by Sara Portman
No one save Bex.
Lucy wished she could suppress the thought. She dare not look in his direction.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Lord Renleigh, Lady Mariah.” The words felt thick and uncooperative, but Lucy pushed them out anyway. “My felicitations on your coming nuptials.” She stole another glance at Lord Renleigh, tried to find something about him that seemed familiar, but nothing was. She caught herself looking at his mouth and immediately turned to look elsewhere. Perhaps there had been another Mariah at the Ashbys’ dinner party?
It seemed unlikely. She swallowed. She could feel Bex’s eyes on her—knew they would be full of amusement. If she met his gaze now, she would either die of mortification or collapse in laughter herself. Neither behavior would recommend her to Lady Ashby as a sensible and respectable governess.
“Thank you.” The girl smiled brightly then cast an adoring look at Lord Renleigh. She was small and pretty and looked not much older than eighteen. Lucy felt a stab of guilt at having stolen what should have been Mariah’s kiss—with her husband-to-be. It occurred to her that if she became a member of the Ashby household, she might continue to encounter both Lord Renleigh and the future Lady Renleigh. She cursed her impetuousness.
“I told Ashby that I must come congratulate you on your performance,” Lady Ashby said. “The duchess said you were musically inclined, but I did not understand how gifted you are.”
“I am humbled by your praise, my lady.” Lucy mustered the courage, then, to steal a glance at Bex. She did not find the mocking glance she expected. Instead, he seemed to be watching Lord Renleigh intently, an unreadable expression on his face. Sensing her attention, he turned to meet Lucy’s gaze. That was when she received the amused wink she had been expecting. She felt her flush brighten.
“Following that performance,” Lady Constance said, “I should think a great number of ladies will feel the same. I predict musical instruction by Miss Lucy Betancourt shall become a valuable commodity.”
“Indeed.” Lady Ashby nodded, looking not entirely pleased with the comment from the comtesse.
“The duchess has told me of your situation,” Lady Ashby said quietly to Lucy, as though the predicament required discretion. “My eldest, Elizabeth, has already shown a keen interest in music.”
“I would encourage any young woman toward music, my lady. It has been a source of great joy and comfort to me throughout my life.”
Lady Ashby nodded approvingly at her comments. “I am very busy just now with my brother’s pending nuptials. With our mother gone, so much of this falls to me, you understand.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Lucy. “But following his wedding in a fortnight, I shall be dedicating myself to the task of engaging a governess for my three girls. I should like to meet with you the following week, to discuss it, if that would be acceptable to you?”
“Of course, my lady. Thank you so very much for the compliments, and I shall be available at your convenience. I look forward to discussing your wishes for your daughters’ education.”
“Two weeks, dear,” Lady Ashby said, raising a finger to stress the importance of her message. “Do not commit yourself before then.”
Lucy nodded. “No, my lady. I would not consider it. Thank you.”
Lady Ashby looked upon Lucy with the satisfied smile of one who knows all the details have fallen into place, then turned to her companions. “Renleigh, Mariah, should we not go see what Ashby is up to?”
Lord Renleigh did not respond. He was occupied whispering into the ear of his fiancée, who blushed, wide eyed, at whatever he was telling her.
“Renleigh,” Lady Ashby said more sharply, finally catching the younger man’s attention.
He stood erect and coughed. “Yes. I agree,” he said, and Lucy was quite certain he had no earthly idea to what he had just agreed. Mariah’s blushed deepened.
“How very touching,” Bex said as they walked away. “To see such a love match. Why, they are so smitten, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they are sneaking off into darkened corners or private gardens.”
“Of course they should,” the comtesse said, with a surprisingly nostalgic smile as she watched the couple. “Love is only new once. Let them enjoy it.”
Lucy gave serious consideration to driving the heel of her slipper into Bex’s toe, but chose to restrain herself.
Lady Constance turned her attention back to Lucy. “Now, where is our favorite duchess? She will be tiring by now. She must come and sit by me. I shall have Benson bring chairs.”
Lucy lay a staying hand on Lady Constance’s arm as she raised it to gain the attention of her butler. “I’m afraid she is past tired, my lady. The evening away from home proved too much for her. The duke took her home immediately following the performance.”
The comtesse’s brow knit. “Oh, no. Is she quite ill?”
Lucy shook her head. “She said she was only tired and queasy—nothing concerning. I am afraid, however, that I shall have to impose upon you for a means of returning to Worley House this evening.”
The lady’s slender hand sliced the air between them. “Of course, ma chere. I will take you home in my own carriage.”
“There is no need for you to be out at such a late hour, Lady Constance,” Bex said, stepping forward into the conversation. “I am capable of accompanying Miss Betancourt to Worley House.”
Lucy shot him a look of alarm. She couldn’t leave with him—unchaperoned.
He only laughed. “You cannot plead scandal, Saint Lucy, when we spent hours together in a carriage in Hertfordshire.”
“I am not frightened of you, Mr. Brantwood,” she said, stressing the use of his surname, “only of the damage to my reputation if we are seen leaving together unchaperoned. I am certain Lady Ashby will require a governess with an unimpeachable reputation.”
“Lucy is correct,” Lady Constance declared.
Lucy could not resist lifting her chin in juvenile triumph at winning the point. She also could not fathom spending the time alone in a carriage with Bex, nor could she understand why he should want to do so.
“You shall have to wait until the last of the guests are gone before departing,” Lady Constance continued. “Then no one will know that you have left together.”
Bex looked victorious.
But why? Why would he want to orchestrate time alone with her? He’d declined her proposal. If a man had any designs on compromising a woman, surely he would accept the direct offer to do so when given.
Wouldn’t he?
Lucy sighed inwardly and accepted that she was wasting her time pondering these questions. Clearly she knew the least of anyone when it came to the reasoning of men—particularly Bexley Brantwood.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bex had gravely miscalculated. Why had he insisted he see Lucy home in the comtesse’s carriage?
He knew exactly why.
Possessiveness.
He’d just felt so damned territorial when she’d spoken to Danvers and then to Renleigh. He’d been absolutely unable to conquer his preoccupation with the fact that Renleigh had kissed her. She had said it was merely nice. Renleigh hadn’t even known whom he was kissing. Neither one of those facts seemed to matter a damn to his sense of male pride. Besides, what kind of man couldn’t tell when he was kissing his own woman? Bex would damn well know it if he were kissing Lucy.
But she was not his woman. She had offered to be, if only for a time, but he had nobly declined the offer.
Noble deeds were grossly overrated.
And therein lay the difficulty in accompanying Saint Lucy of Beadwell, alone in a carriage, to Worley House in the dark of night. It was as though he had consciously chosen to add torture to self-deprivation. Perhaps it was not she who qualified for sainthood after all. He seemed to be pursuing it with dogged determination.
Well, if this was sainthood, he
wanted none of it.
He had to get control of himself; otherwise, he would pull her onto his lap, tell her what a fool he’d been to decline her precious offer, and explore every place on her body, inch by inch—with his tongue.
No.
No. No. No.
“Did you enjoy the concert?” she asked, unaware of the precipice on which he stood.
“Yes. You played very well.” It came out more stiffly than he’d intended, but as he was, in fact, stiff in certain areas, he couldn’t much help it.
“Thank you.” Her response was soft. He could just make out her slight smile in the moonlit interior of the coach.
“You looked beautiful,” he added, before he thought better of it.
“Thank you,” she said again, then somewhat awkwardly returned the compliment. “You looked very handsome.”
He released a strained laugh. “I am not trying to be courtly, Lucy. You are lovely this evening.”
She looked up at him then, wide eyes shining in the moonlight, like a hunted animal caught in the night. “I…I had a new dress.”
It was not the new dress. She could have worn a rag and he would have been just as hungry for her.
“Lady Constance insisted,” she continued. “I could have worn one of my other dresses, but she was purchasing Madame Castellini a new gown and insisted I should have one as well.”
“That was very generous of her.”
“It was, wasn’t it? It was needlessly so in my case.” She tilted her head to one side as she considered. “Though I can understand that someone the caliber of Madame Castellini would expect or even demand certain compensations to appear for a private performance.”
Thank heaven for Lucy’s habit of filling silent voids. Bex had only to provide the occasional prompt and she would carry the conversation, rescuing him from the burden of doing so himself when he was…preoccupied. She was so much more interesting when she was relaxed, animated, as she was now—gesturing and telling him about dresses—rather than worrying about subdued, ladylike behavior.
“Madame Castellini’s gown was stunning, was it not? I think she looked as beautiful as she sounded. I thought her gown was gorgeous from the moment I saw it at Madame Desmarais’s shop.”
“Didn’t you like your dress?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes, of course. I was very pleased with my dress. It was exactly the right sort of dress for someone like me. To compare it to Madame Castellini’s dress doesn’t even make sense.”
Bex leaned closer in an attempt to better view her expression in the dim light. “Someone like you?”
Lucy laughed as though the answer to his question should have been obvious. “Well, someone not like Madame Castellini. Of course she can appear in a richly decorated burgundy gown. She is a famous opera singer. She is…mysterious and sultry. I am a small, pale vicar’s daughter from the countryside. If I wore a dress like Madame Castellini’s, I should look like a child playing with costumes.”
Bex was immediately assaulted with a vision of Lucy in a gown similar to the one they discussed, and he did not find the vision to be childlike in any way. “You do not think you could wear a red gown?”
She pursed her lips. “Well it wasn’t red, precisely. I would call it claret or burgundy, even maroon, perhaps. I suppose it was not aubergine, really, as that would be quite purplish, wouldn’t it?” She shook her head. “Anyway, it was quite spectacular, if a gown can be so.”
“You did not answer my question.”
“Oh. Well, of course not. I already said I should look foolish. I am more suited to modest, pastel colors.”
“But do you like them?” he pressed.
“Of course. I like to look good and those are the colors that look good on me.” Her eyes drifted downward as she spoke, and he wondered if she truly believed it. Like everything else in Lucy’s life, she was convinced of the colors she was supposed to wear, but had she even bothered to give consideration to which colors she would like to wear?
Even as he knew he shouldn’t—recognized it for the mistake it was—Bex leaned even closer to her and used two fingers to lift her chin. He stared into her certain gaze for a long moment before he asked softly, “Don’t you think you can be sultry and mysterious?”
Lucy’s head drew back. “No, I do not, but I do not endeavor to be, so it doesn’t matter.” She stared at him for a moment, then released a nervous laugh. “I thought we were making idle conversation about dresses. As it is, this dress is not very practical, as I shall not have much use for it as a governess. Something more serviceable would have been better, but I do appreciate the gift. It was very kind of Lady Constance.”
Bex thought it would have been kinder of Lady Constance and her French dressmaker to make Lucy feel as though she were equally beautiful. It was a damned shame, in fact, that they had not.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Your mother has written.”
Bex looked up from the newspaper and regretted his decision not to find some outing away from the house that morning. The uncooperatively wet weather had encouraged him to believe he could avoid his father while remaining at home, but he had clearly been incorrect.
He sighed. “How touching to learn that you still correspond with your wife.”
“You will shut your disrespectful mouth and listen to me.” Edward’s face was mottled with purple.
Bex arched a brow in silent question.
“Your mother has written that there is unrest among the tenants. Word has reached them of the sale and they are causing trouble.” He pressed his lips together in annoyance at the complication.
“How inconvenient,” Bex observed, “that the tenants might be troubled by the fact that their farms and their lives have been handed over to a new landlord who is unknown to them and their current landlord has not even seen fit to inform them. It seems awfully selfish of them.”
Edward glowered at him. “You may keep your impudent opinions to yourself. My point is that I am required in Surrey. I expect when I am gone that you will further your courtship with Lady Constance. We must each do our part, Bexley.”
Bex sighed. He could allow his father to presume his directive would be obeyed—but he found he couldn’t do it. The frustration of self-denial over the past week had made him just cantankerous enough that he couldn’t pretend to abide by his father’s wishes.
He told the truth instead. “I will not attempt to trick Lady Constance into marriage. She is by far the most interesting widow of my acquaintance and I consider her a friend, but I will not masquerade as a lovesick suitor for a woman who feels more a favored aunt.”
His father snorted derisively. “Your righteousness won’t feed you, and if you refuse to be rational, neither will I.”
“I will not treat her so callously, nor myself. I have not abandoned the possibility, Father, that I may yet regain for myself that which you so reprehensibly squandered. If I do, I may one day be in a position to marry. I will leave open this door to my own happiness.”
His father sneered. “Happiness? With that damned nobody? That vicar’s daughter? She has nothing to recommend her but a pretty face and a friendship with the duchess. That friendship may win you a seat at their table now and again, but what sustenance will it place on your own table?”
Bex eyed his father warily. “I do not speak of anyone specific. I speak of the future. The far distant future.”
“I have warned you before not to play games with me, son,” Edward said. He rounded the settee to stand in front of Bex and glared menacingly at him. “I saw you with her after the performance, hovering at her side all evening like a foolish lovesick swain. Ridiculous.”
Bex gritted his teeth as he listened, vowing not to rise to his father’s bait.
Still, the man’s diatribe continued. “You have nothing. She has nothing. Together, the two of
you would have nothing still. How long do you think moon-eyed love lasts when one cannot afford basic necessities? Where would you live? How would you eat? Even if she is impetuous enough to disregard those things and actually accept you, how long will that affection last in the depths of poverty? And what do you think Gibbs will do when you cannot pay? Do you really think he will leave you in peace and forget what he is owed?”
Bex stood and faced down his father’s contemptuous stare with equal fire. His chest rose and fell with the exertion of keeping his rage in check. He would strangle his own father if only he were not prevented from doing so by the last shreds of decency he had retained. He spoke deliberately and enunciated clearly when he spoke. “It is by your actions that I have nothing to offer as a husband, and I will not impose that circumstance on any woman, whether she be of your choosing or of mine.”
“You are too entrenched in your own youthful stupidity to behave sensibly. That tart is not your future.”
“Do not speak of her that way again.”
“It doesn’t matter what I call her, she can do nothing for you.”
“She is none of your concern.”
“Nor should she be any of yours. I will leave Friday morning for Oakwood Lodge and will return four days later. I expect to learn when I return from Surrey that you have spent your time wisely—with Lady Constance.”
Bex nearly snorted at his father’s command. He was not in a particular mood for wise choices, whether by his father’s measure or anyone else’s. He knew precisely with whom he would prefer to spend the next four days. In point of fact, he decided he did have an errand out of the house that morning after all. He folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “Safe journey, Father,” he bit out, then he quit the room.
