Her brother looked as if he were about to explode. “No sister of mine is going to work! I’m a gentleman, for heaven’s sake!”
“Goodness, don’t take on so, brother dear. I was only thinking of learning how to operate a typewriting machine and enrolling at an agency. Anyone would think I’d just offered to walk the streets of Whitechapel at a shilling a tumble.”
Charlie opened his mouth, no doubt to reprimand her again, but no words came out. He stared over her shoulder, frowning furiously, and as she watched him, a silvery shiver descended the length of Beatrice’s spine. She hadn’t a doubt in the world who she’d find when she finally turned around, but like Charlie, she was frozen too.
Don’t be afraid, Bea. He’s just a man. Just a man …
“Such a modest sum?” A husky, measured voice rumbled with humor. “If it were me, I’d pay upward of a hundred guineas for such a splendid opportunity.”
“I beg your pardon, sir!” Pink in the face, Charles started to bluster, then shut his mouth again, as if turned to stone by the Medusa’s frightful gaze.
Slowly, as if in a strange, floating dream, Beatrice turned on her toes. Her chin came up, almost as if she were preparing to box some ears, just as Charlie had threatened to, but inside she was quivering to her core.
It was him, of course. The blond man of the dark, intimidating eyes and smooth, hard jaw. The man who’d stared at her so insolently. In an elegant flowing gesture, he bowed low, and it was only when he took her small gloved hand in his larger one that she realized she’d automatically held it out to him.
She could feel his mouth through the satin. The touch of it, the heat of it, burning like a flame. And at the same time she felt it elsewhere too, the sensation so vivid that she almost imagined she was back in the dreamy, drifting stupor Eustace had inflicted upon her when he’d sweet-talked her into letting him take those accursed photographs. A liberated state where she could do anything, feel anything, enjoy anything.
Between her legs, her sex fluttered as if her new admirer stroked it.
“I’m Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, Miss Weatherly.” He straightened up and stared her directly in the eye, his gaze unwavering.
It’s like drowning. Drowning but wanting to drown.
Beatrice couldn’t look away, couldn’t be modest the way she knew she should be. His eyes were darkest blue, almost black. The color of India ink, fathomless and gleaming. “I won’t say that I hoped to meet you here tonight,” he continued, “because I knew I would. You were invited especially so I could meet you.”
It was Beatrice’s turn to be lost for words. She had them, plenty of them, but what was happening to her body shocked her into silence.
“I say—” Charlie tried to rally, then he too shut up when Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie quelled him with a look almost as disturbing as the hot one he’d given Beatrice.
“Weatherly, I wonder if you’d allow me a moment of privacy with your sister, if I may?” It sounded courteous enough, but it was delivered like a velvet slap in the face, and before Charlie could answer, the ruthless barbarian had Beatrice by the elbow and was steering her away toward a concealed corner between a pair of potted palms.
I should shake him off. I should walk away. I should ask for a carriage to be called and leave this place immediately.
The danger was so acute she almost did it. But she couldn’t. Deep in her body, some demon imp of sweet licentiousness was capering, roused to madness by the delicate touch of Ritchie’s hand on her gloved elbow.
She knew him by reputation. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was a famous figure, who featured often in publications such as Town Talk and the scurrilous but fascinating Marriott’s Monde, as well as the society pages of other more distinguished papers. He was a man of enormous wealth, an entrepreneur, owner of properties and businesses and the most notorious reputation with the ladies. He was always described as squiring some famous beauty or other, and the less salubrious periodicals, the sort Beatrice’s maid Polly favored, hinted heavily at a string of affairs.
Yet because he’s got money, he gets away with it all. He’s done far worse than me, but society adores him.
Now away from the throng, she expected Ritchie to launch into a flirtatious conversation in keeping with his notoriety, but he said nothing, not a word, and just stared at her. Beatrice realized she was still clutching her champagne glass, and wished it full again, not for the alcohol, but just for something to do with her nervous hands. As if he’d heard her, Ritchie plucked crystal vessel out of her fingers and set it on a shelf beside them.
High-handed beast!
“Kindly explain yourself, Mr. Ritchie.” Beatrice schooled her voice to project the same kind of unruffled authority the man in front of her exuded. It was a tall order, but she managed it after a fashion. At least she didn’t squeak like an outraged mouse. “What exactly did you mean? That you arranged for our invitation here. What do you want from us, sir, that you would do such a thing?”
Ritchie laughed, a low, thrilling chuckle that seemed to roll across her exposed skin and her covered parts, too. If it wouldn’t have caused even more public awkwardness, Beatrice would have slapped him then and there she felt so angry.
But was it just anger? She felt confused. All awhirl. Astonished by the way her body was reacting and betraying her. There was heat in her face and her décolletage, every hidden delicate portion of her anatomy tingled, and her breasts ached in the confines of her gown and its underpinnings. Yet at the same time, the sensations were undeniably pleasant. More than pleasant. In her drawers, her sex felt agitated and hot … as if, oh goodness, it were in need of touching?
“I don’t particularly want anything from your brother, Miss Weatherly. I only want you.” Ritchie paused, and his long, elegant, tapered fingertips rested against the lapel of his perfectly cut tailcoat. Watching him like an adder hypnotized by a mongoose, Beatrice jumped when, with a swift, almost showmanlike panache, he flung open his coat to reveal the inner pocket in its dark satin lining, and the gilded edge of what looked like a cabinet card.
Oh no! So that’s why he wanted to meet me. He’s seen the accursed things rather than just heard about them.
“I wanted to see if the real woman lives up to the promise of this image.” His jacket still open, he ran a forefinger over the card’s sliver of gold edging, slowly and lasciviously. “To see if you really are a siren.” Appalled by the implications of what lay against him, Beatrice experienced a delicious but alarming ripple in the pit of her belly.
I’ve gone quite mad. I only met the man a few moments ago and he’s turned me into a bedlamite!
“A gentleman wouldn’t bring such an item to a social gathering.” She gave him a hard stare, even though every single bit of her felt as if it was melting like a meringue before a gaslight. “A gentleman wouldn’t even own such a thing!”
Ritchie snagged his lower lip in his white teeth for an instant, still fondling the edge of the card. There were stars in his dark blue eyes that seemed to dance in time to the waltz playing in the ballroom beyond them.
“A lady wouldn’t have posed for it in the first place.”
True, but she wasn’t going to admit that to him. A lady wouldn’t have behaved like an incautious ninny and given in to her fiancé’s importuning, champagne or otherwise.
“Touché, Mr. Ritchie.” Beatrice tried to imagine a steel bar down her spine to