by Joan Smith
“Napoleon be demmed,” Southam said. “You are the reincarnation of the wily Odysseus.”
“Could you not have said Cleopatra, or at least the Empress Josephine?” she pouted.
A reluctant grin tugged at his lips. “If that ain’t a moue, Cousin, I’ll eat my hat.”
“I wish you would. Now that you have got a decent haircut, that old curled beaver should follow your shorn tresses and narrow cravats into the dustbin.” She turned to speak to Miss Pittfield. “Are you coming upstairs, too, or will you go directly to the dance hall?”
“Do you want me to go and chaperon Gillie? Otherwise, I shall just retire.”
“Retire? I am shocked at your lack of initiative, Miss Pittfield,” Beatrice scolded. “Come and share my rouge pot. There is no saying who will be at the rout. You might nab a parti, too, for you are looking very elegant this evening. Retire indeed! It is only nine o’clock.”
“Well, if you are sure I shan’t be in the way ...”
“In whose way?” Bea asked, astonished. “We are paying guests. We have as much right to a crack at the gentlemen as anyone else.”
“I shall wait for you here,” Southam said.
“No, no, run along to the dance, Southam. Miss Pittfield and I shall chaperon each other.”
“No, I had best—”
“Go! No other gentleman will bother with us if he thinks we are with you.” She turned back to Miss Pittfield. “Really, your cousin has no notion of how to get along in society. Someone ought to give him a Season, to rub off the rough edges.”
“Oh, Lord Southam has already been caught. There is no point wasting time or money on him,” Miss Pittfield said roguishly.
The ladies left, laughing like schoolgirls. Southam remained behind, sipping his coffee. A rueful smile played over his features. What a lively, enchanting creature she was. Such charm—even dour Miss Pittfield had come to life. Beatrice was not only charming and beautiful but also clever. Beneath the jokes and chatter there was obviously a deal of experience in the art of enticing gentlemen. But did she really plan to let some stranger attach himself to her? A bit rackety, that. He would wait and accompany her to the rout.
Chapter Nine
Southam was waiting, as threatened, when Bea and Miss Pittfield came downstairs. He went forth to meet them in the crowded lobby.
“You must have applied that rouge with a light touch, Cousin. I cannot see any trace of it,” he said, by way of a compliment.
“Did you think I would draw two red circles on my cheeks, like a clown at Astley’s Circus, Southam, to draw attention to it?”
“You do not take a compliment gracefully for a lady whom I imagine has heard a good many of them in her day.”
“I suggest the fault is in the complimenter. ‘In her day’ suggests that her day is past. As to mentioning my resort to the rouge pot, some things are best noted in silence.”
“You said you were going above stairs to rouge your cheeks! How was I to surmise from that that it was a secret?”
“A secret entre nous, not to be hollered in front of the world.”
“What do you care what this lot think of you?” he said with a disparaging glance at the throng.
With a lady on either arm he proceeded in state to the dancing hall, where a rowdy country dance was in progress. The crew assembled for the rout at the Royal Bath were not those members of the haut ton encountered in the polite saloons of London. There was a smattering of society so crazed over horses that they would come to Bournemouth in March for some undistinguished hurdle races, but their numbers were few. Most of the people were impoverished gentility who wanted a holiday at the seaside and could not afford it in season, so they had come in March, before it was taken over by wealthier patrons.
They took up seats by the wall to await the dance’s termination. “We’ll have the next waltz,” Southam said, inclining his head toward Beatrice.
“And leave Miss Pittfield sitting alone? Indeed we will not!”
“Tannie can dance with her.”
“That is even worse! We cannot leave Gillie unattended.”
“Why are we here, then, if we cannot dance?” he asked, becoming grumpy from frustration, for of course she was right. “I don’t see why you asked Miss Pittfield to join us,” he said in a low voice.
“No wonder your servants pinch the sherry, if you treat them so shabbily,” she hissed back in a low voice. Under cover of the music, a private conversation was possible, as Miss Pittfield was on Southam’s far side. “Miss Pittfield is a lady, Southam. Her lot is dreary enough without confining her to her room at nine o’clock in the evening.”
He rose suddenly, excused himself, and disappeared. Beatrice thought he had taken a huff and feared she had pushed him too far. She moved over to the chair beside Miss Pittfield.
“Where did Southam go?” Miss Pittfield asked.
“Probably out to blow a cloud. It is rather warm and noisy in here.”
“He never did care much for dances. I was surprised he suggested we come.”
The ladies enjoyed themselves, quizzing the dancers and the chaperons to their hearts’ content and not omitting the single gentlemen ranged along the wall, either. As the music drew to a close, Southam suddenly appeared before them. He had in tow an elderly gentleman who looked as if he might be a schoolmaster or a minor civil servant. Though he was obviously genteel, his jacket was lacking in nap, and his hair had not seen scissors in some weeks. Bea thought he must be some poor relation and waited with little interest to meet him.
“Cousin, Miss Pittfleld, I would like you to meet Mr. FitzGeorge,” Southam said. “He owns an apothecary shop in Poole. He has come to Bournemouth for the hurdle races. Putting up here at the Royal Bath, like ourselves. Is that not a coincidence?”
Bea searched her mind in vain for the great coincidence that made this introduction eligible. “How nice to meet you, Mr. FitzGeorge,” she said, smiling gamely in her confusion.
Southam steered FitzGeorge to the chair beside Miss Pittfield. “Here is the very gentleman who can suggest a remedy for that—or, cough you have been complaining of, Miss Pittfield. Ah, they are tuning up their fiddles for a waltz. Miss Pittfield, I’m sure you will give Mr. FitzGeorge the pleasure of a dance. He is an old bachelor like myself and doesn’t know any ladies here.” He turned back to Bea. “Cousin, will you do me the honor?”
Bea bit back a laugh and accepted his arm. “You are a complete hand, Southam!” she said, laughing, when they had escaped. “Where on earth did you find him?”
“In the taproom. He was sitting alone, peacefully enjoying an ale when I shanghaied him. Mind you, I vetted him before entrusting Miss Pittfield to his care. He has a brother a vicar in Poole. That speaks well for his family’s character. His business is thriving, too. He has twenty thousand pounds. Not bad!”
“How did you find out all that in five minutes?”
“Getting the offer is the lady’s job. Checking out the victim is the man’s. If you have trained Miss Pittfield well, she’ll have her offer before we leave town.”
“You not only vetted him; you found him and dragged him to the rout. You are encroaching on the ladies’ territory. I must say, you learn quickly,” she said, as he drew her into his arms for the waltz.
His dark eyes smiled indulgently into hers. “I am making rapid strides under your tutelage, Cousin.”
“You must put these lessons to good use when you go home. With persistence you may even get that reluctant bride of yours to the altar before she is too old to provide you an heir.”
Southam found that reference to Deborah bothersome. He chose to ignore it. “The handsome gent from the lobby hasn’t come forward yet to discuss the various venues where you and he might have met but didn’t?”
“He was about to make his move when you brought in Mr. FitzGeorge.”
“Slow top! Did he think a prime flirt like yourself would sit a whole five minutes without finding a partner?”
&nbs
p; “Indeed he did not. He had first to establish by questioning glances that he was ‘recognizing’ me. He looked quite brokenhearted when you came rushing back so soon and spoiled his chances.”
“Are you serious?” he asked, frowning.
“You mean, about my handsome gent? No, I would hardly call it serious. I had not planned to marry him. It was only a seaside flirtation I had in mind. There is something to be said for variety, don’t you think? Sir Harold and Mr. Reynolds are all very well in their way, but their stories are familiar to me by now. They lack spice.”
“If it is only a seaside flirtation you have in mind, why look further than myself? You must not think I cannot provide you with flirtation, only because I am engaged to your friend.” His tone was facetious, and Bea replied in the same spirit.
She considered his suggestion a moment, then shook her head firmly. “No, it is not the same thing at all. There must be at least the possibility of something beyond flirtation developing, or the whole game loses its zest.”
A reckless smile flashed, and he said, “It can go as far as you like, only stopping short of an offer, of course, as I am already taken.”
“You misunderstand the game, sir. If I am not to have the pleasure of breaking your heart, what is the point?”
He studied her a long moment, then said, “I wager you could do that too, Cousin.”
She lifted her head and met his gaze, while the music reeled around them and they swirled in giddy circles. Southam was a surprisingly agile dancer. “You tempt me, Southam, for I begin to see Deborah has not won herself the prize I thought she had. You, sir, are a gazetted flirt. Take care, or I shall take you up on that offer of breaking your heart.”
“I’m game. Did you realize you slipped into an unwitting compliment there, Beatrice? That is the first indication that you thought me a prize.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. A title and a large estate are always considered a prize, even if the man who goes with them is a booby.”
“A booby! Upon my word, you are hard on me! I have sunk from a provincial to a gazetted flirt to a booby in two minutes. Have I no redeeming features?”
“Can we not find something more interesting to talk about than you?” she scolded. She looked around the floor and spotted the apothecary. “FitzGeorge waltzes well,” she said. “And only look how lightly Miss Pittfield moves. She has been practicing with Gillie. I told her it might come in handy.”
“A booby!” he repeated, in accents of deep injury.
“And a bore. No, Southam, we are not going to discuss your interesting character, no matter how much you harp on it. I shall have the next waltz with Mr. FitzGeorge, and you must stand up with either Gillie or Miss Pittfield.”
“Yes, you get to gallivant with Mr. FitzGeorge, while I am forced to stand up with my sister or her chaperon. Slim possibilities there for a gazetted flirt. I daresay this is some deep ploy to ditch me and take up with your handsome gent.”
Her eyes sparkled, and her smile brought out a hitherto unseen dimple at the corner of her lips. “Just so, Southam. You are coming to know me uncomfortably well.”
The music stopped, but he held her a moment longer in his arms. “Not so well as I would like to, Cousin.”
Beatrice noticed he was no longer smiling. His tone, too, suggested something different—she could hardly put a word to it. Was it possible Southam was getting some ideas he shouldn’t? His conversation had bordered on the unseemly. All in fun, of course, but then a man would oftentimes float a serious notion under the guise of a joke, to see how it went off. Her eyes flashed dangerously. “If you try to get to know me more intimately, you might be surprised, Southam.” She disengaged herself from his arms.
He replied, “I like surprises. As you said, the spice of the unfamiliar.”
“I don’t think you would care for Irish spice,” she said, leveling a cool stare on him.
“One never knows till he tries. I am very fond of Irish whisky.”
“But I was speaking of Irish temper, Southam.”
She turned and walked hastily back to their chairs by the wall. She spoke to Miss Pittfield and Mr. FitzGeorge, making it clear by her friendly manner that she would not refuse a dance with the apothecary. Gillie stood up with her brother, and Tannie did his duty with Miss Pittfield, not by standing up with her, but by sitting at her side in nearly total silence for the duration of the cotillion.
The original party, minus Mr. FitzGeorge, regrouped at the end of the cotillion. Tannie said, “I’ll be running along now, Gillie. We cannot stand up together again, I suppose. Foolishness. Why do people make us go to dances, if we are not allowed to dance? I’ll call on you after lunch tomorrow and take you to the hurdle races if that is all right.”
His speech was, of course, overheard by them all. “We’ll all go. That is why we’re here,” Southam said. “You can show us the way, Duke. We haven’t been there before.”
The duke left, and with only one escort for three ladies, the evening promised little further entertainment. They were tired from the long trip, and when Miss Pittfield said she was for bed, they all decided to go up. Gillie and Miss Pittfield said goodnight at their door and arranged to meet the others in the private parlor at nine for breakfast. Southam accompanied Bea to her room.
“It is still quite early,” he said, taking her key and unlocking the door. “Shall we have some wine before retiring?” He pushed open the door.
Beatrice took a step into the room. “I don’t feel like tackling those stairs again,” she replied. Her hand was on the door, preparing to close it. As Southam had himself wedged in the doorway, she waited for him to leave.
He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “We don’t have to go downstairs, Beatrice. They will bring wine up.”
“Up to my room, you mean?” she asked, startled.
“What is the harm in it? It is not as though you are sharing a room with Gillie. She will not know.”
“Is that why you hired a separate room for me?” She studied him, wondering if he was actually suggesting what she thought he was. Surely that was not the opinion Southam had of her! Yet his eyes held a lambent glow, and the soft curving of his lips spoke of nothing less than lovemaking.
“I hoped we might have a little privacy from time to time. We are not children, after all. If adults want some adult entertainment as a respite from chaperoning the youngsters, what is the harm? No one knows us here.” As he spoke, he placed a hand proprietarily on her shoulder. His fingers tightened in an intimate gesture of encouragement, and he guided her into the room.
Bea took a deep breath. It was time to give him a taste of her Irish temper. She closed the door, for she was not the least frightened of him, and she did not want to provide a spectacle for anyone passing in the hall. Unfortunately Southam took the closing of the door for agreement. In his eager joy he acted swiftly and spontaneously, all decorum forgotten. He swept her into his arms for an ardent kiss. Taken by surprise, Beatrice was locked in his arms before she could push him away. His lips were hot, and his arms crushed her against his strong chest.
She hadn’t been kissed—not like this—since Leonard’s death. She had forgotten the potency of passion, but it came swarming over her senses, inundating her in a wave of sweetly remembered desire. Every sense was quickened, acutely aware of this attractive man who wanted her. As his passion swelled, she admitted she wanted him, too. She felt a weakening surrender invade her body. Her arms, though she did not hold him, felt too weak to push him away. They just hung by hers sides, as he molded her against him with both strong arms. Her lips, she knew, were encouraging, moving irresistibly against the commanding pressure of his. She should move her head aside at least, to escape this torment.
She tried, and he lifted one possessive hand to hold her head firm, while the kiss deepened to devastating passion. It flamed along her veins, intoxicating, strong, and hot as brandy. It robbed her of common sense and filled her mind instead with an old longing. A
low moan echoed from her throat. Suddenly his lips grazed with rough tenderness across her cheek and whispered in her ear. “God, I have been wanting to do that forever!”
Free of his restraining arms, she took a fumbling step backward. Her breaths came in panting gasps, and her heart throbbed tumultuously. Southam looked into her wildly dazed eyes and smiled softly. “You have been feeling it, too, Beatrice. I knew I could not be mistaken.”
She pinched her lips to firm their trembling and took a deep breath. “How dare you!” she said in a menacing whisper.
Southam made the horrible error of laughing. “What is this, a Cheltenham tragedy? I prefer—”
She lifted her hand and struck him full on the cheek with such force that he fell back a step. “How dare you barge your way into my room and force yourself on me!” she demanded, her voice firming.
He rubbed his cheek in confusion. “I thought you wanted it!” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Darling, you know you do. I was clumsy—overly eager. You drove me to it. You are the most ravishing, adorable girl.”
She pulled away and put her hands over her ears, to block the temptation. “Get out! Get out of this room, and never come here again. I won’t listen to this.”
He smiled tolerantly and captured both her hands. “Then you haven’t done this before? I own I was fiercely jealous of your Sir Harold.”
Green sparks flashed from her eyes. “You have no right to be jealous of anyone! You are nothing to me, less than nothing. I am a decent, respectable widow. I should think respect for Leonard’s memory must protect me if your own chivalry to a lady is so lacking. I have never been so insulted in my life. By God, if I had a gun, I’d shoot you.”
