"Do you not play?" asked Eliza Kent of Bee as the guests filed out of the dining room.
"No. I wouldn't know the first thing about it."
"I’m a terrible gambler." The red-haired beauty sighed. "I think I shall go read. A good afternoon to sit before the fire, don't you think?"
When Bee agreed, the young woman headed for the stairs and her rooms. Delphine had done the same as had Neville Vaughn, Lord Bromley.
"Marjorie seems keen to play." Alastair stepped to her side. Bee had seen him at breakfast, a wide smile of welcome for him. He'd responded with less enthusiasm than she and she took it as her due for refusing his suit. She must get used to his indifference, she told herself, but was hollow at his loss. "Will you?"
"No. I leave such feats to Marjorie."
"Is she any good?"
"Excellent."
"Hmmm."
"Why do you ask?"
"Griff doesn't like her playing."
"Ah. He told you that?"
"Not in so many words." Alastair narrowed his gaze on her younger sister who spoke with a few of the men. "Does she cheat?"
Bee crossed her arms. "She says not."
"Well then. We must trust her, mustn't we?"
"Wait,” she blurted. “Are you avoiding me?”
He surveyed her with surprise in the depths of his arresting brown eyes. "Why? Do you miss me?"
"I do," she admitted on a long sigh.
"How good to learn." Then as she watched, he bowed and left her to join in a game of Hazard.
Deserted by him, Bee straightened her spine and marched up to her room. A good book seemed the perfect companion to cure her loneliness.
By supper, she was livid. Or sad. Or frustrated. How could she have been so unkind, so short-sighted? She cared for him madly and he seemed now indifferent.
Her supper partners were a gentleman, a Mr. Mark Trevelyan, a bachelor of some means whose estate was near Lewes, and Major Lord Bromley, Neville Vaughn.
Since Bromley and Bee had last met, he had inherited his father's title of viscount, as well as fought in the wars. This was the first opportunity Bee had to talk with him privately. She’d met him once briefly in London after he’d courted Delphine. Three years ago, as their father fell ill and his behavior became talk of the town, Delphine had met Bromley at a friend's home. She’d been terribly young and impressionable. For her, it had been love at first sight. For Bromley, as Delphine told it, he declared his love and desire to marry her. But his father refused, demanding he marry an heiress. And he had. Bee wondered where his viscountess might be, but good manners required she not ask.
"I imagine you are surprised to see me here," he said in a solemn tone.
"We had no word of you, only that we did not see your name among the wounded, lost or missing." Delphine had combed the casualty lists and told them her delight that he was not listed and must be well. "We're very pleased you're here. And whole."
"My right leg is not," he said trying to make light of his incapacity, "but I will take that in lieu of any other injury."
"And you are aided by your cane, which is good."
"I cannot march. In fact, I walk oddly. One of my men called it dot-and-go-one. Rather silly, but again, I take it." He took a bite of his beef in mushroom sauce and silence prevailed for an awkward moment. "When I heard from a friend Griff was coming home for Christmas, I asked if I might invite myself."
She met his intent grey gaze, worried that his presence would mar Delphine's happiness in this house party. "You are most welcome here."
"I hope so." He cast a dark glance down the table to where Del sat studying him. "My wife died last year, Miss Craymore. I mean to court your sister, if she'll have me."
"Well, my lord," Bee said and breathed in relief, "I wish you well."
"You see, I return to France in three weeks, resign my post with Wellington and sell my commission."
Bee tried not to be intrusive, but curiosity drove her. "To return home to your estate?"
"No. Although that does need my attentions. I have letters from the reinstated Bourbon king that I've inherited from my distant cousin a sizable estate along the Loire. All the heirs were killed in the Terror and I am to be the Comte de Valerie. I'm shocked, of course."
So was she. She put down her fork and knife. "What does one do to claim an old title and estate? Weren't all titles abolished under the Republic and Napoleon?"
As she learned about French aristocratic rights under the restored monarchy of Louis the Eighteenth, her attention swayed time and again to the man across from her who sat next to Eliza Kent. That lady made another play for the new duke of Kingston. And so once more, Bee's jealousy blossomed. Evil flower that it was.
By the time for the after-dinner charades, Bee fanned herself with fury to cool her ire.
Aunt Gertrude declared that all partners would depict a famous couple, real or fictitious from history. Marjorie had disappeared, most likely to the card room with two elderly gentlemen. Within the hour, she returned, looking pleased with herself which meant she’d won a considerable pot. But she joined in the charades with Griff calling her forward to draw lots to see who chose first, men or women. Griff drew the longer straw.
The men drew for partners first and Griff picked Bee's name from the bowl. He decreed he'd be Napoleon, she Josephine. He strutted around like a chicken to applause and the guests proclaimed his identity immediately. She pretended to be demure with a smile that showed no teeth, for poor Josephine had loved sweets to the point that her little teeth turned black.
"This was too simple," she declared when the guests knew them immediately.
The next round saw the ladies draw for the men. This time, Bee picked Alastair's name from the bowl. This time, the lady could declare who or what they were to portray.
"Come to the hall and we'll not risk others overhearing us," he said and stood aside to let her precede him.
"What is your pleasure?" he asked, with a more pleasant tone than he'd had this afternoon.
I want you to smile at me. "Pyramus and Thisbe."
"Dear god, that's morbid. I'll not do it. Choose another."
She mashed her lips together. "Robin Hood and Maid Marian."
"Agreed. I shall go about pretending to knock my arrow and shoot animals."
"Don't you think that's rather obvious?"
"Griff wasn't exactly a genius at his portrayal of Bonaparte."
She wanted to stomp her foot at him. "Well, I can't help it if he chose poorly."
He grumbled. "What will you do for Marian?"
Oh, well, that was a good question. "Admonish other merry men, then!"
"By doing what? Shaking a finger at them?"
"If we confound the others, that's a good act."
"And we win. Wonderful. So it is." He grabbed her hand. "Come on."
At the door, she halted. "I'm tired of your treatment of me."
"Oh?" He rounded on her. "And just what is that?"
She curled her fingers into her palms. "You ignore me. Or desert me. Or badger me."
"What would you rather I do?"
Kiss me. "Be as you once were with me. Kind and understanding."
He put his hands on his hips. Not happy at all. "You reject me in favor of...of your own self-esteem. What do you expect me to do?"
"You're right. Right. Of course, you are!" Frustrated with herself, angry with him, she swept past him to put a hand to the knob of the door and yanked it open. "I'm asking too much!"
But he whirled her around and pulled her into his arms. "I prefer this!"
And he kissed her, wildly, deeply, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth to taste every little bit of her for a long leisurely minute. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He was passionate, heady and in this moment totally and only hers.
She heard a man clear his throat.
"Oh, hell." With a startled face and shaking breath, Alastair steadied her to her feet.
Only then did she tur
n aside and see Simms staring down at them. Hands clasped behind his back, he rolled up on the balls of his feet. Triumphant, he'd done his job to close the doors behind him and keep their kiss private. "Did you wish to return to the game?"
Alastair scowled at her. "I'll go first."
"Wise," the butler remarked stepping aside for Alastair to pass. "'Good nature and good sense must ever join.'"
“Shakespeare?” she asked him, not knowing if she would laugh or cry. “Now?”
"He speaks to almost every problem," he said, shot his cuffs and strode to open the door for Alastair.
"You must stop grinning at me," she whispered in hot rebuke to Alastair the next morning as they left the breakfast room. He'd gazed at her, openly from far down the table while they dined among many house guests who came in and out.
"I'm sorry, darling, but I find the blush on your cheeks almost as delightful as the taste of your lips."
She ground her teeth. "Do me the courtesy to stay away from me today."
"But last night, you chastised me for being too far away."
"And then look what happened?"
"I know," he said with smooth satisfaction.
"So do amuse yourself elsewhere." This morning over eggs and toast, many a house guest peered at one then the other of them with amusement. They knew they'd kissed. More than once too.
He chuckled as he paused at the bottom of the stairs. "I won't. I shall be where you are, go where you do, bedevil you, my sweet. My promise."
"My torment."
"Ah. Such is courtship."
She picked up her skirts. "You are infuriating."
"I know." He was so satisfied with himself. "Where are you going?"
"To get my latest novel. Aunt wants me to lead those who wish to read in the library."
"They need leading?"
"You know what I mean."
"I do," he acknowledged. "Sounds breathtakingly boring."
“It might be.” She reflected on the likes of Carlson and Hallerton. The two men had become as attentive to her as puppies. Hallerton had also developed a fascination with Marjorie. This morning at breakfast, he’d asked for her and Bee had told him she hadn’t yet seen her.
"That's my Bee. I'll join you."
"You needn't."
"But I do need." He swept her a courtly bow. "I'm to my room to get my latest novel and my sheet music."
Tonight was to be the musicale. Everyone with any talent was to perform. Delphine was an accomplished pianist and astounded many always with her talents. Alastair, much to his father's despair, had developed an extraordinary talent at the keyboard and even as a child, had played with an expertise that astounded many.
"You'll play for everyone?" She hadn't heard him do so in more than ten years.
"I shall. I hope you will turn the pages for me." He climbed the stairs beside her.
"Of course." The imp in her welcomed the idea of helping him, being close to him, savoring his mouth again.
"Marvelous." He took her elbow. "Will you sing?"
She wrinkled her brow, her grimace one of feigned horror. "Yes, indeed, I can, if I wish to ruin everyone's digestion!"
He laughed again. "I like when you sing."
She rolled her eyes. "You like braying donkeys?"
"I like you."
"Oh, you are the worst liar," she said as she considered what fun it would be to have him utter such silliness to her every day.
As they mounted the landing, he stepped near to her and brushed his warm supple mouth on hers. "I speak the truth when I tell you I love everything about you."
"My morning rides? My accuracy with a pistol?"
He lifted his face to examine the ceiling. "I reconsider."
She laughed sharply and pulled away.
He drew her back. "I do adore your bravery, your sense of honor—and your lips."
Then, because she'd become accustomed to his claims upon her and his proposal to her, and because she felt flattered and pampered and honored that he pursued her and was so damn stubborn, she grinned before he kissed her. And she kissed him back.
"Your novel?" he asked her when he broke away.
"Hmmm." She tried to focus on his question. "What of it?"
"You need it."
"I do."
He swept a hand toward the hall.
She hurried toward her room, him on her heels.
And when she opened the door to her suite, he followed her inside and pressed her to the wall. He lingered and tasted, his lips insistent, fierce and achingly sweet. He crushed her to him with his poor arm and with his good one, secured her to him like an iron clamp. His tongue was fast, piercingly deft and sensuous. His fingers were gentle, stroking her throat and cupping her breast. He thumbed her nipple and through the many layers of her clothes, her flesh budded and blossomed and burned.
"Your novel," he said with a gruff voice as he stood away from her. "I wager it's not as thrilling as this."
Lolling her head against the wall, she surrendered a grin to him. "How right you are. And yours?"
His bewitching eyes shone like black diamonds. "Nothing compares to you, my love. No prose, no poetry."
No other woman?
"No one," he affirmed and tapped a finger on the end of her nose. "Your book. Mine." He pointed toward the door. "I shall see you in the library in five minutes."
Chapter 6
Bee clamped her teeth together, rabid to flee her place at the table. The servants had offered up a light supper. Simms kept a sharp eye on the measures the footmen poured but most guests imbibed the Christmas sherry and wine to excess. Hallerton, quite drunk, was busy regaling all with a story about his friends in Paris, complimenting Bee and no other female on her fashion sense. Finding that odd and unsettling, Bee grew fitful as Lord Carlson, to her immediate right once more, was becoming annoying. On his fourth glass, he was more than tipsy. Daring, in fact. He complimented her on her sapphire blue gown, her hair, her eyes. What he really enjoyed was her neckline. And that, demure but du jour, gave him little to ogle. Though heaven knew, he pretended enchantment so that she wondered if he loved her bosom or his liquor more.
"I understand you seek employment, Miss Craymore?"
Shock had her speechless.
"The registry? For governesses? In town?" he asked her, licking his lips, looking so licentious she recoiled.
"I do. I did."
"You wish to leave your aunt?"
"I wish to make an honest living."
"So good of you," he said, his gaze defining her face and décolleté with too much interest. "I have a niece. Young."
"Is that so?"
"She needs instruction."
"I see." Her gaze shot down the table to Alastair who watched Carlson with a darkened countenance. "Are you her guardian?"
"I could be. Might I offer you the position to educate her?"
She caught her breath, a hand to the ribbon at her throat. "Here? Now? This is sudden. A surprise. I...I'm not able to say, my lord. This is Christmas Eve, sir. I will not discuss business. Besides, I must help my aunt prepare for the musicale. Excuse me, do."
Catching Marjorie's eye, Bee tipped her head toward the door. Marjorie—cool as the church bell ice sculpture centerpiece—made her excuses and departed her dinner partners, Mark Trevelyan on one hand and Griff on the other.
"You've got two suitors," Marjorie said as they strode down the hall toward the music room. "Maybe three, if we allow Hallerton freer rein and move him down the table next to you for breakfast."
"Let's not."
"Coming to your senses over Alastair would fend off Carlson and Hallerton."
"I don't need to incite rivals to value Alastair's offer for its own merits." After this morning's kisses, she reassessed the logic of refusing him. As his wife, she would be able to help many on his estates, in his sphere. With education for the tenants in reading and writing and with advice on nutrition and health. More, as the woman he loved, she would have the
opportunity to enjoy once more what largesse came from being loved for oneself. She'd not had that in so long, she'd forgotten the intense value it added to one's days.
She pushed open the doors at the back of the house and went round to note that everything was in place. The pianoforte's bench. A stack of sheet music. The cello, its bow. The violin. "Carlson, however, becomes overbearing. I'd like to avoid him. I'll tell Simms not to place me near him."
"I'll help you avoid him." Delphine appeared beside them, fanning her very pink cheeks. "It's Christmas and we shouldn't have to fend off men we don't want."
"Only those we do?" Marjorie asked.
Delphine stared at her. "Speak for yourself."
"Where is Bromley?" Marjorie glanced at those entering the room.
Del looked pained. "He'll be pursuing another of our guests."
"You argued?" asked Bee.
“Yes. Silly, isn’t it?”
Marjorie nodded. "He came here for you, sweetheart."
"Did he?" Del glanced around the room, tears in her eyes. "Who would know?"
“Marjorie and I do. And in your heart, you do too.”
Marjorie dug a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it into Del’s hand. “Shall we sit together?”
"I prefer to stand," Bee said.
“As do I,” added Del.
“So I’ll stand with you,” said Marjorie with a tremulous grin.
Bee found in her younger sisters’ gazes the trust and companionship that had buoyed them through years of loss, deaths, disappointment, scandal and poverty. It was easy to love when life was good. More vital to keep faith with each other no matter what came.
* * *
He'd kill him.
Alastair shot up so quickly from his chair at the table that the damn thing tottered backward. He caught it, set it right and found Griff staring at him.
His friend approached with Bromley beside him. "I say, are you well?"
"Incensed." He curled his fingers into a fist. If the Customs man, Sir Henry Torrens was right in use of his evidence, this blackguard Carlson was pretending to woo Bee. Perhaps seduce her and ruin her, all the better to burnish his own reputation. Alastair had to protect her.
The Duke’s Impetuous Darling: Christmas Belles, Book 3 Page 7
