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shining armor.”
    Bea grinned in relief, glad to have a suitable diversion. “I must say, Mr. Knight, your jacket looks more velvet than steel.” At one-and-twenty, he was one of the youngest gentlemen present tonight. He knew full well how handsome he was, but somehow always came across as confident as opposed to arrogant or pretentious.
    “True enough, my lady,” he said, brushing a hand at the chocolate fabric, which was a shade darker than his amber eyes. “But armor is dreadfully gauche this Season, don’t you think?”
    Beatrice had little more than a passing acquaintance with the man, but with Mr. Godfrey bearing down on them, she seized the escape Mr. Knight offered, stepping close and bending her head toward his. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that. Perhaps you could start a trend.”
    She was blathering, but at least her tactic was working. Mr. Godfrey brushed past them without a word, his posture stiff. Beside her, Mr. Knight said something, and she turned her attention back to him. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
    “I said, it looks as though your rescue was a success. Shall we dance, for good measure?”
    Oh drat, she hadn’t meant to encourage him. He was a nice enough person, but he reminded her far and away too much of Richard when he was a young buck. Back when wild oats had been the only thing worth sowing. Besides, next to Colin, Mr. Knight looked more like a boy than a man—never mind that he was still two years her senior.
    “Actually, I was just on my way to the retiring room for a bit of a rest. Perhaps later?”
    He grinned and nodded, reaching forward and catching her hand before lifting it to his lips for a brief kiss. “I should be so fortunate.”
    She smiled as he spoke, but really her attention was leveled on her own hand, which rested limply in his. After the fireworks that the same gesture had elicited with Colin, it was a bit jarring to realize that she felt absolutely nothing now.
    With a nod, she freed her hand and made a beeline for the corridor leading to the ladies’ retiring room. Here, at least, she would have sanctuary. She slipped through the door, closed it behind her, and leaned against it gratefully. Perhaps she could hide in here until Mama was ready to return home at last. After all, it was impossible to imagine anything better happening tonight than meeting Colin.
    She allowed her eyes to close, putting a hand to the side of her neck, feeling the pounding of her own pulse. She could spend ages trying to get the color of his eyes just right on canvas. Not gray, not brown, not dark or light. Like smoke rising from wood still too green to be burned. His face—now that, she could get exactly right. Bold slashes for his dark eyebrows, sharp angles for his high cheekbones, a decisive brushstroke for the perfect line of his jaw.
    Now, if only there were a way to translate that accent to paints. She shivered just thinking about it. Even Sir Frederick couldn’t have captured that particular delight, talented as he was. She really, really did hope Colin came to call on her tomorrow.
    Blowing out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, she pushed away from the door and made her way to one of the mirrors hung above a large bureau. It was a pleasant space, with golden light shimmering from the low lamps interspersed along the floral-papered walls. The air was warm and lavender scented, helping to calm her nerves after her little escape.
    A sniffle behind one of the screens brought her up short. With three sisters, Beatrice knew the watery sound of someone in tears. She held still, listening carefully over the low strains of music filtering through the closed door. There, from the very back of the room, came the soft hitching of someone trying not to sob. She put her hand to her heart—she hated when others were hurting.
    Softly, so not to startle the poor girl, Beatrice whispered, “Is everything all right?”
    The cessation of noise was so abrupt, Beatrice