Candice Hern (16 page)

"Oh, no, that would not do. I would hate to come out of your bedchamber and crash into your mother."

"Egad, no. I have bought a house on Cavendish Square, but it is not yet ready to occupy. There are carpenters and plasterers everywhere. The place is littered with ladders and scaffolding and paint buckets and lumber. I'm afraid we can't go there yet."

"Oh." The deep disappointment she suddenly felt was rather comical when one considered that only a moment ago she had been entirely opposed to the business of a love affair with him. Now, after only a few kisses, she could not wait for it.

"I'll think of something," Thayne said, and led her out of the dark alcove and into the hallway. "I promise. I will send round a note when everything is arranged."

Beatrice was almost bursting with anticipation and hoped that note would not be long coming. And she hoped they would not have to resort to some tawdry hideaway. Or another garden wall.

As they entered the ballroom again — keeping a decorous distance between them so no one would guess they were anything more than acquaintances — they came upon Wilhelmina and Penelope, who were standing just beyond the entrance and involved in what looked to be a serious conversation. Penelope caught Beatrice's eye and waved her over. Thayne followed.

"Good evening, ladies," Beatrice said. "You remember Lord Thayne?"

Penelope smiled brightly and cast a quick, knowing glance at Beatrice before addressing the marquess. "Of course. It is good to see you again, my lord."

Thayne demonstrated his impeccable breeding by remembering each of their names, and making an elegant bow before them. "Your Grace," he said to Wilhelmina. "I am pleased to meet you again. And Lady Gosforth. You are both looking exceptionally lovely this evening."

"Bosh," Penelope said. "Beatrice — Lady Somerfield, that is — puts us all in the shade with that marvelous Pomona green dress."

"Have you two been dancing?" Wilhelmina asked. "You are looking a trifle flushed, my dear."

Penelope placed her fan over her face to hide a giggle.

"No, we were only ... talking," Beatrice said, though they would both know what had really been going on. "But I am a bit parched. Perhaps I ought to track down some punch."

"Allow me," Thayne said. "And you, Lady Gosforth? May I bring a glass for you as well?"

"I'd like nothing more, thank you," she said.

"And you, Duchess?"

"No, thank you, but I will walk along with you, if you do not mind. I need to speak with Lord Ingleby, who is on the other side of the room."

"It will be my pleasure," Thayne said, and offered his arm to Wilhelmina. She took it, and they walked off together.

"Heavens, but he
is
attractive," Penelope said after they'd gone. "And that was very kind of him to offer his arm to Wilhelmina. She is so often ignored at these events, despite her title."

"People can be very cruel," Beatrice said. "Her blood may not run blue, but she has more character in her little finger than anyone in this room, our duchess does."

"But what about Lord Thayne?" Penelope's voice grew excited, though she kept it pitched low. "What is happening between you? It is obvious that you have just been kissed."

"Is it so obvious?" Beatrice lifted a hand to her cheek.

"To one who knows you. Well then, if you've been kissing, then you must have decided to take him as your lover after all."

"I have, God help me. Oh, Penelope, I hope I am not making a fool of myself."

"Of course you aren't. The man can’t tear his eyes from you. You are not a fool. You are a lucky woman. So, when is it to be?"

"We have not yet contrived a plan. Neither of us can bring the other home and flaunt our relationship to our families."

"That's true. But you'll figure something out."

"That's what Thayne said."

"Then trust him to do so. He looks like a man who generally gets what he wants."

"Yes, he is."
And he wants me.
Beatrice began to laugh, feeling almost giddy at the thought that such a beautiful young man wanted her.

Perhaps she was not so very old after all.

"What is it, Mama? Bad news?"

Beatrice looked up at her youngest daughter, who sat across the breakfast table, slathering jam on a slice of buttered bread. Beatrice made an effort to school her features, to affect an air of nonchalance, when she felt quite the opposite. Charlotte, at thirteen, noticed altogether too much. She had certainly caught the brief moment of anxiety Beatrice had felt upon opening the note that had just been delivered by a footman. In fact, very little got past that girl. She had the sort of curiosity that had been landing her in one scrape after the other from the time she could walk. The last thing Beatrice needed was for Charlotte to discover the contents of the note in her hand.

The note from Lord Thayne.

"No, dear," Beatrice said, "not bad news. Just a bit of a disappointment regarding a ... a contribution we had anticipated for the Benevolent Widows Fund. Nothing to worry you. In fact, the only thing you should be fretting about is that classical essay Miss Trumbull tells me you haven't yet finished."

"Oh, bother," Charlotte said, and rolled her eyes. "Who cares about a bunch of silly old gods and goddesses anyway?"

"You should care," Beatrice said as she surreptitiously slipped the note into her sleeve. "Every well-educated person should have some knowledge of classical mythology."

"Then perhaps you ought to take me with you to the opera tonight," Charlotte said, tilting her chin at a defiant angle. "Emily says it is all about that Orpheus chap dashing down to Hades to rescue his wife. It might help me to make more sense of it if I saw it on stage."

Emily, at the other end of the table, suddenly came alive. "Oh, no, Aunt Beatrice. Please do not inflict the infant on us tonight. I am going to wear my brand new pink dress and try to catch a certain gentleman's eye. Charlotte would ruin everything with her constant chatter and her total lack of decorum."

"I have decorum!" Charlotte said. "Loads of it, if only I were given a chance to display it." She turned a plaintive look on her mother.

Beatrice smiled. "Of course you have decorum, my love. You can be a very proper young lady when you want to be. But you will have to wait a few more years to show off your good manners to Society."

"Does that mean I do not get to go with you tonight?"

"Why should you?" Beatrice's quieter daughter, Georgiana, finally spoke up. "I'm two years older than you and I don't get to go. You must wait your turn just like everyone else."

Charlotte sank back against her chair and pouted. The poor girl was so anxious to be grown-up. Having Emily around this Season, to see how full and exciting a young woman's social life could be, had been exhilarating for both girls. Charlotte, though, had become a trial for her governess, preferring to hear about Emily's evenings out than to study history and French and music.

"Don't be so glum, Charlotte, my love," Beatrice said. "You and Georgie may join me tomorrow in the drawing room when I am at home to visitors. That is, if you finish your essay. Would you like that?"

Charlotte's blue eyes grew wide with excitement. "May I? Truly?" She loved it when Beatrice allowed her to mingle with visitors. She was much more gregarious than her older sister, and was not the least uncomfortable chatting with visitors. But she was just as likely to sit quietly and listen, hoping to pick up bits of gossip. Charlotte loved gossip. Beatrice supposed it made her feel more a part of Society, to know everything that went on, but she worried that the girl would hear things she was too young to understand and had no business knowing.

"If you promise to put on your best manners and sit quietly. And not to speak unless you are specifically addressed."

"I promise."

"And
if
you finish the essay."

"I'll finish it! I will! I promise."

"Then you had better get to work, my girl."

"Yes, ma'am." She got up quickly, her red curls bouncing, and moved away from the breakfast table. "C'mon, Georgie."

After the girls left, Beatrice turned to Emily. "What are your plans for the day?" she asked.

"Caroline Whittier wants me to go shopping with her. Then that odious Mr. Burnett has invited me to drive in the park with him this afternoon. He simply would not take no for an answer. But he is Lord Thayne's particular friend, so I shall get him to talk about the marquess and perhaps I will learn how best to keep his interest."

"Mr. Burnett seems a perfectly charming young man," Beatrice said. "You seem to have attracted his particular interest."

Emily gave a dismissive wave. "He does not matter. It is Lord Thayne I intend to have."

"But, my dear, you cannot force the marquess to take an interest in you. It might do you well to look elsewhere."

"Why are you suddenly so set against the marquess?" Emily asked in a peevish tone. "At first you were determined that I should bring him up to scratch. Now you seem determined that he will not come around, but he will. Eventually. And his mother likes me. She will sing my praises to him, I have no doubt. I don't mean to sound vain, but there are no other eligible girls as pretty as me. Lord Thayne will recognize that soon enough. He will tire of that odious Lady Sarah Addison, who has been practically throwing herself at him. Or Lady Emmeline Standish. None of them are as pretty as me."

"Perhaps beauty is not as important to him as it is to some men," Beatrice said. "You know, my dear, that your father is merely a baronet. Lord Thayne's father is a duke. He may be looking higher. His recent lack of interest may have nothing to do with
you
at all, but only with rank."

Emily gave an unladylike snort, but then grew pensive as she finished her breakfast. Hopefully she was beginning to see, at last, that Lord Thayne might actually be unattainable, despite her beauty. Beatrice prayed that was so, and not only for her own sake, but for Emily's. The girl needed to learn that she could not always rely on her looks to get her everything in life she desired.

If only she could make Ophelia believe it as well.

After breakfast, Beatrice returned to her bedchamber and closed the door. She sat on the bed and slipped the folded note from inside her sleeve. She had not had a moment to contemplate its message while surrounded by three young girls. In fact, she had read only the signature and the first line before Charlotte had noted her anxiety. Beatrice had refolded the note without reading beyond that rather stunning first sentence.

It is arranged.

He had done it. Somehow he had contrived a plan for them to meet, to be together again, to make love.

It had probably been for the best that she had received the note while in the company of the girls, for she had not had time or opportunity to dwell on its import. Now that she was alone, she could give into every anxious, excited, nervous twinge that had been stifled in the breakfast room.

She opened the folded parchment and her eye was first drawn to the large and forceful "Thayne" scrawled across the bottom. His penmanship was a perfect reflection of his personality: arrogant, resolute, powerful. She read on.

It is arranged. We will meet tonight.

Tonight? So soon?

Do not change your plans for the evening. Go to the Opera. I will see you there. Dress your hair simply, for I intend to take it down.

That last line sent a little shiver across her shoulders. She fell back against the bed, flung her arms out wide, and grinned up at the canopy.

And so, it was to happen. The oh-so-proper Lady Somerfield was about to embark upon her first love affair. She felt a bit wicked. Certainly more worldly than ever before. She supposed she ought to feel foolish for succumbing to this ridiculous passion for a younger man. But she did not. Instead, she felt alive, invigorated, rejuvenated. Yes, she felt young again. And something more. A new air of confidence filled her, made her feel strong and invincible.

It was similar to the overwhelming sense of independence she'd felt when she'd made her first financial decisions after Somerfield died. He had never allowed her to be involved in anything regarding money, despite the fact that she had a head for figures and took a real interest in markets and investments. Whenever she had offered an opinion, her husband had given her an indulgent pat on the cheek and told her not to worry her pretty head about such things that were beyond the understanding of the female mind.

Beatrice had hated that condescension from him, and it was the source of a great many arguments over the years. She had so wanted to be involved in investment decisions, not out of any sense of entitlement, but because she enjoyed it and was good at it. But Somerfield had been intransigent on the subject. He had been conservative to a fault in regard to their finances. He'd inherited a profitable earldom, but had done almost nothing to increase that profit, to build his fortune. He was too afraid of losing it. Beatrice, on the other hand, had seen that they had quite enough money to risk an occasional interesting investment, but Somerfield would not budge.

After his death, when a sizable fortune had been left in her hands — thanks to her father's sound management of her marriage contract — Beatrice had begun to dabble in a few schemes that had paid off handsomely. For the first time in her adult life, she had taken risks.

And now she was taking another one with Thayne. A very big risk. To make such a decision by herself,
for
herself, to be so completely in charge of her own destiny made her feel ... powerful. She was quite giddy with it, in fact. She even felt confident that everything would work out satisfactorily where Emily was concerned. Some other rich young man would win the day.

But for now, Beatrice could think only of one particular rich young man who was about to win the night.

She clutched his note to her breast and giggled like a girl.

* * *

Where was he?