Kitabı oku: «Regency Society Collection Part 1», sayfa 6

Chapter Six

Taris Wellingham stood with his brother and Lord Jack Henshaw at the top of the room. Tonight he was in black and was ‘much dressed’, the cut of his coat and trousers impeccable, his hair slicked back in a fashionable manner and his boots of the finest leather. But it was the glasses that he wore tonight which drew Beatrice’s attention.

She took a breath, hating the fact that he was by far the most handsome man in the room and she was by far the least beautiful woman. Still, she was not one to do things by halves and, starting forwards, she hoped that he would at least hear her out.

The arrival of the Countess of Griffin’s daughter, Lady Arabella Fisher, a woman of whom Beatrice-Maude had heard much, thwarted her intentions as she rushed through the burgeoning crowd to the side of Taris Wellingham. Her smile told Bea that she was more than enamoured by him, though his answering expression seemed tight.

Others joined them, laughing at the things he said, though Bea was too far away to make sense of any words.

What she did make sense of was the sheer and utter number of women in this room who threw him hooded glances before making their way to his side.

She swallowed. Those around him were the very pick of this Season’s debutantes, the cream of a society priding itself on lineage and ancestry. She recognised the Wilford sisters and the Wellsworth heiress, along with Lady Arabella, and was about to withdraw when a voice beside her made her jump.

‘I did not think of you as a coward, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

Emerald Wellingham stood beside her, blocking her retreat.

‘It seems then that my rudeness at your house the other day is not my only failure, your Grace.’

‘Ahh, so formal when I thought you might be a friend?’

Bea’s heart raced at the tone in her voice. Satirical. Taunting. And she could well understand why. ‘You have cause to chastise me.’

The laugh that followed set Beatrice’s nerves on edge.

‘I would say you might have to fight your way through the gathering crowd of adoring females if you wish to speak to Taris.’

‘So I see.’

‘And if I thought that was all that you saw, Mrs Bassingstoke, I might turn this minute from your company and hope that you might never darken my family’s door again with your prejudices. But there is more to you, I think. More to the singular reaction of panic that I saw on your face when you comprehended the nature of my brother-in-law’s shortfalls.’

A voice behind made both turn and the Duke of Carisbrook joined them. ‘Mrs Bassingstoke.’ Said with all the indifference of a man who could barely feign politeness.

‘Your Grace.’ Bea wished that she just might disappear into the polished floor beneath her feet. Her palms, where she held her hands like fists, were damp with nervousness, though she made herself smile.

‘If you will excuse me…’

She turned and walked through the crowd, the music of Mozart softening the hard cracks of anger that she felt boiling up in herself.

‘Tell no one…‘

Her mantra for the past decade as life had flung crisis after crisis her way, the little difficulties escalating into bigger ones, and all eminently unrectifiable.

Loud giggles from the group at the top of the room pierced her bewilderment, and she could not think what exactly to do next, though a balcony provided a way out and she slipped on to it, wiping the tears she felt pooling in her eyes as she tried to take stock of the situation.

She was twenty-eight years old and any histrionics on her part would be reprehensible and overblown, an aged woman who should have been well past undisciplined and unbecoming emotion.

The sheer and utter hopelessness of it all left her gasping and she placed her hands upon her chest, barely breathing, the silence of just standing there bringing a measure of control.

And then the door opened and Taris Wellingham came towards her, his hands around the silver ball on his ebony cane.

‘My sister-in-law informed me that you wished to see me.’

He sounded nothing like the man who had walked with her earlier in the afternoon, but all imperious and lofty.

‘I did, my lord. I came tonight to tell you that I do not quite know what came over me today and that I would like to thank you.’ Her voice was pulled from embarrassment, barely audible.

‘Thank me?’ His words were brittle. Almost harsh.

‘Thank you for entrusting me with your secret…’ She faltered and as he turned away she tried anew. ‘I would also like to say that your affliction of poor eyesight is infinitely more appealing to me than the other option of drunkenness.’

Unexpectedly he turned back and smiled, though as the silence lengthened between them she simply could not think of one other thing to say.

‘My sister-in-law tells me you have discussions on “matters of importance” at your residence.’ He looked exactly at her tonight, amber magnified through the thick spectacles.

‘Put like that, it all seems rather absurd,’ she returned.

‘She tells me that you are a woman of strong opinion and that your eyes are green. Leaf green,’ he amended when she did not say anything. ‘She also tells me that you worry a lot.’

‘She could see that?’

‘In the line on your brow.’

‘An unbecoming feature, then,’ Beatrice said, all her hackles rising. What else had Emerald Wellingham related to him? ‘I am a plain woman, my lord.’

‘Plain is an adjective that has many different interpretations. A carp in a river can be plain to the eyes of one who does not fish, yet vibrant to an angler. A deer in the forest can look insignificant amidst a band of sun-speckled trees and magnificent away from them. Which plain are you?’

‘The type that recognises the truth despite any amount of flowery rhetoric.’

He laughed.

‘Describe yourself to me, then.’

She hesitated. ‘You can see nothing at all?’

‘With my glasses on I know that you are not a large woman. I know too that your hair is long and thick and that you have dimples in your cheeks.’ He held out his hands. ‘From touch,’ he qualified. ‘There is a lot to be learned in touch. On a good day I can see more.’

‘I am five feet two inches tall and some may call me…thin.’

‘Some?’

‘My husband always did. He thought that if I ate more I should appeal to him better, but no matter how much I tried—’ She stopped, horrified as to what she had just confided in him, when for all the years of her marriage she had told every other soul nothing.

‘Pride can be a dangerous thing, Beatrice-Maude.’

She pretended not to understand what he meant. But she knew exactly the tack that he was following because pride was all that had ever stood between her and chaos. Pride kept her quiet and biddable, because the alternative of others knowing what she had suffered was just too humiliating.

Honesty fell between them like a stone in a still and deep pond, the ripples of meaning fanning outwards as the consequences became larger and larger. Withdrawal had its own set of repercussions, just as pretence did. Still, here on the balcony, with the distant strands of Mozart on the air, she was careful. A woman with the candour of her past licking at twenty-eight long years and a future before her that finally looked a little bright. She could allow no one to tarnish that. Not even Taris Wellingham, with his magical hands and his handsome face.

No, plain was measured in more than just the look of one’s countenance, she decided right then and there. Indeed, it was a bone-deep knowledge that no amount of clever repartee might disavow, a knowledge engraved with certainty in each memory and action and hope. Unchangeable, even with the very best of intentions.

When the door behind him opened to reveal Lord Henshaw, she used the moment to escape, excusing herself before walking away with the swift gait of one who was not quite breaking into a run.

Taris listened to her go, knew the exact moment that she disappeared from the balcony, her footsteps quick and urgent.

‘You are due to speak in five minutes.’

‘Rutledge sent you to find me?’

‘He is a man who likes things to be on time.’

‘May I ask you a question, Jack?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘What does Mrs Bassingstoke look like to you?’

‘Mrs Bassingstoke?’ Surprise lay in Jack’s reply as Taris nodded. ‘She is shapely in all the right places and her character is determined. If I were to pick just one word to describe her I would choose “original”.’

‘What colours does she favour in her clothes?’

‘Bright ones.’

‘And her hair? How does she wear that?’

‘Pulled back, though errant curls show around her face.’

The silence between them was alive with questions. Then a burst of music alerted them to a change in the main salon and Taris felt Jack’s arm against his own as they made their way inside.

Taris Wellingham’s speech was received with all the acclaim that it deserved, Bea thought, as it came to an end, his articulate arguments as to the necessity of better treatment for those who had served in the army both persuasive and compelling.

‘Lord Wellingham has a way with words,’ she heard an older lady say behind her.

‘And a way with the ladies! Look at how the young Lady Arabella Fisher is eyeing him up. There are whispers that the announcement of an engagement will be forthcoming and she is said to be extremely wilful.’

‘Well, she certainly is beautiful and her father’s land runs alongside Lord Wellingham’s at Beaconsmeade.’

An engagement! Beatrice pushed her disappointment down as a waltz began and a flurry of excitement filled the room. She had no reason to hold any opinion on Taris Wellingham’s love life. He was still young enough to take a bride and to all intents and purposes Lady Arabella Fisher was more than suitable. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, Bea wished that she had been even half as beautiful, the thought so vain and vapid she almost laughed at it. What would happen when the woman found out that Taris’s sight was not as it should be? Would she be kind?

Couples were now taking their places on the floor. Of all the dances this was the most intimate and the most favoured, the tedious figures of the quadrille something to be got through while one waited for the waltz.

Bea was just preparing to retire to the supper room, for she had seldom been asked to dance at any soiree, when a man appeared at her side.

‘My master has sent me to ask you if you would accompany him in this dance.’

‘Your master?’

The young man reddened.

‘Oh, I am sorry. Lord Taris Wellingham is my master. He said that you know him.’

A quick spurt of shock kept Bea speechless, but she managed to nod and followed the Wellingham servant.

Taris stood alone by a pillar and seemed to know the exact moment she joined him, placing his arm forwards and tucking her hand in the crook of it when she laid it on his sleeve.

‘I hope this means you have said yes to the dance, Mrs Bassingstoke?’

‘You may not feel the same after I have trodden on your feet for a full five minutes or more, my lord.’

‘You are telling me you are a poor dancer?’

‘The very worst in the room, and one with a minimum of practice.’

‘You do not enjoy dancing?’

‘I did not say that, sir. It is just that I am seldom asked.’

‘Then every man here must be blind.’

She could not help but laugh at his ridiculous comment, though when his arm came around her waist and his fingers clasped her hand she sobered. She had never danced this particular dance, not with anyone at all, though she had practised sometimes in the privacy of her room with a pillow.

Goodness, Taris Wellingham was hardly a pillow and they were so very close, her fingers entwined in his, her pliant body pressed against his hardness.

‘You always smell the same.’

‘The same?’

‘Flowers. You use flowers as a perfume.’

‘An attar of violets,’ she returned, amazed that he had even noticed.

She felt him breathe in, tasting her, the sensual and tiny movement poignant in the situation in which they now found themselves, and behind thick glasses his eyes were opaque amber and watching.

Would he like what he could still see? Did the plain he had spoken of look less inviting in the full light of the candles, a woman who only in fancy and hopefulness could ever stand a chance?

A chance of what?

Her thoughts turned in a tumble. She must not think like that! This was but a dance, a trifling thing and transitory. Around the perimeter of the floor she saw a hundred others watching them and was jolted back. Silly daydreams from a woman who after all wished for neither a permanent relationship nor marriage ever again and was hardly in a social stratum lofty enough to count as a would-be bride should she even want it.

‘Are you in London for long, my lord?’ She sought a neutral topic and the sensible tone in her voice was comforting.

‘One week,’ he answered. ‘I rarely stay for any length of time.’ As if he felt her withdrawal he loosened his hold and the gap between them widened. No longer pressed so close. No longer dancing as if they were the only couple on the floor.

‘Perhaps, then, you might come to my discussion on Wednesday night.’

‘Perhaps.’

She was not dissuaded by his tone. ‘The topic is on the rights of a woman to her own property once she is married.’

He smiled. ‘And you think that would hold my attention?’

‘You are a well-educated man, my lord, and an articulate one. I would think that the unfairness of the situation, where by law virtually all of a woman’s property becomes her husband’s upon marriage, would be of interest to you.’

Again he smiled. ‘You do not take into account my upbringing. As the sons of a duke, we were taught from the cradle that the notion of a husband being the guardian of his wife’s land is just common sense.’

‘Your own mother taught you that? Is she still alive?’ Beatrice could not believe what she was hearing.

When his laughter rang across the room the other couples dancing close to them looked around.

‘The change that you speak of does not happen overnight, Bea, and I should advise you to take care.’

‘Take care?’

‘Some members of the aristocracy may be averse to your liberal views.’

‘The vested interest of men who would not benefit from change, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Are you one of those men?’

His fingers squeezed hers as if in warning. She noticed that he did not use much space on the floor. They had virtually danced in almost the same spot for the whole of the time.

‘Sometimes opinions that are too strident can cause more trouble than they are worth. A wise woman would pick an argument she could win.’

She felt her heart beat faster and he must have felt it too for he tilted his head in the particular way he had of doing so.

‘I would never hurt you, Beatrice. At least know that.’

‘I do.’

Said with the conviction of a woman who did know, the strange intimacy between them confounding her with the very brevity of their acquaintance. She had never talked with anyone before as she had talked with Taris Wellingham, sparring with words and yet safe! Here was a man who was big enough to allow others their differing opinions whilst testing his own.

So unlike her husband!

‘There is another matter that I should like to discuss with you,’ he said. She felt him looking at her, felt the position of his body straight against her own. ‘I have had a report on the cause of the accident. It seems that the wheel did not shear off on its own accord, but was assisted.’

‘Assisted?’

‘Sawn. Almost in half.’

Taris did not soften his words at all and when she tripped against him held her still.

‘Someone tried to kill me?’

Her question was odd. ‘There were five people in the carriage. What makes you think it was you that they were after?’

Her breath was taken in one trembling gasp and he knew even as she remained silent that there were things she had not told him, but the final strains of the dance had just ended and his brother moved over to join them.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Beatrice was all distance and good manners and he tried to determine in which direction she had stepped away, but could not.

‘I hope she gave you an apology for the other day.’ Ashe placed his arm against his own.

‘I think she gave me more than that.’

‘The Bassingstoke money is forged in steel, Taris, Ipswich steel, and the workers as poorly paid and as underaged as any in England.’

‘You have been busy, brother.’ An edge of criticism curled in Taris’s answer.

‘I like to think of it as careful. The woman was with you overnight, after all, and I thought it only prudent to find out something about her.’

Hating himself for the question, Taris nevertheless asked it. ‘And what did you find out about her?’

‘She was widowed a month before the carriage accident, though few in the area knew her or her husband socially as they did not seem to mingle much. Indeed, it was said that she was rather reserved so I am hoping that she will not present…a problem.’

‘Problem?’

‘She is a widow of means. If she decided that your night together ruined her reputation, you might find yourself in trouble.’

‘The woman came as a friend tonight, Ashe, not to hold me accountable for the consequences of a carriage accident.’

‘Emerald implied that she could be interested in you in other ways.’

‘Other ways?’ Taris did not like the tone of entreaty in his query. What had Emerald seen that he himself had not? The feel of Bea against him was hard to forget. Even here in a roomful of women all vying for his attention he still sought the honeyed and gently lisping tones of the clever Widow Bassingstoke, yearning like an adolescent for her soft full breasts and for her eagerness.

‘Emerald thought perhaps there was more to that night in the barn.’

‘More?’

‘Damn it, Taris, your name has been linked to no woman’s since you returned from Jamaica and that does not come from any lack of interested women. My lady wife thought perhaps the…drought had been broken.’

‘Drought? If you weren’t my brother…’

‘Then I wouldn’t care at all,’ Asher supplied before he could end the sentence. ‘It is only because I am your brother that I take the time to try to protect you.’

‘Well, don’t, for I need neither a nursemaid nor a minder and if you feel I may sully the family name by dallying with someone unsuitable then perhaps you should look to your own recent past.’

‘I didn’t mean…if you liked her it would be different…’

‘Enough, Asher. Rutledge would not take kindly, I think, to seeing two of his patrons having a fist-and-cuff in his salon and any association I choose to pursue with Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke is none of your damn business.’

‘Very well. If you feel that strongly about her…’

Taris suddenly frowned, having the sneaking suspicion that he had just been taken for a ride in the dulcet tones of his sibling, and wondering too just what his defence of the Widow Bassingstoke actually meant.

He knew that she was still here, for he had caught the sound of her voice. His eyesight, however, allowed him no possible means of locating her again and he did not dare to chance sending Bates to wheedle the promise of another dance.

It simply was not done. One dance would not excite the comment two would, and already he could hear in the buzz of comments around him speculation about Beatrice-Maude and their possible relationship, as he seldom took to the floor at any of these soirees. He smiled. Seldom was probably putting a generous face on it—never would be the more appropriate term.