Page 48 of Everything a Lady is Not
A smile crawled across Henry’s face. “I know just the place. A place where we might find the help of a professional.”
“Professional?” Lucy blurted. “Why would we require the aid of a harlot?”
He let loose a loud, unrestrained laugh, something that had not happened in a very long time. “No, no. Not a harlot. Quite the contrary. I speak of a lady who has mastered the intricacies of High Society and who will educate you with kindness, enthusiasm, and loyalty to your success.”
Lucy and the duchess exchanged a puzzled glance.
“And where,” the duchess asked, “would you find such a woman?”
“Leave that to me, Your Grace.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy gazed through the coach window as the landscape of Oxfordshire tumbled past. Crowning trees gave way to windswept fields of grain, which yielded to further sweeps of trees. The rural stillness of the place reminded her of Dartmoor’s isolation and helped quell rising anxiety. Hawes snored loudly across from her, much to the bemusement of Henry at his side.
“He emits quite a nasal ruckus for such a taciturn man,” Henry said, his first words in five miles. “One might suspect he swallowed a fox.”
Lucy turned from the window to observe her failed mentor. She marveled yet again at the change in his demeanor. As the coach traveled west, his somber nature slowly melted like the steady drip of an icicle in sunlight. The change suited him well, freeing his handsome face from a persistent stony expression. His ice-blue eyes framed by auburn hair drew her attention from the way his shoulders strained his jacket. And why was she so abruptly consumed with the width of his shoulders?
“A fox, you say? One might claim the same of you these past hours. Your conversation has become a veritable fountain of frivolity.”
His lips drew comically downward. “Do you prefer that I speak only to chastise or correct you?”
“Perhaps. Otherwise, I may fail to recognize you, and wonder what has become of the Henry Beaumont who thinks me suitable only as a farmer’s wife.”
He shook his head. “You will not forgive me that, it seems.”
“Never. Unless you earn again my good graces.”
“Earnagain? When was Ieverin your good graces?”
“Excellent point. You have offended me from the instance of our first meeting. For my part, I have returned the favor freely and often.”
He shrugged and peered out the window, inhaling the air. “My second home is near. I can smell it on the breeze.”
“I smell what the cattle and sheep have deposited on the turf, and not much else. How did Charlotte manage to settle here?”
“When a man of title asks for your hand, you go where he goes. And when your brother banishes the youngest, you take him in.”
She smiled faintly. “It suits you, I think. You possess a knack for finding yourself ankle deep in manure and quite without a shovel.”
“And I would require a very large shovel to extract you from the muck of your previous existence. However, you may prefer the muck.”
She glanced away to avoid smiling further. Instead, she adopted Isabella’s haughty nasal projection. “I will not sit idly by while one of such low birth demonstrates disrespect for my rank. You must abase yourself before me now or I shall report you to the local magistrate.”
Henry dipped his head. “When first we met, you smelled of horse dung and wood smoke. I will forgive your malodorous past if you forgive my low birth.”
“Because I am nothing if not magnanimous, I forgive you. You are welcome, sir.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. Now, cease babbling so I may enjoy the remainder of the journey in peace.”
“I will, but I must offer one more opinion,” she said wistfully.
“Yes?”
“I do like this place.”
He smirked. “I wonder why, oh, wild woman of Dartmoor.”
