Chapter Three #2
Beckett turned around at the strident statement, as did a good number of the other guests in attendance.
Lord Felix Hestry, the third son of the Marquis of Danvers, stood red-faced, one finger jabbed toward the petite, slender female who’d made the comment, her hands on her hips and her chin jutted forward.
Beckett recognized her angry stance immediately. Iris Silbern.
“I suggest you not attempt to argue with a man when you clearly lack the capacity to understand any of what I’ve said,” Lord Felix sneered.
His brother, Lord Danvers’s second son, Gregory, stood beside him, laughing.
The family resemblance between the two men was obvious, except that when the angels had gotten around to Felix they’d clearly been drunk.
“I told you, Felix,” Gregory said, “females can’t fathom logic.
That doesn’t change the facts, though. Once a female’s been bred and borne a calf, she’s useless to anyone but her husband.
Minus a husband, she’s just useless. Pointless.
No man is addle-pated enough to want her after someone else has already got a boy on her. ”
“By your argument, then,” Iris retorted, her fists clenching, “a female, a woman, exists solely for the purpose of being bred.” Snapping shut her fan and thumping Felix on the chest with it hard enough to break the delicate thing, she took a step closer to the brothers.
“I’m certain every single female in attendance tonight will be supremely interested to know that you two nodcocks have no respect for women and are hunting not for wives, but for brood mares.
I don’t know about anyone else, but all I see are two fat-headed bulls badly in need of castration. ”
Gregory lifted his hand. Stepping forward before he’d consciously decided to do so, Beckett took that hand in his, bending it around and shaking it. “Lord Gregory,” he said, nodding. “And Lord Felix. I believe I heard your mother calling for you.”
Lord Danvers’s second son pulled his hand free. “Is that so, Hentrose?”
Beckett smiled at him. “It is. And I suggest you go find her, unless you think whatever you’re planning on doing or saying next is going to benefit you in any way whatsoever.
I mean to say, of course your male friends will find your words amusing and clever, but you’re not looking to marry any of them.
” He lifted an eyebrow. “Unless I’ve completely misjudged several things here. ”
Blinking, Gregory took a step backward. “Come on, Felix. I do think I hear Mother calling.” He sent a quick glance at the sea of glaring female faces around them. “Now, Felix.”
Before the two idiots finished their escape Beckett turned his back on them. “Good evening, Mrs. Silbern,” he said, bowing before the petite blond woman with the scalding-hot temper.
“Don’t bow,” she muttered. “You outrank me.”
He straightened again. “I was bowing to your considerable wit and ability to flay all adversaries with your tongue.”
“With my tongue? I nearly punched both of them. With my fist. Because I didn’t have a shovel.”
Beckett cleared his throat around a grin. “Lucky them.” He flattened his expression again. “As it happens, my own wife died in childbirth. What those buffoons said to you was insulting and utterly ridiculous. Having a child is a feat of unimaginable courage. Unimaginable to men, at least.”
Iris Silbern tilted her head. “Some might say it’s unavoidable courage, but I accept the compliment. And I feel the need to apologize for this morning. My uncle has informed me that accusing neighbors of kidnapping is bad form.”
Beckett chuckled. “I was just about to apologize to you. In my defense, I had assigned a groom to see Edmund home and ask after him, on the chance I hadn’t yet returned from being lectured by my mother.”
“Do you take advice from your mother, then?”
“As little as possible. She does occasionally make sense, unfortunately, so I can’t ignore her completely.”
She grinned, the expression lighting her hazel eyes green with the deep humor and understanding no debutante could hope to fathom. “Relatives are pesky. Just when you think you can’t tolerate another word of their advice, they offer you a roof for the summer.”
“My daughter was ecstatic to meet a neighbor her own age.” He glanced past her, to see Lady Pauline chatting with his mother.
If they were attempting to avoid rumors, he couldn’t very well dance with no one but Pauline all evening.
Nor did he relish standing about eating tarts—especially cherry ones—for the next three hours.
“Would you care to dance the first waltz of the evening with me, Mrs. Silbern?”
Her expressive eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because I mean to convince you to allow Edmund and Rebecca to play together, and if I continue to stand here chatting with you, the gossips will be after us with wagging tongues and pitchforks. Can you imagine? A widow and a widower, and a second chance at love after tragedy.”
“I…” She paused, closing her mouth over whatever she’d been about to say. “Good God. The horror. Yes. The first waltz of the evening.”
He’d promised Rebecca to make an attempt at appeasing the neighbor woman, anyway. Well done, him. “Do you have a dance card?”
She snorted. “I do not. I’ll remember.”
“As will I. May I escort you somewhere?”
Edmund’s mother lifted her chin. “Oh. You think I’ve been overset by those Hestry idiots and need someone to see me to a safe, hidden corner. Thank you, my lord, but the offer is unnecessary. If you change your mind about dancing with me, just ignore me when the music begins. I’ll manage.”
With that she turned and strolled away, making for a footman carrying a tray laden with drinks.
Beckett watched as she liberated a glass of something that didn’t look at all fruity, as women’s libations generally were.
Burying a grin, he returned to the dessert table, this time after the sugared orange peels.
And he abruptly realized that when he’d stepped into the middle of that argument, it hadn’t been Iris Silbern who’d needed a rescue.
Hentrose wanted to dance. Iris swirled the vodka in her glass.
It looked like water, but two glasses of this and she would be on the floor.
Deceptive, it was. Just like any man who wanted to converse or dance with her these days.
At least the marquis had explained his reasons, and he’d spoken easily, without pausing as if attempting to fabricate something that seemed plausible.
In addition, his reasons were plausible.
Edmund could use a friend his own age. There had been a handful of young people who lived near their cottage in Shropshire, but over time Thomas’s death and the Silberns’ pinching finances had put an end to those friendships.
And then Viscount Bellamy had ended her plans to rent out rooms in order to provide herself with an income.
Well, she’d already found another cottage.
All she needed was five hundred pounds, furniture, fish in the pond, and a few strangers in need of lodgings.
And for the rest of her family to stop telling her what she needed to do next.
She knew what she needed to do, for heaven’s sake.
She needed to raise Edmund to be a good man. Nothing else signified.
A quadrille began, and the edges of the room cleared a little as all the dancers took to the floor. Thank goodness for a bit of elbow room and space to breathe. It had been eleven years since she’d last been to London, and tonight she could feel the distance between her first and her latest Season.
All the debutantes with their shining faces and dreams of romance and first kisses and true love—she wished them well, but they seemed a different species.
Had she ever been that young and na?ve? According to the Hestry brothers, now she was a cow eleven years past her prime, headed to the chopping block and then to be roasted for someone’s dinner.
“Iris!”
Flinching, she finished off her vodka and turned around.
A Forsythe footman now powering her chair, Aunt Margaret rolled across the dance floor, nearly sending two sets of dancers to the polished surface as she approached.
“Aunt Margaret,” she said, handing the glass over to the footman. “I apologize. I was thirsty.”
“No need, my dear. Your first evening back in Mayfair should be for dancing and seeing old friends. You used to go about with Miss Anne Reynolds, did you not?” Margaret tugged Iris around behind her chair, then pointed to the left. “That way.”
Iris smiled as she pushed the chair forward. A friend here in Mayfair would be an unexpected boon. “I did. Is she—”
“Lady Paskill!” Aunt Margaret sat forward to tug on the skirt of the tall, willowy woman who stood beside an even taller, thinner man. “I told you she was here, Iris. Lady Paskill, Mrs. Silbern. Iris, Lady Paskill.”
“I…” Iris took a breath as Anne’s eyes widened slightly. “Hello, my lady. It’s good to see you again.”
Anne held out one limp hand, which Iris wiggled. “Iris. How pleasant. Have you met my husband, the Earl Paskill?” She gestured at the tall man.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” She dipped a curtsy. “My lord.”
“Ronald, this is an old friend of mine, from my first Season.”
He nodded. “Mrs. Silbern. Are you attending tonight without your husband?”
At that, Anne flipped a hand at Iris. “Oh, he’s passed on,” she said, in the same tone that one might describe an old loaf of bread. “She’s a widow now.”
“Oh. My condolences, of course. Was it the war?”
There were certainly several of those to choose from. “No, my lord. It was wagering.”
“Ah. Shall we, wife? I believe this is our dance.”