Chapter Eleven #2
“So if Lady Pauline announced that she’s terrified of horses or something, you’d give away Charles?”
“I … She isn’t terrified of them, is she?”
The look of dismay on his face made her laugh. “I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask her before you propose.”
“I will, now.” He shifted, glancing over his shoulder at the children clomping along behind them. “What about the duke?” he resumed, facing her again. “I’m certain he doesn’t ride any longer. Will you do so?”
“I’m more concerned that Edmund be able to do so.” Another opportunity she couldn’t have offered him on her own.
He lifted his eyebrows as if he wanted to argue, but after a moment he nodded.
“I know you don’t want my advice, but I’m going to say it again anyway: get everything put into writing and witnessed.
Your monthly stipend, upkeep for Flintlock and Delilah, the number of hours each week where you’re not to be at Trent’s beck and call. Everything.”
Was he giving her the mare? Good heavens.
“I have been a wife before, Beckett.” She took a breath, pushing back against the rush of nerves that went through her every time someone mentioned her and Trent and marriage in the same conversation.
“I did a great many things wrong, but I’d like to think I’ve learned from my mistakes. ”
He nodded, his sharp gray eyes catching hers again. “I feel the same. No more believing in love at first sight, or that love conquers all. The importance of understanding that my spouse is who she is and will not be altered whether I wish it or not. No—”
“No leading with my heart,” she took up. “No ignoring the obvious simply because it’s unpleasant.”
“Finding someone with whom I can carry on a damned conversation,” he said, turning them into Hyde Park.
“And with enough sense to know what’s important.
” It was moments like this when she could see it, the two of them together.
They were very similar in the way they looked at life, at being a parent, and marriage, even.
Waking up to see him every morning, hearing his voice in the house, chatting and laughing with the children, feeling his arms around her every night …
“Papa, will we be able to trot? I want to trot.”
Beckett twisted in the saddle. “Trotting? When we get to Rotten Row I’ll confer with Parsley and Mrs. Silbern.”
“Trotting,” Iris muttered, shaking all the madness out of her thoughts and hoping she wasn’t blushing. “It seems like yesterday that Edmund couldn’t walk without holding on to my skirts.”
“It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” With a half-amused scowl Beckett faced forward again. “All of our resolutions aside, if you could have any future you wished, anything at all, what would it be?”
“A boardinghouse overlooking a pond that has fish in it,” she answered, pushing back against the abrupt vision of warm nights and sunny mornings with Beckett, “and enough income to see Edmund educated and able to make a good life for himself.”
“Yes, that’s well and good for Edmund, but is that what you would choose if you could have anything? To run a boardinghouse?”
Iris gazed at him. “I don’t see the point of daydreaming,” she said, attempting to convince herself.
“Aunt Margaret has declared that Uncle Harold will not lend me the funds to purchase a cottage. That has left me no choice but to agree to wed Trent if he should deign to ask me. In my actual life, my best wish would be to have that boardinghouse.”
“Iris, if that’s truly what you want, I could lend—”
“No,” she broke in. “You couldn’t.”
Now he looked offended that she wouldn’t let him throw money at her. “Why not?”
“Because you’re planning to marry a very proper lady who wouldn’t like it if she discovered you were funding a widow’s life. Especially one who’s been your neighbor, and one who has a young son. You know what the gossips would say about that.”
“That he’s mine?” Beckett scowled. “No one who can do simple addition would believe that.”
“And what would Lady Pauline say about you lending me money and escorting me all about London?”
“Jealousy, you mean? The union between Pauline and me is to be a partnership. Not a love—”
“It’s to be a marriage.” She lifted an eyebrow at him.
He opened and shut his mouth again. “We’re friends, Iris. I’d like to help you.”
“We’re friends who keep meeting at the garden wall and kissing each other,” she reminded him, keeping her voice low. “And you are helping. Look how happy Edmund is.”
“That isn’t…” Beckett trailed off. “You are so damned stubborn.”
“I’ve learned that good will and good intentions are very unreliable things, and often come with obligations and conditions.”
“You think I would strip a boardinghouse from beneath you if you, oh, hypothetically, got strawberry cream on my evening wear?”
“No. But I didn’t think Thomas would sell my dishes to settle a debt with a stranger, either. And don’t tell me it would simply be business, because I do recall where your hands were last night.”
“Y—”
“And how much I wanted them there,” she finished, lowering her voice to a barely audible whisper. “No.”
“Wanting you has nothing to do with wanting to aid you.”
“I doubt either of us can be certain of that. And we both have prospective spouses, whether anyone’s offered for anyone or not,” she retorted, trying to ignore the way his words made heat swirl down her spine.
He wanted her. Heaven knew she wanted him.
But whatever silly, useless thoughts might flit through her mind, she did not have a future with Beckett Raines.
Iris watched him as they reached Rotten Row. He encouraged her son with the same patience and humor he showed his own daughter. Even if there’d been nothing else to recommend him, the Marquis of Hentrose was an excellent father.
And there was far more to him than that, but the moment she caught herself thinking that she shouldn’t have ruined his coat sleeves eleven years ago, she turned Delilah to take a brisk walk about the edge of the track. No daydreams.
“Mrs. Silbern.”
She looked up to see her uncle’s godson, Michael Agnew, riding up on a large black horse that looked as haughty as its rider. Damnation. “Good morning,” she said, putting a smile on her face and setting her jaw to keep it there. Whatever he said, she could not afford to punch him again.
“You’re yet again in the company of Hentrose,” the viscount’s son commented. “Isn’t he courting Lady Pauline Grenedy?”
“Lord Hentrose and I are neighbors, Mr. Agnew. Our children are friends.” She made herself take a breath. “I hadn’t realized you belonged to the society of tongue-waggers, sir. That is what you do, isn’t it? Wander about collecting and distributing gossip?”
His jaw jumped. “It takes no effort to notice you and Hentrose together nearly daily. You’ve been seen dancing with him, as well—and you can’t put that on your youngsters.
Does the marquis know you’re also chasing the Duke of Trent?
Another chit trying to outlive the old goat, eh?
Very bold of you to set your cap at two aristocrats at the same time, especially with you being … used, and all.”
Accusing him of gossip had been satisfying, but it hadn’t helped anything. Keep your blasted mouth shut, Iris. “I have nothing further to say to you,” she managed through her clenched teeth.
“No? Perhaps I’ll go chat with your aunt and uncle, then.”
She glared at him. That was enough of that.
“Very well. If you want to chat, let’s chat.
I haven’t been in London long,” she said, keeping her voice as cheery as she could manage, “but I must congratulate you. I’ve heard nothing about you whatsoever.
No scandal, no praise—it’s almost as if no one has noticed you at all.
If you crave attention so badly, then by all means peck at me again.
Being the man a chit punched in the nose twice in the same week would get you noticed.
” She curved her mouth into a smile and her fingers into a fist.
His horse shifted beneath him. “Ha. You’re not worth my time, Mrs. Silbern. Good day.”
“Go away, you toad.”
As he rode away, his spine stiff, she turned to find Beckett a few feet away, gazing at her. “That—”
“Don’t say anything,” she interrupted, and sent Delilah back toward the children. “We’ve already established that I am not proper. If I were a man, I imagine I’d be out in some meadow every other morning, dueling foes who insulted me.”
Beckett wheeled Charles to fall in beside her. “If you’d let me finish,” he commented, his voice mild, “I was about to say that that was spectacular. I’m ashamed of myself for thinking you needed a rescue.”
“As I keep telling you, I don’t need to be rescued.
I don’t want to be rescued.” Iris realized she had her jaw clenched so tightly that it had begun to ache.
Rolling her shoulders, she made her muscles relax a little.
None of this was Beckett’s fault. “What I want,” she went on, picking her words with more care than she generally used, “is to have a friend on the far side of the garden wall with whom I may drink and chat on occasion—at least until our futures are settled.”
If he would stop reminding her that she was more than a mother, more than a caretaker, she would appreciate it even more, but she didn’t want to say that aloud.
If she did, he might well honor her request. And at this moment, a drink and a kiss with Beckett Raines felt like the only two things that made sense in the world.
By the time they returned to Raines House and the stable, Edmund had begun making plans to teach Flintlock to jump, and Becks had decided they should visit country fairs and dazzle crowds with their equestrian skill.
While Parsley helped the children, Beckett swung out of the saddle and approached her.
“May I?” he asked, lifting his arms.
“You’re brave; I’ll give you that,” she commented, sighing. “Yes, please.”