckle at her cheek.

He sincerely hoped she would seek an introduction.

With the weight on his shoulders slightly lifted, he made his way toward the study where he was to meet his cousin. As he walked, he kept his gaze from the prized portraits lining the walls. They were well known to him—intimately so. Another time he might linger on them, but tonight he didn’t want to face the tangled threads of nostalgia and resentment that he knew would unfurl within him at the sight of them.

The study was warm and welcoming, with an assortment of crystal decanters lining the sideboard and reflecting the low fire in the grate. Colin started to reach for the scotch but decided on wine instead. It was probably best to save the imbibing for after the ball. God knew he’d need it by then. He poured himself a glass and took a hearty draft.

“So is it as bad as all that already?” asked his cousin John as he strode into the room, his crimson coattails fluttering behind him. The man was the epitome of military elegance tonight, all sharp angles and efficient movements. He paused to shut the door before joining Colin at the sideboard. “D’you mind pouring me a brandy?”

Nodding, Colin selected the appropriate bottle and splashed some of the amber liquid into a tumbler before handing it to John. “It depends on how you define ‘bad.’” He walked over to the desk and leaned upon the corner. “If by bad you mean that my father, God rest his soul, has damned me into a marriage of necessity from beyond the grave, then, yes, it is as bad as all that.”

John lowered his tall frame into one of the chairs facing the desk. “Yes, we know that,” he said, waving his drink in the air by way of dismissal. “It is, after all, the entire purpose of this ball. And I am happy to report that, as promised, there are debutants aplenty filling the place. Not bad, considering the time of year.”

It was quite a boon when John’s mother, Constance, who was Colin’s mother’s sister, remarried a wealthy earl several years after the death of her first husband. However, in the dozen years since, Colin and his family had never had reason to call on their connection.

It was a damned nuisance that he had to now.

“I never doubted it—especially with your mother in charge of things. I merely despise the fact that I must look at them as if they are some sort of commodities to be purchased.” Colin took another swig of the wine to wash away the distaste in his mouth, but it was no use.

“That, my good man, is where you need to adjust your frame of mind.”

“Oh really?” Colin asked, crossing his arms. “Care to expound?”

“They are not commodities for you to purchase. You are the commodity for them to purchase. It is why they have dowries in the first place.” John drained his glass and leaned forward to set it on the desk with a thump.

“I see,” Colin said, his tone clearly indicating that he did not.

“Why do you think they dress them up like dolls and parade them around in front of us? They are all looking for the best match. You are a baronet now. There are women aplenty out there whose families would be more than happy to purchase that title from you via their dowries. It is not such a big ordeal; it’s business.”

Colin set his own glass down on the desk and pushed to his feet. “It may be business to you, my friend, but I find I canna look at it that way. The whole idea of it makes me ill. The only thing that makes it even halfway palatable is the conviction that I’ll not lie about my situation if asked directly.”

John leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it is past time to get over your reservations and get on with the business of finding a wife. You have, what, four months before the bankers collect?”

Colin closed his eyes and nodded. Sixteen weeks before the world learned of his family’s downfall—a mere three months to convince some young lady with a fat dowry to marry him and save his family from ruin. How utterly cliché. He tried to stifle the rising resentment he felt for his father. He had loved—still loved—the man who had been a genius and yet still had managed to make such horrid business decisions.

“Do try to remember what is at stake here,” John said, coming to his feet. “Your brother, sister, and your grandmother are depending on you.” He picked up the empty glasses and returned them to the sideboard. Turning back to Colin, he said, “The sooner you find yourself a bride, the sooner you can return to normal life.” He headed toward the door, gesturing for Colin to join him. “Come. Let us weed through the merchandise, shall we?”

Colin gave a snort of laughter. “I thought I was the merchandise. Don’t tell me you were feeding me a load of bullocks, just now.”

“I? Never. Now polish up that title of yours and prepare to wear it on your sleeve; you have a wife to catch.” Grinning broadly, he slapped a hand on Colin’s back, propelling him through the doorway. “And with your secret weapon, tonight is sure to be a success.”

Chapter Three

The entrance to the ballroom was elegant and sumptuous, with a great, arching doorway framed by intricately carved whitewashed wood. There were two matching columns on either side, both fluted, with a scrolled design at the top that was reminiscent of Greek architecture, providing a dramatic backdrop for anyone hoping to make a grand entrance.

These were not the sorts of details a casual attendee might notice.

But, after fifteen minutes of surreptitiously sneaking glances that way, Beatrice was fairly certain she was as well acquainted with the entryway design as the architect himself. And now that the clock hands were perilously close to meeting beneath the twelve, heralding the hour when her mystery man would reappear, she could hardly drag her gaze away. She breathed an impatient sigh and wrapped a hand around her middle. Newton, as it turned out, must have been mistaken with his whole “gravity theory” idea. Otherwise, how could her stomach feel as though it were hovering somewhere in the vicinity of the gilded ceiling?

“Darling, what has come over you? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

Drat. Her mother was right—Bea had completely ignored whatever it was she was talking about. Lucky for her, Mama had only one topic of interest at these kinds of functions. Smiling vaguely, Bea gave a little flip of her hand, dismissing her mother’s entirely true statement. “Don’t be absurd—I’ve heard every word. Yes, there are many eligible gentlemen here tonight. No, I’m not overly inclined to dance with them. You know I’m as likely to tread on their boots as make a good impression.”

Mama came as close to rolling her eyes as Beatrice had ever seen in public, briefly lifting her gray gaze heavenward. “Hyperbole does not become you. You are a perfectly adequate dancer—I hired the best instructors in London to ensure it. And what are you so interested in across the room?”

Beatrice snapped her gaze back, not even realizing it had wandered to the ballroom entryway once again. Oops. Well, there was no harm in the truth. “I’m merely anxious for the stroke of midnight, when we will finally discover the identity of the mystery guest.”

Mama straightened, running a gloved hand down the burgundy silk of her gown. “Ah, the mystery guest. Well, let us hope he is an eligible gentleman so your interest can be for good.”

It was Beatrice’s turn to roll her eyes. With Papa’s illness striking shortly after the start of her first Season, little attention had been paid to the endeavor of finding her a husband. At the time, there were much more important issues to attend to. But now, with her sisters, twins Carolyn and Jocelyn, set to make their debut in the spring, her mother was suddenly bound and determined to remedy the situation. It was why her parents had insisted they attend the Little Season. Normally, the family spent most of their time at Hertford Hall, their country estate, making the trek to London each spring. But no—if there was hope of avoiding having three daughters on the marriage mart at once, then Mama would do everything in her power to exploit it.

Never mind that London in the winter was positively dismal, lacking the sort of inspiration Bea craved when creating her paintings. Or that her elder sister, Evie, had had no fewer than five Seasons before her own marriage. Mama had decided that Bea must marry, and that was that.

“Good evening, Lady Granville, Lady Beatrice.”

Beatrice’s jaw tightened at the all too familiar voice of Mr. William Godfrey. Curse her luck—would the man be at every event they attended this month? Pasting a humorless smile upon her lips, she turned and dipped her head in a shallow greeting. “Mr. Godfrey.”

He was dressed in clothes befitting of the youngest son of a viscount—sumptuous velvet jacket with an incredibly fussy cravat, buff pantaloons, and highly polished shoes—but Beatrice knew better than to be fooled by the display.

He was a gambler, a lush, and worst of all, a fortune hunter.

And it drove her mad that no one else seemed to have picked up on those facts. Although, to be fair, she knew of his gambling only because of her brother. But anyone with eyes and half a brain could see that he circled the daughters of wealthy men like a hungry, well-dressed vulture.