Chapter One #3
No gargoyles crouched on the eaves of the house midway along the street, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to find some lurking in the dark corners of the attic.
His mother had taken both a town house and a country residence for herself, though he’d made it clear that she would not be living with him and Rebecca even after Lydia’s death. Not that she’d offered.
The front door opened. “Good morning, Lord Hentrose,” the tall, thin man in his mother’s livery greeted him. “I’m afraid the dowager marchioness expected you yesterday.”
“Coleman. Evidently, I’m making a habit of not being anywhere at the expected time. Is she still in her lair, growling, or has she risen already this morning?”
“She is in the breakfast room, my lord.”
As the butler stepped aside, Beckett handed over his hat and gloves, then walked into the house and up the short hallway to the third door on the left.
“Good morning, Mother,” he drawled, pretending not to notice a footman whisking a glass of orange juice and plate behind his back.
They weren’t his mother’s, since her plate of toast and an impossibly fluffy omelet that smelled of cheese and fish remained in front of her.
If she was entertaining a male guest, well, good for her.
His father had been dead for nearly twenty years now, and if Georgiana Raines found her attention caught by anyone not him, found some other man’s life more worthy of intervention and interference than his, by God, he would purchase that man a horse.
“Beckett,” she intoned, gesturing for him to sit in the perfectly empty, not at all warm-beneath-his-arse chair opposite her own seat. “I expected you yesterday.”
“So I’ve been told. Rebecca wanted to see Windsor, so we took an additional day.”
“I will say that since Rebecca came along, your excuses for ignoring me at least sound more plausible than they used to.”
He nodded. “She has saved me from having to repeatedly state that I’m not at your beck and call.”
“And yet here you are.”
Pushing to his feet again, he nodded. “And a good morning to you. Perhaps I’ll see you at some soiree or other this Season.”
“Beckett, sit down.”
“No, I don’t think I will. Surely you have enough hangers-on and gossiping acquaintances to keep you occupied with spinning your webs.
There’s no need for you to drag me into your machinations, because I’ve already agreed to meet Lady Pauline.
Which I will do at some point this Season.
” Preferably at the end of it, so he could take some time beforehand to learn more about her than her lineage.
The marchioness picked up the bell resting beside her teacup and shook it. “No time like the present, I always say.”
The breakfast room door opened again, and Coleman stepped inside. “My lord, my lady, Lady Pauline Grenedy.”
The duke’s granddaughter swished into the room and dipped a deep curtsy.
As she straightened again, he took in mahogany-colored hair, dark blue eyes and long eyelashes, a pleasing countenance and slender figure, clothed in a pretty yellow walking dress.
“Good morning, Lord Hentrose,” she intoned, smiling.
“I apologize for the ambush. Your mother thought it would be the best way to ensure that we meet under optimal circumstances.”
Well, now he knew the identity of his mother’s mystery breakfast guest. She’d expected him yesterday, had she? The old fox and her spies. “Yes,” he said. “The Dowager Lady Hentrose has an uncanny ability to arrange optimal circumstances.”
“Beckett,” the dowager marchioness chided. “You’ve been avoiding even the idea of remarrying for nine years. Any time I can force you to chat with a single lady is optimal.”
Lady Pauline chuckled. “I promise not to throw myself at you, my lord. Should we sit? Or would you rather we go for a stroll so you may flee if necessary?”
If he’d had any sense of peril at all, he would have fled ten minutes ago.
But this needed to happen, even if the circumstances annoyed him.
“I don’t like being ambushed,” he said, sending a glare at his mother.
“At the same time, her subterfuge is not your doing, Lady Pauline. A stroll would be acceptable.”
And it would be away from his mother’s presence, which would be even more acceptable.
The woman had never met a friend she couldn’t improve, or a soiree that didn’t need just a little something more to lend it perfection.
The damned fact of it, though, was that Georgiana Raines was right about it all far more often than she was wrong, at least as far as the rest of Mayfair was concerned.
They made their way out to the front drive, and he offered Lady Pauline his arm. “To Bond Street, I suppose?”
“I’m not in need of anything, but why not? It’s a lovely walk.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “No need for hats or ribbons or gloves or parasols or—”
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, laughing. “The Season has begun. If I’ve neglected to obtain a garment or accessory by this point, then shame on me. Going shopping is for chatting with friends about fashion and marriage prospects. Today I find it more important that I become acquainted with you.”
The woman did have some sense, then. “I apologize, my lady. I’m more accustomed to the whims of a nine-year-old who would wear a rainbow of ribbons in her hair if she could manage it, and who very much admires the man who sells his hats by wearing them all at the same time.”
“How delightful. Is she mad for ponies?”
“Oh, you have no idea. I’ve begun dreaming about them, prancing all about the inside of the house and treading on my feet while I attempt to read the newspaper.”
“You know the only way to solve that is to get her a pony. With a great many responsibilities to accompany it.”
He nodded. “You may have the right of it. Don’t tell Rebecca, but her unrelenting assault is beginning to weaken my fortifications.”
“It will be our secret, my lord.”
Beckett took a breath. It was too early in their acquaintance to be certain, but Lady Pauline showed promise.
Evidently one out of every sixteen or so females his mother hurled at him could be more than a giggle with eyelashes.
Lady Pauline Grenedy had her wits about her, and she plied them with grace and sensibility.
At the same time, he’d offered for Lydia after ten days of acquaintance. He wouldn’t be doing that again.
This time he would be led by logic and fact.
And as much as he loathed her spiderwebs, his mother could be trusted to look out for the family’s best interest in everything, and therefore perhaps in this one instance he could trust her.
More than himself, certainly. He required a partnership, not quickening heartbeats and humming nerves. “Call me Beckett,” he said.
She smiled. “Pauline.”