The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

  Of course, he had never kissed her like that in the old days.…

  “Lord Beckenham, might I compliment you on your cook?” said Miss Trent, at his left. “An old retainer, I gather.”

  “Indeed,” he replied. “Mrs. North has been with us since I was a boy. Thank you, I shall tell her you approve.”

  He wondered what his redoubtable cook would make of Miss Trent. Not a bad-looking girl, but a little stiff for Mrs. North’s taste. Still, a calm reserve was not unattractive to him. If a little dull at times, at least Miss Trent would never subject him to excesses of emotion.

  He glanced down the table at Georgie, who could not help herself, it seemed. She was laughing. Despite her efforts to appear sedate—so as not to take the shine out of her sister, he suspected—she could not help but draw masculine admiration with that full-throated, husky chuckle of hers.

  His gaze flicked to Miss Violet, wedged between Lord Trent’s bulk and the young Lord Hardcastle.

  She seemed prettily animated tonight, responding to Hardcastle’s sallies with smiles and the odd blush here and there.

  Miss Violet Black was a charming girl. He hoped to know her better over the course of the next couple of days. He could wish Lady Arden had thought to place her next to him this evening.

  Miss Trent still waxed lyrical over his domestic arrangements, asking him all sorts of questions he could not answer. He left household affairs in the capable hands of his housekeeper and took an interest only on the rare occasion that something went awry.

  Perhaps Miss Trent attempted to show him how competent a householder she would be. He didn’t doubt it but he discovered a sudden wish for more than a chatelaine in his countess. Not that he could have said what that extra something might be.

  Would Miss Violet provide it? He glanced at her again. Lively, pretty, and no goosecap if he were any judge of the matter. Perhaps she would suit him, just as Georgie said.

  And of course, there was Cloverleigh Manor.

  The next remove was on the table before Lady Charlotte claimed his attention.

  “I was shocked, my lord, to discover Miss Black had landed on your doorstep uninvited,” she was saying.

  Startled, and more than a little annoyed, he said without inflexion, “Were you?”

  He eyed her wineglass, which now stood empty. Perhaps he ought not to judge her too harshly. Perhaps he ought to order her some lemonade instead.

  In a milder tone, he said, “I assure you, Miss Black was indeed invited, Lady Charlotte.”

  She picked up her goblet, eyed its dregs blankly, as if she could not remember having drunk every drop, then set it down again. “No! You cannot mean that you would consider Miss Black for a bride. Particularly after … Well, you know.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She leaned forward, whispering loudly, “She jilted you.”

  A footman with a decanter of burgundy stepped forward to hover at Lady Charlotte’s elbow, but stepped back at Beckenham’s slight shake of the head.

  Oblivious, Lady Charlotte continued, “The most shocking thing! I’d no notion until Mama told me last night, for of course, Miss Black is so much older than I.”

  She laughed in a manner she might have thought was pretty but which curdled Beckenham’s stomach.

  “Of course, everyone knew you were well shot of her,” she confided.

  “I was?”

  “Oh, but yes!” Lady Charlotte widened her eyes. She leaned toward him, a trifle unsteadily. “It’s Mama’s belief that Miss Black is no better than she should be, no matter what airs and graces she tries to assume. Everyone knows what a wild past she has.”

  “Do they?” He regarded this low-minded little brat with distaste.

  “Her sister is hardly better,” continued Lady Charlotte recklessly. “You can tell these things immediately. See how she blushes and bridles at Lord Hardcastle’s flirting. Quite shocking.”

  Much more of this, and he’d punish this arrogant little upstart in a way both of them would regret.

  “Excuse me,” he said abruptly, and turned from her to resume his conversation about the properties of beeswax with Miss Trent.

  He was furious, he realized. If Lady Charlotte had been a man, he would have been sorely tempted to call her out. But she was an eighteen-year-old spiteful little vixen, who had imbibed too much of the heavy burgundy Beckenham had been foolish enough to approve for this evening’s meal.

  She deserved a severe set-down. Indeed, he felt a burning need to defend Georgie’s honor. Yet the more reasonable part of him could see Lady Charlotte wasn’t herself.

  He let it pass, but he seethed for the rest of the meal.

  Later, when he finally managed to get Georgie alone, he said to her, “Watch out for Lady Charlotte and her dear mama, won’t you? They want to discredit Violet and they mean to do it through you.”

  Georgie gazed at him, her eyes glinting with anger. Then she shrugged. “As yours is the only opinion that matters and you know everything there is to my discredit, I trust you will not let it prejudice you against my sister.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “The old Georgie would have bowled up to Lady Charlotte and asked her what she meant by slandering her name.”

  She smiled. “I’m wiser now, I hope.” She raised her brows at him. “Did you tell me of it so you could watch me scratch Lady Charlotte’s eyes out? How disappointed you must be.”

  His gaze flickered over her; then he looked over to the pianoforte, where Hardcastle turned the pages for Violet, who played and sang a sentimental ballad.

  “You restrain yourself for Violet’s sake,” he said.

  “She is very dear to me.” Carefully, Georgie added, “Did you think I would come at all to such a party if she was not? She begged me to accompany her when her mother fell ill. I didn’t see how I might refuse her. I am sorry that it makes it awkward for you.”

  It was awkward. It was … maddening, too. He met her gaze and wished, fervently, that the rest of the company would fade away and leave them quite alone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The house party went on for several days with little variation in theme. Beckenham thought he’d managed to acquaint himself well enough with all the young ladies present, but he was no closer to deciding on which of them would make the most suitable bride.

  His first instinct was to blame his indecision on Georgie’s unsettling presence, but that wasn’t altogether fair. True to her word, she’d taken pains to remain in the background. He’d scarcely exchanged a handful of words with her. No, it wasn’t Georgie’s fault; he couldn’t help feeling that none of the ladies present was the right one.

  Violet Black was something of an enigma. She was perfectly pleasant company, but he always had the impression that her thoughts were elsewhere. A more conceited man would have been piqued. As it was, he supposed he was glad she didn’t seem to have formed any silly tendre for him.

  Indeed, he’d taken care to avoid inviting any young lady who seemed disposed to think herself in love with him. How awkward and tiresome that would have been.

  He was not a man who enjoyed society or parties as a rule. Rather perversely, given the stated purpose of this gathering, he’d taken advantage of the bad weather to escape to the outdoors, where matchmaking mamas and delicate young ladies wouldn’t follow.

  Georgie was a hardier creature, and he’d often looked out for her, galloping her mare over the meadows, but since that morning they’d visited Cloverleigh, she’d never appeared.

  Today, to escape a proposed game of charades, he’d ridden out into the drizzle with Hardcastle and Lydgate. However, part way through the afternoon a stiff breeze had blown the rain clouds away, bathing the landscape in sunshine. They were just returning when he spied a party of three riders up ahead.

  Like most members of her family, Miss Margo deVere looked as if she’d been born in the saddle. With her was Miss Violet Black, and …

  Beckenham’s jaw tightened. “What the he
ll is he doing here?”

  “Who is he?” said Hardcastle, craning his neck to see.

  Lydgate merely said, “Ah.”

  Beckenham shot him a furious glance. “What do you mean ‘ah’?”

  Lydgate straightened in his saddle. “My dear fellow—”

  “Don’t you bloody my dear fellow me. You knew, didn’t you?”

  But the parties met then and there was no further opportunity for conversation.

  “Lord Beckenham.” Removing his hat, Lord Pearce made an elegant bow, his thick, waving hair tousling romantically in the breeze. He greeted the other gentlemen in turn.

  One glance at the ladies told Beckenham they were impressed. Miss Violet’s blue eyes sparkled and her cheeks were prettily flushed. Miss deVere emitted a rather gauche giggle.

  Beckenham only gave a curt nod in response. “Miss Black. Miss deVere. Misplaced your groom, did you?”

  Smoothly, Lydgate interposed before the ladies could reply to the abrupt accusation. “Were you returning to the house? May we join you?”

  Without waiting for a response, Lydgate performed some magical equestrian maneuver whereby Beckenham found himself riding with Pearce, Lydgate partnered Miss deVere and Miss Violet and Lord Hardcastle brought up the rear.

  “What charming young ladies,” murmured Pearce. “I believe they stay with you at this house party of yours?”

  “Those ladies, charming or no, are not your concern,” said Beckenham. He’d have to tell their chaperones to keep a closer eye on them if Pearce was in the vicinity. “What are you doing here? Just happened to be passing, I daresay.”

  “Why, no,” said Pearce, his brows lifting. “I’m the new tenant at Cloverleigh.”

  Beckenham silently cursed Lydgate. He’d wager his cousin knew all about it. Why the hell hadn’t he told Beckenham instead of letting him discover it this way?

  “Oh? I’d heard someone by the name of Sanderson had taken the house.”

  “That would be my man of business,” said Pearce.

  So the cur had deliberately concealed his identity. Had he thought to meet Georgie in secret while she was here?

  “Actually, I have yet to inhabit the place, truth be told,” Pearce said. “I’ve spent most of my time in Bath.”

  “Toadying to your aunt.”

  “Protecting her, rather. My dear Beckenham, you would not credit the things people will do when such a large sum of money is involved.”

  Mendacious rubbish. Pearce would eat all his avaricious relatives for breakfast. He’d certainly sell his own mother for the chance at such a prize. Beckenham didn’t doubt he’d prevail, by fair means or foul. Foul, most likely.

  “Well, I’m sure I wish you joy of your inheritance,” said Beckenham. “But don’t imagine Miss Black will fall into your arms whether you win a fortune or no.”

  Pearce turned his head. “You wound me, my lord. Do you think I don’t know her better than that?”

  “What I think doesn’t bear repeating when there are ladies present,” Beckenham bit out. “Stay away from her, Pearce.”

  “Loath as I am to appear to obey your commands, I fear I shall be obliged to do so for the present.” Lord Pearce gestured in the direction of Cloverleigh. “I merely came to see that the household was in order before I return to my relative’s deathbed. I cannot afford to be absent for too long. Her health is rapidly deteriorating.”

  “If you value your own health, you will not come back here.”

  Pearce’s green eyes glinted with malice. Softly, he said, “Do I scent a challenge?”

  The gall of him, to bring that up! “I only duel with gentlemen,” said Beckenham. “I’m afraid you no longer qualify.”

  A nasty smile curved Pearce’s lips as they reached the crossroads. “Has she never told you what happened that night? Do you really think I was scared to meet you all those years ago?”

  “Strangely, Pearce,” Beckenham said, “I don’t think of you at all.”

  With a touch to his hat brim, he led his party in the direction of Winford.

  * * *

  After the persistent showers of the past week, to Georgie’s pleasure, the weather suddenly turned. The day was so fine, in fact, that the proposed jaunt to the village led to some exclamations about the heat and the injurious sunshine. However, once Lord Beckenham chose to accompany them on the excursion, the ladies braved the elements gladly.

  After this abrupt change of face, a flurry of activity ensued as they all donned bonnets and gloves, armed themselves with parasols and reticules.

  “We shall buy ribbons and lace,” said Georgie. “Our hats could do with a new touch.”

  “You are forever giving our hats a new touch,” said Violet with a chuckle. “Too many times I have planned what to wear only to find I don’t recognize my own bonnets anymore.”

  It was some sort of compulsion, Georgie admitted as they all set off in a giggling, fluttering phalanx to explore the village.

  Beckenham, Georgie saw with satisfaction, strolled with Violet on one arm and Miss Priscilla Trent on the other. Miss Trent appeared to be monopolizing his attention, however, while Violet’s attention seemed miles distant.

  Georgie frowned. If Violet couldn’t hold her own against one of these ladies, how would she stand out in the crowd?

  Miss Trent paused in her discourse then, and Beckenham turned his head to address a remark to Violet. The darling girl turned her head to smile up at him in the sweetest fashion. If that did not make him melt on the spot, she didn’t know much about men.

  A voice beside her said, “They make a handsome couple, do they not?”

  She saw who accosted her. “Lord Lydgate. Yes, indeed they do.”

  He offered her his arm. She took it, a little surprised at the hard strength she felt beneath his dandified blue coat.

  Lydgate slowed their pace—deliberately, she thought—until they were still in sight of the other members of the party but out of earshot.

  Hoping to forestall anything he might say, she forced out, “I hope they make a match of it—Beckenham and Violet, I mean. The earl could search the length and breadth of England and never find a lovelier girl.”

  When she glanced at him, his face wore a pleasant expression, but his eyes quizzed her.

  “Do you disapprove?” she asked.

  He tilted his head. “The match seems eminently suitable. It may interest you to know that Beckenham rejected the notion at first.”

  Indignation bridled within her. “What? He thought Violet beneath him?”

  “Pray, come down off your high horse, ma’am. Of course not. Is that likely?”

  She shook her head. “Then I don’t understand.”

  He spread his hands. “Out of consideration for your poor hurt feelings, of course. How galling to have a mere sister supplant one as Countess of Beckenham.”

  Her hand tightened on her parasol. “Did he say that?”

  “Not in so many words. But you know how he is. A gentleman to the core.”

  Beckenham pitied her! She’d been afraid that would happen. Good God, she could sink into the ground with embarrassment. She could light up the sky with incandescent rage.

  She controlled her emotions. “The match has my wholehearted support. I told Beckenham as much. Not only do I wish to see Violet happily settled, but I desire to see Cloverleigh Manor in good hands.”

  “None better than Beckenham’s.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then I take it I can assume you will not do anything to scupper your sister’s chances?” said Lydgate.

  “I’ll be as obnoxious to the earl as you could wish.”

  Lydgate nodded in satisfaction. “That should do it. Oh, and you might consider setting up a flirt while you’re here.”

  She wrinkled her nose at that. “I could pretend to flirt with you.”

  Lydgate laughed. “Heaven forbid! You are so charming, my dear, and I am so susceptible. I should undoubtedly lose my heart to you.”
r />   “What nonsense, Lydgate. It is well known you do not have a heart to lose.”

  “Try Hardcastle,” he recommended.

  She looked ahead, to where Lord Hardcastle bent to listen to Lady Charlotte’s prattle.

  “But he is just a boy,” she protested.

  “Your senior by one or two years, I fancy,” said Lydgate. “And he was making your sister the object of his gallantry only yesterday. A fine chap, but he don’t have a feather to fly with, more’s the pity. Looking for an heiress to tow his estate out of the River Tick.”

  She recalled her fear that Violet might be pining for Lord Pearce. She hadn’t entirely shaken off that suspicion, so it was with mixed emotions that she contemplated a new romantic interest on the horizon.

  Surely Georgie would have noticed if Violet showed any preference for the young man. Whatever the case, Hardcastle would not do for Violet.

  “Well,” said Georgie. “I am glad you pointed him out to me. I shall certainly do my poor best to detach him from my sister.”

  They reached the village outskirts then, and the group clustered around Beckenham, who was pointing out various attractions. “The King’s Head is reportedly haunted by a lady who waited for her lover so they could fly to Gretna Green. The lover never appeared and the lady took her own life in the attic room. On the anniversary of her death, she walks and wails for her lost love.”

  The female contingent gave a collective sigh.

  Georgie drawled, “Heavens, Lord Beckenham, I’d no notion you were such a romantic.”

  She arched a brow at him, then moved past him to take Hardcastle’s arm.

  Addressing her new captive, she said, “Now, my dear sir, you must advise me on a purchase I need to make.”

  A little startled, as well he might be, the young man said, “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course, Miss Black. Happy to oblige. A matter of importance, I apprehend?”

  “Of vital importance, sir.”

  She turned to wave Beckenham on. “Pray continue, my lord. You won’t mind if I skip the lecture, will you? I’m a native of these parts myself, you know.”

  Beckenham’s expression darkened, if that were possible, but he inclined his head and turned back to the rapt attention of his audience.