Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  What a clever way for him to distance himself from her. Disappointment crowded out the feelings of camaraderie that had tried to blossom within her heart. She had hoped he would give her a clever rejoinder, but he took the safe road and gave her a simple compliment. But what had she expected? She had begun to suspect that Mrs. Parton was pushing her toward the viscount, but with every push in his direction, Lord Greystone took a decisive step back.

  Well, two could play that game. She had been hurt enough by her brother’s destructive ways. She would not let Lord Greystone add to her pain, no matter how much she came to admire him for his charitable endeavors and his social graces…toward anyone but her.

  *

  What Greystone meant for a compliment had somehow offended Lady Beatrice, but he could not imagine why. Ah, well. He would be the first to admit he was not wise in the ways of young ladies, other than their simpering insincerity that Lady Beatrice had mocked so delightfully just now. After his first two Seasons in London, when most of the women he had spent time with were not ladies, he had at last heeded the advice of his godly brother Richard, studied the book of Proverbs and fled his youthful inclinations. Since that time, he treated every young lady as one might a sister lest any mistake his intentions.

  Yet for all of the wisdom of Scripture about what not to do in regard to women, not a word in the Bible advised a young man as to how to court a lady. No doubt in biblical times wives were chosen by one’s parents, just as Mother wanted to choose Greystone’s bride. But the more he thought of spending his life with someone of her choosing, the more he wanted to unravel the mysteries of courting himself and find his own bride. And while he was ever mindful of the danger of becoming like his father, he had no choice but to marry, and soon.

  For the present he could see his compliment to Lady Beatrice had not been well received, but why? Not that he was courting Lady Beatrice. Indeed he was not. Would not, in fact. Even without Mother’s disapproval, even though the lady was kind and good and charitable, she nonetheless still had a brother with whom Greystone refused to be connected.

  In the dim lantern light within the carriage he could see her uplifted chin, as if she were still displeased with him. A sheen over her eyes, not quite tears, seemed to denote some high feeling. He must appease her somehow, for he could not bear to see her unhappy.

  “Goodness.” Mrs. Parton huffed so hard, Greystone feared a reprimand was forthcoming. “I neglected to ask you, dear boy. What report do you have for us about our little chimney sweeps?”

  Relief swept through him. He should know that this sweet lady would not berate him.

  “They are well, madam, and have begun to look forward to their daily baths, as much to torment the footmen as for their own enjoyment of all the splashing about.” He heard a muffled giggle beside him and decided Mrs. Parton’s interruption was better than anything he might have planned to brighten Lady Beatrice’s mood.

  “Daily baths?” Mrs. Parton clicked her tongue in disapproval. “I knew they would need many washings, but daily? Surely that cannot be healthy.”

  “I had thought so, too, but Dr. Horton assures me they will not be harmed because the weather is warm, and they will be better served if all traces of soot are removed from them. The nursery, or more precisely, the playroom now, is also warm, so I suppose that helps to ensure their health.”

  Lady Beatrice tilted her head in that pretty way of hers. “But of course you open the windows to let in fresh air.”

  Greystone withheld a laugh. Although Lady Beatrice had been in London only a few days, she surely had noticed the bad air in the city. But how could he contradict her without offending…again? “Actually, I had not thought to do that.”

  She gazed at him with innocent intensity, and his heart took a leap to rival any his horse had made during a foxhunt. “I have noticed at certain times, especially in the morning, that a pleasant breeze stirs the air. I have opened my window and been quite refreshed, though of course not as much as if I were in the country.”

  A wistful note accompanied her last words. Perhaps her Season in London was not measuring up to her hopes and dreams. Greystone found himself wanting to rectify that situation. He immediately quashed that impulse.

  “I believe that fresh air will help the boys after their—” her voice faltered so slightly, he almost missed it “—unfortunate childhood.” She straightened and blew out a breath of impatience, as if annoyed with herself, then stared at him with more of that charming intensity. “Lord Greystone, I have nothing but admiration for your charitable endeavors.”

  He gave her a crooked grin, feeling as he had when he was a student receiving praise from a professor at Oxford. “It is my duty, Lady Beatrice.” Now he sounded like Mother, who deflected all praise with claims of merely doing her duty. In tending to her obligations, his only parent excelled, but her heart never seemed to be engaged. When he married, he prayed his wife would have a true devotion to her charitable enterprises, just as Lady Beatrice exhibited.

  He shifted in his seat and stared out the window of the landau, suddenly annoyed that thoughts of his marriage quest never left him when he was with Lady Beatrice.

  *

  Lord Greystone’s sudden reserve plunged the carriage into silence, and Mrs. Parton seemed to have run out of things to say, as well. After the gentleman’s earlier reaction to her teasing, Beatrice did not think it her place to entertain her companions, so she withheld any further comments. This time she had not been the cause of the viscount’s withdrawal, at least not in any way she could discern. Copying his behavior, she stared out the opposite window to watch the passing scenery.

  Lord Blakemore’s home sat just beyond Grosvenor Square on a large plot of land with many trees, a small park and several ponds that reflected the light of the torches lining the circular drive to the house. The air smelled of roses and lilacs, but a tantalizing hint of roasting meat wafted into the carriage to remind Beatrice that it had been many hours since she last ate. She hoped Lady Blakemore’s midnight supper would not be delayed by formalities.

  Along with other arriving carriages the landau stopped in front of the mansion’s columned portico, and footmen hurried from the house to assist the guests. The edifice possessed a stately grace that would surely impress even the Prince Regent. Beatrice imagined that the park and flower gardens would be a delight to visit in the daytime.

  Once inside in the crush of guests, ladies handed their light wraps to servants, while gentlemen surrendered hats of varying descriptions. Beatrice followed Mrs. Parton up the two flights of stairs toward the second-floor drawing room, with Lord Greystone close behind them. She wished she could look behind to see if he objected to his role as escort to the two of them, but decided such a move would be ill-advised on a staircase, lest she lose her balance and he be forced to catch her.

  Instead she cast admiring glances at the marble statuary on the landings and tall paintings of Blakemore ancestors high on the walls along the way. To her surprise a sweet sense of anticipation began to warm her heart. All her life she had looked forward to a London Season filled with balls and soirees and midnight suppers. Even though her dreams had been delayed, even though she was a mere companion rather than a lady making her rightful debut in Society, she would not be constrained by her circumstances. After all, Mrs. Parton did not advertise either Beatrice’s reduced circumstances or her own generosity in providing this opportunity, along with an elegant new wardrobe. Due to their decision not to hide Beatrice’s identity, none but the closest of Mrs. Parton’s friends knew she was being paid to be here. Thus she could abandon herself to the experience and enjoy it to the fullest.

  Lord and Lady Blakemore had already arrived and awaited their guests at the door of the drawing room. When the butler announced each person’s name, other guests eyed the newcomer with curiosity, interest or admiration. Beatrice noticed a few gentlemen looking her way and, not being acquainted with any of them, averted her eyes. But she could not stop the war
mth creeping up to her cheeks because of all this attention.

  Hours ago when she had left Mrs. Parton’s town house, she had been satisfied with her appearance and especially her lovely pink gown. Others must have found her acceptable as well, for during the play’s intermission, several gentlemen had rushed to Lord Blakemore’s theatre box for an introduction. But at Mrs. Parton’s instruction, Lord Blakemore fended them all off. “Not our sort,” the lady had insisted, with the earl and countess adding their agreement. Indeed, from appearances alone, Beatrice had approved the decision without qualification and had even noticed Lord Greystone’s confirmation. Still, it was not an easy matter to reject such obvious admiration, even though she had no doubt each and every man would retreat upon learning that she had no dowry.

  With that reminder the joy that had filled her as she ascended the staircase vanished. Only an exceptional gentleman would overlook that undesirable situation. And if it were not enough to ruin her prospects, there was always Melly and his wastrel ways.

  Her thoughts had become morose, so she decisively shook them off and looked to Mrs. Parton to guide her for whatever came next. The lady was in the process of dismissing Lord Greystone, voicing all due appreciation for his escort from the theatre. He bowed to them both, then strode away as if eager to get someplace else. Beatrice felt the loss of his presence, but buoyed her spirits by surveying her surroundings.

  They moved deeper into the room, which was furnished with exquisite oak and mahogany furniture upholstered in blue-and-gold brocade. A mahogany hearth served as the centerpiece, and the requisite painting of the family seat in Hampshire hung above the mantel. Three groupings of wing chairs and settees were arranged about the chamber, while red and white roses arranged in tall, golden vases sat on occasional tables, filling the room with their heady fragrances.

  But soon the aroma of the roasting meat Beatrice had noticed upon arrival crowded out the scent of flowers, making her mouth water and her stomach demand satisfaction. Surely the meal would be announced soon, or she would have to find a place to sit down for all her dizziness.

  “Mrs. Parton.” A pleasant-looking gentleman approached and bowed over the lady’s hand. “How lovely you are this evening. One may always depend upon you to brighten any room.” To his credit his gaze did not leave Mrs. Parton’s face, although anyone could see Beatrice standing close beside her.

  “Why, such flattery, Winston, but I thank you nonetheless.” Mrs. Parton’s smile held nothing but approval, which piqued Beatrice’s interest. “How well you look, my boy. I take it you are finding your footing without difficulty in the House of Lords?”

  So the gentleman bore a title. Beatrice found her curiosity, if not her interest, growing. As Mrs. Parton had said, he did look well. Quite handsome, in fact, upon further scrutiny. Above medium height, more than a head taller than Beatrice, with blond hair and gray-green eyes, he exuded both confidence and boyishness. His black suit and pristine white shirt and cravat gave him an air of gravity, although not too severe. All in all he appeared to be everything proper in a gentleman. Yet Beatrice felt no stir of emotions as when she had met Lord Greystone. Perhaps such feelings were more of a hindrance than a reason to hope that a gentleman might find her appealing.

  “Yes, madam, I am growing comfortable there. I have a mentor in Lord Bennington, which helps more than you can imagine.” Now he glanced at Beatrice, but so quickly she almost missed it.

  “Ah, yes, I heartily approve of Bennington as someone who can guide you.” Mrs. Parton chuckled in her merry way. “I see you have noticed my lovely companion.” She turned to Beatrice. “Lady Beatrice, may I present Lord Winston, a distant relative of mine whose barony patent goes back to the days of Henry VIII. Winston, may I present my…friend, Lady Beatrice?” Mrs. Parton’s kind reference warmed Beatrice’s heart.

  “It is an honor, Lady Beatrice.” Lord Winston executed a perfect bow over her extended hand as she curtseyed.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Winston.” Beatrice decided to make her connections known at once. She refused to have another gentleman invest time in making her acquaintance only to flee. “Perhaps you have met my brother, Lord Melton?”

  “Melton?” His blond eyebrows arched, but not in a manner to suggest disapproval. “Yes, of course. Pleasant fellow. Witty, actually.”

  Again Beatrice’s heart warmed. “Yes, he has a fine wit.”

  “Dinner is served,” the butler intoned from the doorway, and guests began moving in that direction.

  “If you have no objection,” Lord Winston said, “I should be honored to escort you ladies to supper.” He glanced at Beatrice, but addressed Mrs. Parton. “And if I may be so bold, would you object if I call upon you next week?”

  Beatrice drew in a quick breath. He knew of her brother, yet he still did not object to furthering their acquaintance.

  “Of course I do not object, my boy. Do come calling.”

  He offered an arm to each of them as they lined up with the other guests in order of precedence for the processional to the dining room. As they moved toward the door Beatrice found herself staring ahead at Lord Greystone whose severe frown seemed to shout disapproval. But perhaps she misread that dark look. After all, if Mrs. Parton approved of Lord Winston, he must be above reproach.

  Chapter Nine

  “How fortunate that Lady Blakemore arranged for you to be seated next to Lord Winston.” Still in her purple satin dressing gown, Mrs. Parton munched a buttered roll while early afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open window beside her. “You made quite an impression on him, my dear.”

  Sitting across from her at the small table in the lady’s bedchamber, Beatrice sipped tea while she considered a response. Mrs. Parton had been more than kind in hiring her. Would she object if Beatrice acted the part of eligible lady rather than a companion? And if not, was Lord Winston a gentleman whom Beatrice wished to accept as a suitor?

  “His attention was very flattering.” And all the while Lord Greystone had given them dark looks from the opposite side of the table. Beatrice could not think of any reason for his obvious displeasure, and whether it was aimed at her or the baron.

  Mrs. Parton gave her a quizzical look. “Do you have some objection to his interest?”

  Her question sent Beatrice into a mild confusion. Her employer’s entire demeanor suggested she had no opposition to Beatrice accepting suitors. But while she could not keep from hoping it was true, she dared not depend upon it.

  “As kind as Lord Winston was to me, I noticed in him an obvious hauteur toward Mr. Penry, who sat on my left.” The handsome, well-dressed young gentleman apparently had ties to trade, but Beatrice had no chance to pursue the subject. The baron had commanded all of her attention.

  “Ah, yes.” Mrs. Parton clicked her tongue. “Dear Winston has taken on old Bennington’s haughtiness in regard to those whom they find inferior, especially those in trade. It seems that years ago Bennington’s only sister eloped to America with a sea captain. Not a heroic naval captain, mind you, but a common merchant captain. Even before then, the old earl was always strict about social order. That is sure to rub off on Lord Winston.” She shrugged and added a bit of butter to her roll. “But they are associated with the best people in Parliament and can be trusted to lead England in the wisest path. And like the ladies of their families, I suppose they have their charitable works, as well.”

  Beatrice could not imagine Lord Winston carrying an injured little chimney sweep to his nursery or seeing to the child’s health and future. Oh, why had she been a witness to Lord Greystone’s remarkable act of charity? She feared no gentleman could compete with his kindness and generosity, traits she would demand in anyone who wished to court her.

  “Mind you,” Mrs. Parton went on, “as a the daughter of an earl, you are worthy to marry the most august peer, even a duke, though I do not know of many unattached dukes I would recommend these days. I believe Blakemore’s daughter snared the last of the good ones.” Sh
e gazed off toward the window as if trying to remember any other such gentleman.

  “Marry?” Beatrice could no longer bear the uncertainty of her position. “Dear Mrs. Parton, I must confess that one day I do hope to have my own husband, my own home. But it is my understanding that you brought me to London to be your companion, not to seek a husband.”

  The lady’s jolly laughter filled the bedchamber. “But my dear, I am a romantic clear to my bones. If you fall in love with a worthy gentleman, of course you must marry.”

  Happiness bubbled up inside Beatrice, even as tears coursed down her cheeks. “I knew it. I knew my mother’s dear friend would rescue me.” She reached across the table, almost spilling the white china creamer, and grasped Mrs. Parton’s fingers with a trembling hand. “You are too kind, madam. Too kind.”

  “Not at all, my dear.” Mrs. Parton returned a gentle squeeze, her eyes shining. “We were four merry girls together in boarding school—your mother, Grace, Frances and I, all dreaming of handsome peers to whisk us off to marital bliss.” She straightened and dabbed her eyes with her serviette. “Three of us did make remarkable love matches. One of us was not so fortunate.”

  Beatrice quizzed her with a teary look. “Do you refer to my parents?”

  “Not at all, my dear. They were happy in their own way. One cannot judge by one’s own expectations.” She leveled a meaningful gaze on Beatrice, but Beatrice could not grasp that meaning.

  “But who, then?”

  “Lady Greystone.” Mrs. Parton leaned toward her. “You must not think this is gossip, my dear. I simply wish for you to understand the lady next door, the mother and only parent to three remarkable sons.” She sniffed, more from indignation than to manage her tears. “Had their cruel, abusive father lived to rear them, I despair to think of how they might have turned out.”

  “Ah. I see.” Beatrice sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that Papa had merely been neglectful, although some might consider neglect a form of cruelty. “I thank you for telling me.” Now she began to comprehend Lady Greystone’s severe demeanor. “Your words are safe with me.”