dominated the scene. A slow half-smile curved his lips and she saw him give a careless shrug. He raised his fine, dark eyebrows at some remark. She completely ignored the young women in the knot eyeing him with encouraging, flirtatious glances over their fans, tittering and giggling. Where other women might have succumbed to the irresistible pull to see behind the cool façade and start uncovering the man beneath, Beatrice could feel the palpable danger around him. She was never a rational person, but this time she knew she should have the good sense to heed the warning and turn and walk away. But her mind was made up. Too much was at stake.
Lord Chadwick cast a pair of laughing eyes over those around him; his gaze came to rest on a pair of jade-green eyes in which gold-and-brown flecks blazed, a sure sign that their owner was under some urgent compulsion, staring at him with a fixed intensity. He stood watching her in silent fascination, then he smiled slowly. Julius was easily moved by the beauty of a woman and the calm boldness with which this one was looking at him intrigued him.
He saw a sculpted face of unforgettable beauty, with high, delicately moulded cheekbones, a perfect nose and generous lips. It was a strong face, but essentially feminine. Her hair was burnished gold by the sun. Bright curls clustered in artful disarray on the top of her head, a few gilded wisps wreathed about her delicate ears and nape, drawing attention to her slender neck. There was something unusual in her attitude. A strange sense of shock quivered through him when he recognised her as the woman he had seen at Larkhill some days past, and again today when instinct had drawn his gaze to an upstairs window of the house. Who was she and why did she watch him so intently?
Beatrice faced him with outward calm. She looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment, as though estimating her chances. The corner of her mouth rose insensibly as her eyes narrowed. Now that the moment of confrontation had arrived she was strangely relieved.
‘I hear you have offered a wager to anyone who believes their horse can beat yours. I will accept your challenge,’ she announced clearly. A loud gasp ran through the guests as they gathered about, parting for her to pass through. At the sight of Beatrice Fanshaw the frosty eyes of the hopeful young ladies pierced her back with a thousand darts; those young ladies fanned themselves with growing annoyance.
Lord Chadwick excused himself and came forwards to meet her. Her face was uptilted; as he looked at her, deep inside, he felt something tighten, harden, clarifying and coalescing into one crystal-clear emotion. Taking her gloved hand, he gallantly bowed over it. As she lightly rested her fingers in his, he brushed them with a kiss.
‘Whoever you are, you look extremely beautiful, a rare jewel adorning the garden.’
How dashing he is, Beatrice thought, smiling triumphantly at him as he looked at her searchingly. The warm liquid of his amber gaze missed nothing as he became caught up in the excitement of her presence. She totally ignored the other women struggling to maintain their composure as they tried to hide their hostility towards her.
‘What it is to be so popular, sir. I thank you for the compliment,’ she said coolly, lightly, withdrawing her hand, as if his compliment meant nothing to her at all while secretly feeling a trifle flattered that a man should find her attractive, ‘but I have an aversion to flattery.’
His eyebrows lifted at her forthright remark. ‘Really? I am surprised to hear that since every female of my acquaintance welcomes adulation from the opposite sex.’
‘Do they?’ she replied airily. ‘Flattery and false praise are much the same in my book.’
Curious about her casual, cool manner, yet undaunted, his smile was humorous. ‘I assure you that my flattery was genuine and well meant. It is not flattery to tell the truth.’
Beatrice glanced around. ‘You appear to have attracted a great deal of attention yourself. Why, ladies surround you like moths around a candle.’
He tilted his eyebrows with amusement and leaned forwards so that only she might hear his words. ‘Many moths, but only one rare butterfly. Besides, I have never been partial to moths,’ he murmured, and Beatrice read in his face such evident desire that heat flamed for a moment in her cheeks. A curious sharp thrill ran through her as the force