Flirting With Fortune by Erin Knightley Page A

you?”
    “Murder, theft, dancing with a beautiful lady—only the most grievous of crimes.”
    The compliment caught her by surprise and sent an immediate flush of pleasure through her. He thought her beautiful? She turned the compliment over in her mind, inspecting it as one might a stumbled-upon treasure. Her sisters were beautiful. Her mother was beautiful. Even her sister-in-law was gorgeous. Beatrice had always been the passably attractive one in the bunch. The one whose eyes weren’t quite as blue, whose hair wasn’t quite as blond, whose teeth weren’t quite as straight, and whose bosom was more a hint than a reality.
    She would say that he was just making a pretty statement, with no real meaning behind it, but he struck her as a man of honesty. He was nothing like the hordes of men who paid her empty praise and waxed poetic about her beauty and charm. Those men had agendas, and heaven knew they wouldn’t look twice at her if she were separated from her ever-present dowry.
    But Colin seemed different somehow. She got the impression that if it wasn’t true—in his mind, at least—then he probably wouldn’t say it. She tucked the comment away and nodded gravely. “All the worst crimes, punishable by death or marriage, no?”
    “Precisely.”
    They grinned at each other a moment, her heart still elevated from their romp. The afternoon sun bathed half his face in slanted light, illuminating his sculpted jaw and cheekbones, and she wished that she had her paints with her. He looked like a fallen angel, half human and half heavenly creature. As he turned his attention back to the priceless masterpieces lining the walls and continued with his thoroughly interrupted tour, Beatrice realized that something rather shocking had happened in the course of their time at the gallery.
    Here she was, surrounded by some of the most exciting and expertly executed works ever created, and somehow the one thing that seemed to hold her attention was the least known of all the painter’s accomplishments.
    His son.

Chapter Eight
    B eatrice was late, and she knew it. With the daylight fast fading to a dull gray twilight, she tightened her hold on her reticule and hurried forward, urging her maid, Rose, to keep up. The carriage would be waiting at the end of the street as ordered, but first they’d have to make their way through the growing crowd.
    Whoever had decided that Bond Street was perfectly appropriate for ladies for half a day, at which time it suddenly transformed into a forbidden street acceptable only for the club-going gentlemen of the
ton
, clearly had never been caught up in a newly arrived shipment containing a gorgeous selection of red sable brushes imported directly from Italy.
    But no one had consulted her on the issue, and the window for making it to the end of the street by five and then home before her family sent out a search party was fast closing. Already the pavement was emptying of swishing skirts and harried servants, replaced by the sure-footed thump of Hessian boots and the low rumble of male laughter.
    Of course, even if she was late, it would be worth it. She could hardly wait to try out the new brushes she’d finally decided on. Viewing Sir Frederick’s incredible collection had redoubled her passion for capturing the world around her on canvas. She wanted to stretch her abilities, experimenting more with light and darkness to bring true depth to her paintings.
    A silly grin came to her lips, and she pressed them together to keep from looking a fool in the middle of Bond Street. She couldn’t help it—every time she thought of Sir Frederick’s paintings, her mind inevitably slid toward thoughts of Colin and the magical afternoon they had spent. Was there any other man on the planet like him? With his cool, logical side underscored by unexpected whimsy and kindness, one never knew what he would say or do next.
    Ahead of her, a trio of young bucks walked abreast of one another, completely