Her Officer and Gentleman (14 page)

“We were,” Beth said. “But not now. Now we will go to the Devonshire Musicale.”

Beatrice sighed. “I do wish you’d make up your mind.”

“I have,” Beth said, catching the viscount’s eyes on her once again. He smiled, this time a slow and lazy grin that crinkled his eyes and made him look almost carefree.

Beth didn’t respond. She turned on her heel, pulling Beatrice with her. “Shall we look for a pelisse? I don’t have a thing to wear with my new morning gown.”

Beatrice was distracted soon enough. As they
entered a modiste’s shop a little way down, Beth glanced back to where the viscount had been. There was no sign of him; he must have entered the store.

That was fine, she decided, for she did not need to see him again. Tomorrow she’d go to the Devonshire Musicale and not think about the viscount even once, no matter the cost. She would discover the viscount’s plan soon enough, but in her own time and manner. It would not do to see him any more than was necessary, as every meeting seemed to increase the tension between them. Besides, the Crossforth Ball would be hugely attended, and every eye would be fastened on the viscount.

Beth would find a place and time of her own choosing and then woe betide the man. She’d show no mercy, none at all.

“O
h no,” Beatrice muttered. “I think she’s going to sing again.”

Beth opened the program and ran her finger down the long list, wincing when she reached the center. “Miss Temple has not one, but two more songs.”

“I shall die,” Beatrice groaned. She glanced to her side where Harry sat, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded across his chest, chin sunk into his cravat as he slept peacefully, his spectacles perched rather precariously on his nose.

She lifted her elbow as if to jab him in the ribs, but stopped just short of it. She sighed and turned to Beth. “I can’t do it. He looks so peaceful.”

“He
did
come with us though he didn’t wish to,” Beth pointed out. “I think he deserves a nap.”

“We all do,” Beatrice said with some asperity. “Unfortunately not all of us are blessed with the constitution that allows one to sleep through such hideous caterwauling.”

Beth bit her lip. “Miss Temple isn’t that horrid. She’s only a little off-key and then only during the high notes.”

“That last song was made up entirely of high notes and I have the goose bumps to prove it! If I have to listen to any more hideous noise, I shall die. Beth, we made an error coming here!” Beatrice twisted in her chair. “People are leaving in droves. Can’t we just—”

“No. I am not attending the Crossforth Ball. It is fine with me if you and Harry wish to attend it, for I would be perfectly happy just to go home.” An evening of unalleviated peace and quiet seemed just the thing. Not that she’d get much quiet, for London never really went to sleep. She sighed a bit, missing Massingale House and Grandfather in equal amounts.

The last letter she’d received from Grandfather had been as terse as Charlotte’s letter had been long. Beth could tell that Grandfather’s temper was wearing thin and Charlotte was taking the brunt of it. It was a pity they didn’t get along. Thank goodness Lord Bennington was there to take Charlotte out a bit; it would do her a world of
good. “I believe I’ll go home now and write Grandfather. I haven’t sent him a letter in a while.”

“You sent him one two days ago. I watched you post it.” Beatrice grimaced as Miss Temple smoothed her gown, preparing herself for another round. “We will stay. Besides, if we were to leave, I’d have to wake Harry, and he gets grouchy if he doesn’t get at least an hour’s nap.”

They suffered through two more musical endeavors by the enthusiastic Miss Temple. Her final note—quavering and shatteringly off-key—pealed through the room, bouncing off the glassware and shimmering like a bloody haze through the minds of the audience.

Harry was finally startled awake. He jumped to his feet, his spectacles flying, and tried to find his balance. It took him a moment and he stood, arms flapping, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. Beatrice grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back into his seat, though not before several people around them broke into laughter at the expression of pure fright on his flushed face.

“Harry!” Beatrice hissed as everyone clapped wanly, but politely, for the now-leaving Miss Temple.

“Good God! What in the hell was that noise?”

The man in front of them turned in his seat. “That’s what I’ve been asking myself this half hour and then some.”

“Huntley!” the woman at his side chided, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Pray keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voice down? I wasn’t the one screeching like a hung cat!” The man stood. “Mary, I love you dearly, but I am not staying for another minute of this atrocity. I am going home.” He turned and walked to the door, his lady sending a harried look at Beatrice before she gathered her things and rushed to join him.

Harry stood. “Huntley—whoever he is—is a genius. Beatrice, I am going home. Gather your things.” He started for the door, but found his wife planted in front of him.

“We cannot leave Beth here alone.”

Harry looked back at Beth, his sleepy blue eyes hopeful. “Had your fill of music for the night, m’dear?”

“More than enough.” Beth found her reticule at her feet and stood, smiling a little as she did so. “I don’t know what it is, but I am a bit homesick tonight.”

“Oh Beth!” Beatrice exclaimed. “I am so sorry! Have we not been staying busy enough?”

“Oh, it’s not that. I just miss Grandfather and the house. My roses will have bloomed and I am not there to make certain they are trimmed correctly, and Grandfather does not eat well unless someone makes him. But”—Beth straightened her shoulders—“I will be home soon enough. I promised him this one season, but that is all he shall get.”

“I would never be happy buried away like that,” Beatrice said with a rueful smile. “You were always happy there.”

“I wish you could make Grandfather understand that!”

They made their way to the door and had just reached it when a commotion rose in the hallway. Before she even saw him, Beth knew who was arriving—Westerville.

It was indeed the viscount, but he was not alone. With him was a tall, well-formed, rather horse-faced woman. The two were instantly surrounded as they entered.

“That’s Sally Jersey with Lord Westerville!” Beatrice said. “I vow but that lady never lets a handsome man get by, does she?”

“It appears not,” Beth said, more determined than ever to leave.

Harry stopped in the aisle. “There are too many people trying to get in now, damn it. The aisle is completely blocked. I suppose everyone who was leaving changed their mind once they saw Westerville and Lady Jersey enter.”

Beatrice nodded. “Westerville is quite the fashion setter.” She looked back over her shoulder and grimaced. “Oh no. The next performance is about to begin. We cannot be standing in the aisle when that happens. We shall just have to stay for the next few minutes, I suppose, until the next break in the program.”

Harry cursed under his breath, but even he was forced to agree; there were far too many people in the way now. Sighing, he turned back to where they’d been sitting before and reclaimed their seats. Beth took her place beside Beatrice as Harry stretched out, preparing once again to sleep despite
Beatrice’s entreaties that he instead enjoy the music. Harry merely patted her hand before giving a prodigious yawn. Within moments, he was back fast asleep.

Beth meanwhile, forced herself to face forward, away from where she knew Christian must be. She could feel his presence like the aura of a thunderstorm. Her skin prickled, her neck tingled with the same awareness. It took all her control not to turn in her seat and look behind her to see where the handsome viscount and his party decided to sit. Fortunately for her, the women in front of her were not so circumspect. They twisted and turned, peeking over their shoulders and looking somewhere directly behind Beth.

It was horrid, having to sit so still. Horrid and yet rather exciting. For the oddest reason, she felt not only irritation, but anticipation, too. He would seek her out, she knew. As soon as the next musical effort finished and they rose to depart, he would put himself in their way and—

A warm hand came to rest on her shoulder, sending a flash of heat through her. A deep, intimate voice sounded in her ear, “I believe you dropped something.”

Beth looked down at her lap. Her hands were clenched in perfect fists. It took a moment of concentration to unlock them and turn around.

Westerville was but a few inches from her, his green eyes so close, she could see tiny flecks of gold in the centers. He smiled at her and slid a folded program of the evening’s events against
her bare arm. “This was on the floor next to your chair. It must be yours.”

Beth took it unthinkingly. “I-I—” Good God, she didn’t know what to say.

He chuckled a little, his teeth white. “You don’t need to stutter around me. I find your mouth divinely lovely, no matter what you do with it.”

Beth tried to glare, but failed. All she could do was stare. His eyes were so beautiful, so compelling.

Westerville’s smile deepened and her gaze was drawn to his handsomely carved mouth. She remembered in painfully vivid detail how his kiss had felt and tasted. How his lips had covered hers, how he’d gently opened her mouth and teased her with his tongue.

Her breath caught at the thought. She could no more talk than she could think. Memories rushed through her, hot and furious.

“Westerville? What on earth are you doing to Lady Elizabeth?” The amused, sophisticated voice poured over Beth like ice water, breaking the spell and making her realize how silly she must have looked. She forced her gaze away from Westerville and turned it to his companion. “Lady Jersey. How nice to see you.”

“And you, my dear,” Sally Jersey answered. A wealthy woman in her own right, she was happily married to Lord Jersey, whose mother was the prince regent’s “special friend.” Because of her connection to the royal house, and her wealth as well, Lady Jersey had built herself a place in society that was unequaled. This was proven when she became
one of the patronesses of Almack’s, that most famous of all marriage marts, where no single man of fortune was safe from the devouring eyes of fund-hungry mothers and their desperate daughters.

Needless to say, Beth was not fond of Almack’s, for not only did they play nothing but country dances and the occasional quadrille, but they served lamentably stale cake and indifferent ratafia, neither of which found favor with Beth.

She nodded now to Lady Jersey. “My lady, how are you this evening?”

“Oh la! I am exhausted. I asked Lord Westerville to escort me to the Crossforth Ball and what does he do but walk once through the ballroom and then insist we drive here! I vow, but I am vexed, especially as I had it from two people in the foyer that the entertainment here is sadly lacking in quality.”

Beth winced as Lady Jersey’s voice carried loudly through the room. It was a common joke of the day that Lady Jersey should be called “Silence” to commemorate both her propensity for gossip and her less than peaceful tone. It was a nickname she quite relished. No speck of rumor was too small for her to repeat at the top of her rather spectacular voice.

Beatrice had turned by now and positively beamed when she saw whom Beth was speaking to. “Lady Jersey!” Beatrice said in an excited voice, “How lovely to see you!”

“Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton,” Lady Jersey responded, eyeing Harry where he slept. “I see you managed to drag your husband out of the house.

Did you have the servants carry him in like that, or is he tired from applauding so furiously?”

Beatrice laughed. “It may have been a somewhat lackluster evening, but perhaps it will get better now. The next piece is said to be quite acceptable.”

Before she could say more, a pianoforte trilled and the music began. Beth and Beatrice turned back around in their chairs. Beatrice leaned close and whispered, “Lady Jersey is an excellent contact for you, my dear. She knows every eligible man in the ton.”

“And yet she came with Westerville. How can one explain the vagaries of human nature?” Beth muttered.

Beatrice looked surprised, but the loudness of the music prevented her from replying. The music was indeed better than the previous offerings, and had circumstances been different, Beth might well have enjoyed the performance. As it was, she was painfully aware of the man sitting directly behind her. He, for his part, made certain she did not forget he was there. He slid his feet forward so that the tips of his shoes were evident on either side of her chair, and occasionally jiggled her seat while shifting in his own.

It was a relief when the music finally finished. Beth clapped even more loudly than the others, and was the first one on her feet, collecting her things and quietly urging Beatrice to hurry and wake Harry. But before Beth knew what was happening, Sally leaned over the seat.

“My dear Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton, would you be so kind as to walk with me to the refreshment
table? I am positively dying from thirst, and my escort has rudely refused to bring me a glass.”

Westerville grinned. “I did no such thing.”

Sally’s smile was just as wide and for an instant, Beth caught a glimpse of the charm that had made “Silence” a favorite with the ton. “Your lack of enthusiasm was all the rejection I needed.” Her gaze flickered to Beth. “Lady Elizabeth, I leave Lord Westerville in your care while your cousin walks with me to find the lemonade. Pray keep a close eye on him, for he is far too handsome to be left alone for any length of time.”

Beth didn’t know what to say to this rather heavy-handed attempt at matchmaking. She looked appealingly at Beatrice, but her cousin was too busy eagerly making her way to the end of the chairs to meet Lady Jersey that she quite missed Beth’s silent request for assistance.

Moments later, Beth watched in irritation as the two women slowly strolled to the table at the far side of the room.

“That was remarkably easy,” said a deep voice at Beth’s ear.

She turned on Westerville. “You planned that.”

“I only accepted Sally’s invitation to escort her for the evening. The rest was her doing.”

Beth’s gaze narrowed. “She is helping you?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that.” He lifted his brows, no trace of a smile on his face. “Is she?”

“No.” Beth glanced at Harry, who was still deep asleep, his arms crossed, his chin sunk to his chest. She was alone with a man she had no qualms in thinking a wolf. “Well, you may stay here if
you like, but I must excuse myself. I’ve torn my flounce and it must be repaired.” She turned toward the doorway, but he forestalled her with a single word.

“Afraid?”

She turned her head to look at him. “Yes.”

With that, she left. He would not be alone for long; too many women were avidly watching his every move. Beth told herself she did not care, though she knew the thought was a lie.

Once outside the door, she made her way upstairs to where the women gathered. The chamber set aside for the ladies was so crowded, Beth couldn’t think. She just wanted a quiet place to wait until the next musical performance began. That would preclude any conversation with Westerville and it would be safe to return to her seat.

Beth glanced around and found a doorway to her right that was partially open. Inside, she could see walls lined with bookshelves, a billiard table gracing the middle of the room.