The Greatest Lover Ever
Page 16
Answering his cousin’s question, Beckenham forced out, “Says she wants me to marry her sister. Says I’m the man to run Cloverleigh to her satisfaction.”
Lydgate danced back, dashing his arm across his forehead to wipe away sweat. “Generous of her.”
“I thought so.” It had been generous. Even the sweetest-tempered female, which Georgie most assuredly was not, would have found it difficult to say those words.
She was capable of that kind of quixotic generosity, he found.
“So you’ll fix your interest with the sister?” Lydgate persisted. He bore in with a few jabs toward Beckenham’s smarting rib cage, but it was mere flourishing; he didn’t have his mind on the fight.
Beckenham shrugged. “It does seem like the perfect solution.”
And Georgie didn’t mind. Didn’t mind at all. Encouraged him, in fact.
Damn her.
They finished the bout and Lydgate took himself off, presumably to meddle in someone else’s affairs. Beckenham went to the bathhouse and indulged himself in a long, hot soak, before entering the fray once more.
* * *
Georgie entered the drawing room, where the ladies gathered that afternoon. She intended to while away the time before dinner with a gothic novel she’d managed to unearth in Beckenham’s austere library.
Tempted though she was to curl up in the window seat of that dark, masculine cave and stay out of sight, she had a duty to Violet to protect her from the cats. Quite apart from that, she refused to hide herself away as if she had something to be ashamed of.
“I suppose you do not embroider, Miss Black,” said Lady Charlotte, interrupting a particularly stirring passage between the star-crossed lovers in Georgie’s novel.
“Hmm? Actually, I do embroider. Just not at this moment,” said Georgie. She closed her book. “I cannot imagine why you should suppose otherwise. Isn’t every young lady taught such things?”
Lady Charlotte smiled. “I simply thought … You are known to be such a keen sportswoman.”
“Am I?” Georgie opened her eyes wide.
“Indeed.” Lady Charlotte used sharp little white teeth to snip off a thread. She raised her voice a little, so the others could hear. “In fact, I propose we set up an archery tournament tomorrow, so that Miss Black might show us her skill.”
Hmm. Georgie’s gaze flickered to Violet, whose fingers tinkered idly at the pianoforte. “Thank you, but I believe of the pair of us, my sister is the superior archer. She will represent the family.” She raised her voice a little. “What say you, Violet? Will you give Lady Charlotte here a contest with your bow?”
“Indeed. I’d be delighted,” said Violet serenely.
Butter wouldn’t melt, thought Georgie with smug satisfaction.
Looking a little discomfited, Lady Charlotte said, “I shall speak with Lord Beckenham about the arrangements.”
“Splendid,” said Georgie.
Unbeknownst to Lady Charlotte, she could not have chosen a milieu to set off Violet to better advantage.
While she was no great horsewoman and she could not bring herself to fire a pistol, Violet had a precision of eye that made a sport like archery second nature to her. What’s more, she looked ravishing in profile. Georgie knew just the right hat she should wear for the occasion: a cunningly wrought little piece that slanted rakishly over one eye.
Well done, Lady Charlotte, Georgie thought. The girl was shrewd enough to know that as a sports enthusiast, Beckenham would take a keen interest in the event.
Georgie glanced over at Lady Arden, who sat at the escritoire, writing letters until the pile at her elbow seemed to grow monstrous. The business of matchmaking and meddling was never done, it seemed.
Lady Arden was like a sparkling spider at the center of an intricate web of relatives, allies, and persons who owed her a favor. Georgie knew that had she desired, her kinswoman would have arranged an eligible match for her.
She wasn’t damaged goods; she still had a very generous dowry, thanks to her mother’s fortune. Gentlemen proposed to her regularly, either in fits of mad passion or with a clearer eye to the main chance.
She’d never been tempted. She intended to rub along with her stepmother until her twenty-fifth birthday, when she’d inherit the fortune her irate papa had not been able to bring himself to deny her. She’d always intended to set up a permanent household of her own in London. Now, she rather thought London would not be far enough from Winford for her comfort.
The gentlemen arrived then, freshly changed after a fishing expedition, and all pretense of interest in embroidery or music was promptly abandoned by the ladies.
Lady Charlotte said, “Will you join us, Lord Beckenham? Do sit down.”
“No, thank you. I’m about to take the gentlemen on a tour of the estate. Dull stuff to do with the new drainage system. Not a subject for ladies, I’m afraid.”
Beckenham hadn’t so much as glanced in Georgie’s direction since he’d entered the room.
In other circumstances, she would have insisted on going with the men. She’d vastly prefer riding about Winford, learning about new farming methods, to sitting quietly in the midst of all this repressed animosity. As it was, she opened her book again and began to read.
* * *
Lady Arden held up her hands for silence. “My dears, I have a proposition to make. Whenever I am hostess at a house party, I like to make my guests sing for their supper, so to speak. Ordinarily, this takes the form of a concert or a little embroidery project that will keep the ladies occupied and useful while the gentlemen commit various atrocities on the local wildlife.”
She smiled, as there were titters from the assembled young ladies.
“This time, I have arrived at something quite different. In the lake, there is an island with a grotto. Man-made, of course. The interior of the grotto requires a little something in the way of decoration.”
She gestured to the three footmen who flanked her, holding large baskets and pails and various other pieces of equipment. “Here we have a collection of seashells I had delivered. You, my dear ones, will be covering the walls with these shells.”
“Oh! I have seen this before, at a house in Ireland,” said Lady Harriet, clapping her hands.
Lady Charlotte looked doubtful. “Mama will kill me if I break my nails.”
Lady Arden stared at her. “Then you’ll have to take care, won’t you? Come along, girls. I’ll show you the way and then you may continue.”
Georgie longed to escape the suffocating tension in the drawing room. This seemed too rich an experience to miss.
“What on earth?” she murmured to Lady Arden as they left the drawing room.
“I like to set challenges for my ladies,” she explained. “Being a countess is not all about keeping one’s nails pretty. You need to be prepared to roll up your sleeves on occasion. We’ll see which of them shows her mettle.”
“But I thought you were completely for Violet, my lady,” said Georgie, puzzled. “Don’t tell me you are impartial in this.”
“I expect Violet to pass this test with flying colors,” said Lady Arden serenely. “But remember that I also have my family to consider. It is an excellent opportunity for me to assess brides who might be eligible for my boys.”
By “her boys,” Lady Arden meant the gentlemen from the Black family whom it was her duty to marry off successfully. She had no children of her own.
“Dear ma’am, your name ought to be Machiavelli,” murmured Georgie, smiling.
Lady Arden sighed. “My talents are quite wasted,” she mourned. “Had I been a man, I should have been Prime Minister.”
“But where would the fun be in that?” said Georgie.
Lady Arden laughed. She wielded an enormous amount of power through her family and social connections. Everyone knew it. Even the Prime Minister.
The ladies piled into two little boats, each rowed by a footman, with the third footman bringing up the rear with the equipment.
With much giggling and fluttering, the ladies allowed themselves to be handed out of the boats, onto the sloping bank of the man-made island.
The grotto looked cold and dank, a perfect setting for hoary tales and hermits. They waited outside while the footmen unloaded supplies and lit lamps. Then they ventured in.
The space was surprisingly large, cold and cavernous, and oddly damp.
“You expect us to cover the entire thing by the end of our stay?” demanded Lady Charlotte. Heavens, but the girl was tiresome.
“Many hands make light work,” quipped Lady Arden. “If you are the stuff of which countesses are made, you will have it finished by the time you leave this house.”
The implication was akin to a threat. Georgie bit back a smile.
Miss Margo deVere, game as a pebble, said, “Right-ho! Will you show us how it’s done, my lady?”
“But of course.” Elegant as a rose, Lady Arden set out the tools of their craft. “I have sketched out a design you may follow if you wish, or you may each design your own panel of wall and do it that way.”
She nodded to a waiting footman and he stepped forward with a pail full of gray slurry and a box full of tools. Lady Arden selected a trowel and held it up. “This is what you spread the mortar with, do you see? So. Select the shells you wish to use.”
She took a handful and set them down on the stone table in the center of the room. “Now, get up some of the mortar on your trowel and spread it thickly on the surface. Then you simply press the shells down into the mortar. Work quickly, and only spread as much mortar as you think you’ll need for the shells you have to hand, otherwise, the mortar will dry before you can press them in.”
She demonstrated, quickly making an attractive pattern of shells on the table itself.
“It’s like a mosaic,” said Lady Harriet. “I have seen sketches of Roman mosaics my father brought back from Pompeii. Only they were done in tiny tiles.”
“Precisely,” nodded Lady Arden. “I think it will be best if each of you work on your own panel, so that I may judge how well you do.”
She roughly divided the irregularly shaped room into sections and handed the ladies chalk. “You can mark out your design on the wall with the chalk, or you may do it freehand if you prefer.”
She looked over at Georgie. “Might I leave you in charge here?”
“Of course. Is there a trowel for me? I believe I shall finish your work on the table here, if I’m to stay.”
“Certainly, my dear. I’ll leave you to it, then.” She smiled at everyone. “Enjoy yourselves.”
Georgie seated herself at the little stone table and sorted through her allotted shells. As she worked, Georgie kept an assessing eye on the girls. Violet stared at the wall with a thoughtful brow before drawing some tentative lines. Then she shook her head and wiped them away with a cloth.
Miss deVere had already begun mortaring and sticking shells in a cheerfully haphazard design that somehow seemed to work quite well. Lady Harriet was making a very detailed, very pretty sketch of a lion that Georgie doubted could be easily translated with the materials to hand, but she would like to see the poor girl try.
Miss Trent had chosen to fill out her space with a geometric pattern that was simple yet effective. Lady Charlotte made no attempt to put forethought or effort into the task. Her work was desultory, punctuated by sighs and complaints.
Beckenham was no fool. He’d write down Lady Charlotte as a baggage before too long. She was the kind of girl who could not help but show her true nature. Some men wouldn’t see past the enchantingly pretty face, with its dark eyes and rosebud mouth, but Beckenham wasn’t one of them.
Marcus would be far more attracted to Miss Trent’s dignified gentleness. She was precisely the sort of colorless female he was looking for. She would never give him an iota of concern. She would agree with everything he said, having no decided opinions of her own.
Of course, even Miss Trent could not compete with Violet. Georgie’s sister had wit and strength of character that Miss Trent lacked.
She didn’t think it was pure bias on her part. Violet truly was the best candidate for the position of Beckenham’s countess. But that would count for nothing unless Violet would be happy with the match. She must not lose sight of that.
Dear Lizzie,
He is here! He came, just as he said he would.…
“Well, my dear? What do you think of him?” Georgie had dismissed her maid and was fixing diamond drops into her ears. The little gems swung, catching the light as Georgie glanced up into Violet’s reflection in the looking glass above her vanity table.
“You were right, Georgie, I like Lord Beckenham very well,” said Violet. “At least, the little I have seen of him.”
“Do you like his looks?” Georgie said, swiveling on her stool to take Violet’s hands in hers. “Do you find him attractive?”
How could Violet fail to be drawn to all that hard masculine virility?
Violet’s cornflower blue eyes shadowed a little. “He is certainly handsome,” she allowed.
“But?” prompted Georgie. She had a very odd feeling in her stomach.
Her sister shrugged. “He does not set my maidenly heart aflutter. But I suppose my heart is scarcely in question here.”
Georgie did not let herself feel the emotion that threatened to well up inside her. She needed to do what was best for Violet. Her own feelings did not matter. She chose her words with care.
“Sometimes one may grow to care for a gentleman in time. And Beckenham is a good man, Violet.”
“So you keep saying.” With a rueful smile, Violet sighed. “I do not have high hopes of him choosing me over the other ladies. They are so accomplished, so rich and well-bred.”
“And what, pray, has all that to say to anything?” demanded Georgie. “You are the daughter of Sir Donald Black, and if that was good enough for him six years ago, why should it not be good enough for him now?” Georgie rose and shook out her skirts. “Besides, you have a distinct advantage over the other young ladies.”
“My dowry,” said Violet glumly.
“Your sweetness of disposition,” corrected Georgie. “Believe me, a man like Beckenham does not wish for a troublesome shrew like Lady Charlotte to wife.”
“Lady Charlotte is a cat,” agreed Georgie. “But I like Lady Harriet and Miss Trent, too, though she does tend to poker up on occasion.”
“Very high in the instep, the Trents,” Georgie agreed.
“Margo deVere is jolly company,” said Violet.
“Jolly.” Georgie nodded. “Aye and a madcap hoyden if ever I saw one. You may be sure that Beckenham has more sense than to marry into that barbaric family. Do not allow her to lead you into mischief, Violet. I’ve seen her kind before.”
She hesitated. “I rode to Cloverleigh Manor with Beckenham this morning. Or rather, he followed me for he would not let me go alone without a groom.”
She found that she was proud of the way she did not betray to Violet any sign of what had happened in that cool, quiet glade on the way home. Truly, that kiss had been a mere expression of pent-up feeling. It would not happen again.
“Oh?” Violet’s tone was disinterested. “I suppose I should have done that. Truly, Georgie, I wish to Heaven Papa had left Cloverleigh to you. I have not lived there since I was a little girl. I barely remember it. I have no connection to the place.”
This was not the first time Violet had expressed the sentiment. “I think it would be wise for you to take an interest,” said Georgie. “If you wed Beckenham, you will have more than Cloverleigh to deal with.”
Georgie turned away, ostensibly to fetch her wrap from where Smith had laid it out on the bed. The wrap was a gauzy film of nothing, and would keep her no warmer than air. But the night was sultry, after all, and what did comfort matter when it came to fashion?
“Yes, of course, you are right.” Violet seemed to brace herself. She lifted her chin. “I shall endeavor to make you proud.”
* * *
They mingled in the drawing room before dinner. Beckenham found himself in a strange mood. Edgy, dissatisfied. He’d taken the other gentlemen fishing in the lake and then on a tour of the estate, but his mind had been preoccupied. He’d spent the greater part of the afternoon wondering about Georgie and what trouble she might be stirring up.
Yet she appeared to have passed an entirely blameless afternoon decorating the grotto with the other ladies. He’d seen her enter the house, a trifle dusty and disheveled with a gray smut that he thought must have been mortar on her nose.
She looked young and fresh and … rather sweet.
Sweet? Georgie? Good God, he must be heading for early senility.
Though he conversed politely with his guests, he never failed to be aware of her as she stood in a corner, sipping champagne and conversing with Lord Trent.
She was dressed fashionably but rather soberly once again, in dark blue silk with a neckline so modest, he wondered if the gown was indeed hers or one she’d borrowed from one of the matrons. However much she might retire from the hub of conversation, she could not escape her admirers.
First one, then two, then three and four gentlemen gravitated toward her, until it seemed that he was surrounded by females and the men had all decamped to her side.
He was obliged to admit she did nothing to seek masculine attention. In fact, she eventually excused herself to cross the room and sit with the old Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury. Seemingly pleased with her company, she settled in for a long prose until the dinner gong sounded.
They did not stand on ceremony when it came to seating everyone. Lady Arden had decided that it was more important for Beckenham to converse with his prospective brides than to observe the rules of precedence.
She had, however, placed Georgie as far away from him as possible.
Ha! Did she think he was in any danger from Georgie? Yes, he might have kissed her that morning, but he blamed his uncharacteristic actions on the atmosphere, the sense of stepping back in time.