He wasn’t sure he believed it, but he feigned jealousy nonetheless. After a while, he eased her onto the subject he’d come to discuss with her.
“What about local news?” He said. “It feels like such a long time since I’ve been home. I want to know what the hot gossip is.”
Abigail was eager to oblige. She was never so happy as when she was gossiping. “Then you will not be disappointed,” she said, in a conspiratorial voice. “There is a new woman in town, by the name of Miss Loraine Beauchamp.”
It was too easy.
“Well, not new exactly,” Abigail went on. “She lived here when she was younger, until the age of sixteen when her parents died in a terrible accident and-”
“Her parents died?” Philip said abruptly, cutting Abigail off.
“Yes,” Abigail said, more slowly. “Their carriage crashed into the lake, leaving the poor girl orphaned. So she went to America to live with her aunt.”
Philip felt a strange pang in his chest, on behalf of young Miss Beauchamp. But he squashed the pang before it could develop, before he could even entertain the notion of pitying her.
“What else do you know about Miss Loraine Beauchamp? She must be a rather interesting character.”
“Interesting indeed. The entire town is talking about her.”
“And why is that?”
“You’d know if you saw her. Besides being quite stunning, she has a formidable reputation.”
“A reputation for what?”
“As a heartbreaker,” she said, with utter seriousness. “Apparently she’s left a graveyard of broken hearts in her wake.”
A graveyard. The analogy almost made him wince.
“A rumor, I’m sure,” Philip said, his tone terser. “No woman is impervious to love.”
“Well she certainly seems to be,” Abigail remarked. “She is not like most women, that’s for certain. In fact, she’s more like a man than a woman!”
“How do you mean?”
“Miss Beauchamp is an expert rider, huntsman, marksmen and fencer. She speaks Latin fluently and is currently learning Ancient Greek. And politically-”
“Politically?” Philip interrupted, again, with a deep frown.
“Yes, she is extremely well-versed in politics and has no qualms engaging in political debate.”
“Astounding,” Philip balked. “And men like this?”
“I think men quite like a clever woman,” Abigail said, nudging her shoulder against his flirtatiously as she spoke. Yes, Abigail thought she was rather clever indeed. And Philip had no intention of enlightening her on that particular subject.
“Have you met the woman in person?”
“No,” Abigail admitted.
“Then how do you know all this?”
Abigail shrugged. “They attended a ball a couple of days ago. Apparently her batty aunt went around telling everyone everything about her niece.”
“Then it may not be true.”
This idea seemed to disappoint Abigail. “Well, I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. I’m seeing her tomorrow. Mother invited her for tea.”
This was just the opportunity he’d been looking for, and he’d walked into it so easily. His expression turned flirtatious. “A tea party? And you didn’t think to invite me?” He said, playfully.
“I don’t imagine you’d much like to come,” she answered, with a coy smile. “There won’t be any other gentlemen.”
“Will you be there?”
“Of course,” she replied, practically batting her eyelashes at him.
“Then I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
***
If he was honest with himself, the tea party wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. Six ladies sat together in Abigail’s drawing room, chatting over some tea and biscuits.
And the things they talked about were so mundane that Philip might have gone to sleep had he not been waiting on Miss Beauchamp’s arrival.
But an hour into the tea party, she still hadn’t arrived. And during that time, he’d listened to Lady Hillith rant about her eldest son’s attitude problem.
Heard Lady Riley go on and on about her wretched sister. And Lady Culling prattle on about her husband refusing to allow her to buy another horse.
It was painful to listen to. Was this truly all women spoke about when men weren’t around? He’d been practically itching in his seat, watching the grandfather clock, tapping his fingers on his knees impatiently.
After an hour and a half, when he felt certain that Miss Beauchamp was not going to make an appearance, he started to stand. He was going to announce his intention to leave but before he could, Miss Beauchamp was announced.
It was clear that he wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting on her. Every woman in the room looked towards the door to see Miss Beauchamp walk in. She was wearing a pale blue dress in an unusual style that he’d never seen before.
It wasn’t quite British fashion, but had a Grecian flourish to it which made it fall around her curves in a curtain of silk. “Miss Beauchamp!” Abigail’s mother cried, delightedly. They all stood to greet her.
“You must forgive me for my lateness,” Miss Beauchamp said, with an easy smile. She did not provide an excuse. She knew as well as everyone else did that she didn’t need to. They were all just pleased that she was there.
And he knew why. Bored women loved nothing more than another woman to gossip about.
Miss Beauchamp took her seat and he waited for her to notice him. She must have seen him as she’d walked in, because he stuck out like a sore thumb. Yet she wouldn’t look at him directly. Not once.
“Are you quite well, Miss Beauchamp?” Abigail asked.
“Quite well, indeed.”
“And your aunt?” Another asked.
“How kind of you to ask,” Miss Beauchamp answered. “She is also well.”
The women seemed almost disappointed. Drawing Miss Beauchamp into a revealing conversation was clearly trickier than they’d anticipated.
So they returned to chatting amongst themselves, while Miss Beauchamp sat quietly, a beacon of elegance and mystery among them.
Philip didn’t take his eyes off her.
From time to time, she would speak. But whenever she did, it was always to contribute something of value. Some information that had been overlooked, or to make a witty remark.
She did so with such ease that Philip could hardly believe it. She was what every woman longed to be. The center of attention without ever having to try to be.
***
Miss Loraine Beauchamp
Loraine was always fashionably late, particularly to tea parties. Though she’d never had much opportunity to make many friends, she thought that women couldn’t be very different from men when it came to igniting their interest.
The less interested you seem, the more interested they are.
So she stayed quiet and allowed them to think of her as an impenetrable enigma. But the truth was that the more they spoke, the less she thought she had in common with them.
It was all terribly dull and the endless complaining was remarkably tiresome.
And then there was Lord Blackhill, who sat opposite in the circle. Though she hadn’t spared him a direct look, she was hyper-aware of his presence. She had no doubt that he’d come because he’d learnt that she was coming too.
After all, what adventurous bachelor wanted to spend an afternoon listening to women bemoan the male sex? Certainly not him. And yet he seemed entirely comfortable where he sat.
He had his legs crossed and occasionally sipped from his tea, looking between the women as they spoke. She wanted to ask him what had brought him here, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of addressing him first.
“Mr. Grey is all he talks about. It’s driving me to my wit’s end.”
“Mr. Grey,” Loraine said. Everyone whipped their faces towards her. Whenever she spoke, they ate it up like the nectar of the Gods, as if they might learn something juicy fr
om her. “I shouldn’t mind my husband preaching the word of Grey, if I were married.”
“You wouldn’t, Miss Beauchamp?” The woman who’d spoken replied.
“As far as politicians go, he’s rather sympathetic to the interests of women.” Loraine inclined her head and added, “I commend your husband’s political leanings.”
“Yes, rather,” Abigail interjected, quite suddenly. “I couldn’t agree more!”
Three other women expressed their agreement as well, as if they hoped Loraine might praise them for their knowledge. But she knew all too well that they didn’t have any. Loraine looked down at her cup and took a sip.
“In that case, I suppose I commend him also,” said the woman who’d originally complained of her husband’s love of Mr Grey. “I hadn’t known much of his politics,” she admitted, with a small blush.
“My husband prefers to keep me out of politics,” Lady Willow said, with her chin held a little higher. “He says it’s a dangerous business for women.”
“That’s just the sort of rhetoric that keeps politicians who sympathize with the plight of women from being successful,” Loraine remarked.
Before any of the women could muster an intelligent response, Lord Blackhill spoke at last. “Do you not think it better that matters of politics be overseen by those who are experienced in political discourse?”
Finally, Loraine looked him in the eye. She quirked her brow. “If that is the case then I would be more adept at overseeing matters of politics than most gentlemen. Men do not have a monopoly on knowledge. Any woman can master political discourse if she wishes to.”
“A dangerous thought,” he said, with a smile quirking his lips.
“To you, perhaps.” She smiled at him, with a condescending countenance, but it didn’t succeed in mortifying him. His smile grew. It irritated her. “On the subject of infiltrating the world of men,” Loraine said. “I wonder, what brings you to the world of women, Lord Blackhill?”
Lord Blackhill leaned back in his seat, uncrossed his legs, then recrossed them the opposite way. “Whether men have the monopoly on knowledge or not, I am a firm believer that women hold the monopoly on mysteriousness.”
His stare was so direct. So intense that it made her blood warm. “And I am a connoisseur of mystery.”
She had to admit that he was a master at his trade. Loraine could feel every woman in the room melting at the sound of his deep, velvet voice. And the things he said made them butter in his hands.
Abigail let loose a flattered laugh. And she was not the only one who was impressed. As Loraine looked around she saw pink cheeks and coy smiles. Even the older, married women were fooled by him.
But Loraine was not.
Yes, he was charming. He was charismatic. He was clever.
But he was also a cad.
“And do you intend to root out the mystery, Lord Blackhill? Expose us to the world?”
Their eyes held. “I’d like to expose you very much.”
It was oh so clever. The play on the plural ‘you’ which fooled everyone in attendance, but it didn’t fool her.
Her eyes narrowed on him and she begrudged him for hiding his flirtation in plain sight. Almost as much as she begrudged everyone else for falling for it.
“Well our mystery shan’t be exposed, Lord Blackhill,” Lady Willow remarked with a wide smile and blushing cheeks. “Will it, ladies?”
They all concurred that they would not, through laughs and smiles. “A man can’t be expected to understand the nuances of womanhood,” Abigail remarked, in an almost sultry voice.
Loraine barely kept herself from rolling her eyes.
Chapter 11
Lord Philip Everton, Marquess of Blackhill
Abigail hadn’t been wrong about Miss Beauchamp. In many ways, she was more like a man than a woman. With the exception of the way she looked. As the others spoke, he took in the sight of her.
She was all woman.
But her political knowledge and her brazen penchant for debate, which she’d openly displayed, was something he’d never seen in a woman before.
Besides her intellectual abilities, there was also the matter of how she conversed with the other women.
While they gossiped, Philip watched Miss Beauchamp and began to suspect that she was not as attentive as she was pretending to be.
In fact, she looked almost bored.
That made two of them.
At the end of the tea party, Miss Beauchamp was the first to leave. She bid the women a good day, inclined her head towards him with a notable lack of sincerity, and went outside.
“I’ll be leaving too,” Philip announced, as he stood. “Good day, my ladies. It was an absolute pleasure.” He flashed them a charming smile and took his leave.
He met Miss Beauchamp outside, as he intended to. He expected her to be getting into a carriage, but instead she was having a horse brought to her.
“You rode here?” He remarked, with raised brows.
She looked back at him. “Does that surprise you?” She asked, as she adjusted her saddle.
Yes, it did surprise him, but he didn’t want to admit that she’d succeeding in doing so. He watched her hike up her skirts a little, to reveal her riding boots.
Of course, most women he knew rode. But very few used riding as a sincere mode of transportation from place to place. Riding was a leisure activity. At least, for women it was.
“That’s a rather grand horse,” he remarked, evading her question. “Are you sure you can manage it?”
Miss Beauchamp cast him a long, unamused look. Without saying a word, she hoisted herself up onto the horse, and took hold of the reigns. “I thank you for your concern, Lord Blackhill. But I assure you that it is unneeded.” She knocked the horse’s sides lightly and made a clicking noise with her tongue.
The horse, which clearly knew her well, broke into a sudden gallop. Miss Beauchamp disappeared down the path at a gallop, while Philip’s horse was still being brought to him. He shooed the stable boy away as politely as he could and quickly mounted.
He rode after her, just as fast, until they met outside the gates. She’d slowed into a canter, and he did so too so that their horses walked alongside each other. “You’re quite remarkable, aren’t you?”
Miss Beauchamp sighed, as if he’d exhausted her. Not a reaction he was accustomed to by any means. “Do compliments bother you, Miss Beauchamp? You do not strike me as shy.”
“Compliments tire me,” she admitted. “But it is not self-doubt or self-deprecation that makes me dismiss them.”
“Then what is it?”
She turned her face to level him with her steady, knowing gaze. “I have found that Englishmen can be prone to insincerity, so I find their compliments difficult to believe.”
“Then it is the gentlemen you doubt,” Philip deduced.
“Quite so.”
Then she was a clever woman indeed. And convincing her that he was sincere when he was not would be harder than he’d anticipated.
Philip looked back at the path and saw that it was opening up, with a clear view for almost a mile. “How does a race sound to you?”
Miss Beauchamp laughed. It was such a light and breezy sound. “You want to race me? You must like losing.”
Philip laughed too and it wasn’t the least insincere. The prospect of a challenge always excited him, and Miss Beauchamp rose to a challenge beautifully. Had she not been responsible for his friend’s death, Philip might even have liked her.
“It sounds like you might be afraid,” he said, to tease her.
He saw her smiling and smiled too, because the sight of her enjoyment was contagious. “Are you ready then?”
Before he could answer, she’d dug her heels in and her horse had broken into a faster gallop than before. He gave a yell and pushed his horse to follow. They rode so fast that they left a cloud of dust in their wake.
***
Miss Loraine Beauchamp
“You cheated,�
�� he said, as they dismounted, both of them breathing heavily in her courtyard.
“Oh, don’t be a sore loser,” she answered, with a wide and brazen smile. For a moment, she forgot that she was meant to be playing this man. And she’d truly enjoyed herself.
Even his clever banter at the tea party had been far more entertaining than anything the women had been saying. “Sore?” He remarked, as he stepped closer. “I’d happily lose to you, Miss Beauchamp.”
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