Page 39 of Better Than a Duke
“I know my aunt. In another minute she’ll have me obligated to join some man for luncheon and to have another one call on me and sit on a chair while I pretend that I enjoy embroidering.”
The music for the quadrille began. “I’m pleased Rebecca and I rank higher than embroidery. I have a dance with Pauline now. I’ll see you about.”
“Likewise.”
He set aside his plate, brushing her wrist with his fingers as he turned. “We did nothing wrong,” he murmured. “Neither of us is engaged.”
Heat swirled down her spine, heady and full of sudden daydreams that she hadn’t had since she’d first met Thomas. “Yet,” she made herself say aloud, and his spine stiffened a little as he departed.
Yes, they’d kissed, but no one else knew, they’d each been alone for quite some time, and yes, it had been pleasant. Exceedingly pleasant. That didn’t make him the answer to all her troubles, nor did it turn her into Lady Pauline Grenedy. Daydreams were for children. She hadn’t been a child in years.
“You and Beckett Raines have been chatting quite a bit,” her aunt observed, gripping the edge of the table to pull herself down the length of it while other guests dodged out of her way.
“We’re neighbors, and our children are friends,” Iris stated, as much for herself as for Margaret. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t chat with him?”
“He’s been on every debutante’s husband list for nearly a decade. Not better than a duke, of course, but he is wealthy. And well-favored.”
That he was. “He’s practically engaged to Lady Pauline Grenedy.”
“Oh! Never mind, then. Don’t lose your chance with Trent because you feel some kinship with a widower.” Margaret smiled. “I’d like him better if he didn’t tend to chat endlessly about his daughter. How interesting can a nine-year-old girl be, really?”
“As interesting as a ten-year-old boy, I reckon,” Iris snapped, turning to meet Lord Charles as he appeared beside her. “Our dance, I believe.”
“Indeed it is.”
They walked to the middle of the dance floor, joined by twenty other couples. Formed into rings, they bowed and curtsied, took hands, and twirled. For a moment she came face-to-face with Beckett, and just stopped herself from sticking her tongue out at him. Theywerefriends, she acknowledged, stolen, ill-advised kiss or not.
They turned again, and Lady Pauline Grenedy glided around her. Shewaslovely, tall, dark-haired, with bright blue eyes that poets would compare to the sky at noon or lakes beneath cloudless skies, a slender figure, and a calm, composed demeanor that showed even when she smiled at Beckett.
Iris wondered if it bothered Lady Pauline that Beckett didn’t mean for their marriage to be romantic, that he had no wish or desire to fall in love with his wife. But he’d evidently been honest about that, and Lady Pauline had either agreed to it or thought she could wiggle her way into his heart despite his intentions.
That was precisely how she needed to view a possible match with the Duke of Trent; as a practicality, a way to ensure her and Edmund’s future. None of the rest signified. Yes, there would no doubt be some wifely expectations of her, since Trent, though in his early seventies, remained a man. But in exchange for not having to worry about saving enough money to see Edmund with options for his future, she could manage a few unpleasant evenings. Shedidn’t want to, but it did provide a solution to most of her troubles.
She only wished Trent looked more like Beckett Raines. And behaved—and spoke—a great deal more like him. Though if he did, she would be having a very different conversation with herself, and it would be about things she wanted and whether she’d lost her mind to dare to have dreams again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beckett took a swallow of watery port, not at all up to Lord and Lady Winston’s usual standards. Across the room Iris Silbern was fending off yet another man, and Beckett tilted his head, watching as the fellow ended the conversation slump-shouldered and an inch shorter than he’d been when he’d approached. From time to time he’d wished he could smash female sensibilities with as much abandon, but as she’d noted, their situations were different.
A female would joinhishousehold, conform tohisrules, he supposed, while if Iris remarried she would be the one expected to fit in, a circumstance made even more precarious because of Edmund. Few men wanted a part of raising children not their own, but a male child, one who could possibly challenge inheritances or demand a livable allowance while contributing nothing to the future of the family lineage, made the path even more difficult.
And yet they kept approaching her, some of them even gathering afterward—no doubt to compare notes on how she’d struck them down. God’s sake she was fierce, and he admired her for it.And if he stayed until the end of the evening, it would be because he’d claimed her last waltz.
“There you are, Beckett,” Pauline said, gliding up to him and slipping her arm around his. “Have you been fending off more debutantes this evening?”
“Not as many as previously; I believe the word is spreading that I’m not catchable.”
“Oh, I hope that isn’t true.” With a mischievous smile she tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s show them how the less frivolous set courts, shall we?”
As she spoke, the music for the first waltz began. Setting aside his drink, Beckett nodded, escorting her to the floor. Two dances in one evening with the same woman made a statement, but one needed to be made sooner or later. On the other side of the floor Michael Agnew trotted after Iris, who seemed determined to push her aunt from one corner to the next as swiftly as possible, no doubt to avoid still more men asking for dances. She frowned, covering it badly, as she stepped onto the dance floor.
With a half smile he took Pauline’s hand and set his other hand on her waist. Joining the crowd of couples, they glided across the floor, a sea of dark-clothed men and a rainbow of colors brought to the festivities by the women. Iris had worn a flattering green silk gown that sparkled with beads all across the skirt as she moved.Why the devil had he kissed her? Because he’d wanted to.
It had occurred to him that he hadn’t kissed a woman to whom he wasn’t related in nine years. Nor had he missed it, or the other, more intimate things that generally followed kissing. Except he was thinking about them now. That kiss had reminded him of things he’d very much enjoyed doing, as well as the… comfort he’d once found in waking in the morning with someone beside him. And while Lydia hadn’t felt like a partner as much as she did a young lady who’d stepped into a world for which shewasn’t prepared, they’d both begun with the best of intentions. They’d each done their best, he knew, but he did on occasion consider how very miserable they both would now be if she’d lived.
“You’re meant to compliment my attire, or my jewelry, or my hair,” Pauline prompted, smiling.
Beckett shook himself. “Yes. You… look very fine in blue,” he said, smiling back at her. “It matches your eyes.”
