“All one must do is examine the Ascot, and the necessity of owning such beasts will become quite clear,” the gentleman on Anthony’s left declared, his bristly mustache swishing in time with his mouth. On the other side of the ballroom, a new dance had begun and carried such a lively tone that Anthony was sad to miss it.
“We should not forget that such investments are of a gambling nature,” the gentleman with a strong chin answered. “Would our money not be better spent elsewhere, regardless of the pleasure it brings us?” Anthony had to stifle a laugh, his bright-blue eyes dancing, as he knew how his grandfather would respond.
“Gentlemen,” the Viscount began, “this is a very good point. I have time and again told my grandson here that money should be spent wisely, not wantonly. To squander one’s wealth on something as frivolous as horse racing is to make a fool of oneself. For, what is to become of your investment when the horse dies? No, I say stocks are the only way to ensure that one’s money has meaning and value. Wouldn’t you agree, Anthony?”
It was a lucky thing that Anthony happened to be paying attention at that very moment, for he was able to answer with finality, “Yes, Grandfather. Though I daresay horses are much more enjoyable to watch than stocks.” This joke earned hearty laughter from all in the group, including the Viscount who could be said to enjoy a bit of humor from time to time, and Anthony smiled, pleased with himself. Though, when the conversation returned to dry chatter, he looked around the ballroom for Mr. DeLancy.
The upcoming groom was engaged in his own social circle but caught Anthony’s stare with a grin. Slowly, Anthony raised his right hand and pretended to scratch at the side of his nose, a signal from their boyhood that expressed a desire to escape one’s situation. Mr. DeLancy laughed and shook his head, mouthing the words, “Good luck, old chap.” He then raised the glass of whatever he was drinking and silently toasted Anthony’s predicament.
Seeing as his friend would be of no use, Anthony began searching for other excuses when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Beatrice Ivanry and Minnie Saumon talking in the entranceway. Her presence lit a fire in Anthony, and he became determined to find some peace and quiet to contemplate her fair countenance. He waited for a lull in the conversation, then politely said, “Grandfather, gentlemen, I’m afraid you will have to excuse me for a moment. Mr. DeLancy has requested my assistance with finding Miss Saumon.”
He was dismissed with little care – the Viscount eyed him with minor suspicion, but upon seeing his grandson’s earnest face, allowed the young man to slip away. Anthony wove around the small groups of his acquaintances and slipped out of the ballroom. He immediately noticed the young ladies hiding themselves in the shadows and let his gaze slip hotly to Miss Beatrice. Though he could never be too forward without an introduction, he hoped it was enough to at least alert her to his intentions or entice her own.
Anthony took his time ascending the stairs and making his way to the library at the end of the hall. He stopped to admire the framed artwork decorating the otherwise sparse walls; the rakish young man found one in particular that suited his fancy above all the others. It showed a lady in virginal white staring at her viewer, the faintest of smiles on her lips and a bouquet of rosy peonies arranged at her elbow. There was something so tempting, so forbidden about her that Anthony was drawn in, unable to tear himself away from the innocent girl in the painting.
When he finally did, feeling much warmer under the collar than before, Anthony ruminated on why a woman made of nothing more than paint and canvas could affect him so. He supposed, as he pushed his way into the library and illuminated it, that his heart yearned for a young lady with enough virtue to appease his grandfather but with a naughty glimmer in her eye held only for Anthony. The Viscount seemed intent on finding a quiet, mousy wife for him, but the young gentleman sought a natural fire that very few society ladies possessed.
This is what drew him to Miss Beatrice in the first place. He had observed her, chatting with the other young ladies in the corner at numerous events, and yet, she never seemed fully satisfied. Certainly, she was a shy little thing, but Anthony had seen her looking longingly at their dancing friends time and again. He would have offered his hand to her but did not wish to frighten a girl who perhaps had never blushed at the hidden meaning in a man’s words before. So he could do no more than look at her wistfully every so often and hope that, one day, he would have his chance.
And by the sound of tiny footsteps on the stairs, it seemed like she had been intrigued by his sidelong glance at her a while ago. Anthony poured himself a glass of bourbon and sipped from the polished crystal as he waited for Miss Beatrice to join him. While he waited for the young lady to reveal herself, Anthony ran a hand over the precisely bound copies of Shakespeare and Blake and Swift and the like. Some were covered in glossy, auburn leather while others had hard shells made of blue fabric. In any case, Anthony thought them to be beautiful and considered opening one to peer at the ink covering the pristine, white pages when he heard Miss Beatrice at the door.
She had not found her way in just yet – Anthony assumed she was trying to find some excuse for her unaccompanied self – and he chuckled quietly at her efforts. Turning his back to the door to give an air of nonchalance, Anthony thought about what his reaction should be. After all, he could not let on that he had been aurally following her progress to this very moment. Taking inspiration from the stiff upper lip of his grandfather, he decided to play a trick on the young lady, to pretend that he had no idea why she would have followed him upstairs. In other words, to play the part of the accommodating gentleman he was supposed to be.
The door creaked open, and he had but a moment to steel his nerves.
CHAPTERTHREE
What Beatrice did not expect upon entering the library was how quickly speech would leave her at the sight of Mr. Grayson. His tall, proud figure, lit by a few candles and the sparking flame in the fireplace, looked especially daunting when she could not see his face. For a moment, she considered slipping back through the doorway and down to the ball, pretending all the while that she had not crept up here with licentious curiosity. But before Beatrice could act on her plan, the floorboards squeaked underneath her feet, drawing the attention of Mr. Grayson.
“Miss Beatrice, is it? What are you doing up here?” Mr. Grayson asked after turning with a look of surprise on his face that Beatrice would have sworn hid a small smirk.
“Oh! Mr. Grayson, do forgive me, I seem to have gotten lost. I sincerely apologize for interrupting your quietude,” Beatrice stammered out, hoping that the rushed pattern of her speech concealed her true intent.
The Viscount’s heir regarded her curiously for a moment, his devious eyes taking the opportunity to drag across her body. Beatrice felt her face heat but said nothing, allowing her hands to drop to her sides from where they’d been gracefully resting against her stomach. “What happened to your gown, Miss Beatrice? I daresay that is quite the stain,” Mr. Grayson inquired, gesturing vaguely to the fading pink splotches on her gown.
“Miss Saumon and I were conversing, and I am afraid some of her drink spilled on me,” Beatrice explained, glancing down at the mess. “Would you be so kind as to guide me back to the ball so that I may ask for something to clean myself with?”
Beatrice saw a flicker in his eyes, the sign of a myriad of sinful responses perching themselves on Mr. Grayson’s tongue, but he held fast, instead noting, “What a forward request, Miss Beatrice. Tell me, what will people think if we reappear downstairs together?” His gaze narrowed, and his lips quirked into a half smile. “You are certainly bold for such a quiet debutante. Is this how you wish to address me when our eyes meet across a ballroom full of people?”
The young woman’s brows lifted, and for the first time, she laid aside her demure attitude. “Mr. Grayson, I hardly think it appropriate for you to speak to me in such a way. To presume that a lady’s words hold some secret for a gentleman to decipher when he finds her attractive is most presumptuous.” She leveled a glare at him, crossing her arms. “And are you not one of the most well-known rakes? Therefore, should anyone talk of it if we were spotted together, I hardly think my reputation would be called into question. You would do well to slow your judgments given how others perceive you.”
His mouth hung open for a few seconds in a most ungentlemanly way before he lifted his drink to his lips and finished it in one swallow. Beatrice watched him set the glass down on the umber, walnut desk at the front of the room with care and turn to face her again, this time with a sneer. “Ah, so the little kitty does have claws,” he said. “Here I thought you were unable to speak like the other ladies, but it seems you simply wait for the right opportunity to strike – like a viper.”
Beatrice stepped toward him, driven by her frustration, “Again, Mr. Grayson, you suppose when you ought to surrender. How can you possibly know anything about me, and yet you have the gall to call my character into question?” She stopped a few feet in front of him, limbs trembling with rage but keeping her voice even and calm. “You should accept that notallladies wish to be spoken to like the ones you visit so often in the dark hours of the night.”
Mr. Grayson seemed to be enjoying their tête-à-tête, for he had not stopped looking at Beatrice with unbidden fascination. He slowly walked toward her, chuckling when the young woman began to back up. “Is it not nighttime? Are we not here alone, Miss Beatrice? For all your refusal, you have unintentionally revealed yourself to beexactlythe sort of lady who craves flirtations, even if you have been so well trained as to not show it in public.”
As he continued to stalk her, Beatrice could not help but notice the power in his frame and the delight it inspired in her, especially compared to her delicate form. Then, Mr. Grayson said what she had been wishing he would not. “I would not even be shocked if you followed me up here with a purpose. Did you trail after me because you could no longer resist the passions in your own heart?”
Beatrice’s head thumped against the wall behind her as Mr. Grayson backed her up against it, his chest mere inches away from her own. For all her sudden weakness, the young woman was able to remain indignant. “That is ridiculous, Mr. Grayson. An absurdity that I did not think you capable of conjuring, even with your clever mouth.”
His grin sparkled, and Beatrice’s eyes flicked down to stare at it when he asked, “Do you often think of my mouth, Miss Beatrice?”
She could not bear to look at his intense, lustful expression again, so her gaze stayed fixed on his lips as she replied haughtily, “You are the last man whom I would ever consider when thinking ofthat.”
“Ofwhat, Miss Beatrice?” His hands reached up to rest on either side of her shoulders, caging the young woman in a prison of temptations.
“I do not dare say it,” Beatrice whispered, suddenly feeling embarrassed and slightly light-headed. She could not help the thudding of her heart as her eyes dipped away from his face to glance at the well-built man before her. Beatrice drank in every inch of clothed muscle and imagined the softness of his naked skin against her own. Before she could wonder about what lay beneath his trousers, one of Mr. Grayson’s hands tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.