by Deborah Hale
“Being head of the family does not make you my master!” Claude stabbed his forefinger into Sebastian’s chest. “And being older does not make you right about everything!”
“So,” Sebastian sneered, “you rebel against the advice of an older man yet you are hopelessly besotted with an older woman?”
He knew his allusion to the lady’s age was ungallant. Miss Leonard could not be more than three years his brother’s senior. But Claude’s jibe about being afraid to risk his heart had struck a nerve.
“Older woman?” His brother stared at Sebastian as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Hermione is four full years younger than I.”
“That cannot be.” Sebastian shook his head. “The woman I spoke with was very handsome, but she had to be at least five-and-twenty.”
“It could not have been Hermione, then.” Claude crossed his arms in front of his chest, daring Sebastian to contradict him. “If anything, she looks younger than her years.”
“Of course it was her.” Sebastian had never heard anything so ridiculous. “She told me... that is... she was picking flowers in Squire Leonard’s garden and...”
A look of amused comprehension and overwhelming relief made Claude’s face light up. “The lady you spoke to, was she about this height with brown hair and hazel eyes?”
“That’s right.” Why was his brother grinning like a fool?
“Well done, Sebastian!” Claude began to sputter with laughter. “You managed to persuade Hermione’s governess not to marry me!”
Governess? Sebastian’s jaw clenched. To think he had been fooled and foiled by that sly creature with the traitorous collaboration of his own unaccountable interest in her. Clearly his brother was not the only one who needed to be kept from repeating past mistakes!
Chapter Two
“I STILL CANNOT imagine how Lord Benedict came to make such a mistake.” Hermione shook her head in puzzlement as she and Rebecca walked toward the village church for Sunday morning service. “How could he possibly suppose you were me?”
“It is a mystery beyond my power to fathom.” Rebecca refused to take offense at Hermione’s remark, though it did sting a little. Since she’d come to Rose Grange as a grown woman of twenty to teach Squire Leonard’s twelve-year-old daughter, perhaps it was only natural the girl should think of her as hopelessly ancient. When Hermione reached the advanced age of seven-and-twenty, she might consider it more flattering than ridiculous to be mistaken for nineteen.
“His lordship struck me as the type of man who takes little notice of a woman’s age or the fashion of her garments,” Rebecca continued. “To him, I suspect one female of lesser rank than a peeress looks much like another.”
She wished she could dismiss the top-lofty viscount from her thoughts with such ease. But he intruded upon them as insistently as he had upon her solitude in the garden yesterday. Whenever anything blue caught her eye, she found herself recalling his eyes. Snatches of his conversation drifted through her mind in the bothersome way pieces of music sometimes did. In his case, it was a resonant baritone melody in a minor key.
Hermione let out a soft trill of laughter that banished the viscount’s voice from Rebecca’s mind... for the moment. “What amazes me even more is your audacity in leading his lordship on so he never suspected his error.”
“I did not lead him on,” Rebecca protested, relieved to spy the old stone church quite near ahead. She was not certain how much more of Hermione’s teasing on the subject she could abide. “I told you, he scarcely let me get a word in. Mine was a sin of omission, which I only did to spare you. I hope that will count in my favor when I make my confession and beg Divine forgiveness.”
“Of course it will.” Hermione seemed to repent her levity at Rebecca’s expense. “I am vastly grateful to you for keeping him away from me until Claude can introduce us properly. I hope once he becomes acquainted with me, Lord Benedict will withdraw his objections to our betrothal.”
“I hope so too, for both your sakes.” Having spoken with the forceful viscount, Rebecca doubted he would be so easily dissuaded.
Behind them, the beat of horses’ hooves and the soft rumble of carriage wheels approached. Then a familiar, cheerful voice called out, “Miss Leonard, Miss Beaton, good morning to you!”
Hermione spun about. “Mr. Stanhope, this is a pleasant surprise! What brings you to church in Avoncross this morning?”
The Stanhope estate belonged to the neighboring parish and the family provided a living for its vicar. Rebecca had never seen the gentlemen attending this church.
As Rebecca slowly turned around, Claude Stanhope uttered a sentence that sent a guilty shudder through her. “It was my brother’s suggestion we come here this morning. Miss Leonard, may I introduce Viscount Benedict? Sebastian, it is an honor to present my fiancée, Miss Hermione Leonard.”
By this time Rebecca had turned toward the fashionable gig which had halted behind them. As the Stanhope brothers alighted, Lord Benedict tossed the horses’ reins to a young footman.
“Miss Leonard, we meet at last.” The viscount acknowledged Hermione with a stiff bow while she swept him a deep, graceful curtsey.
“Lord Benedict, it is a pleasure to meet the beloved brother of my betrothed.”
Often, in the company of grand ladies and gentlemen, Rebecca felt as if she were invisible. Now, she wished she was so she would not have to confront the viscount in her true, humble identity—a penniless governess he would scarcely condescend to notice.
But she was not invisible and Lord Benedict most certainly did notice her. Turning away from Hermione without responding to her greeting, he fixed Rebecca with the icy intensity of his slate-blue stare. “Miss Beaton, I presume? Or am I mistaken about your identity once again?”
“Lord Benedict.” She strove to keep her back straight as she curtsied, determined not to let the viscount intimidate her. “Since you have kindly given me an opportunity to answer this time, I am pleased to inform you that you are not mistaken.”
The excessively polite impertinence of her reply made Claude Stanhope sputter with laughter while Hermione let out a girlish giggle.
Lord Benedict tried to scowl, but one corner of his mouth appeared to resist. “In the course of our previous conversation, I gave you a number of opportunities to correct my error, Miss Beaton. Yet you allowed me to persist in making a fool of myself.”
Put that way, her well-intentioned actions sounded quite mean-spirited. Did Lord Benedict assume she’d kept him ignorant of her true identity simply to amuse herself at his expense? Once again Rebecca found herself unable to answer the viscount, but not because he gave her no chance to speak.
To her relief, the church bell came to her rescue, summoning them to worship.
“Come Miss Beaton,” Hermione tugged on Rebecca’s arm. “Or we shall be late.”
“Sebastian,” Claude Stanhope beckoned his brother. “Perhaps we can speak to the ladies after church.”
With a mixture of eagerness and reluctance, Rebecca followed Hermione into the fine old sanctuary of golden-brown Cotswold stone. She knew very well why she was anxious to escape Lord Benedict and his disturbing suggestion that she had behaved deceitfully. What baffled her was a contrary desire to remain in his company. Perhaps it was that discerning gaze of his, which seemed to see her in a way few others did. Or perhaps it was the compelling music of his voice that made her want to listen even when his words were not agreeable to her.
As the service progressed, she was acutely conscious of the viscount’s fine voice as he joined in the prayers and responses of the liturgy, from two pews behind her.
“Reading from the Gospel According to St. Matthew,” intoned the vicar, “‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’”
Was that what she and Lord Benedict were doing? Rebecca wondered as she listened to the familiar passage with uncomfortable new insight. Sh
e had judged him to be just like her haughty relatives while he had judged her to be a mocking liar. It troubled her to consider which of them might be closer to the truth.
“‘Therefore,’” the vicar concluded, “‘all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.’”
How would she feel, Rebecca’s conscience demanded, if Lord Benedict had allowed her to persist in a mistaken assumption when a few words from him might have set her straight? While she might not have strictly deceived him yesterday, she had strayed far from the Golden Rule. Though her pride rebelled at the prospect, Rebecca could not escape the conviction that she owed the haughty viscount an apology. Whether he would accept it was quite another matter.
Hard as he tried, Sebastian found it difficult to concentrate on the service that morning. Against his will, his gaze kept straying from his prayer book to the women seated two pews ahead.
No wonder his brother considered it such a fine joke that he’d mistaken Miss Beaton for Hermione Leonard. Claude’s fiancée had proven to be precisely the sort of silly chit Sebastian expected. Her fluttering lashes, whispery voice and grating giggles told him all he needed to know about her within a minute of their introduction.
Claude had been right in saying she looked younger than her years. Sebastian did not count that in her favor. He had no doubt she acted younger too. In his experience, young ladies as pretty as Miss Leonard had little enough sense to begin with. They tended to be selfish, sometimes cruelly so, and they scarcely knew their own minds from one moment to the next.
If only he’d been able to speak to her yesterday before she’d been put on her guard, he might have persuaded her to release his brother from their ill-considered engagement. No doubt Miss Beaton and her pupil had enjoyed a good laugh at his expense. Perhaps the governess congratulated herself on matching wits with a man like him and coming out the winner. Even as that notion vexed him, he could not quell a stubborn flicker of admiration for such a capable adversary.
Thinking back on their conversation, he was forced to admit Miss Beaton had not spoken a single untrue word, yet she had given him no reason to doubt his mistaken assumption about her identity either. It could not have been an easy balance to maintain. Neither could he deny the misunderstanding was partly his fault. If he had not been so determined to have his say, without interruption or argument, Miss Beaton might have been compelled to reveal the truth.
The moment the service concluded, Sebastian was accosted by a talkative acquaintance and detained for several minutes. Once he managed to break free, he looked around for the women but saw no sign of them. Given the accusing way he had addressed Miss Beaton earlier, he could hardly blame her if she’d fled from the church with all haste. He could not shake an unaccountable sense of disappointment.
Emerging from the dimly lit sanctuary, he squinted against the brilliant spring sunshine as he scanned the churchyard.
Over beside the gig, he spied his brother absorbed in deep conversation with Hermione Leonard. In Sebastian’s opinion, it was grossly unfair that once a man had made an offer of marriage, he was honor-bound to go through with the wedding, no matter what the circumstances. Only the lady had the right to change her mind.
“Lord Benedict?” At the unexpected sound of Miss Beaton’s voice behind him, Sebastian turned swiftly.
Seeing her standing to one side of the vestibule door, he found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
She seized the initiative. “If I may, sir, I wish to continue our conversation from before the service. Upon reflection, I realize I behaved badly yesterday, when you came looking for Miss Leonard. I ought to have informed you at once of your mistake rather than encouraging your continued belief that I was she.”
Her whole being radiated sincerity. During his career in Parliament and his past dealings with women, Sebastian had seldom encountered that quality to such a degree.
“I have given you good reason to doubt my veracity,” she continued. “But I swear, when I acted as I did, it was never my intention to make a fool of you.”
Her assurance soothed Sebastian’s indignation more than he expected.
“I’m certain you must have had your reasons.” He was not accustomed to backing down, but Miss Beaton’s candid admission of fault left him with few options.
Her indomitable chin lowered a little. “At the time, I believed I had good reasons for what I did. I gave myself a whole variety of excuses, most to do with protecting Miss Leonard. I see now that I would not have needed to work so hard to justify my actions if they had been right and proper.”
Sebastian found the lady’s whole air quite disarming. How could he continue to blame her when it was clear she reproached herself even more?
He shrugged. “It seems we both made mistakes yesterday, Miss Beaton.”
“Perhaps so.” Her high, clear brow furrowed slightly. “But I fear my fault in conduct was much worse than your error of fact.”
One corner of Sebastian’s lips curled upward, as it had been itching to do since he’d laid eyes on her again. “Is it to be a contest, then, which of us was more to blame?”
Her full lips pursed then spread in a smile that refused to be kept in check. It illuminated her face like a stray shaft of sunlight hitting a stained-glass window. “That would be rather foolish, wouldn’t it? You are most gracious, Lord Benedict.”
If there was one thing Sebastian could not resist, it was a sincere compliment. “I’ve been called many things in my time, but gracious has never been one of them.”
“Indeed?” She glanced toward his brother and Miss Leonard then headed slowly toward them while Sebastian strolled along beside her. “What do they call you, then?”
He thought for a moment. “Arrogant... stubborn... ruthless...”
Miss Beaton did not rush to contradict him. But as Sebastian searched for more insults, in which he took perverse pride, she asked, “Do they say anything good?”
“Those are the good things,” he quipped, feeling ridiculously pleased when she laughed. “I am not being entirely facetious. All those so-called faults can have their place when put to good use.”
“What sort of use?” She sounded doubtful.
“Fighting in Parliament to get our Army and Navy the support they needed to defeat Napoleon.”
“That is a very good cause.” The warmth of admiration in Miss Beaton’s voice gratified him. “You must be overjoyed that the war has been won at last.”
Sebastian held open the churchyard gate for her. “I must confess my feelings are more of relief than exultation, especially when I think of all the lives lost on both sides. Even that relief is tinged with a sense of futility, that I was not able to do as much as was needed. Those brave souls accomplished far more than should ever have been asked of them. They did it in spite of the Government’s neglect and interference rather than with our support.”
What was he saying? Sebastian snapped his mouth shut. He could not recall the last time he had confided his feelings so fully to anyone, much less a woman he’d been so thoroughly vexed with an hour ago. “Pardon my nattering on, Miss Beaton. I am more accustomed to Parliamentary debates than polite conversation with a lady.”
As the pair drew nearer to the gig, their footsteps slowed until they were barely moving. “Do not apologize, sir. Your conversation may not be polite, if by that you mean trivial and insipid, but it is most stimulating. There are a great many questions I wish I had time to ask on the subject, but you and your brother must want to get home.”
He should fetch Claude away at once, rather than let the young fool linger there fawning over his unsuitable fiancée. But Sebastian found he did not wish to forsake the agreeable company of Rebecca Beaton.
Then an idea struck him—one that might kill two birds with one stone. “If you have questions for me, that sets us even. Claude tells me you were Miss Leonard’s governess before you became her companion and chaperon.”
“That is not a
question, sir.” The lady’s lips blossomed into a playful grin. “Unless you mean to inquire whether your brother’s information is correct, which it is. Squire Leonard hired me to be his daughter’s governess not long after her mother died. In addition to educating her to the best of my ability, I hope I have been able to supply her with some of the companionship and advice of a mother.”
Though Sebastian knew he ought to follow up on the perfect opening Miss Beaton had provided, the only words he could produce were, “Not a mother, surely! You are far too near her age. I refuse to believe you could be more than a slightly elder sister.”
His words clearly pleased the lady. “You are most chivalrous, Lord Benedict. I assure you, Hermione considers me more than equal to her late mother in years.”
To Sebastian, that further demonstrated Miss Leonard’s immaturity. “Chivalrous? I cannot allow that. I have been called it even less often than gracious. You must mean to atone for the little trick you played on me by turning my head with flattery.”
“No indeed!” she cried. “If I have a fault in that regard, it is being far too blunt-spoken for my position.”
“Others may consider it a fault, Miss Beaton, but I do not.” He found it refreshing to converse with a woman who did not simper or act coy, one who owned to her mistakes and possessed a sense of humor that was pleasantly infectious. If only more of the marriageable ladies in London were like this insignificant country governess, Sebastian would have had fewer reservations about letting his brother come to town.
Claude finally took his eyes off Hermione Leonard long enough to notice his brother and her governess.
“Bravo, Miss Beaton!” He swept her an exaggerated bow. “I don’t know how, but you seem to have a knack for managing my irascible brother.”
Sebastian bristled at the notion of being managed by any woman.
But before he could summon a cutting retort, Miss Beaton spoke up. “You give me too much credit, sir, and your brother not enough. Considering the regrettable beginning to our acquaintance, he has been most forbearing, gracious and chivalrous.”