"You—you have men, you want, me, to talk to?" Nadia asked incredulously.
"Well, of course! That's what a lovely young heiress with an ailing father comes to these occasions for, is it not?" Lady Henrietta chortled obnoxiously. "Now, Lord Avery, and Lord Tybalt, they're wonderful men—a tad on the old side, but—"
"Lady Henrietta, perhaps, did you happen to think upon whether I chose to attend simply to make my father happy, and NOT to search for some suitor to sweep me away and wait for my father to die?!" Nadia protested breathlessly.
"Oh, come now! If you wish to make your father happy, you'd have your eyes peeled hawkishly in search of a man worthy of your attention! A good woman like yourself needs a man, you know," Lady Henrietta insisted as she tugged Nadia along through the crowds, the sound of spring-colored sounds from light strings plied by musicians doing little to soothe poor Nadia's pounding heart. "You know, he cares quite a lot about you, and he knows that you still have a lot to learn about life as a proper lady. That's why he's asked me to—"
"Lady Henrietta, I beg your pardon, please, but I doubt quite a great deal that my father asked you to matchmake for me—"
"He wanted me to look after you! So that's what I'm doing, looking after you," Lady Henrietta announced proudly. "Now, Lord Avery, he's a lovely man, a tad old, but certainly a worthy husband. He does have that... small issue, he's quite a bit... well, touchy. But that's a good thing, is it not? Oh! Or the Duke of Thrushcross, he's such a lovely old man, and he lost his poor, lovely wife, so young! He's—"
"Lady Henrietta, touchy?! You're trying to set me up with—" Nadia exclaimed in exasperation, her tolerance for the old bat reaching its limit. "I think we need to stop and discuss—"
"Oh, discussion! I love discussion. Have you any rumors to share? You visited Siam, didn't you? Such a ghastly place! But I met a a man there, Lord Chester—did you meet him?" Lady Henrietta continued unabated, and Nadia was already quite exhausted. "Lord Chester! That's a man we should meet together. Certainly, he'd love your father—"
"Love my father? But what about—"
"What about you? What about you, darling?" Lady Henrietta smiled obliviously. "Now, come, let's talk to-"
"Quiet, everyone! Quiet, for just moment!" The squirrelly, sniveling tone of Lord Perrywise gave to Nadia a much-needed reprieve from the endless stream of Lady Henrietta's banter. Nadia took a deep breath, barely able to recover from the dizzying experience; but the crowd fell silent and, perched at the top of the stairwell, the tiny, bald-headed Lord Perrywise appeared, wearing a waistcoat and jacket quite big on him, in the most gaudy combination of blinding colors Nadia could imagine - pink pastels, sky blues, and greens! His curious sense of fashion would no doubt inspire a laugh, had Nadia not been all too tired for that sort of exertion.
"I'm so-so-so very pleased, to see all of you gathered here," Lord Perrywise said, before laughing his horrifying laugh, like the melodic chirping of a bird. "I'm so wonderfully fortunate to have so many lovely friends here, willing to extend a hand of friendship, in such a friendly way," the odd man spoke in circles. Nadia had to shake the confusion from her head to make sure she'd heard his odd declarations accurately. "Now, lovely friends, dinner is prepared, BUT! I've a fun little game for us all to play. You'll find in the dining room, small plaques at each seat! You'll need to find yours - and once you find it, you'll be forced to sit among strangers! Now, friends, meet new friends!" Lord Perrywise declared; the doors to the dining room squealed on their hinges and Nadia swallowed a lump in her throat. Great. Saved from the endless irritating chatter of Lady Henrietta... only to be exposed to who knows what manner of endless, irritating chatter from strangers she'd be forced to sit next to.
"This is unexpected," Lady Henrietta frowned, before the brief moment of sadness passed and her face lit up once more. "Certainly you'll find a lovely man to speak to—think of your father! Now," Lady Henrietta declared, hustling with excitement towards the dining room - this was just the sort of ridiculous thing she'd enjoy, but for Nadia? She could only scoff at the thought of whatever ridiculous, old-fashioned ideas she'd be forced to endure as she yawned and pretend to need to excuse herself for the evening.
Nadia pushed her way through the crowd - so many tall people, with tall heels, long gowns; flowing jackets, laughing. She felt alone, strange, as if she'd stepped out of the real world outside of England and stepped in to a bizarre little bubble of madness - mad men, mad women, drinking wine and laughing at bad jokes together. Nadia slunk with doom in her footsteps along the long table, searching for her name; searching, searching, recognizing the names and titles of people her father had often spent time with. She recognized the names of old friends of hers; women who had once been headstrong, but who abandoned their ideas and independence when money and title and men came into their lives. Finally, at the very end of the table, she found it: LADY HAVENSHIRE. She sighed, glancing curiously at the name next to hers: LORD BECKHAM. Just perfect, she thought facetiously; a man to lecture her on the nature of marriage, or to try at her father's fortune, or both.
Nadia slipped into her chair, sinking down into the upholstery as violin music and guffaws echoed through the dining hall. She almost found a moment of uneasy peace, before a familiar voice broke into her thoughts again.
"Lord Beckham? Hmmm, isn't that the reclusive chap from Berrewithe?" Lady Henrietta asked, startling Nadia from her moment of self-reflection.
"I'm—Lady Henrietta! Shouldn't you be finding your own name and seat?!" Nadia exclaimed in a heated whisper.
"Your father asked me to look after you, and I can't have some silly foible by old Henry Perrywise foiling your father's goodwill," Lady Henrietta declared, examining the nameplate as if it held some secret clues. "Lord Beckham... a strange fellow. I hear little of him from these events. Perhaps he'd simply rather sit up on his hill," Lady Henrietta mused.
"Or," Nadia interjected, "perhaps he simply hasn't got the time or attention span for these silly dinner parties," she responded coolly.
"Come now, darling! Every single man has his eye out for lovely ladies, and—"
"Excuse me," came a darkly-entrancing voice from behind Lady Henrietta's birdish squawks. Nadia blinked, turning to see the source of the sound - oddly brooding, but spoken in a manner that demanded attention. Lady Henrietta froze and turned to see him - a man in a black coat, his expression dark, his face handsome but crossed with emotion. He struck Nadia silent - he was like nothing else at this ball, as out-of-place as she was, clothed in dark colors and vexed rather than pleased by the drunken follies of loud, gossiping nobles in bright-white and powder-colored coats and gowns. "I believe that spot's meant for me. No offense, m'lady," the brooding man rumbled, his voice like a soothing thunderstorm crooning quietly across the northern moors. Lady Henrietta stood in stunned silence for a moment, gathering her thoughts before a devilish grin crossed her wrinkled face.
"Certainly, m'lord, you've a wonderful little lady waiting to make conversation with you," Lady Henrietta brimmed, tossing a conspiratorial smile in Nadia's direction. Nadia cringed, the old woman admiring the new arrival, the entrancing storm of a man, as sat into the chair. Nadia got a better look at him now; tall, broad, with a deep face crested with the signs of both wisdom and strength; eyes as much a tempest as his voice, his expression so out of place somewhere like this. Nadia silently wished him to be different, so different the way she was; perhaps, she held out hope, this handsome and curious man saw the world differently, just as she did.
She could only hope. Men had little regard for women like Nadia, or their 'worldly' ideas, and she felt certain this man would prove no different. She looked away, awkwardly counting candles along the far wall. This man, Lord Beckham, didn't seem too interested in breaking the silence, either... which Nadia took to be rather interesting. Among these types it was, after all, the duty of the man to be the aggressor; such was what she came to expect.
Instead, he reclined in the chair, deep in thought on hi
mself; so deep, it seemed, that Nadia honestly grew... a little offended. Had she not the looks of one of these other debutantes or young heiresses? Didn't she deserve his attention? Instead, since the moment he'd invited himself to sit, he'd remained silent, and she began to long to hear his powerful voice again, if only to know she was deserving of at least an inkling of his attention.
Instead, he remained silent. The chatter around them grew louder; the squealing noise of the string orchestra growing bawdier, and the life around them growing more jovial. But still Lord Beckham and Lady Havenshire remained standoffish, her arms crossed atop her chest; Lord Beckham's eyes drawn inward, looking at his own soul more than anything around them. Nadia shifted in her chair, the wood creaking beneath her; finally, the silence between them deafening and her own sense of insecurity welling up, she spoke out.
"Well, I'm rather surprised at your acquiescence, I'll say that much," Nadia bristled. "Letting the woman be the first to speak is not quite the manner I've come to expect from men of wealth in this part of the world." Lord Beckham's expression turned slowly, and when his deep, contemplative eyes fell upon her she blinked, realizing just how confrontational she had sounded.
"Pardon, m'lady. If you were expecting a wellspring of conversation, perhaps we ought to ask Lady Henrietta to come back," he spoke, words utterly deadpan. Simultaneously shocked and pleased, Nadia couldn't stop herself from erupting into a completely ugly and unladylike laugh. Lord Beckham smiled mildly. "I'm fortunate that made you laugh, elseways I'd be expecting a long and firmly-worded scolding from the old woman rather soon."
"Oh, lord, no, we'd both be getting one if she knew I'd laughed at that," Lady Havenshire whispered, chuckling. "I wasn't aware her reputation was so well-known."
"You weren't aware? Shall I call her back to make you aware? None have been so vigorous in letting all of England know that Lady Henrietta likes to talk, than Lady Henrietta herself," Lord Beckham joked. Once more Nadia let out that ugly laugh, stifling it before she embarrassed herself, though Lord Beckham's smile invited her to continue. "Please, don't be concerned on the nature of your laugh around me. This is Lord Perrywise's event, after all." Nadia blinked; she could feel her defenses falter, her heart weak and inviting for just a moment.
"Such boldness," she grinned. "You're certain you belong here? You're not some manner of rogue who slipped in unaccounted for, are you?" Nadia snerked incredulously.
"I could certainly ask the same of you, with that laugh," he teased, inviting a playful slap on the shoulder from Lady Havenshire.
"That's most uncalled for, Lord Beckham," she exaggerated his title to tease.
"Quite so, Lady Havenshire," he responded with the same sense of gravity; she expressed surprise.
"H-how did you know my name?..." she intoned quizzically.
"Well, I've a secret to share," Lord Beckham's voice grew conspiratorial. "I've some great manner of otherworldly power, such that it would engender envy from the devil himself. I can see into the minds of the vulnerable, the weak-willed, and I can..." he drew closer, his voice falling to a whisper. "...read, the nameplate sat before them," he finished with a flourish, tapping on the plaque - LADY HAVENSHIRE - still set in front of Nadia. Embarrassed, she chuckled, her cheeks bright red.
"Weak-willed, huh?" she sniped back playfully. "Gullible, perhaps I'd admit, but weak-willed? Do you know who I am?"
"Of course I do," he answered without missing a beat, "You're Lady Havenshire." She blushed and tried to stifle her laughter again, her heart singing, odd yet comforting. This strange man had somehow proven himself to be different - at least, entertaining.
"That's not what I meant, Lord Beckham," she again repeated his name with that sarcastic weightiness. "You wouldn't call a woman weak-willed when she's spent the last few years traveling the world, all on her own, would you?"
"Is that what you've done? Am I meant to be impressed? I traveled across all of northern England, you know, and I'm certain that's a far greater trifle than traveling the world. Do you have any clue how many Lady Henriettas have sought to talk my ear off in the past few years?" he joked.
"I'm serious! It was no small task," Lady Havenshire responded incredulously.
"Yes, in fairness, I do have an inkling of who you are, Lady Havenshire. Have you forgotten that lovely introduction Lady Henrietta gave you?" he asked. Her laughter died away to grudging admission.
"I do indeed recall," she nodded. "I had good reason to be scared after that, frankly. Noblemen hear of a single woman with an ailing father, and..."
"Ailing father?" Lord Beckham's dry sense of humor faded to a voice full of deep concern. False tears could be conjured by many a skilled liar, and the aristocracy housed many such liars, but something... something, about the deep sound of his voice, about that face, something about... him, convinced Nadia of his sincerity. "I'm... I'm sorry, for..."
"You've nothing to apologize... for," Nadia's voice grew vulnerable as she thought on her father.
"I know the... pain, I watched my father..." Lord Beckham shamefully admits. "My sister and I could do nothing to help him."
"Your sister?" Lady Havenshire chimed in curiously. The subject clearly made Lord Beckham uncomfortable, as he shifted about in his chair.
"My elder sister, yes, Catherine. A wonderful... woman," he hesitated. Cold realization churned in Lady Havenshire's stomach.
"Elder sister. Catherine," she repeated skeptically. He, like every man, had benefited from the system she despised... no different from the others. "And so I'm guessing that as your father passed, he felt safe, having a male heir, yes?" Lord Beckham's expression grew cross.
"I did not... enjoy, seeing my father die, nor did I enjoy the trouble caused by my sister's—"
"Trouble? Is that what your sister was - a trouble? Women - we're such troubles, aren't we?" Nadia interrupted, her mind afire now.
"No, the trouble was in the manner of inheritance. I had no interest in... in feuding with my sister. I..." Lord Beckham's voice fell away. The conversation ended nearly as abruptly as it had began; Lady Havenshire, her arms crossed atop her chest, looked away.
It hurt her. It hurt her deeply; she thought she'd found a man different from the others, but that moment had come as a blistering reminder that no man cared for women as equals; none saw them as worthy, and every man benefited from a system that put men on top, even those who wanted not to benefit. She found Lord Beckham handsome, strange; that aura, and that charm, had even opened her up and made her vulnerable.
"I hope we're having a lovely time, are we not?" A chipper voice broke the silence; Lord Perrywise, the addled old man, smiling as he stuck his head between the two of them. "Lord Beckham, so pleased you could make it! We've not seen you in the hallowed halls of the manor here in so long! And paired with such a lovely woman, Lady Havenshire! Your father, he was so excited you'd be here, and..."
How perfectly timely an interference. Lord Perrywise, her father - real life, came crashing back down, and she and Lord Beckham simply sat in tense silence, enduring it.
CHAPTER SIX
Failure.
A rapping at the door pulled Lord Beckham from a stormy reverie; that recurring dream, haunting him again, like a spectre floating amid the oak and the glass of Berrewithe Manor, hiding in the high shadows of imposing, vaulted ceilings. His eyes opened, though the hazy stupor of liquor and self-loathing cast a murky shadow over his vision; he clung to the faint memories of his dream, reminding him again, and again, that failure had always been his only reasonable option. He had failed Anna; he had failed the woman who had entranced him, just last night; Lady Havenshire, a woman who felt like none he had ever met. A woman who understood his blase humor; a woman who had appreciated his heart. A woman he had felt a spark with, like the flash of gold-yellow when flint struck tinder... but the fire, as always, had failed to start. Now, he was certain he would never again see the woman who had lit a candle in his own heart; who had, for a few moments of conversation, c
onnected with him as few ever had.
The rapping continued, and a familiar voice broke through. The night had been cruel to Lord Beckham, and after retreating from the dinner party and its blinding lights, pastel corridors and chortling, foppish gentlemen, he had spent the night thinking on her; thinking on Lady Havenshire, thinking on Anna. And when thoughts came of his own failures, of his inadequacies, the drink began; and rarely did it stop, before the morbid dreams of crushed flowers and a wedding reception stolen by rain reminded him of how he didn't deserve a woman; not Anna, and certainly not one like the young Lady Havenshire.
"M'lord! It's quite time for afternoon tea, and you've nearly slept all the day!" Ms. Cauthfield excoriated her master through the door. Lord Beckham had little interest in facing today; nor did he very well fancy the idea of facing tomorrow, either. He pretended to ignore the old woman crowing through the door, instead shifting along the sheets. The curtains drawn, the glow of midday crept through cracks in the darkness, alerting him that the day had indeed worn on long without him. It only made him feel far worse; far more useless, having spent all evening thinking on his failures, and now all day sleeping upon them, he had little inclination to spend yet another afternoon lost in those thoughts.
He knew he wouldn't be that lucky, though. She had made an impression... and now she's all he could think upon.
"M'lord! Are you quite alright?" Ms. Cauthfield asked, her knuckles striking the door with such rapidity he wondered if they'd leave scuff marks across its polished surface. He lamented with a groan; as consciousness quickly flooded into his faculties he became quite suddenly and sharply aware of a dolorous throbbing in his temples; he ached tremendously through his legs and arms and even into his core, his entire body run ragged by the demon of self-flagellation via drink. And consciousness only brought to bear the worst of his self-loathing, for now he saw her face; he saw her reaction to him, recounting the strained relationship between he and his sister.
The Duke's Headstrong Woman: True Love In London (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 2) Page 4
