Page 13 of My Own True Duchess
“Not yet. I’m drafting a letter to him. Why are the plates always so small?”
Across the buffet, Lord Davington dipped a ladle into a gravy boat. “We savor those pleasures most that we enjoy in the greatest moderation, so m’ pater claims.” His smile was commiserating and a little flirtatious.
“True,” Bea replied, “unless that pleasure is good company. The more of that we can have, the better.”
She moved along to the curries, while Davington’s gaze became speculative. Theo wanted to throw her plate at him, but remained silent until she and Bea had found a quiet bench outside Lady Brentnock’s conservatory.
“Is there any quality more tedious in a man than a naughty mind?” Theo asked, arranging a side table before her. “That and a propensity for believing his own lies.”
Even Bea did not know the exact circumstances of Archie’s death, though Lord Canmore had been a merry wastrel.
“The two are related,” the countess said, settling on the bench as gracefully as a swan navigates a still pond. “They are naughty because they believe themselves irresistible. Davington is at least handsome.”
“The handsome ones can be the worst.” Though Jonathan Tresham was handsome and hardly seemed to know it. “Would you like some of my bread? I was a bit too enthusiastic with the butter.”
“I missed the bread,” Bea said. “I wanted to get to the ham before the cardroom descended on the offerings.”
The cardroom, meaning the hopeless gamblers, and the gentlemen who’d already served their penance with the wallflowers on the dance floor.
“If I remove to Hampshire,” Theo said, “could I talk you into coming with me?”
Bea accepted a slice of buttered bread. “Afraid you’ll lose your courage?”
Afraid I’ll lose the roof over my head. Afraid I’ll lose my reputation. Afraid I’ll lose my wits.
“Seraphina will make her bow in two years. At that point, I must be in Town. The viscount is more likely to assist in her launch if he has at least a passing acquaintance with her. He has a town house he rarely uses, for example.”
Bea set her plate aside. “I’m tempted. I’d be more tempted if Lord Penweather had extended any sort of invitation to you, Theo. Very bad of him to neglect a widowed relation.” She rose and passed Theo her table napkin. “I forgot to stop at the retiring room. Guard my plate.”
“Of course.”
Bea glided off with the sort of deportment no governess could instill in a young lady. She knew all about negligent relations. All about negligent husbands too.
To eat in solitude was a pleasure, though when Theo had done justice to the beef and peas, she began to worry. Bea, in addition to being lovely, was also kind. Any dowager could accost her with a recounting of aches and ailments and be sure of a sympathetic hearing.
“While Bea gets cold ham.” Theo moved the small table behind a pair of enormous ferns, lest hungry servants take the food back to the kitchen. The ladies’ retiring room was one floor higher and toward the back of the house, though the shortest path was through the conservatory and up the back steps.
Theo emerged on the far side of the conservatory into a corridor far less well-lit than the public areas of the house.
“Please let go of me.” Bea, trying for dignity, though Theo heard the thread of fear in her voice.
“You’re a widow. You have needs.” Lord Davington, exuding anything but charm. “I’m happy to oblige them.”
The couple was in an alcove across from the back stairs, though Theo could not see Davington’s face.
“I need a decent reputation,” Bea retorted, “and you need to find another mistress. I am not interested in a liaison, my lord.”
“I’m discreet. Ask anybody.”
A tired rage urged Theo to “happen by” the scene and rescue Bea as she’d rescued Jonathan Tresham, though Mr. Tresham could probably have weathered the gossip. Davington risked Bea’s ruin. If Bea could fend him off without assistance, then Davington’s pride and Bea’s reputation would both emerge unscathed.
“You are pockets to let,” Bea countered, ire lacing her tone. “You can no longer afford a mistress, so you seek to take for free what you cannot purchase. I am not interested in what you’re offering.”
Bad idea, angering a man intent on a selfish goal.
“So the lovely kitty has claws,” Davington drawled. “I like spirit in a pet.”
“Let. Me. Go.”
