Chapter Nine #2
His daughter frowned. “But it’s Shakespeare. Everyone says Romeo and Juliet are the most romantic couple ever.”
“They are the most tragic couple ever. No—”
“I believe,” Iris interrupted, kneeling to be at eye level with the nine-year-old, “that your father wants you to grow up to be the sort of lady who values her own life and her own happiness enough to be a little more sensible in her choices than Juliet was.”
Becks reached out to put a hand on Iris’s shoulder. “Thank you,” the little girl said solemnly. “Sometimes I don’t know what he’s talking about, though I do try to be patient with him.”
“Very amusing.” Reaching down, Beckett took Iris’s hand and helped her to her feet. “And thank you from me, as well,” he murmured, his mouth brushing her ear.
A pleasant little shiver ran up her spine. Oh, good heavens. “I’ve been having similar discussions with Edmund,” she whispered back again.
Actually, she didn’t want to talk about Edmund.
All she could think about was how long it had been since she’d last felt a man’s warm breath brush her skin.
And how such a silly, clearly innocent thing made goose bumps rise on her flesh and conjured some very …
inappropriate thoughts for such a public setting.
It wasn’t as if she yearned to be in a man’s arms, but on occasion moments like that reminded her how pleasurable such things had once been.
Could be. Clearly, she’d gone mad. No wonder her relations had decided she was a burden.
“Oh, ‘The Gallery of Adventurers,’” Edmund read aloud, and immediately headed beneath the corresponding archway. “Do you think they’ll have Captain Cook?”
“I imagine so,” Beckett answered, thankfully giving Iris a moment to collect herself. “Columbus, as well. Who else, do you think?”
“Mungo Park,” Edmund answered promptly. “He explored Africa. Have you read his book?”
“I have.” The marquis gestured at him to proceed. “We’ll follow your lead.”
“Are there any lady adventurers?” Becks asked, wrapping her fingers around Iris’s hand.
“There are,” she replied. “Most of them traveled with their husbands, and all the credit went to the men.”
“Well, that’s discouraging.”
“Indeed, it is. There was Jeanne Baret, a botanist who disguised herself as a man and traveled around the world as part of Louis-Antoine de Bougainville’s expedition.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Ooh. Disguised as a man? I could do that. I know I could learn to ride astride, and I’m certain I’m a crack shot.”
“Oh, good God,” Beckett muttered from behind them.
Iris grinned. “Don’t forget, you must also be able to belch loudly and smoke a pipe.”
Becks laughed. “Look at Papa. I wager a hundred pounds his face is turning red, and his eyes are bulging.”
Iris obligingly looked over her shoulder at the marquis. His handsome face wasn’t red, and his pretty gray eyes were amused rather than starting from their sockets, but she nodded. “You would win, Becks.”
“Ha! I knew it!”
Beckett crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
Not for his daughter’s benefit, because she’d scampered off after Edmund, but for hers.
She did the same to him, and he laughed.
Heavens, it was good to have a friend, someone with whom she could commiserate, someone who understood how frustrating and how delightful being a single parent could be.
At the same time, she’d never had dreams in which any of her other friends kissed her, or in which they’d waltzed together in a room with no other guests. Or of what had happened afterward, which still made her cheeks warm to think of it. In her dreams, Beckett Raines was a very accomplished lover.
That was all her, though, and she couldn’t blame any of it on him except for the part where he was kind and understanding and had a keen, dry sense of humor.
She’d invented everything else—well, except for the kiss—and that was just foolish.
Raising her son had been possible because she’d put everything else aside.
No, not aside. Excised from her life. Thinking—or dreaming—anything else was just a foolish waste of sleep.
“Do you ride?” Beckett asked, offering his arm again.
She wrapped her fingers around his sleeve almost before she’d decided the unnecessary touching was to blame for her unrest. A viper. That was what he was, catching her unawares with his handsome appearance and kind, clever words. “Why?”
“Because I’m taking the children to St. James’s Park tomorrow to practice riding. I thought you might care to join us.”
“You didn’t ask me if Edmund could join you.” Now she sounded bitter and petty, but her footing had abruptly become very unsteady, and it was difficult to be charming while sliding headlong down a slope into a patch of brambles.
“Might Edmund join Rebecca and myself for a riding lesson tomorrow morning?” he asked, a wary look coming onto his face.
“Yes. He must be back by luncheon, though. He’s missed far too many lessons, to the point that I’m presently paying Mr. Fredericks to write bad poetry.”
“Thank you.” He took a quick breath. “Do you ride, Iris? I thought you might wish to join us. As it happens, I have a spare mount, a good-tempered mare.”
“She is a Biscuits, I presume?” There hadn’t been any mention of a mare previously, nor had she seen one in the Raines House stable yesterday.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“I don’t have a riding habit.”
“I’ll send one over to Grove House this afternoon. It may need to be taken in and let out here and there, but the fit should be close.”
So now he was giving her his late wife’s clothing. “Why are you being so nice?” she demanded, stopping in her tracks.
Beckett faced her as another group of visitors moved around them.
“Since Lydia died, I’ve been encouraged by …
everyone, to send Rebecca away to a nursemaid, to a relation with children and a pair of parents, and to boarding school.
Fathers don’t care for their children, evidently.
I’ve told you things I’ve never told … anyone, Iris.
I appreciate being able to do that. I happen to enjoy chatting with you.
” He took a half step closer. “And perhaps sharing the occasional kiss. If it makes a difference, I do consider us friends.”
“As do I.” Heaven knew she didn’t want to give it another word. That would be wishing. “I do enjoy … chatting with you, as well.”
He nodded, gesturing her forward again. “I will also confess that Rebecca mentioned how lovely it would be if all four of us were able to ride. I am slow-witted, evidently.”
“You are too generous by half, but I’m not in a position to argue.”
“I feel I should note that in my journal.”
That made her laugh. “I do not know what to make of you, Lord Hentrose.”
“Likewise, Mrs. Silbern.”
Ugh. Another dinner party with the horrible lady.
The only good part of it would be that Mrs. Alliday, the cook, was baking an orange meringue pie.
Perhaps several of them. And Rebecca meant to nab one for herself and Brubbie, even if they had been banished to her bedchamber for the evening.
She made her way down the hallway to the kitchen, which smelled like roast and oranges.
“How many pies are you baking, Mrs. Alliday?” she asked hopefully, lifting up on her toes to see inside the large bowl set on the worktable.
“I was baking four of them, my lady,” the tiny woman said, and with a frown at the bowl, dumped its contents into a wastebasket full of radish tops and potato peels. “It will be almonds and fresh cherries now.”
Rebecca looked into the bucket. Such goodness and sweetness, lost to dirt and vegetables. “What happened?”
“It seems Lady Pauline dislikes oversweet desserts, and prefers fresh-picked cherries. And almonds.”
If Lady Pauline didn’t like her or meringue pies, there was no good to her at all. “But Papa said your orange meringue pies make his toes tingle.”
Scattered laughter across the kitchen reminded her that she probably shouldn’t share everything she and her papa conversed about. He’d meant for it to make her smile, but it sounded silly when she said it aloud.
“I’m very pleased to hear that,” Mrs. Alliday said with a smile, and handed her the spoon that had sat in the bowl.
“We’ll make our pie another day. If Lady Pauline is to be our new mistress, we’ll need to have so many orange meringue pies before she arrives that we’ll never want to set eyes on one again. ”
“Masquerade is ruining everything,” Rebecca muttered.
“Masquerade?”
“Oh. That’s just what Eddie and I call her. Because she pretends to be someone else when Papa is about.” She licked the spoon. “That is heavenly,” she declared. “My toes are tingling, too.”
“If she’s said something that makes you frown so, perhaps you should tell Lord Hentrose.”
“Aye,” George, the second footman, agreed, as he carried a candelabra past the doorway. “We don’t like to see ye frown, Lady Becks.”
“Oh, I could never tell Papa. She’s going to make him happy. I make his life harder.”
The footman and Mrs. Alliday glanced at each other. “I don’t see how that could possibly be,” the cook cooed, squatting down in front of her. “You are a ray of sunshine. A vase full of giggles and daisies. A—”
George cleared his throat. “Suffice it to say that you are adored, Lady Becks. By your father, especially. We’ve all seen it.”
Smiling, Rebecca kissed him on one cheek. “Thank you. I think perhaps I’m just tired. If there are enough cherries and almonds, may I have some after dinner? I suppose I shall have to learn to like them.”
“Of course you may. And I’ll see if I can sneak an orange meringue pie onto the menu for tomorrow night.” Standing up again, Mrs. Alliday touched Rebecca on one cheek.
“That would be wonderful. We’ll surprise Papa. Thank you!”