from a long line of gamblers. Is that what you do when you want to replenish your coffers?’
He looked at her steadily. ‘You really think I make my money at the gaming tables, don’t you?’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ He stepped closer, his gaze on her mouth.
Beatrice frowned, trying to ignore the tug of his eyes and his voice. ‘Why is it that when you don’t wish to answer a question, you divert the conversation to something else and…’ Her words died as he placed his hands gently on both sides of her face, his fingers sliding into her hair, grateful she didn’t favour the fashion for silk flowers and silly ribbons so many other women seemed fond of.
‘Stop talking,’ he whispered, then lowered his head and kissed her.
Her lips were soft and they parted slightly to receive his. Accepting her invitation, Julius deepened the kiss with ease. She was happy to submit, even though she had the feeling she was getting in over her head. She closed her eyes, exploring the sensations of delight that flooded through her. The beauty of the setting, the romantic sense of the evening and the intoxicating nearness of this man overpowered her judgement. His kiss was exquisite, transporting her to further delights.
Lost in pure sensations of wanton yearnings, warm, strong and exciting, when his mouth left hers and trailed to her neck, she melted against him, her palms sliding up over his chest. He moved against her in the most intoxicating way that sent a shiver up her spine. Lifting his head from devouring her neck, Julius let his gaze settle on her lips. Beatrice considered him the most handsome man she had ever seen; when she thought how he had manoeuvred her into the kiss, with all his worldly elegance and experience that could instruct her in every pleasure that a woman could discover with a man, she accepted he was also a silver-tongued charmer.
‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ a man’s voice intruded. ‘If it isn’t the Marquess of Maitland.’
At once Julius stiffened and released Beatrice, then turned to face an old acquaintance. It was Lord Percival Canning, a ponderous, mincing fop who was dressed like a peacock in yellow coat, red-satin waistcoat and yellow-satin breeches that swelled over his protruding midsection. Two of his friends hovered behind him.
‘I’m happy to see you back among us, Chadwick.’ Lord Canning’s eyes shifted to Beatrice. ‘By all accounts we have the lovely Miss Fanshaw to thank for bringing you out of isolation.’
‘Not really,’ Julius replied drily. ‘I’ve only recently returned from one of my trips abroad. It’s impossible to be in two places at once.’
‘So it is. Then you won’t have been down to Highfield. Pity.’
‘Why?’
Lord Canning shrugged. ‘I hoped to discuss that little business matter with you I mentioned when you were last down there. Maybe we could meet up while you are in London.’
Julius stared at him icily. ‘I don’t think so, Canning. The matter you speak of is not open for negotiation.’
Anger briefly flashed into Canning’s eyes and Julius’s steely body tensed as the dandy drew close, striking an arrogant pose.
‘Think about it. I would give you a fair price.’ He turned his attention to Beatrice, his fleshy lips opening in a salacious, gargoyle-like grin from ear to ear as he ran his eyes over her in an insulting manner. ‘I regret that I did not see the race at Standish House. Everyone’s talking about it, Chadwick—of how the high and mighty Marquess of Maitland has been caught like a fish on a hook by a mere slip of a girl! How could you have let that happen—you of all people?’ he taunted. ‘I hear Miss Fanshaw beat you on a high-spirited brute of a horse. Why, I’d have put money on her myself had I been there.’
‘Indeed,’ Julius replied blandly. The men— Canning’s companions snickering foolishly behind him—would have been dumbfounded to know that as he languidly listened to Canning, he was seething inside.
‘Yes, indeed—and she’s a beauty all right. Ye Gods, had she challenged me I’d have willingly thrown the race for the pleasure of paying her forfeit.’
Insulted and outraged to the core of her being by this obnoxious fop, Beatrice was furious, but, seeing the rigidity in Julius’s back and knowing how he was struggling to hold his temper, she did not retaliate. But she could not bear the way he was being mocked.
‘You’re being very stupid, Canning—and as immature as I remember,’ Julius said. ‘You should