Her Officer and Gentleman

by Karen Hawkins

  Harry walked back and forth in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. Every third trip or so, he’d stop, look at Beth, close his eyes as if to dispel her image, then glumly turn back to his pacing.

  It was horrid. Each time he looked at her, Beth wished the ground beneath her chair would open and swallow her whole, but no such luck was to be had.

  Sad as Harry’s reaction was, it was not nearly as bad as Beatrice’s. Upon finding Beth and Westerville locked in an embrace on the billiard table at the Devonshire Musicale, Beatrice had promptly gasped, screamed, and then fallen into a senseless heap at Lady Jersey’s feet.

  Nothing could have been more ruinous. Beatrice’s scream drew attention and brought even more people to peek over their shoulders where Beth was frantically attempting to put herself to rights while Westerville glared at their audience with a white fury that even now sent a shiver through her.

  He’d been horridly silent except when Harry had, in a rather stiff voice, requested Lady Jersey’s silence. The viscount had interrupted the request with a short, derisive laugh that had quite set up Her Ladyship’s hackles. It had been a very poor move for there was no hiding the malice that shone from Sally Jersey’s eyes at his dismissal.

  The next hour had passed in a blur. Westerville had refused to acknowledge Harry’s demands for satisfaction, made a bow to Beth, told her that he would visit her soon, and then taken his leave. Slowly, the crowd had dispersed, including the horrid Lady Jersey. After taking a rather red-faced leave of their host and hostess, Beth, Beatrice, and Harry had finally returned home.

  Once there, they had retired to the sitting room, and there they’d been ever since, turning the horrible event over and over, wishing for a solution. None was forthcoming. Beth must face Grandfather and tell him the truth.

  As bad as the night had been, today was going to be an even longer day. Beth did not know whether to laugh or cry, but she feared at any moment she might do both.

  From where she lay on the settee, Beatrice moaned loudly, her smelling salts clutched in one hand. “I cannot believe this. I simply cannot believe this.”

  Beth rubbed her head where it had begun to ache. She couldn’t believe it, either. She’d known she had to avoid the viscount. She’d known it and yet, somehow, she’d failed to do it. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that there was a deeply sensual connection between herself and Westerville. She didn’t really know how to describe it…only that it existed.

  Still, that did not explain what had happened in the billiard room. Beth rubbed her temples wearily. What had happened was a mixture of passion, attraction, and—strangely enough—anger. It had been a heady, thoroughly irresistible mix.

  Beatrice moaned. “I cannot believe this. All is ruined.”

  “No,” Harry said, pacing wildly. “There must be something that can be done. I cannot allow that all is lost.”

  “It’s lost, Harry,” Beatrice said, sniffing loudly, and waving her handkerchief as she spoke. “Lost, lost, lost! The second he hears what has happened, my great uncle will descend upon the house and—oh, I don’t know what he will do!” Tears threatened. “But he will be so angry with me for failing to take care of Beth!”

  “He will not be angry with you at all,” Beth said quietly. “Nor you, Harry. He knows I am no milk and bread miss to be taken at a glance. What I did, I did myself, and no one else will pay for it.”

  Beatrice’s lips quivered. “The duke will blame me for—”

  “He will not! I will see to it that he knows this is entirely my fault.”

  “No,” Harry said grimly. “It is Westerville’s fault and so your grandfather will say.”

  “I am not a child to be led astray. I knew exactly what I was doing.” She’d been lost in a blaze of passion unlike anything she’d ever dreamed or read of. But had she wished it, she could have stopped the entire incident. Westerville was many things, but he had never forced her in any way. He may have been annoyingly present and perhaps a little demanding—deliciously so, in fact—but nothing more.

  She sighed. “I shall speak to Grandfather and—”

  “No!” Beatrice said, swinging her feet to the floor and slumping wearily against the cushions on the settee. “Let Harry deal with it. He will travel to Massingale House as soon as he’s had breakfast and will let the duke know what’s occurred.”

  Harry stopped his pacing, turning to Beth. “Yes. I will tell the duke how that—that—that person tricked you into—”

  Beth stood. “No. You will not tell Grandfather that because it would be untrue. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

  Harry’s expression softened. “Beth, my dear, Westerville is an experienced seducer. You don’t know how these things work, but trust me on this, he is not what you think him.”

  “I know enough to realize that what you are saying isn’t true. This was not Westerville’s fault at all. I just—”

  “Beth!” Beatrice exploded, throwing herself to her feet. “How can you stand there and defend that man? Especially after the way he simply left? Without a word! Not even—an apology or—” Beatrice pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Do not look at me that way, Beth. I know what I am talking about. An honorable man would have been here first light, ready to make things right. But where is he, I ask you?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’ll tell you where he is,” Beatrice said, her jaw hard. “He is out somewhere seducing yet another woman. There aren’t enough women in the world for men like him.”

  Beth’s hands curled into fists. But before she could answer, the door opened and the butler stepped in. “Sir. Madam. Miss.” He paused dramatically. “The Duke of Massingale and Viscount Westerville.”

  Beth whirled to face the door. Beatrice clutched her hands to her heart, while Harry muttered an impatient oath and started forward.

  A large, gold-knobbed cane in one hand, Grandfather hobbled painfully into the room. He did not spare Beth so much as a glance, though he had plenty of time to glare at Beatrice and Harry. Beth’s heart squeezed painfully, though she refused to let the tears rise.

  Westerville followed Grandfather. Dressed in a riding habit of unrelenting black, his face tense, he looked as dark and dangerous as ever. He was dangerous, Beth thought miserably.

  His gaze swept the room, finding Beth almost immediately. She tried to read his expression, but could not. Beth didn’t know what to think. Unlike the others, she knew Westerville had a special reason to wish to see Grandfather, and now, because of her foolishness, she’d given him the perfect excuse.

  Her eyes narrowed, a horrid thought rising. Was this what he had planned all along? Perhaps Harry was right. Perhaps Westerville had purposefully seduced her to gain access to Grandfather. Her jaw tightened with each thought.

  Grandfather walked straight to the large chair by the fire and sank into it, wincing as he did so. “Damned leg.” He flared a hot glance at Harry. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Get me some brandy.”

  Harry started toward the small table in the corner of the room, then stopped. “Brandy?”

  “Damn it, yes! And be quick about it.”

  “But…it’s not even seven in the morning!”

  Grandfather glared. “What? You don’t drink in this house until eight? Sissies, the lot of you!”

  Harry sent a startled glance at Beatrice, who managed a weak shrug. “Very well, then,” Harry said, a note of uncertainty still in his voice. “I suppose a glass wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t hurt! Didn’t hurt me an hour ago when I had two glasses, did it? Won’t hurt me now.” He glared at Westerville. “Demmed if I didn’t need more, though, having to deal with such a frolic.”

  Grandfather’s gimlet gaze now rested on Beth. Something passed over his face, a flicker of…was it uncertainty? Whatever it was, it was gone in a second and in its place was his usual, irascible expression. “There you are. Making a mess of things, are you?”

  Beth
took a steadying breath. “Grandfather, I was going to come and see you this morning—”

  “Not before I was,” Harry said somewhat desperately. He handed the duke a glass of brandy. “My lord, something has occurred. Something dreadful. I feel—it is unacceptable what has happened, for I took your granddaughter under my roof and thought to protect her and—”

  “Well, well. Can’t be everywhere at once, can you?” Grandfather said in an unexpectedly mild tone. “Demmed good brandy, Thistle-Bridgeton. Better than mine.”

  A stunned silence met this. Harry looked at Beatrice, who shrugged helplessly. “My lord,” Harry tried again. “I was coming to see you after breakfast—”

  “After breakfast, eh? Well, you’re a mite too late for that. You should have known Westerville here wouldn’t wait for you to come and sweep off his porch. He did it himself. Came to me last night, in fact, and told me the whole.”

  Beth’s mouth dropped open. “All of it?”

  Grandfather’s bright eyes pinned her for a moment. “Aye. How he set out to seduce you and almost did so. Won’t pretend I was happy with the whole thing, for I’m not. Westerville acted like a damned scoundrel.”

  The viscount gave Grandfather a mocking smile, then bowed. “I have tendered my apology. My behavior was unacceptable.”

  Grandfather snorted, sending Westerville a hard look from beneath his craggy brows. “That’s not the half of it. You’re lucky you’re young, wealthy, and titled. If you weren’t, I’d have shot you last night.”

  Westerville’s mouth tightened slightly, but he merely bowed again, and said nothing more.

  Beth’s cheeks heated. “Grandfather, did…did the viscount tell you why he did this?”

  Westerville answered. “I set out to seduce you because I could not help myself.” His gaze flickered over her. “You are a beautiful woman, my dear, and I am, alas, but human.”

  The fool. Beth glared at him.

  Grandfather set his empty glass on the table. “Looks like her mother, she does.”

  Westerville had not told Grandfather everything then. He was playing a deep game, there was no doubt about it. One she wanted no part of. But what could she do? Announce that he had seduced her for no other reason than he was looking for evidence of a long-ago crime and needed access to Massingale House? That would solve nothing. If she knew anything about Westerville, it was that he was persistent to the point of death.

  If she protested, he would simply overrule her, and now that he had Grandfather so firmly on his side…No, now was not the time. If she pressed this, there was a very real likelihood Grandfather might force her to marry the viscount. She would wait until she had him alone, and then she would make him see reason. For now, with so many people about, her hands were tied.

  But if she seethed at the circumstances, it could honestly be said that Westerville smoldered. Every line of his body was tight with barely suppressed anger, and she knew it had gone sorely against his principles to confess to Grandfather what had occurred. Beth eyed him uneasily. He stood beside the door they’d come in, his arms crossed over his chest, rocked back on his heels. His black hair fell over his brow, his green eyes bright as if ready for a challenge.

  He smiled at Harry, a cold, insulting smile. “I beat you to the punch, did I? You should have gone to see the duke last night, as I did.”

  Harry started forward, hands fisted.

  Grandfather held out his cane, hooking Harry’s leg.

  “My lord! Unhand me!”

  “No, damn you!” Grandfather snapped. “There’s to be no fisticuffs, not while I’m here!”

  Harry controlled himself with an effort. “My lord, you don’t know the character of this man!”

  “I know him well enough.” Grandfather looked at Westerville with a critical eye. “Won’t say as I like this upstart, for I don’t. But I will say this; he has more sand than most of the fluff heads who wear titles today. And more eloquence, too.”

  “My lord!” Harry said, his face red. “There are rumors—I must tell you—you need to know it is said that this man was once a common highwayman!”

  “That,” Westerville said, “is a lie. While it is true I was once a highwayman, I have never been common.”

  Grandfather barked a laugh. “There! See why he’s at least stomachable as a grandson-in-law? The man already told me that story last night. Told me about every despicable thing he ever did. Bored me to death, but I suppose it was for the best.”

  Beatrice pressed a hand to her heart, her wide gaze on Westerville. “You mean…it’s true? You were—I cannot believe it!”

  He bowed, a sardonic twist to his lips. “Gentleman James, my lady.”

  Harry’s lips thinned. “Damned braggart.”

  “Oh, he is a braggart, that I will give you,” Grandfather agreed. His gaze rested on Beth, and for the first time, she saw the determination shining in his eyes. “He is also my granddaughter’s fiancé.”

  Fiancé? Beth blinked. Beatrice gave a faint scream. Harry stared. And through it all, Westerville just stood, smiling at the lot of them.

  Chapter 12

  It is a servant’s greatest pleasure to take pride in his master’s appearance and actions. Or so I have been told.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  Three days later, Jameson motioned for the footman to lower the tea tray for inspection. The butler critically eyed the small silver pot filled with fragrant, steaming tea. A matching service of cream and sugar sat in the center, delineated by a single silver teaspoon engraved with twining roses.

  A delicate china cup, painted with blue and yellow flowers, had been placed beguilingly empty to one side, while on the other sat a small china plate covered with a tempting array of tea biscuits.

  The butler looked at the tray a long moment, then added a napkin of the whitest linen and one, single rose. Satisfied all was as it should be, he nodded. “Follow me.”

  He led the way to the garden. The sun peeked merrily through the trees. The wind stirred the tiniest bit, cooling the air to a perfect temperature.

  He went down the main path, then through a small gate to one side, and passed under an arbor. There, at the end of the path, on a low marble bench, sat Lady Elizabeth.

  Jameson paused when he saw her, for she looked like a picture—sitting in her white gown, the skirts ruffling in the wind, her blond hair framed by the dark green hedgerow behind her. There was no mistaking the downturn of her mouth, an unusual sight that sent his old heart plummeting.

  For the last three days, the entire household had been under a cloud. Just this morning, the upper maid had burst into tears for no reason and one of the grooms—a stout fellow who had been in the master’s employment for years and years and never caused a single flicker of harm—had forced a fight on one of the stable hands and ended up with a broken nose.

  “The mistress is a lovely woman,” the footman said softly. “Pity about—”

  Jameson sent him a searing glare.

  The man fell silent and red-faced.

  “This way, Master Charles. If, of course, you are through gossiping.”

  Chastised, the footman nodded miserably. Jameson turned and led the way to the end of the path. “My lady?”

  Beth looked up, raising her brows at the sight of the tea tray. “Oh! Why, thank you, but…I did not request tea.”

  “No, my lady. I took it upon myself to bring it. I thought perhaps you would enjoy the sunshine a bit longer.”

  Her face softened. “You are too kind.”

  “My lady, we are just glad to have you home.” Jameson ordered the footman to place the tea on a nearby bench and then shooed the man away. The butler made a few minute adjustments to the tray. “The tea is quite hot, my lady.”

  She smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. “Unlike Grandfather, I will not hold you responsible if it’s either too hot or too cold.”

  “Thank you,
my lady. That is a great relief.”

  Usually this dry sort of sally would have brought a smile. Today, she barely dredged up an acknowledging nod before sinking back into silence.

  Jameson had to swallow a sigh. Lady Elizabeth had not been herself since she’d returned from London, engaged and disgraced. It was horrifying to think that being in town might have such an effect on such a level-headed young lady. It had been suggested that Her Ladyship had been importuned by a rakehell. Indeed, Jameson himself had witnessed the young man’s arrival late at night, and heard the subsequent verbal thrashing the duke had delivered.

  Jameson shuddered thinking about it, though the young man had fared fairly well, emerging from the library pale, his eyes flashing with suppressed fury, but his pride unbowed.

  It was a pity things had come to such a pass; everyone had hoped Lady Elizabeth might meet a nice, quiet gentleman and fall in love. Jameson was beginning to wonder, judging from Her Ladyship’s face, if perhaps stronger feelings were indeed involved.

  Of course, it was not his place to suggest such things. So instead, he confined himself to pouring Her Ladyship a cup of tea and fixing it just as she loved it—with cream and a liberal dosing of sugar.

  Though Jameson would not admit as much, he was worried. Things at Massingale House were not as they should be. His Lordship had been unusually quiet and spent a considerable amount of time sitting at the window of his library, staring out at the garden. Lady Charlotte was staying in her room even more than usual, seeming more restless and distracted than before. But the worst was Lady Elizabeth; she had lost her smile, which was something Jameson had never thought to see.

  The butler waited a moment more, busying himself by dusting the surrounding stone benches with his handkerchief. He wished he could find the words to let Lady Elizabeth know that he and the rest of the servants were with her in spirit. But no spate of brilliance descended upon him and so, with nothing more than a kind smile and a heavy heart, he left, hoping the tea might revive her a little.