Erin Knightley: Flirting With Fortune

“And yours as well, Sir Colin.”

He smiled his acknowledgment of the comment before allowing his gaze to slide to her daughter. Lady Beatrice’s eyes glittered even more brilliantly than her jewels in the bright candlelight, and for a moment he savored the secret that hung between them like an invisible thread. “I’m delighted to meet you as well. Lady Beatrice, was it?”

She nodded, taking his slight teasing in stride. He liked that—clearly she wasn’t at all the simpering miss the ton seemed to prize. “It is an honor to meet the son of one of the greatest painters to have ever lived. I hope you don’t mind us seeking the introduction.”

He almost laughed. The sentence was a bold challenge, acknowledging her part of the bargain. She wasn’t afraid to swallow her pride after all, and he respected her all the more for it. “Not at all. In fact, I am honored in turn.” He hadn’t expected her to be the daughter of a marquis, for heaven’s sake, when he had asked her to save him the dance, but he wasn’t going to back down now. “And I wonder, do you have room on your dance card for a latecomer?”

She lifted a blond brow, her expression betraying a hint of mischief. “I’m afraid I do not, Sir Colin.”

Colin’s smile slipped the slightest amount as her words sank in. What was she playing at?

Leaning the slightest bit forward, she confided, “But I would sincerely love a turn about the terrace.”

Sir Frederick Tate’s son.

Beatrice tried unsuccessfully to keep the giddy grin from her lips as Sir Colin escorted her toward the terrace doors. She could scarcely believe it—she was touching the sleeve of the man who was the direct descendant of an artistic legend. His son!

The moment she had realized who he was, she promptly abandoned all her intentions of not seeking an introduction and went off to locate her mother, who had been delighted at Beatrice’s enthusiasm. But she decreed that they should wait until the crowd around him died down before approaching him and his aunt. The ensuing half hour had felt more like a half a day as Bea waited impatiently for the moment she could speak with him once more.

And now, instead of dancing in front of a roomful of people, they would be able to be alone again—or very nearly so, in any event. Completely by her design, of course. Normally at a function like this, the terrace would be filled to bursting with other people. But it was October, and Beatrice knew full well that it would likely be empty.

They paused by the door as a servant appeared with the wrap her mother had summoned, and when she was properly bundled, they stepped outside. Cold air immediately engulfed her. She gave a little shiver—half excitement, half chill.

“Are you certain you wish to remain, my lady? If you’re cold, we can take a turn about the room, instead.”

My lady . It’s what she’d been called her whole life—rightly so—but for some reason the words wrinkled her nose. “Only an hour ago you called me a stór . Are we to be so formal now?”

He kept his eyes trained ahead, but pulled his arm—and by extension, her—closer to his side. She didn’t resist in the slightest. “An hour ago I dinna know you were a lady. I’d never have been so familiar if I’d had any clue you were the daughter of a marquis.”

“And I’d have never been so bold if I’d known you were the son of Britain’s most celebrated painter.”

He paused beside the stone balustrade and looked down at her, his eyes reflecting the dancing torchlight. With her fingers still resting on his arm, she could feel his muscles relax now that they were away from the crowd, farthest from the glass doors. The hint of mischievousness that had so enticed her in the gallery lifted the corners of his lips once more. “Well, then,” he said, his voice low and intimate in the yawning darkness of the garden beyond, “I suppose we are very fortunate indeed to have had such an unorthodox non-introduction.”

She lifted a single eyebrow. “Perhaps more providence than fortune. I shouldn’t have even been there at all, but I so wanted to see your father’s portraits.” Realization dawned then. No wonder he had seemed so familiar when she met him—moments earlier she had been looking at a portrait of him! The very thought sent a shiver of delight through her.

What must it have been like, not only to be the son of a master, but to have been his subject as well? She smiled, hoping she didn’t look as awestruck as she felt. “I imagine you were there for the same reason.”

His jaw tightened the slightest bit. Blast—she hadn’t intended to be so insensitive. It had been only six months since he’d lost his father. She pressed her eyes closed—for heaven’s sake, she was still shaky about her father’s illness last Season, and he was mostly recovered. “I truly am sorry for your loss. I imagine knowing that the whole country mourns with you does little to ease the pain.”

He let out a harsh breath, the evidence of which rose in a cloud between them. “Thank you. It is . . . hard to think on him sometimes, but I need to move forward.” He set his lips into a determined smile. “Tell me, are you so great an admirer of his, then? Was a glimpse of his work worth being discovered by an ill-mannered brute such as myself?”

She chuckled, relieved that he was smiling once more. “Hardly a brute. And, yes, seeing such incredible skill and talent would be worth all manner of punishments. I am a painter myself—not nearly so talented as he, of course—and seeing his work is nourishment for my soul.”

“Ah, a painter,” he said, nodding as if everything made sense to him now. “Are you a portrait painter, or are you fond of still life?”

“Whatever moves me. I’ve done a few portraits, but I think my favorites are landscape—particularly where man and nature meet. I think your father’s earliest work is the most inspirational to me. I only wish I had the opportunity to see another of his early Scottish landscapes.”

She’d surprised him, judging by the quick cocking of his head and the wrinkling of his brow. “You know of his early works, then? And you’ve seen one?”

“Indeed. I was absolutely enthralled when I saw his portrait of Lord and Lady Hamilton several years back. I’m embarrassed to tell you I may have become slightly obsessed, and set out to learn as much as possible about the man. As a gift for my sixteenth birthday, my father arranged a showing at the Earl of Northup’s personal collection. Among the works were three portraits and one small but magnificent landscape.”

Sir Colin whistled low under his breath. “Father’s very first patron. I dinna think he allowed anyone into his home anymore.”

“He doesn’t,” she confirmed, biting her lip against her satisfied smile. “But my father can be very persuasive when he chooses.” It was far and away the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. There was no doubt that Papa wanted the best for each of his children, but nothing else had better demonstrated to her his desire for them to be happy as well.

“They were his favorite, you know,” he said quietly, looking out into the blackness beyond the balustrade.

“What were?”

“The landscapes.” He turned to face her, the sharp angles of his jaw somehow softened. “He loved them most. He had incredible talent for portraits and realized early on that was how he could make his living, but he never forgot his first love.”

It was intoxicating, learning such intimate details of Sir Frederick’s life before fame from the man’s own son. She found herself leaning forward, close enough to feel the heat of his body and smell the teasing hints of his masculine scent. “I had no idea,” she breathed.