Chapter Twenty
“There’s something I wish to discuss with you,” Pauline murmured, passing the salt to her brother-in-law, Lord Caldridge, who evidently only ate when he visited someone else’s home.
Otherwise, given the quantity he’d already devoured this evening, he would have been four times the size he was presently and weigh twenty-five stone.
“Of course,” Beckett said, glancing down the table to see Rebecca demonstrating the pull-the-napkin-from-beneath-the-plate technique he’d shown her several months ago and regretted ever since.
She placed her own half-full plate on the unfolded napkin, took hold of the two corners nearest her, and yanked.
Hard. The napkin slipped out from under the plate, which moved only an inch in her direction. “Thank the stars,” he muttered.
“What? You’ve been wanting to speak to me, as well?”
He looked back to see Pauline smile as she took a bite of some very fine roast peacock, which had been placed on the table with its tail feathers stuck back in and fanned over its back. They hadn’t restored the head, thank God, but it did look quite spectacular.
“I … I have.” He supposed putting this damned thing off any longer had become a pointless torture where he contemplated endless what-ifs.
But he’d met Lady Pauline before he’d met Iris, and he’d chosen Pauline because of her qualifications, and because, of the fifteen females his mother had thrown at him, she was the only one who’d passed muster.
The last time he’d followed his heart he’d been proven a fool, and the consequences had been worse than anything he could imagine. So the idea that he found one woman searingly compelling while he offered for another one only meant that he’d learned his lesson.
“We’ll wait until everyone’s settled in the drawing room, then,” Pauline whispered to him.
“Perhaps the children might begin a game of charades or something, and we can slip out for a moment. It occurs to me that we two have had but a handful of moments to chat as adults. It’s long past time we did so. ”
That didn’t sound like she was going to demand a proposal, at least. Immediately he grabbed on to the thought that he could live in his daydreams for another few days. And perhaps he might find one more opportunity to kiss Iris Silbern before doom landed on his head. “I concur.”
Down the table the children had set Trent beside Iris, and while for once he couldn’t read much of her expression, she seemed somber enough that he worried she’d already accepted the offer from the duke.
If she had, then he and Iris would need to stop.
Stop the friendship, stop everything. Because he was no longer certain he could remain in her presence and not do something utterly idiotic like tell her he’d fallen in love with her.
None of this was supposed to have happened, but it had, and now he needed to face it like the principled adult he tried to be.
At the end of dinner the women retired to the drawing room, and Edmund reluctantly accompanied them.
If Iris and Mrs. Brubbins hadn’t been there, he would have asked Rebecca to go up to her bedchamber.
His mother was in there. There was no guessing what wisdom she would impart to Rebecca if she had half a chance.
In addition, the Howard wives were, by his observations, as biting and self-concerned as the men, and while Pauline’s sisters were more polite, he wouldn’t precisely call them nice.
Or warm. The first time Iris let loose on them, they wouldn’t know what had hit them until they were on the floor, twitching.
“What’s so amusing, Hentrose?” Lord Elmond asked through his nose once the women and children had left the room. He motioned for his glass to be refilled. “You’re grinning like the cat that’s found the cream.”
“Am I? Just musing over the two youngsters bringing us all together, and how unneighborly I’ve been over the past few years,” he improvised.
“We are certainly not neighbors,” Elmond commented, “but I have no complaints about your food.”
“I’ll let my cook know.”
“Yes, do that. What’s her name?”
No one even bothered to be subtle any longer. “Her name is Lord Hentrose’s cook,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.
The rest of the men joined him, Trent shouting a laugh. “You can’t expect everyone to kowtow to you, Francis. Certainly not a marquis who actually owns his title. Ha!”
Elmond’s face turned red. “I am your heir,” he said, his jaw clenched, “but as I believe we’ve moved on from counting years to counting months until your inevitable demise, Your Grace, I can be gracious. After all, at the end of it everything you have will be mine.”
The duke laughed again. “Not everything. I mean, I suppose you could have wife number six, but she’ll be well spoiled before then.”
Beckett was on his feet before he could stop himself.
Taking a quick breath, unclenching his fist, he reached for the nearest bottle of wine and seated himself again.
“An odd way to speak of a prospective bride, Your Grace,” he commented, topping off his glass.
“Especially when I don’t believe she’s yet accepted your proposal. ”
“Yes, well, she will.”
A few seats down from Beckett, Lord Nyfeld cleared his throat. “Are congratulations in order, Your Grace? Who is the lucky lady?”
“You’ll n—”
“I don’t believe any lady would approve her name being uttered before her consent is given,” Beckett interrupted. “That is to say, it’s customary to become engaged before making the announcement.”
“Heh. True enough, young man. Someone’s got hold of his wits.” Trent leaned his elbows on the table. “You’re having a bit of a courtship yourself, are you not, Hentrose?”
“I am. When I know the lady’s mind, you’ll be one of the people I eventually inform.”
The duke cackled again. “You’ve a much better way with an insult than either of my sons. They could learn something from you.”
“Perhaps you might consider hiring a governess for them then, Your Grace.”
“I say, Hentrose. I will not sit here and be insulted like that.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to respond to Elmond just the way Iris had, but he had no desire to let the marquis know his conversation with her had been overheard. “Of course not. We are here at the behest of children, who wish us all to be friends. I apologize.”
The youngest Howard, Lord Michael, made a sniveling sound that might have been a snort. “Too easy,” the sixteen-year-old commented under his breath.
“I hope you live long enough, Lord Michael, to learn one day that offering an apology takes much more spleen than handing someone an insult.” Beckett took a generous sip of wine, wishing he’d requested whiskey, and wishing he was out in the garden sharing a bottle with Iris.
“Well said, Beckett.” Adam, Lord Nyfeld, nodded at him.
Hmm. He wasn’t certain why Rebecca had requested the Nyfelds attend, but he could believe that his daughter was concerned that he didn’t have many friends.
He and Nyfeld would never be bosom companions again, but if he was doomed to nightly soirees and balls, it would be pleasant to have someone with whom to chat.
His next thought was that he would still be able to chat with Iris, and he slammed the door on that thought the second it arrived.
Lord Michael’s father, Lord Elmond, smacked him on the back of the head. “Not another whisper until you can manage not to sound stupid.”
“At home do you all sit in a row to cuff each other?” Lord Caldridge, Pauline’s beefiest brother-in-law, chortled. “By God, Hentrose, I thought this house dull as dirt the last time I was here. This is much more entertaining.”
“Gentlemen,” his mother’s voice came from the doorway, the first time in years Beckett could recall being even vaguely happy to see her, “the ladies are waiting.”
“Thank God,” Nyfeld muttered, standing.
The nine of them, including the surprisingly silent Mr. Fredericks, strolled into the drawing room, and Beckett caught Nyfeld’s arm. “I wasn’t certain you would attend tonight,” he said. “I doubt I’ve given you reason to wish to return.”
The baron nodded. “I … am uncomfortable,” he noted, keeping his voice lowered. “We … I have noted a certain reserve between us. And … well, you know.”
“I believe I do.” Beckett had had bad luck pinned to him more than once over the past decade. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t convince another parent of that no matter how much breath he spent on the topic.
“And you’re harder than I recall.” Adam grimaced. “You were a jovial fellow, back in the day.”
“I’m not that idiot any longer, I’d like to think.” Beckett took a breath. “And probably not so carefree. But thank you for coming this evening. It’s good to know why you’ve been avoiding me, at any rate.”
“Yes. I should have explained myself. I apologize.”
Smiling, Beckett clapped the baron on the back. “Accepted. And likewise. I imagine the night will not improve.”
Snorting, Adam nodded again. “Thank you for the warning.”
He didn’t feel sharper edged, but he did assess people more quickly and with less leniency. If not for Rebecca, he imagined he would be considerably less joyful, because he did feel happy more and more often, even if he only showed that to a few select people.
On the far side of the room Pauline caught his eye.
She smiled, mouthed the word “library,” and a moment later rose and glided out of the room.
This was it, then, time for the overdue chat between adults.
And it was time to be an adult, and stop putting off a future with one woman because he couldn’t stop thinking about a different one.
Long before this Season he’d decided he had no use for love or desire. Logic and reason were safer.