Page 13 of Better Than a Duke
He looked up at her hair. With a quick grin he took a handful of his own light hair and pulled it away from his head. “You are frightful.”
“And don’t you forget it. Now go find Mr. Fredericks, apologize for fleeing, and cooperate with him for your entire lesson.”
Groaning, he stomped back to the door. “If he tries to make me rhyme ‘Bonaparte’ again, I’m going to say ‘make me fart.’”
She nodded. “It’s a good rhyme.”
CHAPTER THREE
“The Marquis of Hentrose.”
As the Forsythe House butler announced him and two dozen heads—most of them female—swiveled in his direction, Beckett contemplated turning around and going home. Instead he took a breath, ignored the high-pitched mutter of conversation around him, and headed for the nearest footman. “Whiskey,” he said.
The man nodded and hurried away as Lord and Lady Forsythe emerged from the crowd. “Beckett Raines,” the viscount boomed, sticking out his hand as he approached. “I was beginning to think you were just a rumor made up by chits who require some handsome man to weep over.”
“I don’t condone anyone weeping over me,” Beckett returned, shaking hands and then nodding at the viscountess. “Gifts of flowers and sweets are always appreciated, however.”
“Ha! You and your wit need to attend more soirees. And try the cherry tarts. Our chef came all the way from Denmark.”
Beckett didn’t know if chefs from Denmark specialized in cherry tarts, but that question would likely be the most interesting one of the entire evening. At one time he’d enjoyed soirees,but now, if not for the occasionally exceptional desserts, he would rather have been shoveling manure. He preferred spending his evenings playing games or reading with Rebecca, but now he had a prospective bride to court.
Thinking of a union with Lady Pauline Grenedy as a business proposition did make the idea of remarrying easier to stomach, but even if it wasn’t to be a love match for him, Pauline would become Rebecca’s mentor, if not her mother. He needed to be assured they would all deal well together before he made anything official. The main hurdle was likely to be his mother’s impatience to hurry events along. Patience had never been one of her virtues.
“My lord?”
He turned around to see a trio of debutantes bobbing curtsies in front of him like young hens. “Yes?”
“I’m Alison Desmond. This is my sister, Violet, and our friend, Miss Beatrice Stanley.” They all bobbed again.
He inclined his head. “Hentrose.”
They giggled. “My mother said we should give you our condolences and welcome you back to London, since you come here so rarely.”
Debutantes. New ones appeared every year, just out of the schoolroom, pining for love and romance and a wealthy, handsome beau. And as he’d reminded his mother, they were closer in age to Rebecca at nine than they were to him at one-and-thirty. “Thank you, then,” he said aloud. “I feel welcomed. And condoled.”
“Oh, good,” Miss Alison, evidently the spokeswoman, said with another bob. “Would you care to dance this evening, my lord?”
“No, I would not. I’m quite stodgy and old, you see, and I’ve no sense of poetry or romance. If I purchase flowers it’s to feedthem to rabbits, and I’m presently headed for the dessert table.” Nodding, he walked past them and their surprised expressions.
He’d never been one for breaking hearts, didn’t have the time for frivolous love affairs, and none of that trio looked capable of dealing with a man thirteen years their senior and in possession of a precocious daughter. Even though he didn’t generally like cherries, the tart Lord Forsythe had recommended did have a nice tang to it, and he took a second one from the table.
As he turned around, munching, his mother appeared so close in front of him that he nearly collided with her. “You’re going to give me nightmares, pouncing like that,” he commented, finishing his tart. “You could find employment as the ghost of why-does-he-never-do-as-I-ask.”
“Are you wishing me dead, then? Or worse, employed?”
“We both know you’re not going to die. Your fate is to become one of your gargoyles, glowering at everyone’s poor behavior and lack of finesse for the rest of eternity.”
“There are times, Beckett, when you are too clever by half. What are you doing?”
“I’m having a sweet. Our host recommended it. And it’s quite good, really. I’m not certain if it’s worth the expense of hiring a chef all the way from Denmark, but I suppose Lord Forsythe could be exceptionally fond of cherries. Or tarts. You should try one.”
“Stop dodging about.” The dowager marchioness moved around to take his arm. She then attempted to drag him toward the crowded center of the room. “I saw you growling at the debutantes. While I commend you for not wasting time when we’ve found you Pauline, if you don’t go claim a dance with her then you’re wasting everyone’s time.”
As he preferred the dessert table to providing fodder for thegossips, he didn’t move. “I wasn’t growling. And while you may be in a hurry, I have learned from my mistakes. I am cautious.”
“You’ve been introduced, and Pauline knows that a proposal is in the offing. She’s in attendance tonight, and you need to stop eating tarts and go ask her for a dance.”
“Very well. I intend to fortify myself first, however.” He finished off the second tart. “And if you truly want this match, I suggest you stop shoving. Your zeal makes me wonder what you’re attempting to hide from me.”
