One More Kiss (35 page)

“God, no,” Jess said with what sounded like an element of horror in his voice. “Let’s head back,” he suggested. “The last thing I want is to run into any more of the houseguests.”

Destry was certain that he was keen on avoiding one houseguest in particular. What had gone on between Jess and Beatrice Brent the other night? Beatrice was acting more subdued than usual and was painfully polite to Jess when compelled to speak to him. It was some relief that even a man as charming as Jess Pennistan found women a puzzle.

“D
O
I
LOOK
all right?” Cecilia twisted and turned in front of the cheval glass that dominated the dressing room.

“You look just right for an afternoon of fun.” Beatrice prided herself on finding different ways to reassure her sister. Phrases that did not involve the word “beautiful.”

“It really is a lovely habit. But I wonder if it is too severe.”

“The style suits you, Miss Cecilia.” Darwell spoke with the confident voice of one who understood fashion and style completely. “Excessive ruffles would be all wrong. This style announces that you are a confident, capable woman.”

On a horse
, Beatrice thought.

“Oh, my. That is precisely what I wish to convey.” Cecilia left the dressing room and moved around the bedchamber, testing the swirl of skirts.

“I could kiss you, Darwell. You said exactly the right thing.”

“Thank you, Miss Beatrice,” Darwell said with a rare grin. “No kiss is necessary. Your appreciation is quite enough.”

“You will be so valuable to Cecilia in London.”

Darwell sobered suddenly.

“What is it?” Beatrice took a step closer. “Is something wrong?”

“Miss, I am so sorry, but I will not be going with you to London.”

“Really? Why not? Are the two of us too much work? I could employ a maid of my own.”

“No, Miss Beatrice, you and Miss Cecilia are a pleasure to work for.” She turned, surveyed herself in the mirror and shook her head. “Daniel Callan and I are going to be married.”

“Married! How wonderful. Oh, we must tell Cecilia.”
Beatrice hurried from the bedchamber into the sitting room where Cecilia was in front of a mirror fiddling with the curls that framed her face.

“Ceci! Darwell and Lord Jess’s valet are going to be married!”

Beatrice turned back to Darwell, who had followed her into the sitting room. Her expression was not what one would expect from a woman who had announced her engagement.

“Oh, that is wonderful news. The best.”

“I hope so, Miss Cecilia. It is not impulsive. We have known each other forever. I suppose as we grow older and see an end to our years of service it’s right to turn to each other for comfort in our later years.”

For the love of God
, Beatrice thought,
that sounds far more practical than romantic
. She looked at Cecilia, who nodded.

“Do you love him, Darwell?” Cecilia asked, going straight to the point.

“What is love, Miss Cecilia? I think he is kind and patient. I have seen him care for men who are not worth half of what he is, if one is speaking of honor and honesty. We understand that the ton is made up of the same sort of people who are in all levels of society.”

It sounded to Beatrice as though Darwell had learned the same lessons that the marquis had: that the ton were like everyone else, just better dressed. Which only proved the point.

Darwell looked from one to the other. “And my world is much brighter when he is near. I can talk to him about every little thing. He listens to me, and that is a wonderful and rare thing in a man.”

“Darwell, that sounds like love to us,” Cecilia said as Beatrice nodded agreement.

“We are thinking that we will leave service and move to a city like Birmingham or Manchester where we can open a shop to assist men and women who wish to move up in society.”

“Like us!” Cecilia said.

“I mean no offense, miss.”

“Of course not. The countess knew we needed advice and you are the best.”

“How kind of you, but it does leave you without a maid for the Season.”

“Oh dear. You cannot wait a year or so?” Cecilia asked, sounding as if she already knew the answer.

“Miss, we are both approaching fifty years of age. You will understand when you are older. We feel there is no time to waste.”

“Then we will see you are established quickly, in Birmingham of course, and Ceci and I will be your first customers.”

“Thank you, Miss Beatrice. I was worried you would be more upset.”

“Oh, I am,” Cecilia assured her, with a self-deprecating smile that made Beatrice laugh.

“Sometimes you are too direct, Ceci.” She took Darwell’s hand and led her to the door. “Go tell your man, one who actually listens to you, that you have broken the news to us and we are happy for both of you.”

“Thank you, miss. Both of you.” Darwell left the room, but not before Beatrice saw her eyes fill with tears.

Beatrice turned to her sister. “You are not to start worrying about this. I have complete faith that the
countess will find us another excellent lady’s maid before we go to London.”

“Hmmm” was the best that Cecilia could manage.

“Do you recall Mama saying that a husband who listens is the greatest gift a wife can receive?”

“Oh yes,” Cecilia said. “It would come up whenever Papa forgot a dinner invitation or asked Mama something she insisted she had told him a hundred times.”

“Do you remember how delighted she was that one time Papa actually took her advice? I don’t even know what the idea was but she was happy for days and when I asked her why she was in such good spirits her answer was, ‘Because he listened to me, really listened.’ ”

They stood together looking out the window. “I still miss her. Especially now.” Beatrice could not help but think that Mama would tell her the best way to go on, to deal with men like Lord Jess, to help Cecilia enjoy herself.

“I know you miss her. We all do.”

“Do you think having children, twins, weakened her so much that she died sooner?” It had taken her a whole year to ask that question, one that had haunted her from the day of Mama’s death.

“Oh no, Bitsy, I do not.” She squeezed her hand.

“How can you be so sure?” Beatrice wanted it so desperately to be true.

“You know Mama was never strong. Remember the countess told us how often she was ill at school?”

Beatrice nodded but that seemed to prove her point that carrying twins had been too much for her delicate body.

“If you must blame someone for losing her too soon,
you can look at Grandfather for allowing her to marry, Father for wanting children, and Mama for agreeing to have them. Bitsy, do you see, the list would be endless.”

“Endless, yes, I suppose it is.” The urge to cry had evaporated in the face of that truth. She hugged her sister, careful not to crease her habit or disarrange her hair. “Thank you. You are the best sister in the world.”

Ceci could not hide her smile or the blush of pleasure that colored her cheeks.

“You go ahead, Ceci. I am going to wash my face, then I want to take this letter to Papa’s room so that he can carry it to Roger for me. I will join you before the race begins.”

“You are writing to Roger?” Cecilia seemed to find that odd.

“I asked the countess if he could come for a day or so and she encouraged me to invite him.”

“Why?”

Beatrice huffed out a breath. “Because I want Lord Jess to see that I have gentlemen friends.”

“You wish to make him jealous? Beatrice, I don’t think Jess is—”

“No, Cecilia,” Beatrice interrupted. “I do not want to make him jealous. Please leave it at that.”

“All right, but only because I do not want to upset you again.”

Beatrice reassured her sister and pushed her out of the room with the command to ignore all mirrors. Ceci was an amazing combination of insecurity and wisdom. If only she could find someone who could cure her of the one and appreciate the other.

* * *

W
ORKING FROM HER
memory of painting placement, Beatrice found her way to the gentlemen’s bedroom wing, only once stopping to ask for help from a footman. The passage was quiet, as most of the guests were gathering outside for the race and, Beatrice surmised, the servants were at their noon dinner, as was the custom in this house.

Her father’s room was small, not a suite like the rooms she shared with her sister. There was a writing desk, and Papa’s traveling desk was set on top of it. Beatrice tucked her correspondence into one of the pockets and prayed that Roger would come as soon as he could. She so needed to be with someone who valued her as a person, her mind rather than her body, her words rather than her mouth. That was what was important.

Once she was back in the passage, she decided to follow the route she had happened on the other day, the shortcut to the gardens. As she passed the doorway where she had overheard Callan and Darwell’s conversation, she noticed the door was opened.

Jess’s room, she thought, and with a look up and down the hall, she stepped inside. It was no bigger than her father’s bedchamber, with two windows commanding an even less impressive view.

Standing in the middle of the space, she avoided looking at the bed by closing her eyes. She could almost feel Jess’s presence. It was not the scent so much as a kind of energy that was trapped by the walls and ceiling, which made her feel as though she were close to him even in his absence.

Stupid girl
, she thought.
Why break your heart over a man who does not want you?
She opened her eyes and saw a wooden box sitting on the writing desk. Walking over, she undid the latch and raised the lid. Instead of correspondence, the box was filled with coins and small slips of paper.

She thought about the traveling desk that occupied the same space in her father’s room. The two men could not be more different. So much for Mama’s insistence that every girl looked for her papa in the man she wanted to marry.

“What are you doing here?”

Beatrice turned around with a gasp, a hand to her throat. Lord Jess stood in the doorway, looking more annoyed than angry.

“Uhm, I …,” Beatrice began, and decided on the truth. “I was curious. I came up to leave a letter for my father to take to London and I saw that the door to your room was open.”

“Come out now.” He did not seem to care what her explanation was. “If someone, even a footman, were to find you here with me there would be hell to pay.” He stepped back into the corridor. “Out, now,” he demanded.

“I’m coming,” she said with a girlish huff of annoyance. “I was not trying to seduce you. I didn’t even know you were about.”

“Try telling that to your father if he were to find us.” He stood back, his arms folded across his chest. “Which way are you going? I will go in the opposite direction.”

Before she could answer they both heard the sound of footsteps. They were too far from the door to hide
in his room. Apparently noting the same thing, Lord Jess took her arm and urged her to fall into step beside him.

“Since I was coming up to the house anyway.” Jess made it sound as though they were in the middle of a conversation as the footman rounded the corner. The footman stepped to the wall so they could pass. As was the habit of the gentlemen of the ton, Lord Jess completely ignored his presence and kept on with his totally fabricated conversation. “Your father asked me to find you and make sure you were not late for the race.”

Chapter Thirty-two
 

“W
HERE ARE
L
ORD
Jessup and Beatrice?” Cecilia looked about from her saddle but could find neither one of them in the small circle of well-wishers or among those making their way across the lawn.

“Jess went back to the house.” Destry sat stiffly, Cecilia noticed, and did not even turn his head to look for them as she had.

Their friends had laughed themselves silly at the sight of the marquis riding sidesaddle, and the wagers were now heavily in her favor.

“Is it not odd that our biggest supporters are not here? What will the others say?”

“Nothing, if we do not make an issue of it,” Destry insisted.

“I am not making an issue of it.”

Michael Garrett came up to them. “I would suggest that you start the race before the horses grow too restless.
I am sure Jess and Beatrice will be along presently.”

“Yes, we will,” Destry said.

Destry was eager to begin so Cecilia decided not to wait any longer.

“Lord Crenshaw? Where is he?” Cecilia asked.

Destry ignored the question as Mr. Garrett held up his hand for attention. “I trust all wagers have been made,” he announced. “The course will take Miss Brent and the marquis two miles cross-country. They will span the ford, but there will be no jumps. Then they will cross back over the river at the bridge nearest the main gate, returning up the drive, and circle the house. The racecourse ends to your left. The yellow ribbon is the finish line. I will fire the starting pistol on the count of three!”

The small crowd cheered and in an amazingly loud voice Mr. Garrett counted, “One, two, three.” He pulled the trigger and they were off.