Chapter Seven #3
“Evidently, word has gotten about that I’m on the Duke of Trent’s list of potential brides, so suddenly other men have decided to notice me. Men who two days ago wouldn’t even look at a widowed mother now believe that, surprisingly enough, I’m still pleasant to look upon.”
He took a second strawberry. “If it improves your mood to hear it, I’m being trailed by debutantes like a mother duck with her ducklings. Where I go, they follow.”
“I suppose it does make me feel a bit better to hear your trials and tribulations.”
“I’m not making them up. Look to my right. Don’t make it obvious, though, or you’ll cause a stampede and we’ll all be killed.”
She glanced past his shoulder to see a half dozen young ladies, all with empty plates, pretending to peruse the dessert table while jockeying to be the female nearest the marquis. Iris chuckled. “Oh, you poor dear.”
“Yes. Do you have a waltz to spare? It would save me from being accosted, beginning a fight, and possible tears.”
“Your tears, or theirs?”
“Both,” he answered.
“I have the second waltz available, though I’m hoping we’ll depart before then.”
“I’ll take it. It gives me an excuse not to take the floor if you leave.”
Pulling out her dance card, she wrote “Beckett” on the line for the second waltz. “Done. I happen to have several quadrilles, a cotillion, and two country dances also to let, if you’re interested.”
With a grin he popped the strawberry into his mouth. “I am, but I also have to save one or two for Lady Pauline and my mother—though I suspect if Lady Hentrose takes to the floor it will open beneath her, revealing the flames of hell.”
“Oh, ask her, then. A flaming dance floor would remove me from the obligation of dancing, and possibly provide a way for me to rid myself of any ungainly partners.”
“You dance well, you know.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “And kiss well.”
“Hush,” she hissed, her cheeks warming. “I was drunk.”
“As was I. And it was a damned fine kiss. You aren’t dead, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
“So am I.” He stayed where he was for another moment. “I’m taking Rebecca to see Madame Tussaud’s exhibit tomorrow. It’s been traveling the country and has landed back at the Lyceum for a handful of weeks. I think Edmund would enjoy it, as well. Would the two of you care to join us?”
“Yes.”
“That was quick.”
“I know my aunt. In another minute she’ll have me obligated to join some man for luncheon and to have another one call on me and sit on a chair while I pretend that I enjoy embroidering.”
The music for the quadrille began. “I’m pleased Rebecca and I rank higher than embroidery. I have a dance with Pauline now. I’ll see you about.”
“Likewise.”
He set aside his plate, brushing her wrist with his fingers as he turned. “We did nothing wrong,” he murmured. “Neither of us is engaged.”
Heat swirled down her spine, heady and full of sudden daydreams that she hadn’t had since she’d first met Thomas. “Yet,” she made herself say aloud, and his spine stiffened a little as he departed.
Yes, they’d kissed, but no one else knew, they’d each been alone for quite some time, and yes, it had been pleasant.
Exceedingly pleasant. That didn’t make him the answer to all her troubles, nor did it turn her into Lady Pauline Grenedy.
Daydreams were for children. She hadn’t been a child in years.
“You and Beckett Raines have been chatting quite a bit,” her aunt observed, gripping the edge of the table to pull herself down the length of it while other guests dodged out of her way.
“We’re neighbors, and our children are friends,” Iris stated, as much for herself as for Margaret. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t chat with him?”
“He’s been on every debutante’s husband list for nearly a decade. Not better than a duke, of course, but he is wealthy. And well-favored.”
That he was. “He’s practically engaged to Lady Pauline Grenedy.”
“Oh! Never mind, then. Don’t lose your chance with Trent because you feel some kinship with a widower.” Margaret smiled. “I’d like him better if he didn’t tend to chat endlessly about his daughter. How interesting can a nine-year-old girl be, really?”
“As interesting as a ten-year-old boy, I reckon,” Iris snapped, turning to meet Lord Charles as he appeared beside her. “Our dance, I believe.”
“Indeed it is.”
They walked to the middle of the dance floor, joined by twenty other couples.
Formed into rings, they bowed and curtsied, took hands, and twirled.
For a moment she came face-to-face with Beckett, and just stopped herself from sticking her tongue out at him.
They were friends, she acknowledged, stolen, ill-advised kiss or not.
They turned again, and Lady Pauline Grenedy glided around her. She was lovely, tall, dark-haired, with bright blue eyes that poets would compare to the sky at noon or lakes beneath cloudless skies, a slender figure, and a calm, composed demeanor that showed even when she smiled at Beckett.
Iris wondered if it bothered Lady Pauline that Beckett didn’t mean for their marriage to be romantic, that he had no wish or desire to fall in love with his wife.
But he’d evidently been honest about that, and Lady Pauline had either agreed to it or thought she could wiggle her way into his heart despite his intentions.
That was precisely how she needed to view a possible match with the Duke of Trent; as a practicality, a way to ensure her and Edmund’s future.
None of the rest signified. Yes, there would no doubt be some wifely expectations of her, since Trent, though in his early seventies, remained a man.
But in exchange for not having to worry about saving enough money to see Edmund with options for his future, she could manage a few unpleasant evenings.
She didn’t want to, but it did provide a solution to most of her troubles.
She only wished Trent looked more like Beckett Raines. And behaved—and spoke—a great deal more like him. Though if he did, she would be having a very different conversation with herself, and it would be about things she wanted and whether she’d lost her mind to dare to have dreams again.