Her Officer and Gentleman

by Karen Hawkins

  Beth smiled and began to answer, when she caught sight of her audience’s rapt gaze. Oh yes. Her stutter. She managed a smile as she said, “Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-why, Cousin B-B-B-B-Beatrice! It is so g-g-g-good to see you!”

  Beatrice blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.

  Beth raised her brows meaningfully. “I-I-I have so m-m-m-m-much to tell you!”

  Beatrice pasted a rather weak smile on her face. “Yes, you do have a lot to tell me, don’t you?”

  “Beatrice, h-h-have you met the D-D-D-D-Duke of St-St—”

  “Oh yes!” Beatrice said hastily, sending Beth a sharp look. “I know the duke quite well.” Beatrice hurried to add, “I know them all, thank you! Gentlemen, I must steal Elizabeth away. I haven’t seen her in forever and we have so much to discuss!”

  “Of course,” the duke said, tucking his thumbs in his waistcoat and beaming idiotically. “Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton, I do hope you bring Lady Elizabeth back ere long.”

  “Oh, you won’t even know she’s gone!” Beatrice took Beth’s arm and laced it with her own, an amused quirk to her generous mouth. “We’ll be back before Beth can say, ‘Dilly’!”

  Beth scarcely had time to wave a hand in farewell before she was whisked away by her determined cousin. Beatrice immediately hissed in Beth’s ear, “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Keeping the wolves at bay.”

  Beatrice choked on her laugh, pulling her cousin out of the crowd and into a small alcove designed for more private speech. “Lud, Beth! I am sorry I was late returning from Italy! The weather was—oh, never mind. What on earth made you decide to affect such an atrocious stutter?”

  “Those lump skulls. I am bored to death!”

  Beatrice chuckled. “Your grandfather will put a stop to this the instant he arrives.”

  “He won’t be coming to town anytime soon. Beatrice, he is not well.”

  Beatrice’s expression sobered. “I wondered if that was the case when he wrote to me, but then I thought perhaps he simply didn’t wish to leave your stepmama.”

  Beth frowned. “Not leave Charlotte? Why would he not—”

  “Or the house,” Beatrice added hastily. “He loves Massingale House.”

  “So do I. As much as I’ve enjoyed my time in London, I would much rather be there.”

  “Has Lady Clearmont been so horrible?”

  “Not at all! I hardly ever see her.”

  “How horrid! My mother-in-law—gossipmonger that she is—wrote to say you’d arrived and were rumored to possess a dowry unlike any other. I daresay you’ve had admirers in droves!”

  “Had admirers in droves,” Beth said, smiling. “I have frightened them all off but these last few. No matter how much money one might have, it is quite lowering to think one might have to face th-th-th-this over the br-br-br-br-breakfast table every m-m-m-m-morning for the rest of your l-l-l-l-life.”

  Beatrice laughed merrily. “I can barely stand it this minute! What made you think of such a devious plan?”

  “Desperation. Grandfather thinks I should marry now, before he’s—” Beth could not say the words.

  Beatrice sobered instantly. “Beth, I am so sorry.”

  “So am I. I promised him I would have one season. After that, he has promised never again to mention my leaving him for London.”

  “I see. He hopes you’ll meet someone?”

  “Of course. I can’t have anyone running to Grandfather with an offer for my hand, at least not a man he might countenance. If he found someone he thought would be suitable, he’d insist I marry despite his promise. I know he would.”

  “You are in a fix! I hope your plan works.”

  Beth shrugged. “If it ceases to work, I shall simply develop another bad habit. And then another and yet another until not even you will be able to stand my presence.”

  Beatrice laughed. “Harry is going to love hearing about this. May I tell him?”

  “Yes, but no one else.” Beth smiled at her cousin, a wistful light in her eyes. “How is Harry?”

  Beatrice’s cheeks stained pink, a pleased smile softening the effect of her protuberant nose. “Unfashionable as it is, I am mad about my own husband. And he, me. It has been that way since the beginning, and only gets worse each passing year.”

  “Maybe one day I will be so fortunate.”

  Beatrice gave her an odd look. “It will happen, Beth. When you least expect it.”

  “Perhaps. But for now, I am well protected by my st-st-st—”

  “Enough!” Beatrice giggled. “Pray do not do that when we are alone. I shall have to strangle you otherwise. Ah, Beth! You are such a minx! Your stutter should keep any sane man from falling in love with you.” Beatrice’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The question is, will it keep you from falling in love with one of them?”

  “Me? I am far too pragmatic to ever—”

  “May I have this dance?” came a deep masculine voice from behind Beth.

  She started to answer, but caught sight of Beatrice’s face. Her cousin stood, mouth open, eyes wide.

  Beth turned her head…and found herself looking up into the face of the most incredibly handsome man. He was quite tall, his shoulders broad, but it was his face that sent a flush straight through her. Black hair spilled over his forehead, his jaw firm, his mouth masculine and yet sensual. His eyes called the most attention; they were the palest green, thickly lashed, and wickedly beautiful.

  Her heart thudded, her palms grew damp, and her stomach tightened in the most irksome way. Her entire body felt leaden. What on earth was the matter with her? Had she eaten something ill for dinner that evening? Perchance a scallop, for they never failed to make her feel poorly.

  Unaware his effect was being explained away by a shellfish, the man smiled, his eyes sparkling down at her with intimate humor. “I believe I have forgotten to introduce myself. Allow me.” He bowed. “I am Viscount Westerville.”

  “Ah!” Beatrice said, breaking into movement as if she’d been shoved from behind. “Westerville! Rochester’s ba—” Color flooded her cheeks. “I mean—”

  “Yes,” the viscount said smoothly. He bowed, his gaze still riveted on Beth.

  Before she knew what he was about, he had captured her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers. Heat shot up her arm and warmed her to her toes.

  “Well, Lady Elizabeth?” he asked, his breath brushing her hand. “Shall we dance?”

  Chapter 3

  There are many recipes for boot blacking, some of which include such unlikely ingredients as bat’s blood extract, and dust from a corpse. I use a more simple recipe; one part candle wax to two parts champagne. When heated to the perfect temperature and rubbed on the boot with vigor, it rarely fails to leave a gloss of unprecedented brightness. And one is, of course, spared the necessity of locating a suitably dusty corpse. There are times when simplicity makes a decision for you.

  A Compleat Guide for

  Being a Most Proper Butler

  by Richard Robert Reeves

  A mere half hour earlier the front door of the Smythe-Singleton’s residence had been opened by the butler. Beltson would later tell the housekeeper that of all the guests who had traversed the hallway that evening, the man who entered—a viscount—was by far the most interesting. Dressed head to foot in unrelenting black, the visitor carried himself with a coolness and self-possession that made him instantly recognizable as a man of distinction and character.

  Better yet was the brilliant emerald that burned in the man’s cravat, a jewel offset by the lord’s pale green eyes and black hair. The housekeeper had shivered when she’d heard of the viscount’s coloring, for she said such a sight must have sent Mr. Beltson’s hair on end. Did he not think perhaps ’twas the devil himself he was welcoming?

  The butler didn’t answer, for the housekeeper had a horrid habit of repeating every word he uttered, though there had been a moment when he’d first opened the door that had given him pause. The expression on the
gentleman’s face had been one of such unrelenting and grim anger that Mr. Beltson had actually taken a step back.

  The look had been quickly replaced with a more urbane one, and the gentleman soon identified as a member of the ton, but a strong sense of unease remained with Mr. Beltson. He was inordinately glad that the newly minted Viscount Westerville had not intended the look for him.

  Christian would have found the butler’s thoughts rather appropriate. He was here for one thing and one thing only—to locate the Duke of Massingale’s granddaughter. He would find this Lady Elizabeth, gain an introduction, and through her win entry into his enemy’s house.

  It was a simple plan, and in Christian’s experience as a highwayman, the simple plans delivered the best prizes. It took him less than two minutes after entering the ball to find his quarry.

  It was well known that Lady Elizabeth was long of tooth; there had been much speculation about her before her arrival in London. However, whatever the lady’s age, her appearance must not be as spinsterish as he’d hoped; rumor had it that she was taking the town by storm.

  He knew a little of her appearance already. The groom he’d hired to watch her every move had become almost poetic in his description of her face and form, which was to be expected. The man was posturing for the gold coin he was supposed to be earning. It was a damned pity Lady Elizabeth was attractive, because now not only was every gazetted fortune hunter panting over her dowry, but every romantic fool in town would be following her about, writing the most horrid poetry in her name.

  It was annoying to have to court such a public figure, and it would have suited his purposes far more had she been plump, short, and sadly freckled.

  Christian smoothed his cuffs as he made his way into the ballroom, pausing to ask the first male he encountered as to Lady Elizabeth’s whereabouts. As Christian anticipated, the fool knew exactly where she was to be found.

  Lady Elizabeth stood halfway between the refreshment table and the terrace doors, surprisingly unfettered by suitors. Christian’s gaze narrowed on her as he drew closer. From behind, her form hinted at the loveliness Christian’s bloody groom had suggested; a vision of golden hair and sensual curves gowned in blue silk and cream lace. Her figure was delicate and well-rounded; her hair piled upon her head in delicious thick, golden curls.

  It was a pity such a beauty was so closely related to his enemy, as she would have been worth a chase on her own merits. But life was never fair.

  As he neared, Lady Elizabeth laughed at something her companion said. He slowed a bit, his gaze narrowing as he attempted to read her gestures, her movements. From his years estimating who would be a good mark and who would not, Christian had developed the ability to ascertain a few things from the way people moved, the way they spoke, how they gestured.

  Lady Elizabeth was not as demure as one might expect. There was something very sensual about her posture, the way she threw back her head when she laughed, the manner in which she flicked her hand as if impatient with life.

  She was a woman who craved something more. He recognized that aspect of her character at once, and to his chagrin, something deep within him responded in kind.

  Christian’s gaze narrowed. She was not what he had expected at all. His spies had informed him that she was bookish, not given to any sort of lively pursuits other than riding about the estates and being her grandfather’s sole companion. He’d originally thought she would be a shy, retiring sort of woman who had dutifully given up her youth to keep her elderly relative company. Such a self-deprecating martyr would be an easy woman to charm.

  It had not occurred to Christian that she might also be beautiful, sensual, and vivacious.

  Whatever she was, she was now within arm’s length. He waited for a pause in the conversation, and then at first opportunity said in a low voice, “May I have this dance?”

  Lady Elizabeth turned, her gown fluttering about her, her startled gaze lifted to his. It was then that it happened; a jolt of pure, animal attraction hit Christian so hard, his heart leaped in his chest.

  He could only stare. As he’d been told, she was beautiful, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of that beauty, of the smoldering passion that lit her large, brown eyes, of the tempting curve of her plump lips, of the sensual line of her cheek and throat. She was passion and pureness, temptation and desire, acumen and sensuality, all wrapped into one. As if she knew his thoughts, her lips framed into an entrancingly rich pout, one he instantly wished to kiss away.

  Christian had to force himself not to reach out and yank her to him right there in the center of the ballroom. It was then that the truth hit him: he’d met the one woman he could never touch. Never give in to. Never admit into his life or his heart. The mysterious Lady Elizabeth was the granddaughter of Christian’s most hated enemy, and he was not about to forget, no matter how his traitorous body answered to her mere presence.

  Bloody hell, what was this? Never, in years of secret assignations and heated flirting with seductive and wealthy ladies in plush carriages, had Christian experienced such an immediate reaction.

  She must have felt something, too, for she blinked rapidly, but said nothing at all, her eyes wide, something flickering deep in her dark eyes. Recognition, perhaps.

  And that was exactly what it was, an odd sort of recognition. Almost as if he’d met her before, though that was impossible. He’d have never forgotten such a woman, the rich gold of her hair, or the entrancing curve of her cheek. As he looked at her, his reaction increased and intensified until he was caught in a flash of pure, hot lust.

  What in the hell was wrong with him? This was no usual lady of the ton to be wooed to bed and then forgotten. No, this was the granddaughter of his greatest enemy.

  Perhaps that was why his emotions were so tightly woven. Yes, it had to be that. Relieved, he collected himself and bowed. “I believe I have forgotten to introduce myself. Allow me. I am Viscount Westerville.”

  “Ah!” Lady Elizabeth’s companion said, suddenly coming to life. Though she was a bit horse-faced, her eyes nonetheless shone with intelligence. “Westerville! Rochester’s ba—” Her cheeks flushed.

  “Yes,” he said, not the least put out that his parentage was apparently in some question. He had no secrets. Not about that, at least. Society suspected that his father had fabricated the marriage certificate and witness that had declared Christian and his brother the legal heirs. They were correct, though Christian was not about to inform anyone of that. His father had done nothing for his children; it seemed only fitting that the old bastard should at least attempt to make amends while on his deathbed.

  But now was not the time to dwell on his childhood. Christian bowed to the lady before him, his gaze still caught by her winsome face. He took her gloved hand and brushed his lips over it, feeling the heat of her skin through the soft material. A heady fragrance broke over him as he did so. She smelled of lilac and rose; rich scents, sensual scents. His body tightened in reaction, and it took all his composure to be able to say with some equanimity, “Well, Lady Elizabeth? Shall we dance?”

  Her fingers tightened over his instantly, almost as if she feared he might turn and leave. But then Lady Elizabeth paused, shook her head slightly, and pulled her hand free. “No, thank you.”

  He lifted his brows. “No? Are you certain?”

  The lady’s mouth curved into a faint smile and she said in a smooth, rich voice, “We have not been properly introduced. Therefore, I cannot dance with you.”

  Christian had the impression that though she smiled, she had somehow moved out of his reach, hiding herself behind a wall of resolution. He forced his own smile to remain in place, though it was the last thing he felt like doing.

  The chit was hiding behind convention. That was a challenge, indeed. He risked a glance at the lady’s companion and found the woman regarding Lady Elizabeth with an astonished air, as if she could not quite believe the words she’d just heard.

  Christian hid a smile. Perhaps
the lady was not usually such a high stickler? Well, he could play at that game.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at her, his brows lifted slightly. “No, my lady. We have not been properly introduced. We are, in fact, illicit strangers.” He let his voice linger over the word, caressing with seductive intent.

  She looked down, her long lashes resting on cheeks suddenly blooming with color.

  “My lord,” the chaperone said sharply, her fan fluttering so fast it appeared it might fly from her fingers, “it is traditional to wait for an introduction from a third party before asking a lady to dance.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think the lady was the type of woman to insist on such a thing.”

  That brought Elizabeth’s eyes back to his face. “Just what type of woman do you think I am?”

  “One that won’t tolerate boredom.”

  That seemed to both please and irritate her at one and the same time. He was amused, watching the conflicting emotions warring with each other. Finally, she shook her head with a bit of regret. “My lord, you don’t know me at all.”

  “Uhm, Beth?” her companion said, an oddly warning note in her voice.

  Lady Elizabeth faced her companion. “Yes?”

  The lady glanced from Elizabeth to Christian, then back. “You, ah…You have forgotten something.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “What?”

  The chaperone did a most curious thing—she tapped her lips with a finger.

  Lady Elizabeth frowned. “Wha—oh! That. I quite forgot.” She bit her lip and sent Christian a quick glance before looking away.

  Christian had to force himself not to reach out to run a finger over her bottom lip where her teeth were gently worrying the tender morsel. Damn, but the woman’s mouth was made for passion. “Pardon me, my lady. What exactly did you forget? Perhaps I could be of assistance in locating whatever you’ve lost.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s friend cleared her throat. “It’s nothing, really. Lady Elizabeth is supposed to guard her voice carefully this evening in case she, ah, sings later”—the woman waved her hand vaguely—“or…something.”