Page 25 of Better Than a Duke
She nearly sat. Just knowing Edmund was playing with someone—and not tunneling through her relatives’ garden—gave her a measure of ease. But she still had funds to secure, and an aunt to tend. “Thank you,” she said aloud. “I don’t doubt I’ll be here more frequently than you’d like. This afternoon, though, my aunt has some social calls to make.”
“Let me walk you out, then.” He led the way as they left the morning room. To her surprise he pulled open the front door himself, then followed her outside. “I do have a query,” he said, lowering his voice so she had to take a step nearer to hear him. “You didn’t respond the other day when I mentioned perhaps acquiring a pony for Edmund in addition to the one I’m getting for Rebecca. I thought to take Rebecca to Tattersall’s tomorrow to choose a mount. I would like to do the same for Edmund. You may board it here, I’ll see to its care, and when you depart London at the end of the Season it will go with you. Is that acceptable?”
Goodness. “I didn’t think you were serious. That’s exceedingly generous of you, Beckett. Especially toward a boy you’ve only known for two days, with a mother who nearly batted you in the head with a shovel.”
He shrugged. “I’d hate to attempt to teach one to ride and make the other watch.”
She put a hand on his sleeve, unexpected tears pushing at her eyes. A kindness, when she’d given up hope of experiencing one again. “Back when I used to be proud, I might have been offended. Today, I’m just grateful. Yes, by all means.”
With a smile, he put his hand over hers, his touch warm andcomforting rather than making her think he expected something in return.Another small gift. “We spouseless parents see the world differently, I think. Join us tomorrow. I intend to go midmorning.”
“I’ll see if I can manage it. Thank you, Beckett.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’ll be the one listening to Edmund talking about his pony at all hours.” He chuckled, the expression lighting his gray eyes and making her notice all over again just how well-favored he was. No wonder he had half the females in Mayfair sighing after him.
“I’ll comfort myself with the knowledge that you’ll be doing the same thing over here with Lady Rebecca,” she quipped, slipping her hand free of his to continue up the street. “Please see Edmund returned before dinner.”
“I shall. And don’t mention anything about tomorrow. It’ll be a surprise.”
A surprise, indeed. And one from a stranger who only remembered her because she’d ruined his jacket over a decade ago. As he’d said, though, they’d found themselves in similar circumstances. Pony or not, it would be pleasant to have someone with whom she could chat. Commiserate.
There was a time she’d longed for that, for a connection with… someone to remind her that she wasn’t alone in the world. But the young ladies with whom she’d shared her Season had either answered her deliberately cheery correspondence with tales of ill-timed visits to relatives that couldn’t be delayed, or sudden necessary trips to accompany a husband to… somewhere, or so much involvement with their local church they had no time to even breathe, or they hadn’t answered at all. Ultimately, she’d realized that her friends—former friends—didn’t want to know what it was like to raise a child alone, or to hearanything about her experience as a widow. She’d become a horror story simply by existing.
“She said that?” Edmund whispered, his brush full of white paint poised in midair. “That you were making your papa sad?”
“That I was sucking out his happiness like a leech sucking out blood.” Rebecca continued painting her sparrow, and he noticed that the colors were much plainer than the bright yellows and greens and purples she’d been using before luncheon. “And she said I murdered my mama.”
“Becks, your papa smiles when he talks to youandabout you. You make him happy. Not sad.”
She nodded, a tear running down one cheek. “I know he loves me. But Lady Pauline said he’s an adult and needs a wife to be happy. In my entire life she’s the only one he’s had over for luncheon, so I know he’s choosing her.”
“Her?” Edward jabbed the air with his brush. “She nearly killed you.”
“What she said made me choke. The magistrate would call it an unfortunate accident. I just… I really don’t like her, Eddie.”
“Tell your papa.” He turned his bird so he could paint its chest white. It looked like a long-tailed tit to him, brown and black and white. Perhaps not fancy, but even in wood it looked almost real. “If they get married, you have to live with her, too.”
“I can’t tell him. If he doesn’t marry her because of me, I’ll be ruining the rest of his life.” She dabbed a bit of tan onto her own bird. “What about your mama? Is she going to get married again?”
“Never. She says she’s been a wife, and now she’s a mother. She says she’s happy. I know Papa made her cry sometimes, so I think she’ll stay a widow.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Mrs. Brubbins, Becks’s governess, asked, carrying in a stack of cloths and someturpentine for cleaning off the paintbrushes. “And I thought that was going to be a yellow-headed, green-winged dove, Lady Becks.”
“There aren’t any doves that color,” Becks answered. “Or purple ones, either.”
“There are peacocks and parrots with those colors. We saw them with our own eyes just this morning. I thought you were going to paint them into your birds.”
“These birds don’t look like parrots, Brubbie. Don’t be silly.”
The governess frowned for a second, then put on a smile again. “I do try not to be silly. Perhaps, though, we could purchase you another canvas, and then you can make any bird you’d like.”
“I’m a portraitist, Brubbie; you know that. I could use a new canvas, though, because I would like to paint Eddie. I have to sketch him first, though, so there’s no hurry.” She twisted to face her governess. “Do I need to go to Europe and study art before I do any more portraits? Because I’d like to go to Paris eventually, but that’s a long time to wait.”
“No, my dear. It’s practice that makes perfect; not sitting on your hands.”
Her shoulders lifted. “Oh, good.”
“Master Edmund, you should ask Lady Becks to show you some of her portraits. She’s an original,” Mrs. Brubbins said, setting down her things and taking the chair opposite them.
