“Is that her?” he rasped, his voice much lower than he’d intended, that banked fire already trying to escape its embers.
“Who?” Kit asked, his brows lifting as he smiled at his beloved across the room. “Margaret? Yes. That is definitely Margaret. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Yes. Yes, she’s beautiful,” he agreed, then corrected: “Not her, the other one.”
“Oh?” Kit queried, eyes only for his love.
Ben leaned in and confirmed, “That, brother, is the lady you must bear. Lady Beatrice.”
He could not draw breath nor blink as he took her in.
Lady Beatrice. Activist, bluestocking, woman extraordinaire. Harrier of politicians and a woman of letters.
There was only one word for her.
Magnificent.
He did not know what he had expected, but this was not it. She was a positive force of a woman, and he was…stunned.
She stood with her dark brown hair coiled upon her head, exposing a neck that begged one to kiss it. The candlelight glinted in those tresses, lacing them with a fiery hue.
Spectacles were perched on her nose. The thin gold rims sparkled like jewels when she eyed the company as if she were a queen in her own right.
He loved that she wore them. So many ladies disdained spectacles, even if they needed them in company and were constantly running into furniture. Not Lady Beatrice.
No. He couldn’t see Beatrice being cowed by someone suggesting she might do better without them. In all his life, he’d never seen a lady so self-possessed. So assured. So…well, magnificent.
From the tilt of her pert nose and slightly pointed chin, she looked as if she was going to cause mischief wherever she went. Her shoulders were back, emphasizing her bosom, which was barely covered by a gown inspired by the present trend of Greeks frock. That ivory silk gown skimmed her shoulders and clung to her body with such perfection, his jaw nearly dropped.
He kept it closed with significant will.
This was whom he had so fiercely avoided and from whom his secretary had so nobly attempted to protect him?
This was terrible. He couldn’t be tempted by his soon-to-be sister-in-law’s cousin. Such a thing would be a damned coil. He, the Duke of Blackheath, was not the sort to be tempted.
He had a mastery of himself that his parents had not.
“You’re sure you wish to marry Maggie?” he breathed.
For the life of him, he could not see how anyone could possibly look at Margaret when Beatrice was there beside her.
“Of course,” Kit said brightly before he laughed. “You wouldn’t suggest that I’d marry Beatrice? Can you imagine being married to someone so bad-tempered?”
Kit laughed again.
Will was tempted to find some dark corner to escape to. He’d have to wait for Gentleman Jackson’s. “No, no, of course not,” he agreed. “I cannot imagine it at all.”
He had no intention of marrying—he was a confirmed bachelor. He might consider it when he was an old, crusty fellow beyond passion and the silliness of love that his brother had fallen victim to. The very idea of marrying sooner was absolutely appalling.
No, he would never fall in love. Love was the devil. Love was dangerous. Love was the road to hell as far as he could tell. It had certainly ruined his mother’s life, and his father’s, too.
He would not allow himself to imagine marrying Beatrice. Not even in jest.
And as he stood transfixed by Beatrice, he realized with a growing horror that she was striding his way.
Yes, striding.
There was no delicate traipsing for this young lady. No, she was crossing the room in fiery leaps and bounds. The way her silk gown skimmed her long, strong body was…captivating.