Page 53 of Everything a Lady is Not
Chapter Seventeen
“Today, Lucy, we will attempt to master a few phrases of French,” said Charlotte as they circled the small but manicured lawn, “Or rather, enough to convince a suitor of your education.”
Lucy glanced over a shoulder at Henry as he trailed behind them. Her grin lit the afternoon. “Would that not be a lie?”
Henry chuckled, suspecting that Lucy was preparing to fluster Charlotte.
“Well, not exactly a lie,” Charlotte said, “but more of a harmless diversion to allow a suitor to see past mere accomplishments to your intellectual capacity.”
“Fortunately for me, fabrication will not be necessary. I speak Frenchtres couramment.”
“You speak French?”
“Oui, oui, madame. Learning it was not so difficult owing to my fluency in Italian.”
Henry nodded, recalling her ambush of the Archambeau brothers. “We must explore another subject, then. Time is too short to waste a day.”
“With what does Lucy struggle the most?” Charlotte asked.
Henry and Lucy replied in unison. “Curtsies.”
“I am told my curtsy resembles the death throes of a mortally wounded ox.”
“Agreed,” he said.
She shot him a hostile glance that might have melted butter. “I may say so, but you must not, Mr. Beaumont.”
“Also agreed.”
“Show us your curtsy, then,” said Charlotte. “I will be the judge.”
Lucy gulped and dropped a curtsy that might have mortified the aforementioned dying ox. The blank expression on Charlotte’s face confirmed Henry’s worst fears. After a brief silence, his sister erupted into a string of advice. He stood aside, watching as Charlotte repeatedly demonstrated proper form and guided Lucy in duplicating her efforts. However, when left to her own devices, Lucy floundered. Having seen her fence, he knew the failure was not for lack of nimbleness. Suspicion that her struggles were intentional nibbled at his mind until he dismissed it. She seemed too earnest in her attempts.
After half an hour of unsuccessful training, Lucy appeared on the verge of quitting the entire affair. Henry recognized the expression on her face, having seen it at the dinner party before she’d fled the room. Her chin drooped while she regarded the misery of the ground. His heart tumbled toward her as the need to mount a rescue built within him. The burning desire to lift her flagging spirits took him by surprise, a wildfire flaring through his soul. He tamped down the sudden longing with a deep breath and the brief clenching and unclenching of his fists.
“Lady Margaret,” he said, “Please look at me.”
The exhausted woman slowly raised her eyes to meet his. He maintained a gentle tone as if to prevent the startled flight of a shy woodland creature.
“I am most puzzled. I have seen you mount a horse with no assistance and no block, a difficult undertaking for one of your slight stature. How did you manage such a maneuver?”
She shrugged. “I placed one foot in the stirrup, bent low, and leaped.”
“Very well, then. Now, imagine you are mounting a horse, but the stirrup reaches the ground. Slide one foot backward as if gathering to leap, descend as you would normally, but maintain your eyes to where your raised foot might otherwise be. However, rather than leaping, simply rise slowly to your former position.”
She squinted at him with skepticism, perhaps waiting for the rest of the joke. When his expression failed to alter, she shrugged again and did as he suggested. She descended with her head bowed, watching the space before her waist, and then rose.
“Why, Lucy,” said Charlotte, “that was nearly flawless.”
Lucy’s doubt appeared to fade slightly, but she trained her eyes on him to await his reaction. A proud smile crawled across his face. “I believe I have witnessed the perfect curtsy.”
…
Later that afternoon, Lucy slipped away to the privacy of the study to practice her curtsy. Bow, descend, rise, bow, descend, rise—over and over until she lost track of time.
“Much improved.”
She emitted a startled cry and whirled to find Henry leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed and an I-caught-you smile curling his lips. How long had he been watching?
