Chapter Six #3
“I am very rarely greeted with those words,” he commented, lifting the bottle, tilting it back, and taking a drink before he replaced it. “Thank you.”
“May I?”
“God’s sake, yes. I hate drinking alone.”
She took the bottle and drank. She imbibed on occasion, mostly Madeira or wine, and despite the earthy, smoky taste of the very fine whiskey, the tail end of her swallow burned a bit as it went down.
“What are you doing out here? I thought you were entertaining your mother and Lady Pauline this evening.”
Taking the bottle back from her, he took another drink and returned it. “I’m supposed to be drinking and smoking by myself in the dining room right now, and retelling myself bawdy tales I overheard at some club or other. The ladies are in the drawing room and have utterly no need of me at present.”
Chuckling, she took another swallow herself. “I’m presently chatting about embroidery and current fashion with my aunt, who is snoring by the fire in the drawing room while my uncle drinks and smokes with the Duke of Trent.”
“Trent, eh? He’s the duke you were cursing?”
“Yes. Evidently he’s decided to remarry, and I’m on his list of possible brides.” That required another swallow before she passed the bottle back again.
He looked at her through the generously spaced iron bars. “You didn’t murder him, did you?”
“Everyone seems to think I mean to do violence. I may be annoyed, but I’m not going to shoot anyone.
” She grimaced. “He says I’m pretty and not too tall, which seem to be his main requirements.
And he said he would see to it that Edmund receives a good education and enough blunt for him to become an officer in the army or buy a bit of land and order people about on it. ”
“That’s generous. He has two sons of his own, and they both have families.” Beckett tilted his head. “Both of them are older than you are, now that I consider it.”
“He wants someone who’ll outlive him, to make certain his sons don’t attempt to take advantage of him in his dotage.
What happens to me after, well, I have no idea.
I suppose the older one will take the house out from under me and I’ll be back living with Uncle Harold and Aunt Margaret.
But at least everyone will have to curtsy at me and call me Your Grace. ”
“If you’re seriously considering the offer, you need to get something in writing and witnessed attesting to what, exactly, would come to you upon Trent’s death. And what you’ll have before he turns up his toes.”
An owl flew overhead, silent and swift. She turned, watching as it disappeared behind Grove House. “You have no opinion about my possible nuptials, then?” she asked, facing Beckett again.
“Do you want my opinion?” he asked, his tone skeptical as he reached through the bars for the bottle.
She considered for a moment. “No. You’re out here drinking instead of conversing with the woman to whom you mean to propose. And whatever I decide has to matter less to you than your own future.”
“Don’t bash at me because you’re contemplating marrying a man old enough to be your grandfather,” he shot back, handing over the whiskey again. “At least Pauline and I are of an age.”
“She would have to be, because you need to get a son on her. At least Trent doesn’t need another son.” Iris shuddered, taking another long swallow.
“No, he needs someone to wipe off his spittle and spoon-feed him his meals.”
“He fed himself quite vigorously at dinner.” She passed back the bottle. “And stop making me defend him, you ogre. We both know it wouldn’t be a love match.”
“Did you just call me an ogre?”
Iris laughed. “This is all so ridiculous, Beckett. I made a life for myself and Edmund, just as you have for yourself and Rebecca. I’m satisfied with mine, even if it still requires a bit of …
adjusting. It’s everyone else who’s decided I should be behaving differently, be discontented with my life as it is.
It’s none of their affair.” She gripped two of the iron bars, leaning forward to see him more clearly.
“There’s half a chance I might listen to you, because even though you still have your home and your money, you at least know what it’s like to be alone. ”
Beckett took hold of the bars on the outside of hers and moved closer, as well, face-to-face with her.
“I can’t tell you what you should do, Iris.
All I can say is that you have a damned fine son.
I saw him today, when he thought only Rebecca would be getting a pony.
He smiled, and he congratulated her. And he meant it. ”
“Thank you. I…” A tear she hadn’t realized she was shedding ran down one cheek. “That is very nice to hear. Your daughter told me this afternoon that she thinks she and Edmund may be twins. She doesn’t see any difference between them. And that is very kind of her.”
He stood there looking at her, lean and handsome even in the uncertain light of a cloud-obscured crescent moon. She wondered what he saw, and if it resembled the frustrated, angry badger with the stubborn blond hair she felt like.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, as the silence lengthened.
“I’m looking at you, Iris Flexing Silbern. I’m glad to have you as a neighbor this Season. And not just because now Rebecca has a friend close by.”
Relieved that he hadn’t been about to call her a shrew or something equally insulting, Iris smiled. “Likewise. I remember you having so many women setting their caps at you before you married that you could have opened a milliner’s shop. They’re still after you, aren’t they?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I can’t complain about a plethora of pretty young ladies, but I’m well finished with the wide-eyed drama of debutantes.”
“That’s because you know what you want—a marriage that’s a partnership, where both participants gain something from the match.
” Sighing, she leaned her forehead against the railing.
“I suppose that’s what I need to consider.
Whether a match with the Duke of Trent would provide me with what I require, and what that is, precisely.
” Iris hiccupped. “Not tonight, however, as I seem to be three sheets to the wind. The only thoughts in my head are that I had fun today, and that you look quite handsome in the moonlight.”
With a chuckle, Beckett leaned his own forehead against his side of the railing, just a breath away from touching her.
“I thought about you, you know, after you ruined my jacket. I nearly sent you a basket of fresh strawberries to demonstrate that I didn’t hold a grudge, but then I heard that you were engaged.
Almost immediately after that, I met Lydia. ”
“We were very nearly almost better acquainted,” she said, giggling.
Beckett shifted his head a little and kissed her.
It was just a touch, with wrought-iron bars and a brick wall between them, but she felt it down to her toes.
Before either of them could regain their senses, she kissed him back.
If the wall hadn’t been between them, she might have done more than that.
She wanted to, because abruptly she was remembering that she wasn’t just a mother. She was also a woman.
Light slashed open behind him, and she pushed backward, away from the opening in the wall. “My lord,” Butler said, walking toward the marquis, “your mother has requested your presence in the drawing room.”
“Ah. The fashion discussion is finished, thank God,” Beckett drawled, turning around and strolling back toward the house.
Then he stopped, turned around, cleared his throat, and returned to retrieve the empty whiskey bottle off the wall.
He stood there for a long second, looking at her, before he turned and retreated again.
He was very nearly betrothed. She’d just been entered into a contest to wed the Duke of Trent. And her foremost thought was that before tonight, she hadn’t been kissed in better than four years. And that through-the-wall, between-iron-bars kisses were … very nice, indeed.