Page 48 of Better Than a Duke
“That’s it. An insinuation.” She scowled. “I mean, I know Itake up all of Papa’s time, and he would be happier to have a wife and a son, but do I have to go away so he can be happy?”
Brubbie’s round cheeks jumped a little, like she was clenching her jaw beneath them. “Was this your grandmother’s thinking, by chance?” she asked in her same kind voice, but it also sounded a little clenched.
“No. Grandmother doesn’t chat with me. I think she’s worried I’ll spill something on her, because she always nudges her tea away from herself when I walk into the room.”
“I have a fair idea that it wasn’t Mrs. Silbern saying such a thing,” the governess went on, half to herself. “That leaves… Did you perhaps have a chat with Lady Pauline?”
Oh, she’d figured it out.Good. Rebecca took a deep breath. Mrs. Brubbins was quite clever, and sometimes Rebecca counted on that. “I don’t want to be a wag.”
“You’re not being a gossip, my dear. I’m asking you a question, and you’re going to answer it without embellishment. Very proper.”
“Oh, good.”
“Was it Lady Pauline you spoke to, then? She said those things to you about boarding school and your father being happier with a new family?”
“Insinuated,” Rebecca reminded her. “Mostly.” She leaned her elbows and her chin forward. “Eddie and I have a plan, Brubbie, but you mustn’t tell anyone. We want Papa to marry Eddie’s mama instead of Masquerade—I mean, Lady Pauline. Masquerade is our secret name for her, so no one knows who we’re talking about.”
The governess leaned forward too, so that her nose bumped Rebecca’s. “I want to know absolutely everything, Lady Becks.”
CHAPTER TEN
Adam Pryce, Lord Nyfeld, looked up from his seat to one side of the pianoforte as Beckett waved a glass of whiskey in front of him. “Ah, my thanks, Hentrose,” he said, taking the drink and downing a good half of it. “You always did have good taste in spirits.”
Beckett nodded at Lady Nyfeld on her husband’s far side as he seated himself on the neighboring sofa. “How’ve you been, Adam? You and Lady Nyfeld have… three young ones now, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” the viscountess said, sitting forward. “Anne is one, Robert is three, and Michael, our oldest, is five.”
“I don’t have any experience with boys,” Beckett returned, “but I have noted that what girls may lack in pure destructive ability, they make up for in intricate fancy.”
The viscount shrugged, finishing off the glass. “I don’t know about that. Marjorie says Anne is a quite well-behaved infant. Barely know she’s there, half the time.” He slapped a hand against his thigh. “Did you attend the boxing match at Vauxhall on Saturday last? Broomfield versus Holiday? What an exhibition that was!”
“I… No. I was building a troll dungeon.” He leaned in, lowering his voice a little. “Trolls have been overrunning the palace, of late. Something had to be done.”
For a moment the viscount looked at him. “You and your tales,” he said, chuckling again as he stood. “Marjorie, you said you wanted to have a word with Mrs. Parridge. Shall we?”
As they made their way across the room, Beckett sat back again. “The difficult thing to deal with is the troll claws,” he muttered to himself, taking a swallow of his own drink. “And their spit is poison.”
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You have a lovely pianoforte,” Pauline said, smiling down at him and resplendent in a deep green gown. “And it’s just sitting there, looking despondent. Might I?”
“Certainly.” At least with music playing he wouldn’t be expected to conjure something interesting to say to people with whom he’d once been close and who now found him odd.
Ten minutes later he silently added “plays the pianoforte and sings well” onto his mental list of Pauline Grenedy’s abilities and talents. Joining the applause as she finished her tune, he shifted over on the couch so she could sit beside him. “Well done.”
She blushed, putting her hands around his nearer arm and squeezing lightly before she let him go again. “Thank you. I generally only play for myself. That made me a bit nervous.”
“It didn’t show.”
“I’m not to tell you, but my oldest sister swears you had a tendre for her before your marriage.”
Her oldest sister would be Wilhemina, Lady Caldridge, the wife of Viscount Caldridge. She did look vaguely familiar, with the dark brown hair and blue eyes with which all of the Grenedy females seemed to have been blessed, but he would have recalled if he’d actively pursued her. He hadn’t. “I believe your sister isteasing you, though I do have a memory of an al fresco luncheon where we sat together.”
“Ha! I knew it.” She laughed. “Pray don’t mention that aloud; her husband Ralph is the jealous sort, and he’s been drinking since before dinner began.”
“I appreciate the warning.” Another of her sisters approached the pianoforte, her husband, Baron Fitzharold, leading the applause. They all played well, and sang well, and Beckett had been wandering and chatting and sitting about for more than an hour wondering why Mrs. Alliday had sent out bowls of fresh cherries and almonds rather than the orange meringue pie they’d agreed upon this morning. Pauline had been surprised and delighted to see them, though, so perhaps Mrs. Alliday had overheard something and adapted. Well done, then, to his staff.
It occurred to him that this would be his life now. Sitting on the couch in the evenings while his wife entertained, because she clearly adored doing so, and being bored out of his mind because everyone talked about the same thing—each other. Clearly he was the one who’d fallen out of step, because none of his friends, if given a choice between watching a pretty woman sing or drawing up plans for a castle full of traps for evil trolls, would choose the castle.
Here, on the couch, he fit in by simply… doing nothing. His mind could go where it wished, but as long as he wore a smile, he wouldn’t be “the widower” any longer. He would be simply Lord Hentrose, husband of the charming Lady Hentrose. They would attend more dinners and dances because she enjoyed them, and he would stand there, or sit there, or dance, and keep that same smile on his face.
