“It’s just me and my father.” Which had been something of a sore spot in their family, although her parents never discussed it in front of her. There was a small grave on her father’s property, and if she was to judge by the dates, it most likely had been a babe her parents had lost before she’d been born. A boy. Born and died on the same date. June 29th, 1801. It was possible her mother had lost others as well, before they’d even had a chance to grow. “You are lucky to have them.”
“Tabetha would beg to differ.” Concern marred the other girl’s forehead. “She doesn’t appreciate when my brother interferes in her life.”
“But she is very young.”
“And easily swayed by a few compliments from almost any handsome gentleman—as long as he’s titled. Westerley is right to keep close watch over her. She is far too excitable for her own good.”
“You seem very different from your sister.” Charley hadn’t once seen the elder sister acting flirtatiously. “Your brother says you are quite practical.”
Bethany shrugged. “That’s not the way my mother would describe me. I am two and twenty and although I’m not quite on the shelf, I’ve been quite the disappointment.”
“Marriage cannot define who you are. You are pretty, and refined, and… kind.”
Bethany stared down at her hand where she was tapping the tips of her fingers in succession to the tip of her thumb. Charley had noticed her doing it before. What was she counting?
“It’s kind of you to say that.” Bethany dipped her chin. “But I am too… managing. Westerley says I’m overly organized, fondly, of course. But in addition to that, I seem to be lacking something. It’s no matter, though. I will be content as a companion for my mother. And I’ll be all my nieces’ and nephews’ favorite aunt.” She smiled broadly.
A little too broadly?
“Even if you fell in love?” Daisy seemed quite determined that love was the one thing that would keep Charley from leaving England. “Not that I want it for myself,” she reassured Bethany… and herself. Bethany’s acceptance of a spinster life somehow seemed… sadder than her own. Whereas Charley would go on to brew magnificent whiskies that would become famous throughout the world, Bethany would remain at her mother’s side. “I thought the English aristocracy all married, even if only for the sake of convenience.”
“Not all of us, Charley.” Her smile quivered. “Tabetha insists that I am running out of time.”
Charley allowed her own gaze to follow the direction of Bethany’s gaze as she watched the available gentlemen who seemed to be together most of the time. Some stood still while a few of them shuffled about, casually joking with one another.
“Are you in love with one of them?” she couldn’t help but ask.
Bethany flushed a little but dipped her head again. “Good lord, no. I’ve known most of them since I was a girl. I am not stupid enough to fall for any of them. They say that rakes make the best husbands, but I seriously doubt that’s the case where my brother’s friends are concerned.”
“What lies are you telling Miss Jackson about your brother’s friends?” Lord Westerley returned, holding out two glasses. One with the sweet purplish drink Bethany had requested and another with two fingers of what Charley suspected was port.
“Just that you and the fellows you consort with are nothing but trouble.” Bethany smiled fondly at the earl while Charley took the glass from him, excited to taste what he’d selected for her.
“Your sister says you won’t make a good husband,” Charley teased just as he took a sip of his drink and the words had him nearly choking.
“Not you. But you cannot deny that most of your lot are well-established rakes; Lord Chaswick, Manningham-Tissinton, Lord Greystone, even Blackheart and his brother.” Bethany laughed. “I’d venture so far as to conclude that a lady’s best chance at having a loyal and upstanding husband would be to choose one of the Spencers.”
“Good Lord.” Westerley’s eyes watered from coughing as he threw back the remainder of his drink.
“I wasn’t asking for references,” Charley felt compelled to inform him.
Watching her, he raised one hand to his cravat and stroked the fabric slowly.
This sent Bethany into her own fit of giggles. “I suppose, Westerley, that you will eventually make a decent-enough husband. When you finally make your offer.” And then she raised a finger in his direction. “If you don’t see fit to keep Felicity happy, I’ll come after you myself.”
Bethany’s words to her brother sent unease trickling down Charley’s spine, but now was not the time to chastise him.
So instead, she lifted her glass to her lips and met his gaze over the rim as she took a sip, thinking she ought to see at least a smidgen of guilt in his expression. Then the vibrant flavors hit her palate.
The drink was sweet and very strong. “What is it?”
Westerley shook his head.
“Cognac?” she guessed.
“No.”
“Not brandy?” This was interesting.
