A lady might lie back and think of England for money and title, but not want to spend overly much time getting to know a dour man who might unwittingly insult her with his lack of cheer.
The frost crunched beneath his boot. It might be too early for some to declare winter arrived, but Beckett would put money down that there would be no warming up from this until spring. He didn’t mind at all, as he rather liked winter, withits cinnamon- and nutmeg-spiced roasts and mulled cider by a fire after dinner. The puddle that had yesterday had a delightful crust was now frozen all the way through.
As he mused on the changing states of water, Mrs. Reid lost her footing. She slid on the ice, her arms windmilling. Without a thought, he grabbed her. With one arm, he hauled her next to him and gripped his other arm about her waist. He clutched her to him, and the memories of his fantasy the night before rushed through his mind’s eye.
She turned her face towards him, her eyes wide and panic fleeing her expression as she understood her safety. Their mouths were so close to one another. Her lips appeared dark, no doubt the tint of blue visible in the cold, outlined in white skin. The primitive urge in the dark recesses of his mind cried out for him to kiss her, drag her home, and claim her in front of a roaring fire.
Her hands fisted the lapels of his heavy woolen coat. There were a million invisible threads that wove them together, as if an army of needle-brandishing fairies swarmed about, cinching them tighter and tighter. All he had to do was bend his head down, and their lips would brush. It would be such a small act to explore her feelings. To act on his own desires.
But the man he was knew that such an act was to declare an ownership that he had no intention of following through with. Another crow cawed at him, a jolting reminder of his moral obligations, and he released her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I hope you are unharmed.”
Her teeth chattered. She pulled her coat tighter around herself. “Thank you.”
They continued walking, and his sly glances at her revealed fluttering eyelashes. Perhaps she was thinking through a particularly difficult topic. And then his pride pricked. Should he not want her to be thinking about him? After such a moment,with her bundled into his arms, held tightly to his own body, should she not be wondering what it would be like to kiss him in return? Was he so ineffectual?
Oh, he had to get a grip on himself. Even he couldn’t follow his own irrational flights of pride and fancy. This was certainly something he could not inflict upon her. He would have to think on this issue of Mrs. Reid. His own priorities. For if she were willing, what harm would there be in pursuing a romantic entanglement? Everyone did so. Marriage or not in the offering.
They finished their circuit of the park, neither of them speaking. Beckett felt his heart hammering in his chest in a way that he couldn’t remember feeling since the first time he stood to speak in Parliament. What was happening to him? She turned to face him, no doubt to issue their standard farewell, but he wasn’t ready to be done with her company for today.
“I received the invitation to the engagement party,” he blurted.
She nodded, her expression revealing nothing.
“I have already sent my acceptance. Would you like me to pick you up in my carriage before the dinner?”
“I would hate to trouble you,” she said, not meeting his eye.
“No trouble,” he assured her. It was his turn to pick at his gloves. Good Lord, he felt as if he were a child. “I shall gather you up, and we can arrive together.” He didn’t mean to, but he realized he was holding his breath, awaiting her response.
Thankfully, she nodded her assent. “Thank you, but I have already agreed to arrive with friends.”
“Of course,” Beckett said, exhaling fully. He thought about offering to drive them as well, but then wondered if she was merely using it as an excuse to turn him down.
They both nodded. Twiddled their fingers. Her manservant, Jacobs, who trailed them at a distance now rudely exhaled. Itwas not quite a sigh, but close enough. Beckett would have fired him. Instead, Beckett cleared his throat.
“Yes. Well. Until tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” she confirmed. And Jacobs, with his blunt impatience, stepped forward to escort her away. Beckett took a few steps backwards, and then turned on his heel. He had to get a handle on himself.
The road back to his townhome evaporated under his feet. He was dry mouthed but giddy, short of breath but remarkably alive. His fingertips tingled beneath his gloves, but it wasn’t the cold that made them do so.
While he was desperate for the next week to arrive, he was more desperate to talk to Timothy, to see what he’d found out about Mrs. Reid’s background. It was a feeling akin to when he was researching the facts behind a Parliamentary bill. Finding out the different sides of a problem, and whether or not the legal suggestions would solve it. There was so much to discover, so many avenues to scrutinize, and he was aching. To learn. The ache was for education, not anything else.
Chapter Eight
Fatima arranged herskirts on the sofa, making the folds of the fabric look as if she were sitting for a portrait of Lady Madonna. Clearly, she was the best choice for Nell to receive fashion advice from, for she was frugal as well as attentive and fastidious in her dress. Nell could not think of a better compliment, and told her so.
“Fastidious, oh my,” Fatima said in response, as if dismayed. Her dark, thick lashes fluttered down, avoiding Nell’s eyes. Her friend absolutely was this word, as her attire was unerringly immaculate, her dark, voluminous hair always carefully—and artfully—pinned, and her timing was nothing if not punctual. What other word should she choose?
Nell frowned. “But you are.”
Fatima’s expression melted into the sort of blank one she often wore with Nell. The kind that Nell had not yet learned its meaning. But Nell focused. One of these days, she would figure it out.
“As you’ve said.” Fatima stretched out to pluck her teacup from the table, halting halfway as the aroma of the heavy caramel notes in the Assam caught her nose. Fatima met Nell’s gaze. “You’ve changed your tea.”
She didn’t like feeling smug since the emotion was based in a feeling of superiority, but this was an occasion that it felt permissible. Nell knew her tea selection had been horrid, but she didn’t realize her friends had so uncomplainingly endured it. Now she could offer them something delightful, thanks to Beckett. “I have.”
