by Candice Hern
"There is lust, to be sure," Penelope said. Grace passed her a full cup and she took it, sloshing a bit of tea into the saucer before she could put it down. "But Eustace is not my first lover, as you know, so there is not quite the obsession that you are experiencing with Lord Thayne. The whole business is still something of a novelty for you, but that will pass eventually, and you will be less consumed by it all. You will be more ready to take on the next lover."
"The next?" Beatrice shook her head. "I cannot imagine anyone else but Thayne. I know I am being foolish, but I dread facing the end of the affair. I realize it must end soon, but I fear it will break my heart."
Wimelmina, who'd been rather quiet, cast her an appraising glance. "Is your heart involved?"
Beatrice shrugged. She had tried not to face that question. It would be rather absurd, at her age, to fall in love with a handsome young man. "Only insomuch as I have an affection for him," she said. "I like him immensely. And I remember what Penelope once said about her first lover. She told us he was like a tonic to her. That is how I feel right now with Thayne. He makes me feel young and beautiful. He actually likes my body, my poor past-its-prime, middle-aged body. Or so he tells me. Rather often, in fact." She chuckled as she recalled those Indian sculptures with the impossible breasts, and how he liked to compare her to them.
"He sounds like a prince," Penelope said, stirring milk into her tea.
"Besides all that," Beatrice continued, "Thayne is a fascinating man. I could listen for hours to his tales of India. He also has a sharp mind and a sly wit, not to mention a powerful sense of honor and duty. He is committed to finding a bride this Season to honor a pledge to his father. Of course when he does our affair comes to an end."
"Is your niece still pursuing him?" Marianne asked. "That could be awkward."
"More than awkward, it would be disastrous. But no, Emily has apparently decided it would tarnish her image if she were seen to favor a man who does not favor her."
"Has he singled out any other young woman yet?" Wilhelmina asked.
"No, but it won't be long. He has set his mind to it, and he is a very strong-willed man."
"You don't suppose he will make you an offer, do you?" Wimelmina asked. "When I spoke with him that night at the Oscott ball, he seemed very much infatuated with you. And determined to have you."
Beatrice put down her teacup and laughed. "Make me an offer? How ridiculous. Of course he will not. I am his lover, for the moment, that is all."
"Then you must simply enjoy it while it lasts," Penelope said. "And take notes."
"Please do," Marianne said. "I believe I shall want a copy. Even Adam hasn't tried some of those positions."
They all laughed, except for Grace, who merely smiled. She no doubt found all the talk of exotic lovemaking embarrassing. Grace was terribly prim and never very comfortable with their candid discussions about sex. "We must see what we can do to find Grace a lover," Beatrice said. "She is the only one of us not glowing with good health."
Grace flushed prettily. "I am perfectly healthy, thank you. I am just not like the rest of you ... in that way. I could never . . . well, you know. Besides, I am not the sort of woman to attract that kind of attention from a man. Thank goodness."
"Nonsense," Marianne said. "Men look at you with admiration all the time. Even I noticed how Rochdale could not keep his eyes off you at our wedding."
Grace shuddered visibly. "What a horrid man. He simply found it entertaining to flirt with me. I hate the way he looks at me, as if he were undressing me in his mind."
Marianne laughed. "He probably was. But if it makes you feel any better, Grace, he looks at most women like that. I do not believe you have anything to fear from him. Adam tells me that despite that ugly business with Serena Underwood, Rochdale does not typically seduce unwilling women."
"I am safe, then," Grace said, "for I am certainly unwilling. The man is a libertine and a gamester. And a cad, considering what he did to poor Serena. And heaven only knows who else."
"There are lots of other gentlemen out there, Grace," Wilhelmina said. "Not all of them are cads, you know."
"I know," Grace said. "And I am pleased, truly I am, that all of you have found nice gentlemen to . . . to make you happy. But I have no such inclination. And even if I did, I don't have the time. Besides the Fund business, I have a new project taking up my spare time."
"Another charity?" Wilhelmina asked, and passed her teacup to Grace.
"No, something altogether different." Grace smiled as she refilled the cup and handed it back to Wilhelmina. "I have decided to publish a collection of the bishop's sermons. I am in the process of editing them now, reading through his notes and determining what should go in the collection. It is rather a large effort."
"Yes," Penelope said, "I should imagine it is." She caught Beatrice's eye and lifted her own gaze to the ceiling. Beatrice covered her mouth to keep from giggling.
Later, when they were gathered in the entry hall retrieving bonnets and gloves and pelisses before departing, Wilhelmina pulled Beatrice aside.
"I thought I should tell you, my dear," she said, that Ingleby will be away for the next fortnight. I am afraid my house will not be vacant in the evenings until he returns."
"Oh." A wave of disappoint swept over Beatrice. Two weeks without Thayne's lovemaking? How could she bear it?
"Of course, you may still use my guest bedchamber, if you like."
"No, no," Beatrice said, "I would not impose on you like that. You have been more than generous with your hospitality. In fact, I owe you so much, Wilhelmina. I don't know what we would have done without you."
"Lord Thayne is a resourceful young man. He would have managed somehow. And he will again. Perhaps you can arrange another afternoon in his new home."
"Afternoons are very difficult," Beatrice said. Emily is forever needing to go somewhere or to meet someone, and there are my own girls to worry about. With our busy evenings, the afternoons are often the only time I have with them. But you are right. We will contrive something. Do not worry."
"I am terribly sorry, my dear. But it is only two weeks. When Ingleby returns, I shall be spending most nights with him, I trust. Until he tires of me, of course."
"Don't be silly," Beatrice said. "The man is besotted with you. He is unlikely to tire of you in the near future, if ever."
"Perhaps. But if he does throw me over, I shall not go into a decline. I have had a good deal of experience in these matters, you know. My heart is well guarded."
"Are you suggesting mine is not?"
"Is it?"
Beatrice hunched a shoulder. "I don't know, to be honest. I like him a great deal, and his lovemaking takes my breath away. He has taught me how important physical passion is, and has made me crave it. But when we part, which we will, I shall just have to find another lover. I do not think I will be able to give up that part of my life again."
"You think it will be that easy?"
"To find another lover? Why not? London is full of eager gentlemen."
"I meant giving up Lord Thayne. I do not believe you will find that as easy as you think."
* * *
"But what of Lord Thayne?"
Emily's mother was ensconced in her chaise with the mountain of pillows at her back and the paisley shawl, as usual, covering her legs. Mama seemed to think no one would know of the wooden splint beneath, which amused Emily, since everyone knew she had a broken leg. She certainly did not allow them to see her being carried downstairs, which Emily's maid, Sally, told her took two footmen to accomplish, with Mama screeching the whole time about how they were going to drop her. She was already comfortably disposed on her chaise each time they arrived. She wore her best lace cap, as well. And it was not as though Emily and Aunt Beatrice were real callers. They were family, after all, but Mama had her standards.
"Emily?"
She jerked to attention. "Yes, Mama?"
"I asked you about Lord Thayne. You have mentioned Lord
Ealing and Lord Newcombe and Sir Frederick Gilling. But what of the marquess? Will you be able to bring him up to scratch?"
Emily looked at Aunt Beatrice, who had a frown on her face. She always frowned lately when Lord Thayne was mentioned. For some inexplicable reason, she seemed to have taken a dislike to him. Emily had no idea what had changed her aunt's mind. She had certainly been in favor of him earlier, when they'd first met him. Perhaps it was because she sensed he was looking for someone higher than a baronet's daughter, and she did not want Emily to make a cake of herself over a man who would never offer for her. Emily had no intention of doing such a stupid thing, however. She could have no interest in a man who had no interest in her. Even though she would make a better marchioness any day than that pasty-faced Miss Fancourt. But what had happened to change her aunt's mind so decidedly against him? It was a mystery Emily hoped to solve one day.
"I have no interest in bringing Lord Thayne up to scratch," she said. "Did Mrs. Gadd make jam tarts today?"
"What?" Her mother's voice rose almost to a shout and she pounded the cushion at her side. "What do you mean, no interest?"
"Just that," Emily said. "There are plenty of other gentlemen who are equally eligible." And who appreciated her beauty as something out of the ordinary. Lord Thayne had never given the least indication that he even noticed. For a time, Emily had even entertained the notion that the man was shortsighted. It seemed the only explanation for not finding that glint of admiration in his eye that she saw in every other man, whether he was eighteen or eighty.
"What about those tarts, Mama? Do you think she could send some up?"
"Equally eligible?" her mother said, ignoring the jam tarts. "I think not, my girl. I have not heard of another heir to a duke paying his attentions to you."
"But neither has this heir to a duke," Aunt Beatrice said. "As extraordinary as it sounds, Ophelia, Lord Thayne has shown no interest whatsoever in our Emily."
Mama glared daggers at Aunt Beatrice. "That's ridiculous. Every man shows an interest in our Emily. How could he not? What have you been about, Sister, that you have so badly managed things? Maybe it is time I took Emily in hand and relieved you of the duty. I would see to it that the marquess was brought in line, you may be sure of it. I shall rise from this couch at once and—"
"No, Mama!"
"Please do not get up, Ophelia," Aunt Beatrice said. "There is no need for you to hobble about on your crutch in public. Emily is doing quite well. She has several very eligible and very rich young men interested in her. I have no doubt she will receive several offers before the end of the Season."
"But . . . but what of Lord Thayne?" her mother said, sputtering in her agitation. "You cannot give up on him. He is the biggest prize of the Season."
"Recall, Ophelia, that as pretty as Emily is, she is only the daughter of a baronet. He may be looking higher, and if so, there is nothing we can do about it. Besides, he truly is not showing an interest."
"I do not believe it for a moment," her mother said. "It makes no sense. Emily is too beautiful to be overlooked."
"Perhaps the man has no taste," Aunt Beatrice said, and smiled at Emily.
"That would account for it," Emily said.
Her mother uttered a dismissive snort. "That is no reason for Emily not to encourage his attentions.
Even if he is a dolt without the sense God gave him, he is still a marquess."
"I think it best if she does not encourage him," Aunt Beatrice said. "And wisely, she has not done so. I believe our Emily knows how odd it would look if her encouragement was not addressed with a returned interest. You would not want your daughter to be an object of pity, would you?"
"How could anyone pity such a face?" Emily's fond mother said.
"They would not pity her face, Ophelia. They would pity her heart, thinking Lord Thayne had broken it with his indifference."
Though Emily would never dream of admitting it, Aunt Beatrice was right. She could not bear even to imagine the public humiliation of being rejected, and so she chose to ignore Lord Thayne altogether.
"My heart is in no danger of being broken," Emily said. "But my stomach is in danger of growling aloud. If there are no jam tarts, ginger biscuits would do. May I ring for some?"
"No, you may not," her mother replied. "You must watch your figure, my girl. Once you have landed a husband, then you may grow plump as a Christmas goose, if you wish. Until then, you must not risk any potential blemish to your beauty."
Emily was more likely to risk fainting from hunger. She would ask Aunt Beatrice if they could stop at a pastry shop on the way back to Brook Street.
"As for Lord Thayne, I think you are wrong," her mother said to Aunt Beatrice. "Shall I tell you the gossip I have heard?"
"About me?" Emily thought it horribly vulgar to be the subject of gossip. Unless, of course, it was something flattering.
"About you and Lord Thayne. More than one person has told me that he is frequently found at your side at every ball you attend. And that he has more than once been seen in your drawing room, Beatrice, on those afternoons when you receive callers. Several people of my acquaintance seem to be under the impression that his lordship does indeed have a tendre for our Emily."
Aunt Beatrice gave a soft groan.
"What I think," her mother continued, "is that you have mistaken his aristocratic bearing for disinterest. A man of his upbringing is not likely to be ardent or effusive in public."
"No," Aunt Beatrice said in a definitive tone that Emily found rather irritating. It was irksome that her aunt was so determined that Lord Thayne was not attracted to her. Even if it was true, did she have to hammer the point home so forcefully?
"I am not mistaken," her aunt said. "I can assure you Lord Thayne is not interested in our Emily. He is often seen with us because he is in the company of Mr. Jeremy Burnett, his particular friend. It is Mr. Burnett who is smitten with Emily, not Lord Thayne."
Emily rolled her eyes.
"Mr. Burnett?" her mother said. "Mr. Burnett? I have never heard you speak of a Mr. Burnett, my girl. Who is he?"
"He is nobody," Emily said. "Just an annoying gentleman who lurks about altogether too much. He does his best to draw my attention, but I will have none of him."
Especially not after some of the things he had had the temerity to say to her. He was forever teasing her and charming her with that lopsided smile, and he frequently made her laugh. But the last time she had seen him, he had told her she was too beautiful for her own good. She would admit that she had been flirting rather outrageously at the time with Viscount Ealing, who also happened to be heir to an earldom, and his lordship had been exclaiming about her extraordinary beauty. She had mentioned how thirsty she was, and Lord Ealing had sped away quick as a bunny to procure her a cool drink. Mr. Burnett had dropped his usual amusing banter and actually scolded her.
"You use your beauty to get all that you want in life," he'd said.
Heavens, sir, it was only a drink."
It is more than a cool drink. You believe your beauty entitles you to everything, that it will ultimately bring you happiness in life. Well, it won't, you know. Not because it is a fleeting thing—which it is of course; you fool yourself if you think it will -ever fade—but because it is not important."
"Not important?" she'd replied. "How can you say such a thing? How many plain girls do you see winning a rich, handsome, titled husband? How many girls with spots? How many plump girls with extra chins? Of course it is important, you silly man."
"No, it is not," he said. "It does not define your character, your intelligence, your talents and abilities. You should be looking for a man who is not content merely to have your beauty at his disposal, as an ornament to his pride. You need a man who wants to know who you are, what you believe in, what's important to you, what you dream about, what
makes you laugh. Those are the essential things. For if you lost your beauty tomorrow, all the rest will still be there. The parts of you that truly
matter."
"I suppose you are exactly that sort of man, the sort you think I need, the sort who doesn't care whether or not I'm pretty?"
"I am drawn to your beauty just like every other man with eyes in his head. How could I not be? But I care equally about the other things, about who you are. And so, yes, I am indeed the sort of man you need, for I would love you even if you fell victim to the pox and your face was forever marked by it. But I cannot offer you a title, so you will never have me. Will you?"