Flirting With Fortune swak-3

  Flirting With Fortune

  ( Sealed With a Kiss - 3 )

  Erin Knightley

  An Honest Deception

  Sir Colin Tate has never imagined marrying for money. But debts left by his artist father have put his siblings’ futures in danger. To wed an eligible heiress, this independent-minded Scot must play by restrictive rules—until an irresistible lady dares to pursue her passion for art…and him.

  An Unexpected Desire

  Lady Beatrice Moore can spy a fortune hunter as expertly as she captures subjects on canvas. But when she meets the striking son of Britain’s most celebrated painter, the attraction is instantaneous—blinding her to the possibility that he could ever be one of those schemers…

  An Unthinkable Dilemma

  Then the truth comes out, shattering Lady Beatrice’s faith in the mischievous yet kind man who has captured her heart. With reputations and fortunes hanging in the balance, Colin and she must find a way to trust in a love that cannot be proven—or face an unfathomable loss.

  Flirting with Fortune

  Sealed With a Kiss 3

  by

  Erin Knightley

  For Papa, because you would have been so proud of me.

  For Dad, because you have always been proud of me.

  And for Kirk, because you are almost as proud of me as I am of you.

  Acknowledgments

  Whenever I have a story idea, it begins as a tiny seed, full of promise but without form. It’s only thanks to the help of others that it grows and flourishes, becoming a book that I can be proud of. This book in particular would never have happened without the help of Heather Snow, Catherine Gayle, Olivia Kelly, and my wonderful critique group. Thank you all for sticking by me with my endless brainstorming and plotting, always there to lend an ear or a helpful suggestion.

  A heartfelt thank-you to my fantastic editor, Kerry Donovan, and her team at New American Library—including the wonderful art department! I’m so lucky to have such gorgeous covers. As always, a big hug and lots of gratitude to my agent, Deidre Knight, and all the ladies at the Knight Agency.

  Last, thank you to all my wonderful fans—nothing lifts my heart more than to know my stories make you smile. Please feel free to join me on my Facebook page or on Twitter—I’m always happy to say hello!

  Chapter One

  When one attends one of the most anticipated balls of the Season—even if it was only the Little Season—one is supposed to, well, attend the ball. But as Lady Beatrice Moore walked down Lady Churly’s deserted portrait gallery, accompanied by nothing but the muted whisper of the distant orchestra and the slightest sense of accomplishment, Bea couldn’t help the sigh of pleasure that escaped her.

  She was in heaven.

  Finally, she was away from the crowd, far from the eyes of fortune hunters who watched her as a hawk eyed a field mouse and beyond the earshot of the gossipmongers looking to snap up the latest on-dit. Bea was alone, with the soft glow of the turned-back lamps lining the hall and an entire wall full of some of the greatest masterpieces England had ever produced.

  In no hurry now that she had escaped, she clasped her hands behind her back and strolled across the narrow hall, her slippers silent on the herringbone-patterned wood floors. This was why she had really agreed to come to this ball—well, one of two reasons, anyway. Lady Churly possessed the single largest collection of acclaimed painter Sir Frederick Tate’s work: four spectacular portraits that were so much more than the sum of their subjects. His true genius had been in the play of light, particularly the incredibly lifelike shadows that always gave his pieces such moody brilliance. Dark yet full of life, each portrait was an absolute masterpiece.

  Even more so now that he was gone.

  She felt an odd sense of loss, thinking of his death. His work had made such an impact on her as a young artist—it was impossible to think that she could never meet the man who had somehow become her absentee mentor.

  At least, as an artist, his legacy was preserved. She paused, studying a painting of a small boy standing in a library, a book in his hand. His dark hair fell across his forehead while challenging gray eyes stared directly at her. Impossibly, Beatrice felt as though she could see the spirit within him, almost pull the thoughts from his mind.

  The tap of approaching footsteps broke through her study. Had someone followed her after all? No, the sound came from the opposite direction of the ballroom, presumably from the family’s private rooms. She scowled, glancing around for someplace to slip out of view—not the easiest thing to do when one was draped in yards and yards of snowy white lutestring.

  Even if it wasn’t some fortune hunter trying to get her alone, or her mother come to chide her, the company was still most unwelcome. And really, she did not want to be caught snooping. Where was a decent potted palm when a person needed one, anyway? There were few places to hide, with only one viable option: behind one of the heavy gold curtains that fell in generous velvet waves from the high ceiling to the floor.

  Feeling like a thief in the night, she gathered her skirts and slipped behind the nearest fabric panel, pressing her back against the freezing-cold glass of the window. She gritted her teeth against the chill as she flattened herself as much as she could. She almost grinned—who would have thought she would discover a situation where her small bosom was actually a good thing?

  Whoever was out there certainly wasn’t in any hurry. Judging by the heaviness of the tread and the harsh sound of the hard-soled shoes on the wood, she thought it must be a man. Beatrice willed him to move faster as the cold seeped through her and raised gooseflesh on her arms. Still, she didn’t dare move a muscle. It was all so very undignified. She hadn’t found herself in a position like this since she was a child. She was nineteen, no longer a silly girl listening at keyholes, for heaven’s sake.

  The footsteps slowed further as they drew closer and closer, and Bea held her breath when they stopped mere feet away.

  And then, nothing. The man just stood there, unintentionally pinning her in place like a trapped mouse. She waited, her lungs burning more with every passing second. Blast it all, what was he doing? She quickly realized that it was a mistake to hold her breath. Now if she tried to release it, she would surely gasp with the need to draw air, giving herself away.

  Move, for heaven’s sake. Move!

  Just when she thought her lungs would explode, he stepped away. As quietly as humanly possible, Beatrice released her breath and sucked in a fresh supply of air. No matter that it tasted of musty velvet and dust motes—it was the sweetest breath she had ever taken.

  The intruder seemed to have stopped again, this time close to the opposite wall. Was it his plan to hold her hostage all night? Never mind that he had no idea she was even there—it was still annoying. Who was out there, anyway?

  The old, familiar itch of curiosity flared to life deep within her. She knew it well. It had gotten her into plenty of trouble with her siblings over the years. Of course, it had also resulted in her discovering all kinds of secrets—all of which she had kept to herself, of course. Her siblings might have called her a spy, but she had scruples.

  She focused on possible answers: a butler or footman? But if it were a servant, why would he loiter in the portrait hall during a ball?

  The only other option was that it was a family member, but Beatrice had taken care to locate each of them before sneaking away. They were all atwitter about a surprise guest who was to be revealed at midnight, and Lady Churly, her son, Captain Andrews, and her deceased husband’s three children had been milling about all night, smiling knowingly and shaking their heads at anyone who begged to know the secret guest’s identity.

  Beatrice stiffene
d. That was it! This must be the person who had the ton holding its collective breath all night. Oh, how utterly delicious it would be to know his identity before anyone else. The fact that she even knew it was a man was a step above anyone else.

  Restlessness welled up within her, making it nearly impossible to hold still. She bit down on her lip, trying to suppress the sensation as she willed her body to stay motionless. It was always like this. She simply couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on around her. People could call her nosy and a snoop all they wanted—she needed to know things. It was the other reason she had come to the ball in the first place.

  Without even making a conscious decision to do so, she started sliding sideways a quarter inch at a time. The edge of the drape was tantalizingly close, and if she could only make it over far enough to peek out, the burning curiosity would be satiated.

  She barely breathed as she moved, pacing herself to about the speed of paint drying. At this rate, it would probably strike midnight before she could catch a glimpse of the mystery person in the room with her. For the thousandth time, she wondered who Lady Churly had secured for the ball. The woman was well respected and in all the best circles, so Beatrice knew it wouldn’t be anyone scandalous or improper, which didn’t leave much in the way of interesting people. She had pondered the topic all week—along with the rest of the ton, from what she had heard—and hadn’t been able to come up with a single plausible candidate for the surprise guest.

  Which annoyed her to no end.

  Now was her chance. She could be the first to know who it was, a thought so tantalizing, she moved the slightest bit faster the last two inches toward freedom—more like the speed of grass growing. The gold velvet brushed across her hair, then her temple, and finally slid past her right eye.

  Success!

  The flash of triumph was immediately trumped by something else altogether as she focused on a man leaning against the opposite wall, his arms folded and amusement lifting the corners of his mouth. Her stomach flopped to the floor with an almost audible thump.

  He was staring directly back at her.

  Chapter Two

  “So this is the lady who belongs to the scent of lilacs. How lovely of you to come out and join me.”

  He was amused.

  She was not.

  Never mind that the almost musical lilt of his Scottish-tinged accent sent a shiver down the back of Bea’s already chilled neck. If he knew she was there, he should have had the decency to say as much. Embarrassment stiffened her spine—Lord, she must look a fool. With as much dignity as one in her position could muster, she extracted herself from the heavy drapes and shook out her skirts. “Yes, well, since you wouldn’t leave like a proper gentleman, it seems as though I had little choice.”

  He lifted a dark eyebrow, tilting his head just enough so that a lock of midnight black hair fell across his temple. “I do beg your pardon. I should have left the moment I realized there was a debutant-shaped lump behind the curtains.”

  Well, when he said it like that. She lifted her chin regally. “Pardon granted, Mr. . . . ?”

  She waited, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he pushed away from the wall, closing the distance between them with measured, unhurried steps. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had a certain presence about him, as if he could command an army, if so inclined. She couldn’t have taken her eyes from him if she wanted to.

  With every step he took, her heartbeat seemed to increase, until it fluttered like a caged bird beneath her breast. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not like her brother or even her brother-in-law. His appeal was much more intense than that. His jaw looked as sharp as if it were carved from granite and already possessed the slightest hint of dark stubble. His cheeks angled high, almost like a woman’s, but his bold, masculine brow provided exactly enough counterbalance to give his features exquisite symmetry and depth. Such unique beauty made her fingers itch to take up her brushes and commit his visage to canvas.

  Her gaze was too bold by half, but he didn’t seem to mind her inspection. In fact, he watched her right back, his flint-colored eyes seeming to take in everything about her, leaving her feeling quite exposed. “Now, now, we haven’a been introduced. I wouldn’a want to break protocol at my very first ball. Unless, of course, it is your wish, Miss . . . ?”

  Beatrice almost smiled. She’d as soon walk naked through the ballroom than tell him who she was. A lady did not get caught hiding behind curtains. “Yes, well . . . I suppose rules are rules.”

  She realized then the importance of what he had said: This was his first ball. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the mystery guest Lady Churly was so eager to present. Who was this man? He was five-and-twenty if he was a day, so why had he never been to a ball? Beatrice’s curiosity rebelled with an almost physical force, but she firmly tamped it down. She was dying to know who he was, this man with the lyrical voice, compelling features, and unmistakable air of mystery, but not at the price of revealing her own identity.

  “Indeed.” He paused at exactly the proper distance away and folded his arms, considering her. “Although I suspect that you doona always play by the rules.” He nodded to the curtains behind her.

  This time she did smile. “My character exposed in two minutes or less. Alas, I cannot deny it. Following the rules will gain you naught but a stellar reputation and a tremendously boring life.” Her older siblings, Evie and Richard, had taught her that much.

  His answering smile was nearly as delicious as his accent, his perfectly bowed upper lip curving to reveal beautiful white teeth. Beatrice pressed her lips together. She hated the crooked front tooth that marred her own smile.

  “Then you’d think me very tedious, indeed, I’m afraid,” he said, mock regret weighting his tone. “I must admit, I am a rule follower to a fault.”

  She very nearly rolled her eyes. Any man with a face like that couldn’t possibly be boring. “I don’t believe you. If you were a rule follower, you would never have waited for me to emerge. Speaking alone with a strange female in a darkened gallery is not exactly perfect protocol.”

  His grin widened as he lifted a shoulder in a sort of half shrug. “Then it is a very good thing that you doona know my name. I’d hate to have it bandied about that I was anything less than a perfect gentleman upon my entrance into society.”

  “And if we encounter each other by chance?”

  “Then I’ll throw myself upon your mercy to protect my reputation. In fact, perhaps I should do so now. Preemptively, so as I know I’m safe.”

  She crossed her arms and nodded, unable to resist playing along. There was something about the anonymity of the moment that was almost intoxicating, like a first sip of champagne. “Very well—you may commence groveling.”

  He dipped his head gravely. “As you wish. Though I wonder how I should address you.” He took in her elegant gown and the emeralds decorating her ears and neck. “Princess, perhaps?”

  “I should think not,” she said, wrinkling her nose. That was the very last thing she would wish to be called. Though she was the daughter of a marquis, she was no overly privileged, dreadfully coddled princess. “I value my freedom much too fervently for that.”

  “Clearly.” Even in the low light, she could see the irony in his gaze. Which was a good thing, since it was deuced hard to detect it in the lilt of his accent. “A stór, then. It suits you, I think.”

  “A story? How on earth does that suit me?”

  “Not ‘a story,’” he said, pantomiming opening a book. “A stór. My treasure.”

  She sucked in a surprised breath, warmth infusing her whole body before flooding her face. His treasure? Her heart shuddered within her. There was something shockingly intimate about being called such a thing by a near-complete stranger.

  Before she could think of a response, he chuckled. “As in buried treasure. Unearthed from the depths of the curtains. I dinna mean to imply anything else.”

  “Of course not,” she replied,
nodding as though her mind hadn’t gone directly to that “something else.” “You may call me whatever you wish. Now, on with the groveling, if you please—I’ll be missed if I remain much longer.” She hoped the soft strains of music from the ballroom disguised the breathlessness of her voice.

  He stepped forward, bringing them closer than even the most liberal of hosts would have deemed proper. He put a hand to his heart and dipped his head to hers. Mischief lit his eyes, subtly challenging her. She blinked—why did he suddenly look so familiar?

  “I beg you, a stór, from the very depths of me—could you find it in your heart to have mercy on my depraved soul? Could you carry this encounter close to your breast, not to be revealed under threat of death, or worse—gossip?”

  Good heavens, he was positively mesmerizing when he put his mind to it. The soft, lilting tones of his voice washed over her skin like warm silk, and she only just suppressed the shiver that flitted down her spine. Doing her best to sound lightly amused, she said, “Very well. You have my mercy. It was a pleasure not to meet you, sir. I do hope you enjoy the ball.”

  With a reluctance that surprised her, she started to turn.

  “Perhaps,” he said, drawing her attention to him once more, “you’d save a dance for me.”

  She lifted her brow. “Ah, but that would require an introduction, would it not?” Even so, the offer was absurdly tempting. The idea of being pulled into his arms was almost enough to make her forget that dancing wasn’t her forte.

  “An excellent point, to which I offer this solution: If by the end of the night, you wish to take me up on my offer, then I leave it to you to seek an introduction to me. Seeing how I now have assurance of your mercy, of course.”

  Beatrice drew back in surprise. “Seek an introduction to you? I do hate to disabuse you of whatever opinion you have formed of me in these past few minutes, but I am not a desperate woman. I assure you, I will be seeking an introduction to no one.”