Page 15 of Better Than a Duke
Gregory lifted his hand. Stepping forward before he’d consciously decided to do so, Beckett took that hand in his, bending it around and shaking it. “Lord Gregory,” he said, nodding. “And Lord Felix. I believe I heard your mother calling for you.”
Lord Danvers’s second son pulled his hand free. “Is that so, Hentrose?”
Beckett smiled at him. “It is. And I suggest you go find her, unless you think whatever you’re planning on doing or saying next is going to benefit you in any way whatsoever. I mean to say, of course your male friends will find your words amusing and clever, but you’re not looking to marry any of them.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Unless I’ve completely misjudged several things here.”
Blinking, Gregory took a step backward. “Come on, Felix. I do think I hear Mother calling.” He sent a quick glance at the sea of glaring female faces around them. “Now, Felix.”
Before the two idiots finished their escape Beckett turned his back on them. “Good evening, Mrs. Silbern,” he said, bowing before the petite blond woman with the scalding-hot temper.
“Don’t bow,” she muttered. “You outrank me.”
He straightened again. “I was bowing to your considerable wit and ability to flay all adversaries with your tongue.”
“With my tongue? I nearly punched both of them. With my fist. Because I didn’t have a shovel.”
Beckett cleared his throat around a grin. “Lucky them.” He flattened his expression again. “As it happens, my own wife died in childbirth. What those buffoons said to you was insulting and utterly ridiculous. Having a child is a feat of unimaginable courage. Unimaginable to men, at least.”
Iris Silbern tilted her head. “Some might say it’s unavoidable courage, but I accept the compliment. And I feel the need to apologize for this morning. My uncle has informed me that accusing neighbors of kidnapping is bad form.”
Beckett chuckled. “I was just about to apologize to you. In my defense, I had assigned a groom to see Edmund home and ask after him, on the chance I hadn’t yet returned from being lectured by my mother.”
“Do you take advice from your mother, then?”
“As little as possible. She does occasionally make sense, unfortunately, so I can’t ignore her completely.”
She grinned, the expression lighting her hazel eyes green with the deep humor and understanding no debutante could hope to fathom. “Relatives are pesky. Just when you think you can’t tolerate another word of their advice, they offer you a roof for the summer.”
“My daughter was ecstatic to meet a neighbor her own age.” He glanced past her, to see Lady Pauline chatting with his mother. If they were attempting to avoid rumors, he couldn’t very well dance with no one but Pauline all evening. Nor did he relish standing about eating tarts—especially cherry ones—for the next three hours. “Would you care to dance the first waltz of the evening with me, Mrs. Silbern?”
Her expressive eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because I mean to convince you to allow Edmund and Rebecca to play together, and if I continue to stand here chatting with you, the gossips will be after us with wagging tongues and pitchforks. Can you imagine? A widow and a widower, and a second chance at love after tragedy.”
“I…” She paused, closing her mouth over whatever she’d been about to say. “Good God. The horror. Yes. The first waltz of the evening.”
He’d promised Rebecca to make an attempt at appeasing the neighbor woman, anyway.Well done, him.“Do you have a dance card?”
She snorted. “I do not. I’ll remember.”
“As will I. May I escort you somewhere?”
Edmund’s mother lifted her chin. “Oh. You think I’ve been overset by those Hestry idiots and need someone to see me to a safe, hidden corner. Thank you, my lord, but the offer is unnecessary. If you change your mind about dancing with me, just ignore me when the music begins. I’ll manage.”
With that she turned and strolled away, making for a footman carrying a tray laden with drinks. Beckett watched as she liberated a glass of something that didn’t look at all fruity, as women’s libations generally were. Burying a grin, he returned to the dessert table, this time after the sugared orange peels. And heabruptly realized that when he’d stepped into the middle of that argument, it hadn’t been Iris Silbern who’d needed a rescue.
Hentrose wanted to dance. Iris swirled the vodka in her glass. It looked like water, but two glasses of this and she would be on the floor. Deceptive, it was. Just like any man who wanted to converse or dance with her these days. At least the marquis had explained his reasons, and he’d spoken easily, without pausing as if attempting to fabricate something that seemed plausible. In addition, his reasonswereplausible.
Edmund could use a friend his own age. There had been a handful of young people who lived near their cottage in Shropshire, but over time Thomas’s death and the Silberns’ pinching finances had put an end to those friendships. And then Viscount Bellamy had ended her plans to rent out rooms in order to provide herself with an income.
Well, she’d already found another cottage. All she needed was five hundred pounds, furniture, fish in the pond, and a few strangers in need of lodgings. And for the rest of her family to stop telling her what she needed to do next. She knew what she needed to do, for heaven’s sake. She needed to raise Edmund to be a good man. Nothing else signified.
A quadrille began, and the edges of the room cleared a little as all the dancers took to the floor. Thank goodness for a bit of elbow room and space to breathe. It had been eleven years since she’d last been to London, and tonight she could feel the distance between her first and her latest Season.
All the debutantes with their shining faces and dreams of romance and first kisses and true love—she wished them well, but they seemed a different species. Had she ever been that young and naïve? According to the Hestry brothers, now she was a coweleven years past her prime, headed to the chopping block and then to be roasted for someone’s dinner.
“Iris!”
Flinching, she finished off her vodka and turned around. A Forsythe footman now powering her chair, Aunt Margaret rolled across the dance floor, nearly sending two sets of dancers to the polished surface as she approached. “Aunt Margaret,” she said, handing the glass over to the footman. “I apologize. I was thirsty.”
