Chapter Fourteen
“It was kind of the duchess to invite both of us to her tea,” Aunt Margaret commented, putting an arm around Gerald’s shoulder and the other around Tollins’s so they could haul her in a seated position down the stairs.
“Yes. Will any men be present?”
“It’s a widows’ tea, dear. Why so suspicious?”
“You’ve already thrown a duke at me. I have no idea who you might have decided would be next best to remove Edmund and me from beneath your roof.
” Iris hefted the back of the chair in her hands, while Charles, the junior footman, lifted the front and descended the stairs backward in front of her.
“You have been after me to dance with every unmarried man in London.”
“Everyone has plans and plays games, Iris. Why should I be any different? Surely you know by now that an invitation is rarely just an invitation. It’s far more likely to be a test, something the rest of the ton will view and judge.
And they pay special attention to any weaknesses.
Like one’s temper, for example. And then they pick at it until it breaks. ”
Her temper. One could only be hit by a carriage a certain number of times before one began detesting carriages. “My temper is not a weakness,” she stated aloud, mostly to be contrary. “I will not be trod upon.”
“Anyone with half a mind would not attempt to tread on you twice.”
Iris nearly missed a step at the low, amused tone coming from the foyer below. “Lord Hentrose?” she squeaked, heat rushing beneath her skin and down between her thighs. “What are you doing here?”
He walked into view. “I came to see Mr. Fredericks for myself. He’s … unique. According to Rebecca I may have broken him, however, when I pointed out that a nine-year-old girl was not to be painted as a man-eater, even in iambic pentameter.”
“That man should be sacked,” Margaret put in, seated in her servants’ arms and waiting as her chair finished descending the stairs. “Insufferably high in the instep, especially for a servant, and he dresses like Beau Brummel himself.”
“More colorfully, though,” Beckett noted, reaching up to take the chair from Iris. “You may have some difficulty keeping Rebecca away from Edmund’s lessons.”
“She’s always welcome here,” her aunt put in before Iris could do more than smile.
“We’re honored to host the Marquis of Hentrose’s daughter whenever she chooses to come calling.
” She settled into the chair, gripping the arms to lean forward.
“I’ll have tea sent up for her. Or does she prefer lemonade? Tollins, see to it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“That’s not necessary,” Beckett countered. “If my daughter becomes thirsty, she will ask for a drink. She’s quite capable of expressing herself.” His gaze shifted from Margaret to Iris. “Where are you off to?”
“A luncheon,” she answered, hoping he had Margaret’s attention so the woman wouldn’t see her blushing. It wasn’t embarrassment, though. It was lust, pure and simple. She wanted him again. She wanted him naked, and her naked, and something more comfortable beneath them than the ground.
“Yes,” Margaret took up. “A luncheon at the Duchess of Richmond’s home.”
“You know, I believe I accepted the invitation for that,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Might I impose on you to share your carriage?”
“You’re attending?” Iris narrowed her eyes.
“I’m quite sought-after,” he replied, grinning in a way that made her mouth go dry.
“I don’t know who’s invited where,” Margaret said, pointing at the front door, “but you’re welcome to share the carriage with us. Do make it clear that you received your own invitation, though. I don’t as a rule bring additional persons to parties.”
“Certainly. And thank you.” Tollins pulled open the front door, and Iris pushed her aunt to the edge of the front step so they could lift her and then the chair all over again.
“Tollins, I would appreciate if you would inform Mrs. Brubbins that she is to return Rebecca home at her discretion, and I’ll be along later. ”
The butler nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
As they wrestled Margaret into the coach and her chair onto the roof, a hand brushed hers. “A moment?” Beckett murmured, walking behind the vehicle.
She tossed the end of a rope up to the coachman on the roof and stepped back to join Beckett.
The heat curling beneath her skin reminded her of that very lovely time right after she and Thomas had married, but at the same time it felt …
different. All reason didn’t flee her mind when she set eyes on Beckett, and she knew perfectly well that this whatever-it-was between them could only last a short while. But she still craved it, and him.
“Have you seen the newspaper this morning?” he asked, keeping his voice pitched low.
“No. Why?”
“It mentions you pushing your aunt through Mayfair at alarming speed, and warns readers to beware your temper and tendency toward violence. It also notes that I had luncheon with the Duke and Duchess of Milton and their granddaughter, and that an announcement is imminent.”
“Aunt Margaret won’t like that much,” she said, glaring up at the chair as it wobbled on the coach’s roof. “She likes to go fast, but she’d never admit it.”
He faced her. “I’m glad you aren’t troubled by the gossip,” he commented, his voice clipped. “I am.”
“I’ve already told you that I’m a lost cause, fit only for an old duke looking for his sixth bride and surrounded by sons who could pass for bickering badgers.”
His jaw twitched. “I disagree, but I was actually referring to me being all but dragged into matrimony.”
“Oh.” He disagreed? Beckett knew how badly she fit into London Society. It was nice that he’d said it, though. “Well, perhaps the news escaped before you were ready to see it in print, but nothing’s been said that isn’t true. You do mean to offer for Lady Pauline, and you do mean to marry her.”
Beckett scowled. “I … Yes. But I have no doubt my mother made certain the gossip pages printed the details so I’d have no chance of escape.”
Iris looked at him, at his frown and his downcast eyes and the muscles clenched at his jaw.
A fluttery daydream flitted to life again in her chest, and with a hard breath she squished it.
“But you don’t wish to escape. The only thing that’s changed is that you’ve seen your own intentions in writing. ”
“Damnation, Iris. I’m not—I’m not ready yet.”
Oh, this was beginning to hurt her heart. “If you’re hesitating because we’ve become friends, you know this can’t last. The only question has been whether it will be because you become engaged first, or I do.”
His eyes narrowed a little. “Damned stubborn woman.”
“I’m practical.”
“I’m not—we are not—engaged yet. And I’m not—I enjoyed last night.”
She felt her cheeks heat. “I did as—”
“For heaven’s sake, Iris, are you coming, or do you mean to take root there on the carriage drive?”
Iris shut her eyes for a moment. It was just as well, because this particular conversation wasn’t going anywhere she felt ready to follow. “Are you still joining us?”
“Yes. Looking forward to it.”
He followed her to the coach. “Lord Hentrose, you will sit beside me,” Margaret said, patting the leather cushion next to her.
Nodding, he turned to look at Iris. “After you, Mrs. Silbern,” he said, offering her a hand.
She took his fingers, heat racing beneath her skin as they touched.
Just the idea of facing him for the entirety of the coach ride—without saying anything about what had transpired last night or what they meant to do about the attraction they clearly felt for each other—made her breath quicken.
Beckett Raines was better than all the lemon and strawberry ices, ever.
He sat beside Aunt Margaret as the coach rolled into the street. “If you accepted an invitation to this luncheon,” Iris said, a smile pulling at her cheeks, “why were you visiting Grove House?”
“The time quite escaped me,” he said easily. “No doubt I would have missed it entirely if you ladies hadn’t reminded me.”
“I’m happy we could be of assistance.” Lady Margaret leaned forward to flick down an edging of the lace on Iris’s left sleeve.
“You need to order some new gowns, dear,” she said.
“You are at least five years out of fashion. Quite possibly more. While Trent is rather old-fashioned himself, you must keep in mind that one of his sons or their wives will point out that you’re all out of twig. ”
“It’s much easier dressing as a male,” Beckett interjected. “The only things that change, really, are the length and cut of the coats and the knots in the cravats.”
Margaret laughed. “At least neither sex has to don powdered wigs any longer. My goodness, my head used to itch like the devil. And at the end of a long evening, my neck would begin wobbling from the weight of the blasted things.”
“I heard Queen Charlotte once wore a wig containing a birdcage with a half dozen singing wrens flitting about inside it.”
“Oh, I saw it!” Margaret patted Beckett on the knee as if he was a pet dog. “The birds made a horrible mess in there; evidently she had to have it burned after only wearing it once.”
“I hope she set the birds free before she had it thrown into the fire,” Iris commented, then realized she was gazing at Beckett yet again. Taking a quick breath, she turned to face the window.
“I’d like to think so. Queen Charlotte is a lovely, kind lady. If I’d had a girl child, I would have named her Charlotte.”
That caught Iris’s attention. “Did you wish children, then, Aunt Margaret?”
“Oh, heavens no. Not seriously. We considered it from time to time, I suppose, but as it never happened, we decided it simply wasn’t meant to be. I am not terribly fond of … babies, as it is. They are far too loud. And they smell.”
“I actually thought Rebecca smelled rather lovely,” Beckett commented, sitting back. “Most of the time, at least.” He chuckled.
“Well, of course she did. You poor man, having to raise her all on your own.”