Chapter Six #2
But her face didn’t change. She was like a horrid Samhain turnip carving. “I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”
“That!” he said, leaping up. He honestly could not stand fakery.
And this was the worst kind, because he knew she hated it, too.
A person couldn’t spend five minutes in the company of the real Mrs. Reid and not know it.
“Always reminding me of my rank. You haven’t used a ‘my lord’ once in the previous weeks, and now you’ve done it four times in one sitting! ”
“Five,” she blurted.
He twirled back around to pin her with his eyes. “Aha!” he cried, pointing his fingers. “There you are. I knew you were still in there somewhere. Has something bewitched you? What is going on?”
“I know not what you mean, my lo—”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, using his hand as its own stop.
“Not another ‘my lord’ out of you. I’m not a violent man, but dear God, that strange grimace you are wearing makes me want to slap it right off your face.
Why are you doing this? Is this a game to you?
” He straightened, another thought occurring. “Are you mocking me?”
Part of the grimace fell away. She no longer crinkled her eyes in that strange manner, but her limbs were still held in that awkwardly rigid manner. “I would never mock you, my—sir.”
“Ha! That’s not true, and we both know it.
I thought you didn’t lie, Mrs. Reid. That was what you told me.
” Beckett was too hot to exist in this room.
He wanted to pull off his cravat that was restricting his neck.
Instead, he had to settle for running his hand through his hair, trying to release the heat that emanated.
“I am not lying,” she protested, but it was a weak one. Her voice was small and horrid, mechanical and thin.
“Then say what you mean, woman. Respect me and tell me to my face what has changed in the hours since I saw you last.”
The rictus fell from her face, and her body sagged.
She’d given up whatever pretense she was attempting to hold to.
Whatever game this was. His heart stopped pounding with anger and he slowed down, sinking back into the sofa.
He wanted to go to her on her side of the room, take her hand, and ask what on Earth was the matter.
“Mrs. Reid. Please. What in all damnation is going on here?”
Her chin remained cast down, and he could barely recognize the woman he knew. She looked dejected, beaten. “I suppose I should tell you the truth, since that is what both of us typically demand.”
“Quite,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I don’t like being mocked, nor do I like being uninformed.”
“I am not mocking you,” she said.
“Then what was this show all about? Your hair?”
Her hand went to the curls that hung beside her cheeks and she yanked, as if she could straighten them with one hard pull.
He could see her pale skin stretch and it hurt him to see.
The fact shocked him. He had always believed that was an old wives’ tale, to feel hurt when someone else was hurting.
But he felt the pain of hers, deep in his chest. He could almost feel his chest crack open, as he saw her flagellating herself.
He reached out. “Mrs. Reid, please. The curls are pretty, but they just aren’t…you. I must ask again, what is this charade?”
“Charade?” she asked, looking at him. Now he could see hurt in her expression, which he didn’t understand at all.
“Yes, charade. You are wearing more ribbons than one person ought to possess, with your hair dressed as if for a ball. You my lord me five times—” he looked at her to see if that indeed was the correct number, but she said nothing, so he assumed it was correct.
“—and you won’t state an opinion or a fact at all.
And your face! Whatever made you take this grotesque expression of your normally pleasing features? ”
Ah, there. Her face moved into a shrewd and calculating look he knew well. She was parsing his words in that machine-like mind of hers, about to break down some new folly he had committed. She swallowed, sighed, and shook her shoulders out of the slump, and held herself to her normal upright self.
“Let us speak over this Assam, shall we? It’s usually my favorite. I’d hate for the tea to grow cold.” She poured for both of them, the steaming brew a deep red brown that was not unlike her hair. The aroma was rich and he sat back with his cup—no need for milk or sugar in tea this fine—and waited.
She took no additions to her tea either, but she took her time eyeing him. “I am embarrassed, sir.”
He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. “You don’t look embarrassed.”
“I have no doubt of that,” she said. “My outsides rarely match my insides.”
“Is that what that face was all about?” He pulled an approximation of her rictus grin.
At least she had the good humor to chuckle at him. “Quite.”
“What was it for? What purpose did that expression serve?”
She cleared her throat and sipped at her tea, not looking at him. Ah, there was the embarrassment. He could learn to read her better, that was true. But he was learning that now, which was not nothing.
“I was attempting to behave like an attractive lady.”
Beckett almost spit out his tea. “Like a what?”
“An attractive lady. A woman who would be seen as the marrying kind. The available kind. But not in those harlot sort of ways.”
He couldn’t believe she just said the word harlot to him. But it was better than not saying anything at all. He was having trouble parsing all of this. Did she need to practice this behavior? Was there a ball coming up? “And what was the purpose in behaving in such a manner?”
She looked at him as if he were the dumbest creature to ever walk the Earth. That Noah had inadvertently added two creatures to his ark, named Fool and Stupid, and he was their descendant. This, at least, was a familiar expression from her.
“I wanted you to see me as an attractive lady.”
For some reason, as soon as he heard those words, his hearing stopped working. All he could hear was a high-pitched whine. He could no longer take deep breaths. The teacup dropped. The spilled hot water seared his thighs. He hopped up, pulling the wet wool away from his body.
“Oh dear,” she said, with real concern. “Jacobs!”
The manservant entered and immediately saw the concern. The hot water burned through his trousers. He ushered Beckett to another room, fetching towels and his footman. It was a small powder room, though clearly it was now being used as storage.
“Are you well my lord?” his footman called through the door as Beckett undid his trousers to see if he had scalded himself.
Fortunately, he hadn’t, though the pale skin that never saw sun was red from the heat of the spill.
His valet would be upset that he’d have to redye the fabric to hide the stain.
But perhaps the man knew tricks to get tea out of wool.
“I’m fine, thank you. But I’d like you to fetch me a new set of trousers and return straight away.”
“You won’t be leaving sir?” The footman sounded surprised.
“I want to try all that damnable tea,” he snapped. He’d been looking forward to it all week. There was nothing more pleasing than the perfect cup of tea, and he wanted to see the expression on Mrs. Reid’s face when they found the one together. “Fetch me new trousers.”
The footman left, and Beckett rebuttoned the fall of his trousers, not tucking in his shirt. Well, now what would he do, with twenty minutes of standing in a small closet, the only light coming from the small window at head height?
The towel had soaked up some of the tea, so he wasn’t sopping wet. Still, what an irritation. What had made him drop his cup? Oh yes, her protestation that she wanted him to see her as an “attractive lady.” It made his skin crawl to think about it.
Not her, of course—she was a perfectly lovely girl. But he hated machinations, and she had suddenly put designs on him? Why? She’d hated him at first sight, which was the correct thing. Had she realized he had money? Was that her angle?
People were terrible, and believing such at the outset of introductions saved a good deal of time and energy.
But her face—he shivered. No. He would not allow her to become some simpering wretch.
This was unacceptable, and he would need to restate his position of non-marriage to her again.
How fucking miserable and exhausting it was to have to do so.
Though, he’d been such a boor about the whole thing, perhaps she would no longer be interested. One could hope.
He sighed and leaned against the wall. The powder room, spare in decoration, did house an open crate of what appeared to be canvases.
Unwillingly, he glanced at the door, as if he could see through it to the woman beyond.
These were undoubtedly her paintings, stored away so as not to be seen by anyone.
But if she truly didn’t want anyone to see them, wouldn’t she have painted them over?
Whitewashed them so as to paint on top of them?
Canvases were not cheap things, and Mrs. Reid had said she was on a budget.
Well, he had some time while he waited for clean trousers. He slid the crate out of the corner, surprised at how heavy it was. There had to be at least ten canvases in here, stacked upright like ledger books. He pulled one free and held it up to the pallid light of the window.