Page 49 of Better Than a Duke
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, standing.
“Are you well?” Pauline asked, furrowing her brow and making even that look elegant.
“Yes.” He deepened the smile that he was already becoming accustomed to assuming. “I was expecting something to arrive this afternoon, and I forgot to inquire about it. Two minutes. Three at the most.”
“Of course. I’m not your nanny, Beckett.”
Fresh air. That would do him good. In the garden. At the wall. Because by God, if he couldn’t chat with someone about the idiocy racketing through his brain, he was going to voluntarily take up residency at Bedlam.
As he crossed through his study, he picked up a bottle. Brandy would be the drink of the night, then, whether Iris happened to be out in the Grove House garden or not. Because he needed a damned drink, not a sip of spirits taken in between bits of clever conversation. He left via the orangerie door to avoid being seen from the drawing room and ducked deeper into the shadows. Then he uncorked the bottle and took a long swallow.
“I hope you brought something strong with you,” Iris Silbern’s quiet voice came, and he turned.
She stood at the garden gate, her hands on one of the ornate metal crossbars and her gaze on him. “I was hoping you’d be out here,” he whispered, relief and something he didn’t wish to speculate about drifting through his chest as he walked over and stopped just on his side of the gate. “You didn’t roll your aunt into a wall, did you?”
She snorted. “The Duke of Trent and his sons and their wives and their children all arrived for dinner two hours ago. He’s currently asleep in a chair. Now everyone’s tiptoeing about the room, while his sons whisper arguments over whether they need to draw up more papers to prevent a son gotten on a new wife from challenging their own inheritance. Evidently this isn’t the first time they’ve had this discussion. I—or whomever wins Trent’s contest—would be his sixth duchess. Did you know that?”
“I knew he’d remarried, but I’m afraid I didn’t keep a tally of how often.” He cocked his head. “Five wives? What happened to them?”
“Oh, influenza, a blood disorder, a riding accident, and two wasting illnesses. And to think I was worried over what would happen to me after he turned uphistoes.”
“That’s… I have no idea how to respond to that.” His first thought was to ask if she’d considered whether the other wives had approached the idea of marriage to Trent in the same way she was—that they would have to be his companion for but a short time until he kicked off. “Once he’s wed again, he’ll have equaled Henry the Eighth’s number, but with a higher mortality rate.”
“I would think the odds have to favormethis time. Wouldn’t you?”
“I would never wager against you.” With his free hand Beckett opened the gate and handed over the bottle. “Brandy,” he said, stepping into the Grove House garden. “I think you may need it more than I do.”
“Thank God.” She took a deep swallow and leaned beside him. “How goesyourevening?”
“All the Grenedy women, single and married, are taking turns playing my pianoforte and singing. It’s quite charming. Pauline’s sisters think I’m handsome, I attempted to discuss troll dungeons with an old friend of mine who had no idea what to make of me, and I keep thinking I would rather be putting together Rebecca’s new puzzle with her. I have become stodgy.”
With a laugh she handed the bottle back. “It’s not stodgy. It’s wanting to spend time in a certain way and being annoyed when you can’t.”
“Thank you. Because I don’t feel stodgy. Though Iwouldlike to take off my shoes and put on some comfortable slippers.”
She turned her head to gaze at him for a moment. “You don’t have to marry Lady Pauline, you know.”
“I know. The thing is, there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s perfect. I’d have to be a nodcocknotto offer for her. And this match will benefit both of us.”
He took another drink of brandy. The stuff wasn’t supposed to be consumed straight out of the bottle, but he didn’t happen to have a snifter in which to warm the liquid in his hands, or a cigar to blow smoke into the top of the glass. In addition, it wasn’t a lady’s drink—though the whiskey the other night hadn’t been, either, and she’d held her own quite admirably.
“A week ago I was absolutely convinced I would never marry again,” she said, a sigh in her voice. “This idiotic contest Trent’s handed me, though, offers me what I need, and without the sticky… problems that come with feeling the least bit of affection for my spouse. It’s mercenary of me, for which I blame the last four years of my life. There are moments when I’m absolutely repulsed, but I’m not certain if it’s the thought of marrying him that makes me ill, or the very idea that I could convince myself to do such a thing.”
Beckett lifted the bottle. “To having no damned idea about what’s best for ourselves, then.”
She took it from him. “To utter ignorance.”
He watched her tilt her head back and drink, lowering his gaze to admire the elegant line of her throat, and the very pretty dark blue silk gown she’d donned, dusk with yellow leaves sewn into the bodice and skirt. And it wasn’t just the gown that held his attention, but the curves and shadows of the woman. “That’s a lovely dress, by the way.”
“Thank you. And Polly and I have already altered the riding habit you sent over. It’s quite pretty, too.”
“It’s a good ten years out of fashion, I’m afraid,” he returned, taking the bottle back.Stop looking at her, Beckett, you idiot.
“I don’t mind that. I’m rather excited to go riding again, truthfully. I hope I haven’t forgotten how it’s done.”
“Well, you sit so that you’re facing the horse’s front end. I know that much.”
Iris chuckled. “What time did you want us to appear for our lesson?”
