A Suitable Wife. Louise Gouge M.
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cut into Greystone’s thoughts, and his hand stilled with a bite of jam-covered bread halfway to his mouth. “I seem to recall the late Lord Melton had two children.” She folded her paper and set it on the table. “Surely she is out by now. Poor gel. Surely no one of breeding will associate with her.”
Just as Mother spoke, he made the mistake of taking the bite and was rewarded by almost choking on it. If only she knew.
“Really, Greystone, do chew your food.”
“I beg your pardon.” He gulped his entirely too-hot coffee, which brought forth another bout of coughing.
Mother stared at him, her eyebrows bent into a scolding frown. Even the footman behind her watched him with alarm.
“Never mind.” He held up a hand to prevent the man from coming to his aid. “I am well.”
Another sip of coffee ensured his physical recovery, but not his mental improvement. Now was the time for him to tell Mother about Lady Beatrice. Now.
No, not now. Maybe he would leave it up to Mrs. Parton. She was to blame, after all. Had she not brought the girl to London, had she not brought her to last night’s ball, Melton would never have had the nerve to seek entrance. Yet had she not brought the young lady, Greystone never would have been introduced to the most enchanting creature he had met this Season. Or during any of the previous six Seasons since he had taken his seat in the House of Lords.
As often before, the accusation resounded in his mind: coward! At eight and twenty years, why did he still try so hard to avoid stirring his mother’s anger? This situation was not of his making, but rather, the result of her best friend’s machinations. Let Mrs. Parton sort it out for her.
Yet shame, or some emotion he could not name, would not let him go. Last week he had waxed eloquent in Parliament in support of Wilberforce’s proposal to abolish slavery in all British colonies. He was even now working with Lord Blakemore on a bill to grant pensions to soldiers and sailors wounded in the recent wars with France and America. Soon he would find his own cause to champion and had every confidence he would achieve success with it. Why, then, could he not speak up to his mother about a matter of minimal social significance?
“Her name is Lady Beatrice, but I do not know whether she is out.” He bent over his plate, cutting into his sausage as if it were a beefsteak. “She is the mysterious companion Mrs. Parton has been raving about for weeks.” Awaiting the explosion, he risked a glance at his parent.
Her lined but still lovely face paled, and her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “And exactly when did you plan to tell me this?” Now her eyes blazed. She stood so abruptly that her chair tipped, caught by the able footman. She slapped her serviette onto the white damask tablecloth and strode toward the door, muttering words he could not decipher.
Greystone forced away the familiar childish guilt and anxiety that tried to claim him. He had done it. Had faced Mother’s ire. And yet he survived.
But would Mother’s friendship with her lifelong friend survive, as well?
* * *
“Now, now, my dear, you really must eat your breakfast.” Mrs. Parton nibbled daintily at her own food, three gravy-covered Scotch eggs and a pretty French pastry filled with vanilla crème, the aromas of which failed to excite Beatrice’s appetite. “You must maintain your health if you are to keep pace with me.” Seated at the small round table in the brightly decorated breakfast room, she chuckled at her own wit, a habit which Beatrice had, until last evening, found agreeable.
One ball—that was all she had prayed for, a harmless enough request for an earl’s daughter. She had resigned herself to Divine Will for the rest of her life, but could she not enjoy one evening worthy of someone of her station? Even wearing another lady’s cast-off gown, which she’d not had time to alter, she had found herself eager to dance once she’d heard the music. But she had not even been able to so much as observe the elegant Lord Greystone gracing the ballroom floor, much less dance herself. And all because of Melton’s horrid intrusion. While she did have some curiosity about the handsome older gentleman with her brother, he could in no way match up to the nonpareil Lord Greystone.
Beatrice sighed. The Lord had spoken. She must bear the burden of shame cast over every wastrel’s family, as though their lack of restraint tainted all of their relatives. No one would ever give her a chance to prove her own character. No one would ever wish to attach himself to the sister of such a man. Still, she could never despise Melly. Had he not defended her from a pack of wandering dogs when they were but children? Had he not taught her to ride her pony? Had they not grieved together when Mama died? But such brotherly devotion would not recommend him to Lord Greystone, whose disapproval of her brother had been obvious when he cut off Melly’s attempt to follow her from the ballroom. What had the viscount said to him? She found herself hoping it was a scathing setdown, for surely someone of Lord Greystone’s character could turn her foolish brother from his imprudent ways.
“Eat, child.” Mrs. Parton tapped her fork on the edge of Beatrice’s plate. “You must have energy for our outing this morning.”
“Outing?” Beatrice shook off her sullen musing, for sullen was the only proper name for her mood. She had never been one to pout, but these days she could hardly cease to do so.
“Why, yes.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her merry way, and both her plump jowls and her rusty curls bounced. “If you are to accompany me out into Society, you must have proper clothing. We must shop on Bond Street before it is too late.”
“Too late?” Beatrice’s face heated. Her absurd questions made her sound like a ninny.
“Why, yes.” More chuckles. “Ladies generally shop in the morning before the gentlemen and the lower classes take over the shopping district.”
“Ah. I see. How interesting.” In the village near Melton Gardens, Beatrice shopped whenever the mood struck her. Or rather, whenever she managed to set aside a few coins for her own needs. “But surely you know I am without resources.”
“Why, my dear girl, you are my employee. Have you noticed my servants’ fine purple livery? Do you think I brought you to London to follow me about wearing tatters?” She took a sip of tea and another bite of her French pastry. “Indeed not. I shall provide a wardrobe for you to suit every occasion.”
Beatrice avoided looking down at her gown, a faded, much-mended orange chintz. Should Lord Greystone happen to see her dressed so meanly, she would never live down the shame. But why should she care what he thought when he clearly held her in no regard? Still, her eyes stung with unshed tears over her miserable situation. “I thank you, madam. You are too kind. But what of your children? Will they not resent your spending their inheritance on me?”
“Ha. They have more than enough.” She leaned toward Beatrice and winked. “More than enough and to spare. Furthermore there is no entail on my property, so I can spend as I please. And this afternoon I shall show you one place where I am very pleased to spend it.”
Beatrice’s heart leaped. “St. Ann’s?”
The lady beamed. “St. Ann’s.”
“Oh, how wonderful. I have longed for this day.”
“More than for a ball?” Mrs. Parton’s eyes twinkled with kindness.
“Well,” Beatrice drawled, “at least as much as for a ball.” Indeed she had always looked forward to being involved with St. Ann’s, Mama’s favorite charity. She would concentrate on that worthy cause, not on some unreasonable peer who happened to live in the town house next door. Besides, she had no doubt such a gentleman would prove as distant and neglectful a husband and father as Papa had been. Despite his obvious admiration last night, she could expect nothing more from him.
On the other hand, Mrs. Parton’s promise of a new wardrobe was far more than Beatrice had expected. She was, after all, the lady’s hired companion and now had no claim to pride or vanity of any sort. But in less than an hour she found herself in a pretty little dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street,