“I did. You know I did.” Beckett huffed and took a long drink of whisky, savoring the continuous burn it laid down his throat.
“You know that’s the proper way to woo a woman,” Timothy said.
“I wouldn’t know,” Beckett retorted.
“It isn’t about jewels or fancy bits and bobs.”
“You’re the expert, are you?” Beckett shot back, as if it was even remotely a way to make the man stop talking.
“It’s time. Spendingtimeon her. Money is irrelevant.”
“Thank you. Now do kindly shut up.”
Timothy threw his head back and laughed. “You can’t fool me, Beckett. It’s a wonder that you can fool anyone at all.”
Beckett slunk further down in the chair and stared at the fire in the fireplace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Chapter Six
Nell dressed herselfmore carefully today. She questioned herself as to the care she took to not pull her hair back into its severe bun. This morning she heated the curling tongs. Why would she do such a thing?
She knew why. But as Beckett said, he lied to himself all the time, and thus couldn’t be trusted to always tell the truth. Nell was beginning to suspect that she was the same, only had never encountered a situation so good that she was willing to lie about it.
There were many difficult situations that she had faced unflinchingly. There were many things about herself that she loathed—the way she couldn’t attend a party or any large gathering without feeling panicked and leaving early; the constant drum of her inner voice, insistent and unrelenting and loud. But what she truly loathed were the actions she had committed. The deceit of her life. She faced that squarely and ruthlessly. She was a bad person, but that was a known quantity. There was no lying about such atrocities.
Yet, this was a good, happy feeling in her chest, knowing that she would see Beckett today. One that she might not deserve, but she wanted to enjoy it, knowing that they only had twoencounters left before he disappeared into the noise and crowd of London. Was she lying to herself about why she felt so good?
Yes. That, at least, she could admit to herself. Because Beckett wasn’t any of those bad things she had wanted him to be: frivolous, stupid, vying, vapid. He was intelligent and watchful, observant and persistent.
After their quiet walk this morning, he turned to her and said that he would be bringing a luncheon for them. It would be interesting if they could manage to not argue when they were standing still, which is what had happened previously. They were better friends in motion, that was certain.
As usual, she lost her morning to her correspondence. She lost time when she was reviewing and responding to her letters, thinking about all that was said, problems that were conveyed, and how to solve them. And suddenly, there was a knock at the door, jolting her out of her thoughts. She hurried up to her room to do her best to wash the ink off her hands and double check that she’d made the correct decision about her dress, her hair, her heart.
All seemed in place. She heard Jacobs ushering Beckett into the sitting room. Her mouth was dry, but no matter. That was of little consequence. Because this was correct. This was how other people described attraction, wasn’t it? This was how the world was supposed to work. So she wasn’t a misanthrope, only a late bloomer. Yes. That was it. Beckett would fix everything.
She knew how to be the correct type of woman, as there were countless books on ladies’ etiquette, on how to be a proper wife, how to be a mistress of a household. She’d read them all. Given her prodigious memory, she’d not forgotten a single lesson. Indeed, they seared her all the stronger for her inability to execute any of the roles instinctually.
But here was her chance. She took a large, calming breath. This would be perfect, and she knew that because she knew therules. Nodding to herself in the mirror, putting away all her quick, thoughtless retorts, all of her careless gestures, she would be dutifully solicitous and appropriately silent. She would offer no opinions of any kind, nor expound on any of her favorite ideas.
Beckett waited forher in the sitting room. This was the first time she hadn’t been waiting for him, ready to walk, or ready for him to leave. Briefly, he wondered if it meant something, but dismissed the idea. No need to seek out hidden meanings with Mrs. Reid. She wasn’t the sort of woman to play coy. What you saw was what you got, and she was more than happy to expound upon a topic if you were uncertain of what she meant. It was what he liked about her—found refreshing about her.
He almost rubbed his hands together in glee, anticipating her response to his gift today. He’d already sent his own footman down to draw water for Mrs. Reid’s cook. They would be boiling as many kettles of water as she possessed, and to have timely service, the cook would need aid in drawing extra water from the well and adding more fuel to the stove fire for the kettle.
Finally, the door opened and Mrs. Reid entered. But she took small, awkward mincing steps, completely unlike the confident, even strides she normally employed. Her dress was the plain lavender one he’d seen before, but she adorned it with deep-blue ribbons that brought out deep, polished-walnut colors in her hair like the desk in his study when the sun hit it just right. She’d also redone her hair since their morning stroll in the park, with curls framing her face, a style that he’d seen other women wear, including young Queen Victoria.
The effect softened the normally harsh angles of her face, but it seemed so at odds with her personality. Beckett shifted hisweight, standing up straighter, wondering if he was about to be told he was doing something incorrectly. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Instead, she spoke in a high-pitched reedy affectation. There was no melody to her voice as she said, “So good of you to call, my lord.”
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. Her face was in a rictus that was an approximation of a smile on anyone else. It was ghoulish and he didn’t like it. Had something happened? Was there a death in her family and she was trying to pretend as if everything was fine? No, she would tell him, and then tell him to piss off back to his castle or lair or whatever she could think of that was more insulting. That was the sort of woman she was.
“Of course, Mrs. Reid,” he said, giving a formal bow, as if they had not just seen each other a few hours ago when she was not acting so strange. “I have, as promised, brought a luncheon for us, as well as a variety of teas. I thought since you expressed dissatisfaction with your current blend, I would bring a smattering from all over London, so you might choose without having to go to the trouble of leaving your house.”
He walked over to the sitting room table. “I have brought a manservant to help your cook with the water, and they should be arriving with the first samples shortly.” He waited for a reaction from her, but none came.
Her face sat in the awful rictus. “How kind of you, my lord.” She never reminded him of his status in conversation, and now she had done it twice?
He anticipated at least a sparkle in her eyes when he told her of the tea sampling, but there was nothing. Surely, there must be something wrong. Was she in pain? What in God’s name was happening here? “Are you well, Mrs. Reid?”
