Louise M Gouge (11 page)

“Here you are, milord.” The footman approached with a large hamper. “When the pie man heard it was for you, he insisted upon preparing something special.”

Grateful for the interruption, Greystone waved the footman toward the ladies. “Over by the bench, John.”

The clever fellow retrieved a small table and two chairs that were kept tucked away in the boot of the carriage for just such occasions as this. Soon the party of four sat around the cloth-covered board enjoying simple meat pies, lemonade and strawberry tarts topped with clotted cream.

“What a lovely day.” Lady Beatrice appeared freer of care than Greystone had ever seen her. “And to think they serve such delights in the park.”

She took a bite of a tart, and a dot of cream remained beside her lips. Which he decided in that moment were the most well-formed lips he had ever observed. Not that he was in the habit of studying lips. He had the urge to dab away the cream, but surely Anna would notice it and take care of the matter. No, of course she would not, for she was gazing, as always, at her new husband.

“Ah, well.” Edmond gave Greystone a meaningful look and tilted his head toward her. “Wherever you find potential customers, you will find someone selling something.”

“I suppose.” Lady Beatrice took another bite and added more cream to her cheek. “Mmm. Delicious. I never imagined fresh cream was available in London. Why, one would think we were out in the country.”

Greystone shot a cross look at Edmond before offering the lady a smile. “Madam, will you grant me the liberty of—” Using his serviette to clean away the spot, he tried not to touch her, but his finger brushed her soft cheek. For the briefest instant all strength left his arm.

In that same instant, she gasped. Then laughed. “Oh, my. Well, I suppose my manners are out in the country, as well.”

While the others joined her in laughing, Greystone swallowed hard, forcing down the emotions trying so hard to overwhelm him. He must not fall in love with this lady. He
must
not.

Chapter Eleven

T
hey finished their impromptu picnic, and Mr. Grenville suggested a walk along the Serpentine. “Forgive me, Lady Beatrice, I must steal my bride away from you. You do not object, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, and completely ignoring Lord Greystone’s protests, the couple strolled away, lost once more in their own private world.

“Well.” Beatrice stared after them, wondering how her mother would have repaired this awkward moment. Clearly the viscount did not wish to be alone with her.

“Well,” Lord Greystone echoed. Hands fisted at his waist, he also stared after the retreating couple. Then he eyed Beatrice and offered his arm. “My lady, will you walk with me?” His teasing tone reminded her of Melly in his better days.

Returning a curtsey, she simpered, “Oh, my lord, I should be delighted.” She looped her arm around his, then wondered if he had meant for her merely to set her hand on it. His placid expression gave her no clue or relief.

“’Tis a fine day.” He waved his free hand to take in the sun, cloudless sky and the nearby bed of musky-scented marigolds where gardeners labored to remove weeds. “Would you not agree?”

Now she understood. He was recalling their few moments of levity in Mrs. Parton’s landau last night as they drove to the play. Could she trust him to continue the jest, or would he back away again? “Oh, my lord, of course I would agree. Have I not told you? All young ladies are schooled to agree with gentlemen.”

“As I have no sisters, I cannot answer yea or nay to their schooling.” He furrowed his brow. “But I must confess that I enjoy a good argument, otherwise I would be dreadfully out of place in the House of Lords.”

“Aha. Then I shall offer an argument.” She smirked, but her heart was in her throat as she risked the joke. “To please you, of course.”

He laughed in his musical baritone way. “Very good. What shall we argue about?”

“Why, since you postulated that the day is fine, offering evidence of the sun and a clear sky and those lovely blossoms—” she nodded toward the marigolds “—I must counter that the excessive heat causes a lady to wilt like an unwatered flower.” To emphasize her claim, she brought up her fan and waved it vigorously.

“Humph. Well played.” He thought for a moment. “Then I must counter that anyone can see that this heat is preferable to the bitter winter we have recently suffered.”

“Humph, yourself.” Beatrice scrambled for a response. “I cannot imagine that you experienced anything at all of the cold in Shropshire. In County Durham we felt the brunt of the North Sea wind all winter.” She searched her mind for some of the witty remarks the villagers back home had made to buoy their spirits even as they’d suffered. “Why, it was so cold that the sheep were asking that we return the previous winter’s wool because one coat was not sufficient to keep them warm.” Oh, dear, that was rather clumsy. She must try harder.

But Lord Greystone seemed not to mind. He merely scratched his chin and scrunched his handsome face thoughtfully. “That was a mere trifle, dear lady. It was so cold in Shropshire that the foxes knocked at the door of the kennel to come in for warmth amongst our hounds.”

“Humph.” Beatrice pictured the absurd scene but would not grant him the favor of laughing. “I wore three woolen shawls every day. Sometimes four.”

“We gentlemen shaved with a blade of ice.”

“The smoke from all the chimneys froze in the air and did not melt until March.” She emphasized her words with a shudder.

“Our suppers froze before the footmen could get them to the table.”

“Our horses had to drink tea because all of the water troughs were frozen.” She punctuated this with a smirk.

He chuckled, then laughed out loud. “My lady, I do believe you have bested me.”

She shot him a smug look. “I have the advantage of having—” She stopped before blurting out that debating with Melly had honed her skills. That would entirely ruin this delightful afternoon. “Having a quick female mind not cluttered with weighty affairs of state.”

He placed his palm against his forehead. “Terribly weighty, indeed. You cannot imagine.”

Suddenly serious, she stopped and gazed up at him, her heart soaring with appreciation. “No, Lord Greystone, I cannot imagine.”

He stared down at her, his gaze soft, and her pulse began to race. Was his opinion of her changing? Would he now regard her with kindness? If so, she would not ask for more.

* * *

As the elegant barouche rolled closer to Hanover Square, Beatrice wondered if she would ever again enjoy such a lovely afternoon as she had with her newfound friends. Lord Greystone’s wit was delightful, and she had felt entirely free to jest with him. Although he continued to waver between amiability and sullenness, she decided his moodiness did not concern her. After all, he sat in Parliament and helped to rule England. Surely, even in his times of leisure, important thoughts invaded his mind that had nothing to do with his neighbor’s companion.

She would not think his witty banter signified any further interest in her. Nor would she regard his removing the cream from her cheek as any more than a kind gesture intended to save her from embarrassment. She must forget the pleasant shivers that swept through her at his touch, must forget the way her heart leaped when he turned those blue eyes in her direction, whether accompanied by a smile or a frown.

To her surprise Lord Greystone ordered the driver to convey the Grenvilles home first, even though it meant she would be along for the ride all the way to St. James’s Square, and then home to Hanover Square. It was a matter of convenience, she supposed, for taking her to Mrs. Parton’s first would have been the cause of extra driving. But as it was still daylight and the carriage top was down, her being out with the viscount could not be considered improper.

Due to her uncertainty over whether she would ever see Mrs. Grenville again, Beatrice gave her an awkward but fond embrace before the lady disembarked from the carriage.

“Oh, we shall be friends, Lady Beatrice.” Mrs. Grenville brushed a kiss on her cheek. “You may depend upon it.”

“I hope so. Pray so.” Beatrice already sensed the influence of the lady’s faith upon her and did not wish to lose it.

Yet once they left the happy couple behind, Beatrice sat opposite Lord Greystone, feeling a bit bereft. And terribly awkward, for the gentleman seemed inclined to silence once again. But whereas she had thought his prior quietness her fault, she decided not to take the blame now. After all, he had freely invited her to stay in the park, had even offered an arm to take her for that short stroll beside the Serpentine after their tasty repast. Had bantered freely, even encouraged her in their jests. These were courtesies he might extend to any lady, but no rule of Society demanded it of him, and he certainly owed her nothing. Nor did she fault him for not speaking now. Perhaps they had exhausted every topic of interest for the day. With that settled in her mind, she sat back and enjoyed the passing scenery.

The carriage stopped in front of Mrs. Parton’s town house, a four-story brick building with five bays across the front. Beatrice glanced up to a second-floor window just in time to see her employer wave, then disappear. What was she up to?

“I do hope Mrs. Parton has recovered from her affliction.” Not waiting for the footman, Lord Greystone stepped down to the pavement and offered Beatrice his hand. “I should like to come in and find out so I can give my mother a report on her health.”

“How very thoughtful.” Once again the viscount surprised her with his kindness, something Beatrice had never observed in her father or brother. She accepted his assistance, and they both proceeded up the four front steps.

The butler had no doubt been watching, for he opened the door straightaway. “Lady Beatrice, Lord Greystone, Mrs. Parton is expecting you. Please wait in the drawing room.”

Lord Greystone chuckled. “I believe that answers my question.”

They did not have long to wait, for Mrs. Parton soon bustled into the room in her inimitable way and embraced them by turns.

“My darlings, I do hope you had a lovely time.” She cast an expectant glance at Beatrice.

“Indeed I did. We had a delightful picnic, and Lord Greystone took me on that promised stroll beside the Serpentine.” The enjoyment of the day bubbled over inside Beatrice, and she felt like a child reporting a happy event to her mother. “The river is beautiful, but I never realized it was man-made and more a lake than a river. Such lovely natural foliage grows all around it, and Lord Greystone pointed out the gardeners planting flower beds nearby.” Oh, goodness, she really must quit babbling. The viscount would think her a ninny. If she could only reclaim her air of indifference toward him—but that was becoming more and more impossible.

“Ah, flower beds. That’s just the thing to enhance the park’s beauty.” Mrs. Parton beamed her pleasure over the news. “I would imagine many gardens will be planted to celebrate Napoleon’s defeat.”

“But we are being neglectful, dear lady.” Lord Greystone studied Mrs. Parton’s face. “You look well, but have you recovered from your affliction?”

“Oh, pish tosh, of course I have.” She sniffed nonetheless. “I simply must avoid new mown grass or hay and certain flowers—oh, dear, I hope they aren’t planting marigolds.”

Beatrice traded a look with Lord Greystone, but neither said a word. That silent understanding made her heart skip.

“But enough of that,” Mrs. Parton said. “Now Greystone, your dear mama is out for the evening, so you must dine with us. That is, unless you have plans. Though I warn you, if you are going someplace interesting and proper, we will insist upon accompanying you. Will we not, Bea?” She squeezed Beatrice’s hand and gave her a maternal smile, but a hint of slyness shone in her eyes.

Cringing as always at the byname Mrs. Parton insisted upon using for her, Beatrice did not dare confirm her assertion. She had been entirely too bold several times that afternoon. Instead she gave the lady a noncommittal smile.

“Mother is out?” Lord Greystone appeared a bit discomfited. “With whom?”

“Why, with Mr. Grenville, of course.”

“My uncle?” His voice rose slightly, and his eyes widened, as if the idea shocked him, although Beatrice could not guess why.

“Why, of course.” Mrs. Parton spoke with feigned impatience and even waggled a finger at him. “Now, see here Greystone, you know they have reconciled at last and are deeply fond of each other. While it is true that the Church and English rules of consanguinity and affinity forbid a lady to marry her late husband’s brother, nothing prevents them from being good friends.” She chuckled. “And just to silence the gossips, Mrs. Hudson is accompanying them. Can you imagine that? A chaperone at their ages?” She wagged her head from side to side, and her curls bounced their agreement with her humorous remark. “Now, do you have any plans for this evening?”

“No, no plans, but—”

“Good. That settles it.” Mrs. Parton clapped her hands. “We shall dine at ten. In the meantime, go home and freshen up.” She clutched his arm and led him toward the door. “I feel cheated over not having my time in the park today, and you two simply must provide me with some diversion.”

“Of course, madam.” Lord Greystone’s smile was more of a grimace. “I am your servant.”

As he bowed away from her and strode toward the door, Beatrice could not begin to guess why he would do Mrs. Parton’s bidding when he clearly did not wish to.

* * *

If Greystone had any doubts that Mrs. Parton was trying to pair him with Lady Beatrice, this evening wiped them all away tidily. But he could not be certain the young lady was involved in her machinations. After all, as evident as her enjoyment of the afternoon had been, she had been quiet, almost dour in the carriage ride after they had left Edmond and Anna. He had not pressed her to talk. Indeed he had not been able to think of a single subject they’d not exhausted at the park, not to mention their delightful debate over the miseries of last winter. Now while Mrs. Parton, seated at the head of the table, prattled on about this and that, Lady Beatrice sat across from him, concentrating on her white soup as if determined not to look his way. Yet he could not keep his own gaze from her.

She wore a new frock, a pretty pink creation that brought a lovely natural blush to her ivory complexion. Her golden curls were expertly arranged to frame her perfect oval face. And her blue eyes caught the light from the candelabra in the center of the table and shone with some deep emotion he could not decipher. Was she distressed about some important matter? Was that the cause of her silence? Was he the cause?

“And then I said... Greystone!” Mrs. Parton tapped her spoon against her crystal goblet, and both Greystone and Lady Beatrice jumped. “Are you listening to me?”

“Forgive me, madam.” In any other company he would have been embarrassed by his lapse. Should he worry that he felt so comfortable in Lady Beatrice’s presence? “I will confess my mind is on other matters, a habit in which I would only indulge when I am with an understanding friend.”

Mrs. Parton humphed her acceptance of his excuse, while Lady Beatrice tilted her head and focused her gaze upon him as if waiting for him to continue. But it was the older lady who spoke.

“Do go on.” She waved to the footman to bring the next course. “Naturally, if it involves government secrets, we shall not press you to divulge them. Shall we, Bea?” She did not wait for an answer. “But if it involves our little chimney sweeps, well, then you must tell us everything.”

He could hardly tell them he had been thinking of the lady seated across from him, but in truth, the boys were never far from his thoughts. “The boys’ health improves daily, and Kit’s arm is healing. When Parliament adjourns I plan to take them to my school in Shrewsbury, where they can enjoy the country air and learn a new occupation.”

“Ah, very good.” Mrs. Parton helped herself to the roast beef offered by the footman. “We are privileged, are we not, to be able to help the lower classes? I believe that is why God has given us so much. Our work at St. Ann’s never ceases to be a blessing to me.”