Chapter 3

Chapter Three

S everal days later, Munro leaned against a column in the opulent ballroom at Ramsbury's town house and scowled as Beatrice danced with one man after another. As if the Notley betrothal ball wasn't enough, Ramsbury had felt it necessary to hold his own celebratory ball. Munro had tried to bow out, but Lavinia had begged him to attend.

And where was the chit now? Over in another corner giggling with friends. She couldn't have cared less if Munro was present. The only person who seemed less interested in him was Beatrice. She hadn't spoken more than a few words to him these past few days, and she'd been so busy assisting Judith with the wedding preparations, he'd had no chance to see her alone.

How was she supposed to tempt him if he never spent any time with her?

"Have you ever seen a footstool made from huang-hua-li—I'm probably not pronouncing that correctly—but it's a hardwood in China."

Munro glanced at Dudley, who was about four inches shorter than he, three years older, and two stone lighter. As usual, Dudley had one thing on his mind.

"This might come as a shock, Dudley," Munro said, "but I rarely pay attention to footstools I encounter."

"You would know the one I'm speaking of. It's over two centuries old and in peak condition. The reason I mention the hardwood is because the footstool is not upholstered. The hardwood is on display and the craftsmanship is exquisite."

Munro spotted a footman approaching with a tray. Unfortunately, the tray held only a slip of paper, not a hole Munro could climb into. The footman paused in front of Munro. "For you, sir."

Munro took the note and broke the seal, a seal he didn't recognize. Dudley was still going on about Chinese hardwood, and Munro prayed the note was some sort of escape.

It was.

Meet me in the music room on the other end of the gallery. I think we could make beautiful music together.

HV

Munro knew who HV was—Hannah de Vries. She was one of the most beautiful women in London. Widowed at only twenty-four, she had since taken a slew of lovers and was known for her passion and inventiveness. Long ago, before Munro had met Beatrice and fallen in love with her, he'd shared a memorable evening with Mrs. de Vries. He wouldn't mind repeating the experience.

Munro stuffed the note in his waistcoat and searched for Beatrice again. She was still dancing, laughing at the man partnering her. Munro felt like punching the arse right in his bulbous nose. But, considering he was the elderly uncle of the duke, Munro controlled himself. He could absolutely slip away and meet with Hannah. Beatrice would never even notice his absence. A half hour with Hannah would be vastly preferrable to listening to Dudley. But how to rid himself of Dudley so he might rendezvous with the wicked widow waiting in the music room?

Munro glanced around. "Dudley, do you see that over there?" He pointed to a corner of the room where a crowd of older women, mothers of some of the debutantes, had gathered.

"See what?" Dudley asked, raising his quizzing glass.

"I thought I saw a footstool. One of the older women was seated on it. Lovely green upholstery."

Dudley was staring hard now. "I don't see anything."

"I'm surely mistaken. Although, one does wonder if the duke has any pieces of note. His family is quite ancient. Surely there must be a footstool or two about."

Dudley glanced at him, brown eyes wide. "The footmen might have brought a footstool so the lady might have a seat."

"Precisely."

"Green, you say?"

"I thought—"

"Excuse me, Munro. I must have a look."

And Dudley walked away, on the search for Munro's imaginary footstool. Now that his brother was out of the way, Munro was free to seek pleasures elsewhere, specifically the music room.

Except if he left the ball that meant leaving Beatrice, and as much as he hated watching her dance with other men, he wasn't quite ready to distance himself from her. He'd been away from her for long enough. Munro started across the ballroom. People still stared at his groin, but not quite as openly as before. When he reached Lavinia, the girls around her giggled and parted.

"Uncle Munro!"

He held out a hand. "May I have the next dance, Miss Notley?"

"Of course," she said. "Are you certain you want to dance with me? There are so many beautiful ladies here tonight."

"None as beautiful as you."

His niece colored and put her gloved hand in his. He led her to the center of the ballroom and spent the next twenty minutes dancing and laughing and stealing glances at Beatrice. He quite forgot about Mrs. de Vries. Lavinia asked if he would dance with one of her friends, a wallflower who was shy. Men rarely asked her to dance. Munro had never possessed the sort of gallantry that compelled him to dance with wallflowers, but now he readily agreed. He'd do anything to avoid talk of footstools, and if he was dancing, he was closer to Beatrice. Bloody hell, but the woman was turning him into a saphead.

He partnered Lavinia's friend, who was shy, but whom he managed to coax out of her shell until she exchanged a few sentences with him. Then he danced with Judith, who uttered not a word to him and was more than happy to pass him to Susan's eldest daughter, Sabrina. He danced with his niece, who was only just out and had never been to a ball in London before. Her first Season would come in the spring, and she couldn't stop talking about it. Munro found the conversation painful but preferable to footstools, and when he returned Sabrina to her father, he was rewarded by the appearance of Beatrice with two glasses of champagne. She handed one to Sabrina and one to Munro.

"I thought you might be thirsty," she said. "You've been dancing the entire night."

Munro might have said the same for her. Indeed, she looked beautifully disheveled, her dark hair coming loose from its pins and her cheeks pink from exertion.

Munro took the glass. "Have I?" He pulled out his pocket watch, which read a quarter to two. Hannah was surely not waiting for him in the music room any longer. Now that Beatrice was standing before him, he didn't really care that he'd ignored Hannah's invitation.

"Will you not ask me to dance, sir?"

Munro was weary and would have rather taken a seat on one of Dudley's proverbial footstools than dance one more step, but he set the glass down, bowed, and said, "Would you do me the honor of the next dance, madam?"

Sabrina giggled at his formality, and Beatrice smiled. But she put her gloved hand in his, and he escorted her to the dance floor. A waltz had just begun, and he was thankful he wouldn't have to make conversation with other partners as he would have been obligated to do in a quadrille or reel. He took Beatrice in his arms, keeping a respectable distance between them, because he was still Mr. Notorious and people were hoping he'd do something disreputable. He twirled Beatrice then swept her up again, moving around the floor with confidence.

"I forgot what a good dancer you are," she said.

"It's a pleasure to dance with someone who's partnered more than her dancing master."

"It was kind of you to dance with your nieces, and I daresay Lavinia's friend Lady Eloise will not lack for partners now that Mr. Notorious has given her attention."

He gave a mock sigh. "How the mighty have fallen. At one point I would have ruined her reputation. Now all I do is generate interest."

"The night is still young."

He twirled her again, admiring the way her hair shone under the candlelight. He would have liked to think more about the feel of her soft curves in his arms or the scent of apples and vanilla when he leaned close. He exerted slight pressure on her waist and pulled her closer, the space between them a little too slim to be considered proper.

She looked up at him, those green eyes so lovely and changeable, he could have stared at them all night. She opened her mouth, and Munro thought she might whisper something erotic and wicked.

"You win," she said.

Beatrice didn't know how Munro Notley had known of her plan. She'd orchestrated it so well and with no small effort.

Step One had been to obtain the guest list for the ball and to choose a woman whom Notley would want and who might proposition him. Hannah de Vries was perfect. Notley, having just arrived in Town, wouldn't know that Mrs. de Vries had begun a flirtation with a baron and was quite smitten by him. The baron was not in London this week, which meant he wouldn't be at Mrs. de Vries's side.

Step Two had been to write a note with her left hand so Notley wouldn't recognize the script. She'd pretend to be Mrs. de Vries and invite Mr. Notorious to a rendezvous in the music room. She'd paid a footman to deliver the note to Notley at precisely eleven-thirty.

Step Three was to pay one of Ramsbury's maids to watch the music room and report to Beatrice as soon as Munro Notley went inside. He'd find it empty, but he would almost certainly wait for a few minutes. That was when Beatrice planned to make an appearance.

Step Four was to throw open the doors to the music room and say, "A-ha! You've failed the first test and succumbed to the temptation!"

Then she'd never have to think about Munro again or imagine what he could do to her with those long fingers and that soft mouth.

Steps one and two had been perfectly executed. She'd even seen the moment when the footman had delivered the note to Notley, and Mr. Notorious had rid himself of his brother and sauntered across the ballroom. She'd watched him, fully expecting him to slip out and make his way to the music room. But the blasted man hadn't left the ballroom. He'd joined Lavinia's circle of friends, and the next thing Beatrice knew, Munro was dancing with Lavinia.

Surely, he would leave after that one dance, but hours later, he was still dancing away. She'd finally had to admit two things. One, she could not bear to dance with another man who forgot the steps and stomped on her toes. Two, she had lost this round. Somehow Munro had known the invitation from Hannah de Vries was a test. Beatrice would have to double her efforts next time.

Now she watched as Munro's golden-brown eyes went dark. "What have I won?" he asked. "And what game were we playing?"

She had to take a breath before speaking again or her voice might have shaken. The way his mouth curved when he spoke made her want to grab him and lick that wicked corner that curved just slightly upward.

"You passed my first test." Her voice sounded breathless, but she hoped he would chalk it up to the dancing. "You resisted the temptation of Mrs. de Vries in the music room."

For a moment, his face went blank, and then his eyes went wide. " You sent the note?"

"You didn't know?" she asked. "I thought you realized I was testing you."

"I thought it was truly from her. Why would you—ah, testing to see if I would meet her. Then you would surprise us in flagrante delicto ."

"Considering she was unaware of the rendezvous, I would surprise only you. You truly didn't suspect?"

"No."

"Then why didn't you meet her?"

"I…" His gaze shifted to a spot across the room as though he were trying to figure that out himself. "I planned to. I just…didn't."

Hmmm. So he was not a reformed rake. Mrs. de Vries simply wasn't tempting enough. She'd correct that mistake next time.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he asked, a smile spreading across his handsome face.

"Yes," she sighed. "You receive a prize. I believe we agreed to an event together."

"Be ready tomorrow at nine. I'll be waiting for you in the foyer."

And then he twirled her once more and escorted her to Judith and Arthur. When he bowed and excused himself, she thought he would fetch her a glass of champagne and return. She spotted her former suitor Mr. Beauclerk and his new wife, Lady Leticia Beauclerk. She paused to speak to the happy couple, who were obviously completely besotted with each other. She was pleased she'd played a very small part in bringing them together. If only she could orchestrate her own happy ending. She left the Beauclerks to their wedded bliss and searched the room for Munro. It did not take twenty minutes to fetch a glass of champagne. After another quarter hour had passed, she realized he'd left the ball…and left her wanting more time with him.

She told herself she would have more than enough time the next evening. She would keep her end of the bargain, but that didn't mean she couldn't make plans herself. Fortunately, Judith and Lavinia were exhausted from the ball the night before and stayed abed most of the day. Beatrice had been out as late as they had, but she was strangely animated. It took a good part of the day, but her plans finally came together just as her maid began to wring her hands and mutter that Beatrice would never be ready on time if they didn't begin this moment .

Jones, her maid, brought out several dresses that would be suitable for the evening, but Beatrice shook her head. "We need the leaf dress, Jones."

Her maid's eyes went wide. "Are you certain, madam?"

"Absolutely. Take it out and hang it so the wrinkles shake out while you style my hair. Heat the curling tongs because I want curls bouncing over my bare shoulder. Men like that sort of thing."

"Yes, madam."

By quarter to nine, Beatrice stood before her cheval mirror and nodded in appreciation. She and Jones had worked tirelessly, and the result was exactly what she'd hoped. She wore a muted green silk with an oval neckline and sleeves that just skimmed the edge of her shoulders. Below the shoulders, the sleeves were voluminous, as the present fashion dictated, but that volume only served to make her exposed neck and collarbone look more delicate. She wore a simple gold chain at her throat, and gold threaded through the layers of organza that flowed down the dress, pinned strategically at her waist and hip with leaf appliques that were a darker green and ornamented with gold thread and glittering gold spangles. Several leaves seemed to fall down the back of her dress, calling attention to her derriere.

Jones had done wonders with her hair. The dark glossy locks were piled high and ornamented with small leaves that matched those on the dress. Several heavy curls fell artfully down one shoulder. She'd applied a touch of rouge to her cheeks and lips and dusted her lashes with kohl. She was seven and twenty and had danced most of the night before. She needed just a little assistance in that area.

Jones carried her green slippers to her, and Beatrice held her maid's shoulder while Jones fitted the shoes and then pinned small leaves on the top. No one would see the leaves, just as no one would see the green garters she wore with her white stockings, but Beatrice didn't do anything by halves.

She gathered her black velvet cloak and handed it to Jones, who would carry it downstairs before Beatrice made her descent. She knew how to make an entrance. Jones stepped outside, spoke to a footman, and then returned. "He's waiting, madam."

"I'm ready."

Jones carried the cloak out of the chamber, and Beatrice counted to one hundred then followed. She moved slowly and deliberately, confused as to why her hands were shaking and her heart was thumping so loudly in her ears. This was Munro Notley waiting for her. She needn't be anxious to spend time with him. He was simply another rake trying to make a conquest. She'd distract him with her dress and her smiles and then she'd spring her trap and be done with him once and for all.

At the top of Notley House's winding marble staircase, Beatrice lifted her skirts with one hand, just enough to allow a peek at her green slippers. Then she started down, trying to look as though she hadn't spent two hours dressing. But halfway down she made the mistake of glancing at Notley, trying to determine if her efforts had paid off. She almost missed a step and had to grab hold of the polished rail.

Munro Notley looked sinfully handsome.

She didn't know how long he had taken with his toilette today, but it was well worth every minute. His fiery hair looked streaked with gold under the flickering crystal chandelier. He couldn't control that, but the artful way his locks had been tousled made her fingers itch to touch the soft waves and smooth them into some semblance of order. His face, as he looked up at her, was all tawny eyes and full lips. Somewhere he had a slash of brows, nose, and cheekbones, but how could one note any of that when his eyes were so mesmerizing? They seemed to change from brown to gold with her every step.

When she finally managed to avert her eyes from his face, they landed on the superb cut of his coat. She would have wagered a great deal that he'd bought that coat in Paris. Men with broad shoulders like he possessed often wore ill-fitting coats that were either boxy or cut too tightly across the back. His dark blue coat was snug and so well-tailored that it appeared as though it had been painted on. He wore a white linen shirt with a snowy cravat, tied simply under his square jaw. His waistcoat was a rich brown with gold thread in curlicue patterns. Rather whimsical for such a tall, imposing man.

And then, of course, her gaze fell to his breeches. They were dark blue and fitted as perfectly as his coat. The fabric molded to his thighs, showed off slim hips, and gave a hint at that much-discussed member between his legs. Was it pierced?

She didn't want to be caught ogling his penis, so she slid her gaze lower, to his shapely calves clad in white stockings. He wore plain black pumps, and his feet were crossed at the ankles as he leaned negligently against the doorjamb of the parlor at the base of the stairs.

Well, clearly all of her efforts were for naught. He looked supremely unimpressed.

"Good evening, Mr. Notley," she said when she stood before him. The familiar weight of her cape settled on her shoulders as Jones did her work. But when the maid moved to tie the cords at the throat, Munro waved her away.

"I'll do that."

Jones cleared her throat meaningfully but stepped out of the way, and Beatrice took a breath as Munro's elegant hands took the black silk cords of her cape and tied them into a bow. She caught the scent of citrus and bergamot, the bergamot just a fleeting afterthought, and the room seemed to spin. "You look ravishing," Munro said, his voice low and seemingly just for her. "Absolutely ravishing."

Then he stepped back, lifted one hand, and slowly pulled a glove over the bare skin of her throat.

Get hold of yourself, Beatrice ordered. He is doing this on purpose! If he thought she'd swoon because he used the word ravishing and gave her a look, he would need to think again. She was no debutante. She was a widow who had been married to a rake. She knew all the rake's tricks.

"Where are you taking me tonight, sir?"

"The opera. Arthur gave me his box for the evening."

Beatrice all but let out a sigh of relief. Viscount Notley's box was quite public and easily observed. After all, the only reason to buy a box was to be seen. She needn't worry that Munro would try seducing her once they were seated together in the dim theater.

But she probably should worry that she was disappointed there'd be no seduction. And when he offered his arm and she felt the heat of him under her gloves, she was even more disappointed—not only at the prospect of a chaste evening but at her own wanton thoughts.