Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bernard Huxley flummoxed and charmed Sorcha in equal measures.
Fretting about his clerks when he ought to have been rhapsodizing about some of James Thornhill’s most impressive frescoes, worrying for the beggars while half of Society tried to puzzle out exactly how polite to be to the Dolforth family oddity.
The young ladies and some of the not-so-young ladies had goggled behind their fans, though Bernard had been severely oblivious to their admiring glances.
He’d listened with every evidence of fascination while Lord Fitzcarruthers had maundered on about mangel-wurzels and turnips.
Bernard looked politely fascinated with Lady Bloomton’s advice on when a gentleman new to Town should presume to attempt the waltz.
She knew the most excellent dancing master, if Bernard cared to inquire of her…?
Bernard had instead made admiring comments about a bust of the present duke, whom Bernard clearly resembled. Subtle, but not so subtle that Lady Bloomton could miss the point.
“You think I have criminal tendencies?” Bernard asked, his admiring gaze now fastened on a flaky ham-and-cheese tart. “In what regard?”
“I did not say that,” Sorcha replied. “I said that Society is fortunate that you are not drawn to criminal enterprises, because you have such outstanding managerial tendencies. You are calculating, ruthless, terribly self-disciplined, and frightfully intelligent. Lady Bloomton nearly had a fit of the vapors when you so gently pointed out that you could pass for a younger version of Chanderton. She kept her dancing-master comments to herself after that.”
“She was trying to be helpful. These tarts are scrumptious.”
They were also disappearing at a great rate. Sorcha chose a cheese tart from her own plate. “She was trying to put you ever so subtly in her debt, such that when you did waltz, which I assume you do competently, she could take credit for your accomplishment.”
“I have two functional legs, thank the generosity of heaven. Waltzing isn’t complicated.”
He took a sip of his punch and studied the view of the garden beyond the alcove’s windows. Roses were not yet budding, though beds of purple and yellow irises made a cheerful display.
“Whatever shall I do about Heevers and Ipswich, my lady? My head clerk has given up on the boys. If we turn them off, with or without a character, we might well doom them to hopeless penury and worse. They are capable of learning the clerking trade, capable of more than that, too, very likely, but the purpose of the enterprise is not to sort out a pair of overly stubborn children as they sorely disrupt the entire business.”
Bernard was not especially absorbed with having earned the favor of Her Grace of Chanderton, though Sorcha was certain he appreciated the duchess’s gracious welcome. He was worried about his clerks, worried enough to ask for Sorcha’s help.
“Tell me more about these boys. Where do they hail from?”
As the food disappeared, Bernard sketched a situation where two boys, both at the bottom of a rigid office hierarchy, both with few skills other than penmanship and ciphering, had decided to be rivals rather than allies.
“My children love each other,” Sorcha said slowly.
“Siblings aren’t always so fortunate. One of my sisters affirmatively loathes one of our brothers.
He’s not overwhelmingly bright about people, though he’s well-read.
He’s also the oldest and quite comely. He’s a good sort on the whole, unless he feels attacked. Then he’s insufferable.”
Bernard resumed studying the irises. “I was raised mostly with a cousin for company—the late baron—and we decided early on that it was more important to be friends…” His gaze came back to Sorcha.
“I see what you’re saying. Lorne and I, Bridget and Jordy were thrown on each other’s exclusive company.
If Lorne hadn’t wanted me about, or if I’d taken him into dislike, we would have had no company our own age.
You are saying I should isolate Ipswich and Heevers from the other clerks. ”
Sorcha had not reasoned quite that far. “This is part of why I am so reluctant to consign Jordy to the tutors and public schools. Who else does Bridget have to boss about, spat with, and be challenged by? Who else does Jordy have?”
Perhaps she ought not to have admitted that, but Bernard’s suggestion, that the children should spend time apart, still troubled her. He hadn’t forced the issue—yet—but it was a step on the road to sending Jordy to public school, and Sorcha didn’t care for that path at all.
Bernard had demolished his food, but for the two chocolates. He put one on Sorcha’s plate.
“You are suggesting that I place Ipswich and Heevers in a situation that encourages a strategic alliance. I’ve tried separating them.
That tactic resulted in widening the zone of hostilities, so to speak.
Kessler—my chief clerk and commercial finishing governess—suggested a competition, but I cannot see that ending well. ”
“Nor can I. What is a commercial finishing governess?”
“Lorne—the present baron and younger brother of the previous titleholder—bequeathed Kessler to me when I became responsible for the businesses. Kessler explains with whom I am to have lunch, with whom I am to schedule meetings, and whether the time and place of the meeting are my choice or the other party’s.
Kessler knows mercantile law as no Lord Justice ever did, and he’s ready to quit over the situation with the junior clerks. ”
“Quit? That sounds drastic.”
“Retire, rather. Kessler has served loyally and well, but he never banked on having to turn a vicar into a merchant.”
“As you never banked on having to turn unhappy little boys into productive clerks.”
Bernard eyed the sweet left on his plate. “Or myself into a ducal relation, however—what word did you use?—obscure. To be honest, I wish I could be a bit more obscure.” He popped the chocolate into his mouth and closed his eyes. “Delicious. These have to be French.”
Sorcha bit into her own sweet, which managed to be buttery, rich, intensely chocolate, and creamy.
“I haven’t tried these before,” she said. “Do you suppose we might go back for seconds?”
“Fancy them?”
I fancy you. The thought was larger than the sort of impulsive, passing desire a chocolate drop of any sort would engender.
For Sorcha, Bernard’s attraction encompassed his seriousness of purpose, his kindness, his imagination, and his integrity.
He listened, he set aside his own biases as best he could, he sought common good wherever possible.
He had self-respect but no vanity, and he could laugh at himself.
If only Barclay had been able to manage the same feat.
Sorcha could respect Bernard, desire him, and—this notion accounted for much of what flummoxed her about him—like him. She enjoyed his company, enjoyed matching wits with him, and enjoyed simply watching him deftly navigate social shoals that had taken her years to learn.
That he would be the children’s guardian was a complication, or would be once that authority had been officially vested in him.
Which might be never, given how slowly the courts moved. “Bernard?”
“Hmm?”
Sorcha kissed him. Her lips landed on the corner of his mouth, an equivocal location, resulting from a lack of practice on her part. She hadn’t the confidence to move closer to the mark, though, so for a moment, nobody moved.
Then Bernard turned his head ever so slightly, cupped Sorcha’s nape with a warm hand, and kissed her back. Chocolate had never tasted so marvelous.
He started off-center as well and adjusted his aim with a maddening, leisurely approach that had Sorcha on the edge of her chair, one fist anchored in his golden locks. She was melting and igniting and sparkling inside as joy and desire collided with wonder.
They bumped knees, and Sorcha felt Bernard smiling. Then he resumed his addresses in a more focused manner. She was contemplating straddling his lap when she became aware of some alteration in the world beyond the intoxicating pleasure of kissing Bernard Huxley.
She shifted back and rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Something…”
“If you apologize, I will protest in loud, broad Yorkshire. I’ve been wanting to do this for eons and hadn’t lit upon a strategy adequate for the challenge of… Blessed botherations. Big sentences are beyond me. Please don’t apologize. I adore kissing you.”
Sorcha mentally batted aside a fog of equally appreciative short sentences. “I like kissing you, too, though the door…” Something about the door.
“Right.” Bernard sat up. “Open. What is that racket?”
Sorcha sat up as well and sat back. Bernard had divined the disturbance Sorcha had only vaguely perceived.
“I know that racket. If you haven’t met your cousin Coraline, the oversight is about to be rectified.”
Bernard touched a finger to Sorcha’s lips. “Cousin Coraline has miserable timing, but I suppose I should thank her. Might we discuss the weather or the price of whale oil or something equally dull?”
He was in a state. From a few kisses and caresses.
Sorcha was in a state, too, and the last thing—the very last thing—she wanted to do was part with such a delicious welter of sensations and emotions. Poetry failed, panegyrics paled.
But Bernard had asked… “We will soon need rain, though one does enjoy the sunny stretches exceedingly.”
“And then,” Bernard said, “one enjoys the leisure of a good old English rainy day, for lazing about and... reading newspapers.”
He looked so determined.
Sorcha guffawed. “You’ve never lazed about and read newspapers in your life.”
Bernard collected up the plates. “Perhaps you’d best fetch us some more chocolates, my lady. Even the weather isn’t sufficient to return my mind to paths fit for a social outing.” He sounded uncharacteristically disgruntled.