Chapter Three
“The Marquis of Hentrose.”
As the Forsythe House butler announced him and two dozen heads—most of them female—swiveled in his direction, Beckett contemplated turning around and going home.
Instead he took a breath, ignored the high-pitched mutter of conversation around him, and headed for the nearest footman. “Whiskey,” he said.
The man nodded and hurried away as Lord and Lady Forsythe emerged from the crowd. “Beckett Raines,” the viscount boomed, sticking out his hand as he approached. “I was beginning to think you were just a rumor made up by chits who require some handsome man to weep over.”
“I don’t condone anyone weeping over me,” Beckett returned, shaking hands and then nodding at the viscountess. “Gifts of flowers and sweets are always appreciated, however.”
“Ha! You and your wit need to attend more soirees. And try the cherry tarts. Our chef came all the way from Denmark.”
Beckett didn’t know if chefs from Denmark specialized in cherry tarts, but that question would likely be the most interesting one of the entire evening.
At one time he’d enjoyed soirees, but now, if not for the occasionally exceptional desserts, he would rather have been shoveling manure.
He preferred spending his evenings playing games or reading with Rebecca, but now he had a prospective bride to court.
Thinking of a union with Lady Pauline Grenedy as a business proposition did make the idea of remarrying easier to stomach, but even if it wasn’t to be a love match for him, Pauline would become Rebecca’s mentor, if not her mother.
He needed to be assured they would all deal well together before he made anything official.
The main hurdle was likely to be his mother’s impatience to hurry events along.
Patience had never been one of her virtues.
“My lord?”
He turned around to see a trio of debutantes bobbing curtsies in front of him like young hens. “Yes?”
“I’m Alison Desmond. This is my sister, Violet, and our friend, Miss Beatrice Stanley.” They all bobbed again.
He inclined his head. “Hentrose.”
They giggled. “My mother said we should give you our condolences and welcome you back to London, since you come here so rarely.”
Debutantes. New ones appeared every year, just out of the schoolroom, pining for love and romance and a wealthy, handsome beau.
And as he’d reminded his mother, they were closer in age to Rebecca at nine than they were to him at one-and-thirty.
“Thank you, then,” he said aloud. “I feel welcomed. And condoled.”
“Oh, good,” Miss Alison, evidently the spokeswoman, said with another bob. “Would you care to dance this evening, my lord?”
“No, I would not. I’m quite stodgy and old, you see, and I’ve no sense of poetry or romance. If I purchase flowers it’s to feed them to rabbits, and I’m presently headed for the dessert table.” Nodding, he walked past them and their surprised expressions.
He’d never been one for breaking hearts, didn’t have the time for frivolous love affairs, and none of that trio looked capable of dealing with a man thirteen years their senior and in possession of a precocious daughter.
Even though he didn’t generally like cherries, the tart Lord Forsythe had recommended did have a nice tang to it, and he took a second one from the table.
As he turned around, munching, his mother appeared so close in front of him that he nearly collided with her. “You’re going to give me nightmares, pouncing like that,” he commented, finishing his tart. “You could find employment as the ghost of why-does-he-never-do-as-I-ask.”
“Are you wishing me dead, then? Or worse, employed?”
“We both know you’re not going to die. Your fate is to become one of your gargoyles, glowering at everyone’s poor behavior and lack of finesse for the rest of eternity.”
“There are times, Beckett, when you are too clever by half. What are you doing?”
“I’m having a sweet. Our host recommended it. And it’s quite good, really. I’m not certain if it’s worth the expense of hiring a chef all the way from Denmark, but I suppose Lord Forsythe could be exceptionally fond of cherries. Or tarts. You should try one.”
“Stop dodging about.” The dowager marchioness moved around to take his arm.
She then attempted to drag him toward the crowded center of the room.
“I saw you growling at the debutantes. While I commend you for not wasting time when we’ve found you Pauline, if you don’t go claim a dance with her then you’re wasting everyone’s time. ”
As he preferred the dessert table to providing fodder for the gossips, he didn’t move. “I wasn’t growling. And while you may be in a hurry, I have learned from my mistakes. I am cautious.”
“You’ve been introduced, and Pauline knows that a proposal is in the offing. She’s in attendance tonight, and you need to stop eating tarts and go ask her for a dance.”
“Very well. I intend to fortify myself first, however.” He finished off the second tart. “And if you truly want this match, I suggest you stop shoving. Your zeal makes me wonder what you’re attempting to hide from me.”
“Really, Beckett. You are becoming stodgy. All I’ve done is honor your wishes.” She paused, reaching over to brush an invisible crumb from his sleeve. “You liked her, though. Pauline.”
Beckett sighed, disliking those few occasions when his mother acted like someone with feelings.
“She seemed polite and poised. Competent, and with a sense of humor. She comes from a good family, and I suppose if Rebecca likes her, I should find her suitable. Lord knows she needs a guide who can teach her how to manage Society.”
“It’s about time you realized what’s necessary in a spouse.”
“I said if Rebecca likes her. I’ve spoken to Lady Pauline one time, for less than a quarter of an hour. I require at least a full hour to decide anything matrimonial.”
“Oh, be as sarcastic as you wish.” His mother didn’t bother to conceal her smile.
“I knew she was the one. Everything you require in a wife, and none of the nonsense. But for heaven’s sake, Rebecca is nine.
She knows nothing about consequential matches and marriage or a wife’s duty to her spouse.
Or even having another woman in the household.
You cannot mean to hang your entire future on a child’s approval. ”
He pulled his arm free of her grip. “That child’s life, happiness, and future is the only reason I would consider remarrying.
Yes, I will hang my future on her approval.
That is the point. So leave off. And don’t you dare as much as hint to anyone that an announcement is forthcoming.
Good evening.” With that he turned his back and strolled away.
Yes, he had a temper. He preferred using humor to ward off his enemies, but his mother managed to set him off with fair frequency.
He generally dealt with her by pretending agreement and then ignoring whatever she’d said, but that didn’t always suffice.
And while he’d accepted her abject lack of interest in helping him raise an infant girl on his own—as he’d discovered early in his own youth, she didn’t care for children at all—he wasn’t going to forget it, either.
He’d been left to manage a baby himself, and it had been Rebecca and him since the evening she’d been set into his arms, still red-faced and wrinkly and yowling like a box of cats.
“Lord Hentrose.”
Oh, good God. Not more debutantes. He stifled a scowl as he turned around, ready to fend off another flotilla of silk and lace, but lowered his shoulders as Lady Pauline Grenedy sank into an elegant curtsy in front of him. “Lady Pauline. Good evening.”
Rising again, she smiled. “Good evening. I’d hoped to see you here tonight.”
“Hoped, or expected? We’ve both met my mother, and encountered her ability to manipulate coincidence.”
“She wants you to be happy.”
“We can debate later whose happiness most concerns her.”
“As for myself,” she went on, ignoring his comment, “I won’t be seen in the company of a man who can’t dance.” With a smile she held out her hand to him. “You do, I hope? Dance?”
If he’d changed his mind about pursuing her, she’d just left him a perfect escape route—and she’d no doubt done it intentionally. Perhaps she knew he disliked being forced into anything. “I do dance. How well, I couldn’t say.”
Lady Pauline chuckled. “It’s the effort that counts.”
“I’m thankful for that. My daughter says I make for a very robust reel partner.”
“Ah, yes. Rebecca, who’s mad for horses.”
“Yes. Rebecca.” And if at the end of the evening he still found Pauline acceptable, he would suggest that she join Rebecca and him for luncheon tomorrow. “Which dances do you have free?”
“All of them. I’ve been evading the horde, waiting for you to have first choice.”
“That’s both kind and optimistic of you,” he noted, taking her dance card from her hand.
She leaned a breath closer, over the heavy card. “Please take a waltz. It’s the only decent opportunity for chatting on evenings this loud.”
With a nod he wrote his initials beside the second waltz of the evening, then handed back her card and pencil. “Done.”
“Good. And now I’m going to wander off and chat with some friends before anyone can begin gossiping about us. I detest when the wags begin drooling over a connection that hasn’t yet been made. Not officially, anyway.”
With that she strolled off to be absorbed into the crowd. Hmm. Lady Pauline continued to impress, and she seemed to understand that this would be a partnership for mutual benefit. And that was good, because he had no time for nonsense.
“That is utter nonsense!”