“It seems as if we finished our conversation just in time,” Emily whispered, as men’s voices arose to meet them on the first landing of the turning stairway.
When Beatrice released the wrought iron balustrade and stepped onto the entry hall floor, she steeled herself for her mission. Marcus and the man stood before her, saying their parting words, but both stopped and turned upon the ladies’ entrance from the stair.
“I’m sorry—” Beatrice began, but the words caught in her throat.
For some reason, she had not truly looked at the man when she had argued with him earlier. Standing merely an arm’s length away with the bright light of midmorning hitting his face through the glass that framed the home’s front door, she realized with mortification that he was much younger and more attractive than she had first thought. His features were almost perfectly formed with a solid, straight nose. His hair was pitch black without the sunlight streaks she had mistaken for gray. His smooth, strong jawbone was clean-shaven and looked as if it were carved from rock. His teal and black coat fit across his muscular chest perfectly, and his black breeches revealed trim legs. Clearly, whoever Marcus was entertaining enjoyed sport and was fit enough to pursue it. With the insults she had tossed his way, it was no wonder he reacted defensively.
Suddenly ashamed, she quickly averted her eyes and struggled to fight back tears. She wondered if she would ever learn to control her temper. She had been so angry at what she had witnessed this morning that instead of trying to find a champion for her cause, she lashed out at a stranger as if he were the reason for the calamity. As the blush climbed across her cheeks, she forced out the rest of the apology she now knew he deserved.
“It was wrong of me to speak to you so. Please forgive me,” she choked.
Her eyes flitted up to his and were immediately captured by their powerful, golden hazel. One corner of his mouth turned upward in an attractive half smile. “I must say that I am flattered. I don’t think I have ever received such a sincere apology. Of course, I accept it, Miss—?”
“—Radford. Beatrice Radford,” Beatrice blinked and held out her hand.
When he took it, her stomach flipped inside her. She watched as he slowly raised it and pressed it against his lips. He stared deeply into her eyes, and for a moment, she felt as if he could see the depths of her soul. Her breathing quickened, and her heart pounded against her corset.
“Will you be at the assembly tomorrow night?” Marcus’ voice interrupted their connection. The gentleman dropped her hand, and Beatrice immediately returned her eyes to the intricately designed rug on the floor.
“Yes, I was planning on attending.”
“This will be the first one for Beatrice. Would you be so kind as to dance with her once? I am afraid she has few acquaintances in London.”
“Of course, I would be honored,” the man smiled and bowed slightly.
Beatrice’s face flamed as she scowled at her brother-in-law. She had little intention of dancing at the assembly with anyone—a fact that Marcus should know. As she opened her mouth, her sister’s elbow landed firmly in her side.
She closed her eyes, thankful for the protective boning of her corset that had felt suffocating to her moments earlier. Focusing, she remembered this gentleman had not made the arrangement, but was merely being polite about it. She forced a smile and returned her eyes to the man’s perfectly tied cravat. She willed herself to be nice for Emily’s sake—and for Marcus’. “I-I would love that, sir.”
Marcus gasped, “Beatrice, do you not know—”
“Well, until tomorrow, then,” the man said brusquely, no longer smiling. She watched as he carefully placed his hat on his head and walked out the door. She was left wondering if perhaps he did not want to dance with her at all. For some reason, this thought bothered her despite her dislike of such an unproductive pastime.
She shifted her gaze from the closed door to a horrified Marcus. “Beatrice! You can’t talk to him like that. He is—”
“—Be-a-trice! Child, you don’t even look as if you have begun to get ready for supper.” Lady Radford, her mother, interrupted from the stair landing. “Why are you standing in the entryway, staring at the door like a ninny? Come upstairs to your room immediately, or we shall have to hold the meal!”
Trying to set the odd encounter aside, she hurried up the stairway. Her emotions were swirling inside her. One minute, the man seemed kind, almost playful, but the next, he was like a tempest—wild and unpredictable. It was true that aside from Marcus, this man was the first male she had met who was not old enough to be her father. Still, she had always thought males would be easier to understand. Her mother seemed to think they were.
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