Chapter Fourteen #2
Iris stifled a frown at her aunt. No one in her family had given her any sympathy for raising a child on her own.
She had received a few notes of sorrow for her loss, swiftly followed by exclamations that no one had any funds to spare or places for her to stay.
They’d been quite detailed in denying her things she hadn’t even asked for.
“It was … overwhelming at first,” he said, his expression closing down a little.
“Thankfully Mrs. Brubbins answered the advertisement I placed asking for assistance. Without her, I have no doubt Rebecca and I would be eating raw meat, lighting fires in the drawing room, and dressed either in rags or in nothing at all.”
“Oh, surely not, my lord. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“No, I think I give myself just the right amount of credit.”
Clearly Aunt Margaret didn’t know how to respond to that, because she gave a weak titter and suddenly had to look for something in her reticule. Iris looked back at Beckett to find him gazing at her, and she lifted an eyebrow. He gave a faint shrug, a brief smile touching his face.
She felt as if she’d been let into a joke that no one else understood.
How could they? The idea of having a partnership, no matter how poorly it functioned, and then having one of the pair simply not there any longer—it couldn’t be fathomed until it was experienced. And she didn’t wish it on anyone.
At least she’d had time before Thomas’s death to become accustomed to making decisions on her own, being responsible for things, having to keep to the budget despite at least half of it going into feeding the bottomless wagering bucket.
Beckett, on the other hand, had been handed a newborn baby and an hour later, a dead wife.
How many fathers even held their children except for portraits or for brief moments at family gatherings?
And he’d kept his sense of humor—or at least found it again—when she hadn’t even realized how far down hers had been buried until he’d reminded her that she did like to laugh.
The coach stopped, and a liveried footman pulled open the door and lowered the steps. “See to my chair if you would, dear,” Margaret said, not moving from her seat.
“I can manage that.” Before Iris could stand up, Beckett had left the coach and was giving instructions on how to unlash the chair and lower it to the ground without smashing it to pieces.
“Watch yourself around him,” Margaret said in a low voice.
“Lord Hentrose? He’s been nothing but kind to Edmund,” Iris returned, choosing her words carefully. “He and Rebecca have made our time in London a great deal of fun.”
“Well, perhaps Harold and I should have taken you to Vauxhall, then.”
“I didn’t mean that as an insult to you, Margaret. You and Harold have given us a place to stay. I am deeply grateful to you.” Less so now than before they’d thrown her at Trent and declined to lend her any funds, but she was willing to show some gratitude.
“Yes, well. It is pleasant to be appreciated. But you have a duke in pursuit, my dear. A duke who does not like to look foolish, and who knows there is a difference between his nearly betrothed being sought-after at a dance and being seen repeatedly in the company of an unmarried man. Even one the newspaper says will be betrothed any moment now.”
“I’m not pursuing Beckett Raines.”
“Are you ready, ladies?” Beckett asked, leaning back into the coach and extending his hand. “You first, Mrs. Silbern.”
Iris set her hand into his, goose bumps lifting on her arms again as they touched.
Oh, this was ridiculous. She knew better.
When she stepped down he kept hold of her a moment longer than he needed to, then he leaned in a bit as she brushed past him.
“I want another conversation like the one we had last night,” he murmured, continuing forward to help Aunt Margaret.
Oh, yes. She’d barely thought of anything else since.
It couldn’t last, but for the moment that intimacy and the pleasure that came with it had been welcome and warm and very arousing.
He was quite arousing. But he wasn’t meant for her.
She did need to watch herself around Beckett Raines—or she might well fall for him without even meaning to do so.
As they rolled through the front door, the butler stepped in front of Beckett. “May I help you?”
Margaret waved a hand at him. “The Marquis of Hentrose says he was invited,” she said, and gestured for Iris to continue forward.
“My lord. I … Certainly. If you would follow the ladies, my lord.”
Well, of course he was welcome; he had a title in front of his name. The question was whether he would be allowed to leave.
“You’re grinning like a loon, dear,” Margaret said as they entered the drawing room. “I can see it reflected in the windows. It’s almost more frightening than your frown. Do stop.”
A good two dozen guests were already gathered, and Iris tried to flatten her smile as Beckett rejoined them, his calm expression beginning to pinch. Every one of them was at least fifteen years her senior, dressed in finery more fit for a grand ball than a tea, and every one of them—
“There are a great number of women here,” Beckett muttered from beside her.
“You were invited, were you?” she murmured back, lifting an eyebrow. “You seem to be the only man here.”
“Ah, Lady Margaret,” the Duchess of Richmond, steel-gray ringlets around her face, purred, gliding forward to take Margaret’s outstretched hand, her voice rising and sinking like a dramatist reading a Shakespearean soliloquy.
“I’m so glad you felt well enough to attend our gathering. And everyone, this is Mrs. Silbern.”
A chorus of condolences echoed through the drawing room, so that Iris had no idea where even to look to acknowledge the sentiment. “Thank you,” she finally said to the air.
“Of course. We never know whether to be devastated or elated when our numbers grow.” Straightening, the duchess turned as her butler appeared, muttered something in her ear, and then retreated again.
“Ladies, we are blessed with an unexpected guest, the widower Lord Hentrose. It seems we’ve made some headway toward male enlightenment. ”
“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head.
The duchess clapped her hands together thrice as she turned to face the rest of her guests.
“For those who have attended one of our widows’ luncheons before, and for those who are here for the first time, I am so pleased to see all of you.
Some may say that sitting for tea is merely a pastime, a moment spent tossing things into a cup until they deliver a pleasing taste.
The preparation, serving, and drinking of tea, however, is an art.
And we are to become its unequaled artists. ”
“Good God,” Beckett murmured, joining in the applause.
“Now, let us gather in quartets around the tables, shall we?” On that note the butler threw open the doors of the large dining room, revealing seven small round tables at equal distances from each other, each one set with four chairs, a tea tray, teapot, teacups, tea saucers, bowls of sugar lumps and honey and milk and cream, tongs, serving spoons, and one or two things Iris couldn’t identify.
Before she could begin to speculate, the herd of women surged forward—all aiming for Lord Hentrose.
A fight nearly broke out between two of the ladies, each one tugging on an arm of the marquis, others exclaiming about how delighted they were to see a widower joining their group, and wouldn’t he prefer to sit with someone who knew what they were doing, and perhaps he’d be kind enough to assist a mature lady in lifting a teapot.
As for Beckett himself, she’d come to know him well enough to see that despite the faint, bemused smile on his face and his artful responses, the man was horrified.
And since he’d lied about being invited, she didn’t feel a smidge of compassion as she pushed Margaret to a table and deliberately went and sat at another one.
In the end the Duchess of Richmond had to assign seats, and Beckett ended up at the table behind Iris’s, sitting with his back up against hers.
“You might have warned me,” he whispered, taking his seat.
“Why did you come? I think we can safely say you were not invited.”
“I … The children insisted that I apologize to you for the Delilah debacle. Then I found myself swept up in the moment.”
The duchess had each of them lift a teapot, demonstrating the proper way to serve. Beckett’s efforts earned him a round of applause. “If you want to spend more time with me,” Iris murmured at the next opportunity, “you might say so.”
“We are friends. Do I need to announce that at the beginning of every conversation?”
“I still don’t think I’m the sort of friend Lady Pauline would like you having.”
Next came a demonstration on tea steeping, which thankfully didn’t involve audience participation. “Pauline knows we are friends. Our children are friends. What are you complaining about?”
“I’m not complaining,” she countered, smiling as the older woman beside her sent her a look.
“I’m stating that neither of us has any business following the other about on social calls.
No one will see anything innocent in our connection.
Nor should they. Both of us have other plans, and they do not include … this.”
“Does this mean you won’t accept my and Rebecca’s invitation to dinner this evening?” he asked after a moment, his voice taking on an edge that told her he didn’t like this conversation. Well, she didn’t like it, either. One of them, though, needed to keep hold of the facts.
“Stop being so charming.” She kept her face forward, accepting the sugar tongs from her other table neighbor. “And no, I don’t think that’s a wise idea.”