by Sara Portman
Bex said nothing further of Lord Ashby and compliantly followed Gibbs to the hazard table, setting a mental reminder to accept the duchess’s invitation to dinner. He wondered idly just how much time could pass following that dinner before Gibbs realized Bex had not used the opportunity to pass his statement of account on to the duke for payment.
* * * *
“I’ve decided to undertake a course of self-instruction,” Lucy announced to Emma as the two sat quietly together in the smaller, west sitting room of Worley House. The comfortable and less formal parlor had become the location in which the ladies spent most afternoons, now that Emma’s pregnancy had progressed and visiting was rare.
Emma paused in her needlework to glower at her progress. “What sort of instruction?” she asked.
Lucy closed the novel she’d been reading, using a finger to hold her place. “If I am to be the best sort of governess,” she said, “I will likely take my charges on educational outings. We could examine historical artifacts at the British Museum, or discuss botany at Kew Gardens. I cannot authoritatively conduct such outings if these places are as unknown to me as to my charges.”
Emma set her sewing on the sofa next to her, then pushed it even farther away with a temperamental shove. “I think that is an excellent thought,” she said, turning back to Lucy. “Only…I couldn’t possibly accompany you.”
“I would never dream of allowing you to do so,” Lucy declared. “What sort of caregiver would I be if I dragged you all over the city in your condition?” She shook her head. “No, I thought perhaps the maid, Agnes, could accompany me.”
“But you’re not familiar with the city,” Emma protested. “I would never dream of sending you to wander London by yourself. What sort of friend would I be?”
“Not by myself,” Lucy corrected. “With Agnes. And I shall only embark on these outings when you are resting and not in need of my company.”
Emma shook her head remonstratively, setting to motion the chestnut curls that framed her face. “Lucy, you are not my paid companion. You are my friend and houseguest. You are not required to spend every moment by my side.” She looked pointedly down her nose at Lucy in a teasing scold. “I will not participate in this scheme to make you a governess if you insist on being one around me. I’ve done with governesses, thank you.”
“And you detested them,” Lucy said with a laugh.
“I didn’t dislike any of them personally,” Emma corrected. “I simply preferred to be out of doors—on my horse or in the garden.”
“In addition to outings,” Lucy added, “I thought perhaps I should look for books that might provide some guidance or instruction for governesses.”
“Yes, I suppose someone must have written a book for governesses,” Emma said, then turned to look at her needlework again with a defeated expression. “What sort of mother is unable to make any useful contribution to her own child’s layette?” she asked.
“A mother who is better able to love than sew,” Lucy assured her. “And one who is fortunate enough to be able to hire a horde of seamstresses if need be.”
Emma smiled ruefully at Lucy. “But there should be something meaningful, shouldn’t there? Something crafted with love?” She sighed. “Perhaps Aunt Agatha can produce something.”
“I’m certain she would be quite thrilled by the request,” Lucy said. “Will she and Lord Ridgely be joining us for dinner this evening?” Emma’s aunt and uncle had habitually dined at Worley House once or twice weekly for all of Lucy’s visit thus far. Lucy quite liked them both and hoped for their company.
“Yes,” Emma said, holding up the oddly shaped child’s bonnet and peering at it. “As will John’s cousin, Mr. Brantwood.”
Lucy’s breath caught. “Mr. Brantwood?” she asked, sincerely hoping her voice was steadier than her heartbeat.
“Yes, the younger Mr. Brantwood,” Emma clarified, turning the bonnet over in her hands. “You have met the elder Mr. Brantwood. The younger didn’t stay for dinner that evening.” Emma looked into the distance as though searching for a memory. “I suppose that was some weeks ago, wasn’t it?” She shook her head. “Anyway, I’ve sent countless invitations since, and he’s finally accepted one.”
“How nice,” Lucy said, though she wasn’t certain it was nice at all. Thank heaven he had not stayed for dinner that evening. She might have behaved as an utter idiot if he had. Lucy felt her cheeks warm at the memory and was grateful for Emma’s preoccupation with the malformed bonnet.
“You’ll remember the story, of course,” Emma rambled, snipping at threads to undo the morning’s work. “The Mr. Brantwoods, elder and younger, are distant cousins and were in line for the dukedom during the years John was believed to have died in the war.”
Lucy nodded. “Yes, I recall.”
“It is an unfortunate consequence of the whole situation,” Emma continued, still plucking stitches from the tiny white scrap. “I’m riddled with guilt and have no way to assuage it but to encourage the family connection. I haven’t met him, actually, but I’m hoping he’s a bit more pleasant than his father. I hate to say it, but I found the father a little…off putting, I suppose.” She lowered the project to her lap and looked at Lucy again. “What did you think?”
“I…um…yes, I suppose,” Lucy said, recovering her wits enough to respond.
“I didn’t like the way he reprimanded the footman over the soup,” Emma continued. “Mine was not too hot. And I think it was bold of him to reprimand our footman—especially when we don’t make a habit of speaking to the household staff that way.”
Lucy nodded. “Of course you wouldn’t.” Lucy had felt very scandalous through dinner that evening. Ever since, she had vacillated over how harshly she should judge herself for her participation. Just that morning, however, she had concluded the event had been a good thing. Without it, she’d have been left to wonder her entire life about the experience of being kissed.
Would all kisses feel the same? Mr. Brantwood had said stolen, indecent kisses were more exciting. Or was the reason simply her inexperience? Or perhaps—and this was the question that plagued her most of all—was her reaction specific to the man? If some other man had kissed her, would she have reacted in the same way?
“Do you think,” Emma asked, brow furrowed in thought, “that I could purchase a few plain items and add some stitching or decoration myself?”
“What?” Lucy asked, turning to her friend in confusion.
Emma stared at Lucy and held up the deconstructed bonnet. “The layette,” she said. “For the baby.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure that would be very nice,” Lucy said. “Very nice.”
Heavens. She was already a flustered ninny.
If she behaved so in his company, he would no doubt find it very entertaining. Imagine his amusement at knowing she had been thinking of him nearly every day for two whole months.
No, not him, she corrected. The kiss. That distinction was quite important.
Oh, but she could anticipate very clearly the tickled expression on his face as they were introduced that evening.
Lucy’s eyelids closed briefly. What if he spoke of it? What if he was reckless and unthinking enough to reveal they had already met, or worse, what they had done? He had been reckless enough to kiss her, after all. He could not be so foolish—could he? He would ruin everything. Why, Emma would likely never let her out of her sight again. Lucy could not predict how the duke would react, but it would certainly create some sort of family rift.
If anyone outside the family learned of it…
Well, that would bring a swift end to her plans.
Chapter Seven
Lucy was already dressed for dinner and quietly reading in the drawing room when she heard the voice of the butler on the ground floor below, answering the door to arriving guests. Though she strained to hear, she could not identify the number
of voices. She hoped fervently for a single guest, as opposed to a pair. She would only have an opportunity to speak privately with Mr. Brantwood if he were the first to arrive and, even then, only for a few brief minutes. If Lord and Lady Ridgely arrived first—well, she wasn’t certain what she might do in that case.
She concentrated on the sound of footsteps on the stairway and hoped she would not have to face that particular dilemma. She reminded herself, as her heartbeat seemed to gain strength with the ever-nearing steps, that she was only conspiring to speak privately with him because of the very great need for discretion. Her preoccupation with their dalliance and her great curiosity to see him again were of no significance at the present.
No bearing whatsoever.
The door opened and the butler stepped into the room, facing the arriving guest. “I shall inform His Grace of your arrival, sir.” He did not even look into the room to notice Lucy.
Sir.
Lucy’s pulse quickened.
Mr. Brantwood entered and the butler efficiently departed. Unlike the butler, Mr. Brantwood did not fail to notice her presence. Surprise and something else—pleasure, she thought—flitted across his features at finding her there.
“Miss Betancourt,” he said, with a generous display of teeth and charm, “how do you do this evening?”
All at once, her miscalculation occurred to her. She had been very forward in conspiring to create a few private moments with him and she had allowed him to kiss her the last time they’d met. Could he assume she was hoping for some repeat of their prior encounter?
Heavens. Would she never get this right?
She rose from her seat, setting her book on the side table as she did so. “I am fine, thank you,” she said, hoping that her tone was polite without being overly encouraging. She cleared her throat to say all of the very important things she meant to say, but somehow could not seem to find the precise words on which to begin.
She tried to search for the words, but found herself studying him instead. He was just as tall as she remembered. His eyes were indeed gray, though she’d been unsure as to whether she’d recalled that correctly. He had a very square jaw, which she found interesting, as she had no particular memory of his jaw. His hair seemed a bit tidier than she remembered, but not perfectly tidy. It was just a bit too long—grown a few days past a needed trim.
How very surreal it was to see him as the stranger that he was, to recall what she could about him with no greater familiarity than any other person she had met only once before.
He had kissed her—held her in his arms, stroked his hands along her backside, and kissed her—but he was still a stranger whom she had only met on one brief occasion. She mused at the contradiction of it.
He coughed.
Drat. She was staring. When had she become so unable to behave like a sensible person? “Mr. Brantwood, I am so very happy that we have this moment in private to—”
“I couldn’t agree more, Miss Betancourt,” he said, stepping toward her.
“You do?” She blurted, panic rising. But he didn’t know what she was going to say. He’d interrupted her. She felt quite certain what she had intended to say and what he thought she’d intended to say were vastly different ideas.
“Indeed,” he said on a laugh. He stepped closer. “I think we may have some unfinished business from the last time we met.”
She swallowed and stepped back. “Unfinished business?” Her voice came out as a squeak. An unwanted thrill accompanied the anxiety that gripped her at his words. He was bearing down on her and there was so much of him, all towering height and broad shoulders. Every part of her body was aware of his approach. Did she need to be kissed so badly? Was she going to forever be undone by his presence?
“I didn’t…that is to say, rather, that I…” She was suddenly quite unable to draw upon her vocabulary. At least, she could not seem to push the words out of her throat and toward him.
“Although I enjoyed our first meeting immensely,” he said, his lips curving as to give truth to his statement, “I would suggest perhaps it is best for everyone else to believe that this evening is, in fact, our first introduction.”
Discretion. He wanted discretion. That was good.
“You wanted to speak to me privately, to recommend we not speak of…before?” she asked, desperate for the clarity that seemed so unattainable with this man.
“Precisely. No need to upset anyone, is there?”
His words drained Lucy of her tension so completely that she went limp from the loss of it, collapsing onto the sofa in undignified relief. “Oh, thank heaven.”
He laughed then. “May I assume by your reaction that you agree?”
She sat up properly, recovering her posture, her wits. “I am in complete agreement,” she assured him.
He grinned again, crooked and teasing. “Then we have found yet another point of compatibility, you and I.”
She cut him a look. She did not want to think of their compatibilities. “Please know,” she added, pointedly ignoring his comment, “that I am usually scrupulously honest. It is only that…well, I don’t see any benefit in divulging information that would just cause harm or upset.”
“I would expect no less from Saint Lucy of Beadwell.”
She looked sharply up at him. He remembered her name. He remembered her home. Even as she knew he was teasing her, pleasure threaded through her at the thought.
Because it was quite certainly wrong for her to be pleased, she said, “Using my given name is too familiar, Mr. Brantwood, even if you are using it to mock me.”
“I would argue that we have been quite familiar with each other, wouldn’t you agree?”
It did seem a little odd to insist on formality when they were well past observing proprieties. “It is too familiar in the hearing of others, then,” she said.
“So when we are not,” he said, “you may call me Bex.”
Before she thought better of it, Lucy blurted, “That is an odd name.”
He only smiled. “Indeed. My name is Bexley. It is my mother’s family name.”
“Ah,” she said. Bexley did not seem so odd as a surname, after all.
“You were truly worried, weren’t you?” He asked. He stepped closer and seated himself in one of the chairs flanking the sofa. “Did you really think I would tell our story to the others?”
Our story. She was surprised to think of it as such, so used was she to thinking of it as hers alone. She looked at him and again considered how less and less like a stranger he seemed. They had shared a kiss and now they shared a secret. Yet she knew virtually nothing about him.
“I don’t know you,” she answered honestly. “You believed it necessary to ask for my silence.”
One shoulder rose in response. “Women are prone to sharing secrets with their friends, I believe. At least some women. How was I to know you would not?”
Lucy nodded. “So you understand my similar concern. Discretion is the most sensible course, but I had no way of knowing if you are a sensible person. It’s the reason I was waiting for you.”
His brow lifted at her admission. “And here I had flattered myself that you were impatient to see me after our last encounter, when in fact you feared I may be an idiot. How lowering.”
She smiled halfway despite her best efforts to quell the expression. “As it appears you are not an idiot, we are saved.”
He leaned his head to one side and grinned at her again, the expression warming her when she knew it should not. “I am happy to help.”
She lost the battle with severity and her half smile became whole.
“You’re very practical about the whole thing, aren’t you?” He peered at her. “No romantic fantasies fit for ladies’ novels?” He pointed toward her book, still sitting where she had placed it on the side table.
“I try to be practical a
bout all things,” she said, suddenly feeling the need to defend herself. “And that book is not a novel.”
He flashed her a dubious look as one long arm reached out to snatch the book from its resting place. He opened the book to its title page and read aloud. “The Governess, or The Little Female Academy, Calculated for the Entertainment and Instruction of Young Ladies in Their Education.” He lowered the book to his lap, looking at it as though it were a threat to him. “Good lord, was that the title or the first chapter?”
Lucy felt an undignified giggle rise at his scandalized expression. “I have found it to be an inspirational text.”
He looked uncertainly at the book and then at her. He lifted it again and turned the page, skimming the book.
“I believe you will recall I am preparing to take a post as a governess. This is the first useful book I have found on the subject.”
“This book was printed nearly seventy years ago,” he said.
“It’s the second edition,” she countered.
He shook his head, smiled at her in a way that was somehow both teasing and warm. “I’m sure it’s quite riveting.”
So very true, she thought, her gaze riveted to his wide mouth. Curiosity tugged at her again as she was drawn back to the memory of his lesson, but voices sounded in the hall, saving her from her ill-advised imaginings.
Mr. Brantwood—Bex—rose and held the book out to her. She rose as well and took the proffered volume.
He winked.
She smiled.
And so they were accomplices.
* * * *
“I find myself in a bit of a dilemma,” the duchess announced to the dinner party after the soup had been cleared, “but a lovely compromise has occurred to me.”
“What is that, my dear?” the duke asked.
“It involves Mr. Brantwood,” the duchess continued, drawing Bex’s undivided attention. “The duke and I have been invited to an event Saturday next and I would very much like for Lucy to accompany us. It would make things much more convenient if you would agree to accompany us as well.”