Sure enough, around a copse of trees, Lady Anne Gravens, their hostess, stood with those intrepid souls who’d made it already to the luncheon site, including Lady Emily and Greer. Five long tables with white cloths and wooden folding chairs, with a brilliant white canopy overhead, that was Lady Gravens’ idea of a rustic picnic.
“Let’s hope it’s not a four-hour affair,” Beatrice grumbled, seeing Greer take a seat at the end of one table and making sure to point Charlotte toward a table as far away from him as possible. Naturally, the men with whom they’d boated now sought them out to pile on the agony by sitting with them for the picnic.
“But we came by train,” Charlotte reminded her. “It will take us practically no time to get home. We can stay here all day.”
It seemed to Beatrice as if she already had been there all day, and as rolls and roast chicken, cold ham, and meat pies were set out along with every type of vegetable, she longed to climb back into a carriage for the quick jaunt to Kew Bridge railway station, then board a train and go home.
“Isn’t this fun?” asked the man who’d sat beside Charlotte on the rowboat.
“Is it?” Beatrice snapped, setting down her glass of lemonade with a thump. “The threat of rain seems to be growing, and the longer this food sits out, the more apt we are to find flies feasting on it. Everyone ought to eat quickly so we can go home at a reasonable hour. I’m sure none of the ladies here want to be trudging out of Charing Cross station in the pitch black.”
Charlotte sighed and shook her head, making Beatrice feel childish and dramatic. She would try to do better. To that end, she offered her silent companions the slightest of smiles, which was all she could muster.
“The repast does look delicious. Decidedly tasty,” she conceded. “Lady Gravens’ caterer has done very well.”
However, a few minutes later, seeing Greer and Lady Emily laughing over some private joke made her nearly lose her lunch and ruined any enjoyment of the cream sponge-cake she was about to eat. She set down her fork.
“What’s next?” she asked Charlotte.
“I believe they’re serving tea,” Charlotte said, pointing to servants striding across the lawn from an outbuilding where they were handling all the lunch preparations.
“Drat it all!” Beatrice exclaimed, unable to maintain her pleasant demeanor when the harpy inside of her was feeling wounded and envious. The tea service could extend the outing by an hour.
“If you will excuse me,” she said, encompassing both her sister and their tag-alongs, “I’m going to take a walk.”
Striding off through Syon Park, Beatrice wondered if she would be tossed out on her bustle should she attempt to gain entrance to the duke’s magnificent home. Perhaps she could explain how she had a duke in her family, so they were all as one.
Amused by her own thoughts, Beatrice soon reached the water’s edge where they had launched the rowboats hours earlier, and then she made her way to a gazebo overlooking the Thames.
It was surprisingly peaceful, rather like the back room at Rare Confectionery when everyone else had left and no pesky customers had entered. Despite the river rushing by five yards away, filled with boats of every shape and size, and despite knowing there was a group of eager single people over the knoll drinking tea and gorging on sponge-cake, Beatrice felt alone. At the same time, she wasn’t lonely, only contemplative.
Sitting on the built-in bench that ringed the gazebo’s interior, she leaned her head back and looked up at the cooing sounds. Pigeons roosted in the rafters overhead. At that moment, one decided to let loose a nasty, whitish-grey mess that plopped beside her.
“Bugger it,” she muttered, wondering whether to risk sitting beneath them or try to make them vacate the structure. “Shoo,” she called out, but, except for them jostling around and more of the nasty droppings, none of them paid her any mind.
Perhaps if she chucked something at them, but she could see nothing at hand, and she wasn’t about to break limbs off the duke’s shrubberies, even if she could.
All at once, she had the answer. One of her ankle boots would get them to shift so she could sit without fear of them ruining the tidy, fitted blue jacket and skirt she wore. With that intent, she unlaced one of her boots, stood on the bench she’d just vacated, and hurled it at the bustling birds.
Two things happened at once — all the pigeons took flight, heading directly toward her, and as she screamed in alarm, she heard Greer Carson’s voice, “What on earth are you playing at?”
Waving her hands over her head, eyes closed, she was sure she felt a beak or a claw graze her gloved hands and snag at the pretty ribbons on her hat, and then abruptly, they were gone. When Beatrice opened her eyes at the silence, the American stood in front of her and a few feathers floated in the air.
“I simply wanted to scare them off,” she said, her heart racing both at the birds and at Greer looking up at her.
After staring at her a long moment, he offered his hand so he could help her down, but she looked over his shoulder. “Where is Lady Emily?”
“Drinking tea, as you should be, as every English lass should.”
His smile made her stomach flip.
“Take my hand, Miss Rare-Foure, and step down.”
She let him grasp her fingers in his, but as she went to jump down, he moved closer and caught her by the waist, letting her slide down the front of him. Her feet landed on top of his leather boots, and the toes of her right foot could feel the hard leather through her stockings.
Looking up at him, she knew they were much too close for civility’s sake. If someone found them like this — anyone who gave a tinker’s damn — he or she might get the wrong impression. Beatrice could see deep silvery flecks in his gray-blue eyes and smell his fresh, cedar-soap scent. What’s more, his penetrating gaze locked on hers before dropping to her mouth. She licked her suddenly dry lips, and his pupils dilated.
Oh dear!
