Chapter 25
Beau slipped out of Almack’s overcrowded rooms before desire brought him back to Miss Doubleday’s side. He knew tasting her would be his undoing. With her willing, upturned lips, he had come too close to claiming her as his own. She was still his ward and would be for another fortnight. Disappointment, confusion, and embarrassment had flooded her expression when he pulled away, and his gut twisted, the pain in his middle his penance.
On the way to London, he’d promised himself he would keep a respectful distance, but the more he saw of her, the more he wanted to see her. He craved being in her presence. When Saunders came up to help Beau out of his coat once he returned home, he hadn’t warned Beau off so much as said the path he was on only ended with death. It was his valet’s notion of romance.
To his surprise, all three ladies were at the table the following morning, and Miss Doubleday was spreading an indecent amount of jam over a roll while speaking to his sister.
‘Louisa, have you an interest in getting ices or candies? I find myself wishing for some fresh air and a sweet treat this morning.’
‘Of course you do,’ Beau said, reviewing the selections at the sideboard. When there was no reply, he looked over to see three sets of eyes—questioning, curious, and guarded—pinned on him. Miss Doubleday had gone still in her chair, the tendon in her neck strained. ‘What? You mean to tell me you’ve never noticed your desire for sweets coincides with your late nights? The morning after the assembly in Ramsgate, you had two mugs of chocolate, Louisa made some mention of tarts the morning after you went to the Cawdry ball, and I can always tell when you’ve stayed up too late working because Cook sends up honey cake with the rest of the usual breakfast fare.’
A faint flush dusted Miss Doubleday’s cheeks, and she turned back to Louisa, who shrugged in return, but said, ‘I have a lesson with the dancing master. Would you like to join me in the ballroom instead?’
‘I would offer my escort, dear,’ chimed the dowager, ‘but I’m hosting some ladies for tea.’
Beau sipped from his cup of coffee. ‘I’ll take you to Gunter’s, if you would like.’
His mother’s eyes widened as she looked across at Miss Doubleday. Louisa held her fork suspended mid-air on the way to her mouth. All he was interested in was his ward’s response.
‘All right.’
They were mostly quiet on the walk to the shop, but when it came time to order, she said, ‘Let me guess, the Mirabelle mousse?’
He felt his face betray a flicker of surprise.
‘You’ve talked about those plums several times at breakfast and during dessert, and oh, let me think,’ she said, pretending to count silently to herself, ‘at least a dozen times since you’ve returned.’
‘I most certainly have not.’
‘There was a plum cake, plum tart, plum jelly…’ She let her words trail off into a smile, and he couldn’t look away. ‘One would think you ate Mirabelle plums exclusively while away from home.’
Ices in hand, he guided them to a small open table near the front of the bustling tea shop.
‘You must at least give me credit for my good taste in sweetmeats. Have you ever eaten something as delicious as a ripe, sweet plum?’ As he said it, he imagined her biting into the fruit, a little juice running down the corner of her mouth, his finger reaching out to wipe it away. His reverie was cut short when he noticed her happy expression falter and her mind retreat somewhere far away.
‘Yes,’ she eventually answered. ‘White cake with fresh wild strawberries and a hint of rhubarb.’
‘Has Cook made that often? I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure.’
‘No. At Whichwood, our cook would make it each year for my birthday.’ She dropped her lashes to hide her hurt but he heard it in her voice all the same.
‘If you had told my mother or father or Mrs Marshall directly, Cook would have been happy to make it for you.’
‘I’m sure she would, but birthday cake doesn’t taste half so good when one has to ask for it oneself.’ The little smile accompanying her words was sad, not quite reaching her eyes or even enough to bring out the small dimple in her right cheek he had recently discovered, which fascinated him.
‘Do you miss Whichwood?’ He was playing a dangerous game—asking a question to which he wanted to hear only one specific answer.
‘Are you hoping to send me back?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
Miss Doubleday eyed him not with incredulity as he may have once suspected, but something more akin to deliberation as she appeared to weigh her response. She took a dainty bite of her lavender ice and said, almost defiantly, ‘You won’t like my answer, but it’s no. I don’t miss it. I did, at least what it represented, for a long time. But not anymore.’
‘I like your answer because it is honest.’
‘And you? Did you ever miss Oakmoss when you were away?’
Beau allowed himself a quick, scornful snort, hoping his own honest response wouldn’t start a war to rival Napoleon’s after the progress made the night before. ‘No.’ He was unsurprised when her expression changed. ‘You don’t like that answer. The quick pinch of your lips forever gives you away.’ He waited for her to strike out with some acerbic comment, but she remained silent. ‘I missed my family, the familiar paths through the wood, taking the little boat out to the middle of the lake and watching the clouds go by. But I never felt connected to my ancestral home the way one ought, perhaps because I always wished to be more than just an heir.’
There was a pause as they considered one another in equal frankness. He had set two paths out before her and knew, as she sat across from him, her intelligent, shadowy eyes assessing, that she was choosing which to take.
‘Did you always wish to be a man who steals about in the darkest hours of the night? Who could fell another as one might hail a hackney or solicit a lady for a dance?’
This close, with crisp sunshine filtering in through the thick glass of the window, he could just discern the rich brown of her irises from the black of her pupils. She was his choice. If he wished to be hers, there was only one way to answer.
‘Yes.’ With the word, he unfurled for her, inviting her to see his truest nature. He would hide nothing from her, do anything for her. Between them, time took a breath. The moment was measured not in silent seconds but in flashes of memory flickering with new meaning.
Her eyes widened and her mouth rounded into a little ‘o’ as she stared at him with considerable astonishment. He suppressed his humour at her reaction by taking the last bite of his ice.
‘As a boy, I often imagined myself as some secret agent uncovering dastardly plots and conducting secret liaisons to ferret out dangerous criminals. The reality is far more complicated and has kept me from home for too long—or rather, I let it keep me from home too long. In my mind, I imagined returning to Oakmoss as I left it, as I remembered it when my father was still alive. My rooms remain unchanged, but everything else… My mother’s hair has greyed?—’
‘As has yours on the sides.’
He skimmed his fingers along the short hair just above his ear, a reluctant smile ruffling his mouth. ‘Louisa has grown a foot, and you, you…’ Beau couldn’t finish the sentence. Not here. Not when she looked at him in such a way. Not while she was his ward.
Somewhere in the shop, a glass slipped, shattering when its fragile curves hit the floor and sending a shock of sound rushing between them.
Beau cleared his throat, Miss Doubleday smoothed the skirt of her dress, and in unison, they rose from the table and walked out the door.