Her Officer and Gentleman

by Karen Hawkins

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said, instantly contrite. “What did you say?”

  “Lady Jersey says Westerville asked if he could meet her privately to discuss his mother.”

  “His mother?”

  “Yes. I don’t know the entire story, of course, but Lady Jersey thinks he’s on some sort of quest to find out about his past.”

  Beth found herself looking down at her gloved hands, which were clasped in her lap, the fingers neatly interlocked. Westerville had said something about searching for the truth. But what truth?

  The truth about his mother, perhaps?

  Beatrice pursed her lips. “I think I like the story of the Italian countess best, though I can quite see him as a highwayman. He does wear black well.”

  “As do all the best highwaymen,” Beth said in a dry voice. “Beatrice, did you find anything else out? Anything certain?”

  “Well…he dresses well and dances divinely. Lady Hemplewaite declares she’s in love with him, and Miss Lucinda Garner has already told her father—who is nothing more than a fat cit—that she will marry Westerville and no one else.”

  For some reason, the mention of so many admirers quite put Beth out of humor. “Yes, yes. The list of his admirers is endless. Lady Hemplewaite and Mrs. Edlesworth and Miss Sofia Longbridge and Julia Carslowe and—”

  “The Carslowe chit? The one with big front teeth? I didn’t know—”

  “Beatrice, the point is that it would be simpler to list those women who do not admire him rather than those who do.”

  Beatrice pursed her lips. “I can only think of one. You.”

  “If you knew him as I do, you wouldn’t think him so dashing, either.”

  Beatrice’s brows rose. “Beth, just how well do you know him?”

  Beth toyed with the ribbons on her reticule. “I may have spoken to him after our cabriolet ride.”

  “I knew it!”

  “It wasn’t anything serious. I ran into him at the British Museum.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “By yourself?”

  “No! Of course not. There were many people there. I was standing at one of the front cases, talking to a woman about a fan that was on display, and suddenly, he was there.”

  “I see. Did you speak for long?”

  Beth hoped her cheeks were not as red as they felt. “Not long, no. He…he knows I do not stutter.”

  “Thank goodness for that!” Beatrice exclaimed.

  Beth frowned. “That is not a good thing.”

  “It is for me,” Beatrice said frankly. “The sooner you get rid of that stutter, the better. It is most vexing for those of us who must listen to you.”

  “As soon as there are no more suitors, I shall do just that.”

  “I know, I know. And I do not blame you for taking up a stutter in the first place. Being placed upon the marriage mart is a fine idea for a chit of seventeen; you are too mature to be cursed with such an effort. What your grandfather should have done was simply sponsor some quiet house parties at Massingale House. House parties are all the rage nowadays. Perhaps I should mention that to him the next time I see him. I am certain he would—”

  “No. Beatrice, please. Massingale House is my home and I love it because it is peaceful. It would not be so if it was infested with obnoxious suitors who might trod upon my flower gardens, spill their wine on my carpets, and never give me a moment’s peace.”

  Beatrice looked at her oddly. “Beth, do you never wish to marry?”

  “Of course I do. Only…it must be someone interesting.”

  “And none of your suitors are interesting? What about the viscount? You seemed quite taken with him. In fact, I was worried you’d do something rash, like meet him in private or begin a correspondence with him, both actions that could get you into severe trouble with your grandfather. Of course,” Beatrice sent a sly glance at Beth, “your grandfather might well find the viscount a good match for you.”

  “You said it’s rumored he was a highwayman!”

  “He was a highwayman. Or a smuggler, depending on who you ask. Now it seems he has joined the cream of society and everyone is enamored of him. Beth, I was astounded at how many people are inviting him about.”

  “I am not surprised. The man thinks he’s a charmer.”

  “He does have excellent manners. I did hear that one of the stipulations of his fortune is that he cannot be involved in a scandal. Of course, now that I’ve thought about it a bit, I can see where he might have been desperate before coming into his inheritance. There is no telling what I might have become had I been left alone at the age of ten.”

  Beth raised her brows. “Left alone?”

  “His mother was imprisoned, charged with treason. It was later disproven, but he was left to fend for himself. He and his brother, Tristan, who is now the new Earl of Rochester.”

  Beth bit her lip, thinking of Westerville’s expression when he’d spoken of his past. There was something dark there. Something infinitely sad. She wondered if she’d dismissed him too quickly. Perhaps what he’d needed was understanding.

  But no. She couldn’t allow pity to rule her emotions. She had been right to decide to avoid him; it had been an act of self-preservation on her part. He was too handsome and too appealing for her to just allow him to walk in and out of her life, especially since she knew he wasn’t pursuing her for her own sake at all. His motives were unclear, but they had very little to do with her. Of that, she was certain.

  Which was still quite puzzling. Perhaps Beth should ask Grandfather what he knew about the viscount and his family. That might be the best thing. She caught Beatrice’s stare and lifted her chin. “I must say, you have certainly changed your opinion of the viscount.”

  “Not really. I think he is dangerous. But a man who is dangerous and ineligible is a different horse than one who is dangerous and eligible. There is no harm in being seen with Westerville, though I certainly wouldn’t advise anything more.”

  The cabriolet pulled up to the modiste’s on Bond Street, where a large window displayed an amazing assortment of bonnets. Beatrice collected her reticule and smoothed her gown. “By the way, we have an important decision to make. Tomorrow night there are two entertainments scheduled, which is quite unacceptable as they are both touted as the events of the season.”

  “They always are.”

  “Yes, usually by a friend of the person holding the event. Anyway, we must decide which we want to attend—the Crossforth Ball or the Devonshire Musicale. They are too far across town to attend both.”

  “The Crossforth Ball, please. The Devonshire set has never been a favorite of mine. The new duchess is positively horrid.”

  “I cannot abide her, myself. The entire lot of them is thick with politics, too, yet another reason to miss their musicale.” The coachman opened the door, and Beatrice gathered her skirts and stepped lightly out into the sunshine. “Very well then, the Crossforth Ball it will be.”

  Beth allowed the footman to assist her from the carriage. The sun warmed her instantly even as a cooling breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt. It was a lovely day.

  Beatrice tucked Beth’s hand into the crook of her elbow. “There it is!” Beatrice pulled Beth down the street to a large window filled with hats of all kinds and sizes. “Here is the adorable bonnet I saw yesterday! Beth, it’s just the thing for you.”

  Beth pretended an interest in the straw formed bonnet before her. It was quite pretty, even to her distracted gaze, trimmed with a blue and silver ribbon and adorned with flowers and tiny little bells. She had to admit Beatrice was quite right—the bonnet was adorable.

  But even as she looked at it, her mind roiled around the information Beatrice had given her. All those women interested in Westerville. It stood to reason, of course. He had wealth, title, and was certainly pleasant to look upon. Had those women any idea how talented he was at kissing—Beth didn’t want to even think about how the viscount wo
uld be pursued then.

  She wasn’t sure how long she was standing there, staring blindly into the display window before she became aware that her gaze was not focused on the bonnets or hats, but rather on the reflections in the glass. She and Beatrice stood, the wind ruffling their gowns. But it was the figure over Beth’s shoulder that captured her attention.

  Beth whirled around to face Westerville.

  He was standing directly behind her, dressed in his usual black, a damnable half smile on his face. He captured Beth’s hand, bowed over it, and placed a kiss on her gloved fingers. Beth’s body reacted instantly, a shiver tracing through her. She snatched her hand back and without thinking, hid it behind her.

  He laughed softly at the childish gesture and, color high, Beth forced herself to put her hands back at her sides.

  The sound of the viscount’s laughter turned Beatrice’s attention away from the display window. “Viscount Westerville! What brings you out today?”

  He bowed, tipping his hat in a rakish manner, his green eyes shimmering under his hat brim. “I am shopping, Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton.”

  “So are we!”

  His eyes found Beth’s and she saw that he was tempted to tease her, which would never do. Beatrice would miss nothing of this encounter, both because she wished to brag upon the meeting to all her friends, but also because she was still a bit wary about how Beth felt about the mysterious viscount.

  Right now, Beth could have set her cousin’s mind at ease—all she wanted was to get far away from the viscount, and soon. She wished with all her heart she was immune to the man, but the truth was, she was far from it. Every time he was near, her stomach tightened, her lips tingled in memory of their kiss, and her fingertips itched to touch him.

  His gaze met hers, and she thought she detected the slightest bit of mockery in them, though all he said was, “I wish to buy something for a friend of mine. A female friend.”

  “Oh!” Beatrice brightened immediately. “We can help you with that.”

  Beth had to grit her teeth to keep her smile in place. Beatrice was already imagining how much in demand she’d be if tomorrow morning she could tell one and all that she’d helped the dashing viscount choose a gift for his lady love. She’d be invited to every private party, every special event at Vauxhall, every balcony box at the theater.

  Well, Beth would put a stop to that. “Lord Westerville, I wish you luck in your purchase, but my cousin and I have many errands to do and we really must be going.”

  Beatrice frowned. “No, we don’t. Harry doesn’t expect us back for hours, and the only reason we came here was so that you could try on that bonnet I told you abut.”

  “Bonnet?” the viscount asked, slanting a look at Beth. “Perhaps I can help. I am considered something of an expert in assisting women with their raiment.”

  Beatrice gasped, but then laughed. “I daresay you are.”

  Beth did not find this nearly as amusing as her cousin. “Come, Beatrice. The viscount has many things to do and—”

  “Yes, I do,” he agreed smoothly. “I have many, many things to do. Like look inside this very shop for a bonnet.” He smiled down at Beatrice and held out his arm. “It so happens that I was looking for a specific bonnet for a female acquaintance of mine. A friend of the family, you might call her.”

  “How fortunate!” Beatrice said, all smiles and blushes as she took the viscount’s arm, glancing around as if hoping someone of importance might see her thus occupied. Seeing no one, she said to Beth, “Perhaps Westerville will give us his opinion of this hat for you, while we are here.”

  Beth had to force her stiff lips to smile. There was really little else she could do without appearing rude. With just enough reluctance to let Westerville know how she felt, she followed Beatrice into the store. Westerville stepped inside the door and released Beatrice and closed the door the second Beth whisked inside.

  While Beatrice went in search of someone to assist them, the viscount stood beside Beth, a bit too closely for her peace of mind.

  Of course, anything this side of London Bridge was too close, so perhaps it was too much to expect him to keep a healthy distance.

  A young lady bustled forward, Beatrice following as they went to the window to remove the admired bonnet. While the two were thus engaged, Beth hissed under her breath to Westerville, “You, my lord, are incorrigible!”

  He looked at her with such an innocent expression that for an instant, her lips quivered irrepressibly. He must have caught her spontaneous amusement, for his innocent air slipped behind a grin. “I don’t know what you are talking about, my dear. I am just shopping.”

  “For a woman?”

  “Yes. An elderly woman.”

  This startled her a bit. She glanced toward Beatrice to make certain she was still well out of hearing, before whispering back at the viscount, “Lady Jersey, perhaps?”

  His brows shot up. “Lady Jersey would not appreciate being described as ‘elderly.’”

  Beatrice came over at that exact moment with the bonnet held aloft like a prize, “Here, Beth! Do try this on! I would buy it for myself, but the colors are horrid with my eyes.”

  Beth raised her brows. “The bonnet is trimmed in blue.”

  Beatrice colored. “So?”

  “Your eyes are blue. It would look wonderful on you.”

  “But it is perfect for you—Westerville! You are here. You must tell Beth it’s the most beautiful hat you’ve ever seen and that she looks positively ravishing in it!”

  Westerville nodded, his green eyes sliding over Beth as he bowed. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Beth hid a grimace. But she had no choice; she took the bonnet from Beatrice and walked to the mirror to put it on, far too aware of the viscount’s presence for her own peace of mind. It was so awkward, doing things while he was about. Her hands and arms felt wrongly jointed, as if they’d suddenly grown larger than they should be.

  Still, she forced herself to stop before the mirror and place the hat on her head. She tied a bow to one side of her chin, then turned. “Well?”

  Westerville crossed his arms, tilting his head to one side as he carefully looked her over. Though his attention was supposed to be on her hat, his gaze wandered literally everywhere. Beth shifted her feet, her face heating. “Westerville, if you do not have an opinion—”

  “I have an opinion. That bonnet…” He leaned back and tapped a finger against his lips. For all his serious expression, his eyes laughed at her. “I believe I like it quite well. It makes you appear younger.”

  Beth narrowed her gaze. “It is obvious you know nothing about bonnets.”

  “Beth!” Beatrice bustled up. “I am certain Lord Westerville knows all about women’s bonnets.” She blinked. “I mean, I do not mean that he knows all about them, but—”

  “I know more than the average man,” Westerville finished helpfully.

  She beamed. “Exactly! Therefore, Beth, you should let him render his opinion. For my part, I think it is ravishing! Even more on you than in the window, which is not usually how things happen for me. I don’t know if it’s the color or the shape of the brim, but it suits you monstrously well.”

  Westerville nodded. “Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton, you are an arbiter of taste. You have created a picture of loveliness that will stay with me for days to come.”

  Beth saw the exact moment her cousin melted. It was obvious in the way she giggled a bit when he bowed in her direction. And no wonder—in one short statement he had validated Beatrice’s sense of fashion with an almost pithy quote. And a quote it would become when Beatrice repeated it far and wide.

  The viscount sent a glance toward Beth from under his long lashes. “Lady Elizabeth, what do you think of that charming bonnet?”

  She untied the ribbon and took it off. “I don’t know; I am not a woman given to sudden decisions.” She handed the bonnet to the disappointed assistant who hovered nearby. “I shall think on it a few more days, and if I find myself longi
ng for it, I shall return.”

  His gaze narrowed. “And if you don’t?”

  “If I find it unworthy of my time and effort, then I shall leave it in the window for some other women of less discriminating tastes.”

  Beatrice gasped. “Someone else is bound to see it and snap it up and then where will you be?”

  “Yes,” Westerville said, his lips curved in a knowing smile, “then where will you be?”

  “Precisely as I am now,” Beth said, turning to the door. “Perfectly happy without the bonnet.” With that, Beth turned and made her way back to the street. Westerville and Beatrice caught up with her there.

  Beatrice looked regretfully at the display window where the assistant was placing the hat back on a stand. “You are going to regret that decision. At least let me purchase it for you now and if, later on, you decide you don’t wish for the hat, you can give it to your stepmama.”

  “Charlotte would like that,” Beth said, “though the color is too strong for her. She needs more muted blues.”

  “I suppose you are right,” Beatrice said with a disheartened sigh.

  “The bonnet is better left in the window where it can be admired.” Beth slanted a gaze toward Westerville. “I think it rather enjoys that.”

  “Who doesn’t?” The viscount looked at her from beneath his lashes. “Even you enjoy being admired.”

  Beth sniffed.

  “Oh, I know when you enjoy something, my lady.” He leaned a little closer and said under his breath, “I can taste it on your lips.”

  Beth gasped.

  “I beg your pardon,” Beatrice said eagerly, trying to lean closer. “What did you say?” She looked at Beth. “What did he say? I couldn’t hear.”

  “Nothing,” Beth said, her face heated. She shot a resentful look at the viscount. “Westerville merely sneezed.”

  His brows rose, an amused twitch to his lips. “Indeed. I fear I am allergic to beautiful women. Walking between the two of you is almost overpowering.”

  Before Beth’s disbelieving gaze, Beatrice broke into a decided simper. Beth sent an annoyed glare at the viscount.