Page 42 of Better Than a Duke
“Just be cautious, my dear. He’s evaded capture—recapture—for ten years. You must be perfect, or we’ll both lose him.”
All this effort… Well, she’d waited a very long time for the right man to come along. This past spring she’d been summoned by the dowager marchioness and had answered all the older woman’s questions with ease because she’d sat through this same interview a dozen times before with a dozen different mothers—for men she’d ultimately rejected. This time the man had been worthy of her and so she did her research, learning the names of relations, of properties, of his late wife and young daughter, and anything that might flatter matriarch Georgiana Raines personally.
If he’d been childless this would have been absolutely everything she’d ever wanted, but one nine-year-old girl was not going to spoil her plans. Her future was a garden, and all she needed to do was a bit of pruning. A few years away at school, and then a marriage to some baron or other—or better yet, a foreigner—and Lady Rebecca Raines would be a distant memory, even to her once-doting papa.
Pauline’s sisters had married a baron, a knight, and an earl, respectively. Her wedding a marquis—and a man far more handsome and wealthy than any of their husbands—would both put her social standing above theirs, and prove wrong their oft-repeated theory that the youngest sibling had the least worth. And to think, they’d been speculating that she’d remained unmarried for too long, that in another year she would be setting herself after a banker or tradesman just to escape spinsterhood.Ha. Patience. That was what the marriage game took. Patience and planning and a keen mind and well-honed skills of observation.
As she took a last turn on the dance floor with Lord Hammersmith she spied Beckett again, over by the dessert table. He was a fine, fit man, but if he didn’t stop eating sweets at every soiree he was going to become one of those thick, jowly lords who breathed through their mouths. That would never do. At dinner tomorrow evening she would begin a gentle nudge away from sweets, the eating of which she would subtly blame on the girl. Every inch of space she could put between them now would make sending the daughter away easier.
The dance ended, and with a curtsy to her partner she strolled over to the dessert table. “I thought I might find you here,” she said, smiling.
He finished eating a biscuit. “It’s either sweets or drink,” Beckett commented. “I am not fond of the constant tumble of soirees every Season. I need nothing from them, and all they offer is noise, wasted time, and some very frivolous conversation. And while I’m in favor of frivolous conversation, there are much better settings for it.”
“You might enjoy your time here more if you participated in the dancing, you know. I don’t believe anyone enjoys standing about, even if sweets are available.”
“Last time I went about asking for partners I was nearly killed by a herd of debutantes.”
“Dance with me, then,” she pursued, just keeping from rolling her eyes. Parties, dancing, chatting were all moves in the chess game of Society. The better one played at each, the higher one’s standing became. It was only those born to important, wealthy titles who found the game boring or frivolous, because they’d already won. “There’s another waltz after this quadrille.”
“I have a partner for the second waltz.” He lifted an eyebrow. “And we’ve already had two dances this evening. Weren’t you the one suggesting we avoid the appearance of us havingsettled anything before we’re ready to do so? Three dances in one evening would have everyone asking us when we mean to stand before a parson.”
Yes, but I only said that we should be leisurely because you wanted to hear it. She kept the smile on her face, nodding. “Of course. I actually have a partner myself, though I am willing to turn him away if necessary.” And now she would have to collect a partner. That was why she preferred slightly embellished truths to outright lies. The truths were much simpler to defend. “With whom are you dancing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Mrs. Iris Silbern.” He furrowed his brow. “You met her the other day.”
“Oh, yes, your neighbor. The one with the boy. I’ve seen her about this evening, but I thought her a lady’s companion. How lovely of you to improve her evening.”
Beckett looked at her, his mouth a straight line that to her screamed displeasure. “You and I are not betrothed, Pauline.”
Oh dear. She’d said something amiss. “Of course we’re not.” She put a chuckle into her voice, not certain why or how the conversation had run off the road and into the hedgerow.
“Even if wewerebetrothed, it wouldn’t be your responsibility to see me partnered for every dance, or to comment on the women with whom I choose to take to the floor. As I’ve said, I’m after a partnership. Nothing more.”
So she was being too attentive. Easily remedied. “We are becoming friends, Beckett,” she said, giving him a small curtsy. “I enjoy seeing my friends enjoying themselves. If you’re happy with biscuits and giving your neighbor cause to smile, I’m happy to abandon you for a turn about the room.” With a nod and another smile, she pirouetted and strolled away, making for the hallway where she could find herself a partner for the waltz without him seeing.
As for Mrs. Silbern, she was a temporary neighbor and a temporary nuisance. Once the girl was gone the boy would have no reason to be about, and neither would the boy’s mother. In the meantime, she had a few particular friends to invite to a dinner at Raines House, a waltz to dance, and a certain dressmaker’s shop to visit tomorrow for a fitting before opening hours. When one had a wedding gown made before one became engaged, one needed to be discreet about it.
CHAPTER NINE
“Oh, what is that?” Rebecca asked, shrinking back against her father.
Edmund, of course, being afraid of nothing but the sound of owls at night, stepped forward. “It’s heads. It says, ‘Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette, beheaded during the Reign of Terror, masks cast from the actual death masks.’”
“I’m going to faint.” Rebecca, Becks, put a forearm across her eyes.
“If you do, you won’t be able to see Queen Elizabeth. I heard someone say she’s just ahead.” Edmund giggled. “I mean, she’s in front of us. It’s her whole figure. She’s more than just a head.”
“Edmund.” Iris grinned even as she chastised her son. He wasn’t particularly bloodthirsty, generally, but he was clearly enjoying himself today. And being quite clever, as well.
“Well done, Edmund,” Beckett complimented with a laugh, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m proud to know you.”
“That was good, wasn’t it?” He bounced up on his toes, then hurried to the other side of the wide room where Henry VIII and all of his queens stood ranged on a low dais. All of them seemedto have their heads, at least. The costumes were delightful, and probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, winter and summer combined.
“I don’t want to see just heads,” Becks said, facing her father before she lowered her arm.
“I shall do my utmost to guide you away from any. Edmund’s over there, if you wish to follow him.”
“Eddie, you said you’d stay with me. Not go ahead.” She charged after him.
