Chapter Eight
Beckett took a swallow of watery port, not at all up to Lord and Lady Winston’s usual standards.
Across the room Iris Silbern was fending off yet another man, and Beckett tilted his head, watching as the fellow ended the conversation slump-shouldered and an inch shorter than he’d been when he’d approached.
From time to time he’d wished he could smash female sensibilities with as much abandon, but as she’d noted, their situations were different.
A female would join his household, conform to his rules, he supposed, while if Iris remarried she would be the one expected to fit in, a circumstance made even more precarious because of Edmund.
Few men wanted a part of raising children not their own, but a male child, one who could possibly challenge inheritances or demand a livable allowance while contributing nothing to the future of the family lineage, made the path even more difficult.
And yet they kept approaching her, some of them even gathering afterward—no doubt to compare notes on how she’d struck them down. God’s sake she was fierce, and he admired her for it. And if he stayed until the end of the evening, it would be because he’d claimed her last waltz.
“There you are, Beckett,” Pauline said, gliding up to him and slipping her arm around his. “Have you been fending off more debutantes this evening?”
“Not as many as previously; I believe the word is spreading that I’m not catchable.”
“Oh, I hope that isn’t true.” With a mischievous smile she tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s show them how the less frivolous set courts, shall we?”
As she spoke, the music for the first waltz began.
Setting aside his drink, Beckett nodded, escorting her to the floor.
Two dances in one evening with the same woman made a statement, but one needed to be made sooner or later.
On the other side of the floor Michael Agnew trotted after Iris, who seemed determined to push her aunt from one corner to the next as swiftly as possible, no doubt to avoid still more men asking for dances.
She frowned, covering it badly, as she stepped onto the dance floor.
With a half smile he took Pauline’s hand and set his other hand on her waist. Joining the crowd of couples, they glided across the floor, a sea of dark-clothed men and a rainbow of colors brought to the festivities by the women.
Iris had worn a flattering green silk gown that sparkled with beads all across the skirt as she moved.
Why the devil had he kissed her? Because he’d wanted to.
It had occurred to him that he hadn’t kissed a woman to whom he wasn’t related in nine years.
Nor had he missed it, or the other, more intimate things that generally followed kissing.
Except he was thinking about them now. That kiss had reminded him of things he’d very much enjoyed doing, as well as the …
comfort he’d once found in waking in the morning with someone beside him.
And while Lydia hadn’t felt like a partner as much as she did a young lady who’d stepped into a world for which she wasn’t prepared, they’d both begun with the best of intentions.
They’d each done their best, he knew, but he did on occasion consider how very miserable they both would now be if she’d lived.
“You’re meant to compliment my attire, or my jewelry, or my hair,” Pauline prompted, smiling.
Beckett shook himself. “Yes. You … look very fine in blue,” he said, smiling back at her. “It matches your eyes.”
“Do you have any idea how handsome you are?” she said, lowering her voice. “If I were the sort of female who tittered or swooned, you would be dragging me about the floor now.”
Chuckling, Beckett reminded himself that he wasn’t there to reminisce either about his marriage or about the kiss he’d shared with Iris Silbern. This was about a future for himself and for Rebecca—and for Pauline, of course. “I am pleased to hear that you are not that sort of female, Pauline.”
“I know it’s only been a few days, but I am pleased with our acquaintance, Lord Hentrose.” She lowered her lashes. “Quite pleased.”
“As am I.”
“Good. Your mother has invited me to dine with you again tomorrow night, by the by. I wouldn’t dream of intruding again so quickly, but she can be quite insistent.”
“I’m aware.” He grimaced. “I’ve no objection, but I don’t mean to let her set our calendar, either.”
“I agree. I think she would push matters along at the slightest opportunity. I therefore suggested that she also invite a handful of mutual friends and acquaintances, so we won’t be the center of the event—or so at least it won’t appear that way.
We’ll have a chance to chat, and you’ll have a chance to meet some of my friends, and I, yours. ”
A party, then. Joy. Stifling his sigh, Beckett nodded. “That seems reasonable and sound. Children?”
“It’s not usual for children to be included at a dinner,” she returned, smiling. “Rebecca is welcome, but having her there would point out to everyone present that something unusual is afoot.”
“Yes, you have the right of it. It’s interesting, attempting to view everything from anything other than a parent’s perspective.”
“I would be surprised if it wasn’t strange for you, Beckett.
She has been the center of your life, and your sole responsibility, for nine years.
Soon, if all goes as I’m beginning to hope, you won’t be alone in caring about her or her future.
” She leaned her head closer to his. “I’ve recently discerned that your mother …
might not have been as helpful or supportive as you might have wished after your wife’s death.
I do like Lady Hentrose, but I think it’s safe to note that none of us are perfect. ”
He looked at her, at her pretty blue eyes, her full ruby lips, and the hopeful smile on her face. “No one save you, perhaps.”
Her smile deepened. “Well. That is perhaps the best compliment I have ever received. I shall be blushing all evening, I daresay.”
“A compliment looks good on you, Pauline.”
As he spoke the music ended, and the two of them joined in the applause. Abrupt movement caught his eye, and he looked past Pauline’s shoulder to see Michael Agnew stepping backward from his partner, one hand on his nose and red leaking from his fingers. Good God.
Swiftly he escorted Pauline to her next partner, then excused himself to go find his neighbor.
It took a few moments, because she’d made quite a stir, then vanished from the ballroom.
Nor was she in the drawing room or the billiards room or the card room or either of the pair of sitting rooms also open to guests.
Blast it. The air stirred at his back, and he turned to see a half-open door that he was fairly certain had been shut earlier.
He slipped through the opening to find the library, dark and deserted with the festivities going on beyond its walls. Libraries deserved more parties, he thought. Reading parties, where everyone chose their favorite book and read a passage. To themselves. “Iris?” he whispered.
“Go away.”
Shutting the door quietly behind him, he stepped deeper into the room. “If it makes a difference, Mr. Agnew is telling everyone that he moved to bow when you curtsied, and his nose struck your shoulder. Most guests seem to be at least pretending to believe him.”
“Do you?”
“No. I think you punched him.”
She made a growling sound. “Am I so—”
“I also think he did something to deserve it,” Beckett broke in. “What happened? Do I need to go punch him, as well?”
Iris flung out her hands, then jabbed them onto her hips again. “He offered to warm my cold bed for me, as I must be stiff with urgency after such an extended, involuntary celibacy.”
Abrupt anger slicing through him, he curled his hand into a fist, his offer of a punch seeming quite reasonable now.
Iris had already dealt with the insult, though, and with a slow, deliberate breath he loosened his fingers again.
She neither wanted nor expected a rescue, and he was too late to offer one, anyway.
Standing in front of the window in her gown of green sparkles, her gaze on the torchlit garden beyond, she looked like a faerie princess. Good God. He’d been reading too many of Rebecca’s fanciful books. “Men are generally idiots,” he offered, stopping beside her. “Though you know that already.”
“Why are you not an idiot, Beckett?”
“Most likely because I am a father raising a young daughter. It forces a massive altering of one’s perspective.
” He stopped, debating whether he wanted to continue and risk hitting his nose on her shoulder as Mr. Agnew was claiming.
“You do know this renewed interest in you isn’t just because of Trent, though.
I mean, it is, but only in the sense that his interest has caused you to be declared an unmarried woman once again, rather than simply a dismissible widow. ”
“I prefer being dismissible. And missable.”
Beckett chuckled. “You are not missable. Outstanding and fierce, yes. And quite fetching.”
She faced him. He didn’t move, not certain whether he should expect a punch or a kiss.
The latter, however poorly it painted him, he wouldn’t have objected to at all.
Instead, though, she slid her arms around his chest and put her face against his shoulder.
“Thank you for saying that. I thought I had friends here in London. Women who came out the same year I did, some of whom I’d known even before that.
But their lives are so different from mine, and they want nothing to do with me. I … Thank you for being a friend.”
He closed his arms around her shoulders. “Most of my friends are married and can’t remember the ages of their own children. I do understand. And I’m honored to be considered your friend, Iris, as I consider you mine.”
“Thank you,” she said again, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
“You’re welcome. And as your friend, I am going to advise you to stop punching people.”