A Wild Pursuit (9 page)

B
ea woke in the morning feeling rather ashamed of herself. Of course, there was nothing new in that sensation. Her father had often bellowed his amazement that he'd never managed to teach her a single thing, but she secretly thought he had had no difficulty imparting shame. She'd simply refused to reveal it, to his everlasting fury.

But she should never have kissed Stephen Fairfax-Lacy in the goat pasture. Never. He was singled out for Helene, and if there was one thing that Bea did
not
do, it was steal men from other women.

I'll dress in such a way as to make it absolutely clear to Mr. Puritan that he's not to kiss me again, Bea thought. Then she remembered that the Puritan didn't want to kiss her, now he knew of her
experience.
If that pang in the region of her stomach was shame, Bea refused to acknowledge it.

“I'll wear the new morning gown,” she told her maid, Sylvie. “The one with blonde lace.”

“But, my lady, I thought you had decided that gown was entirely too prudish,” Sylvie lisped in her French accent.

“It is rather prudish, isn't it? Wonderful. I'm in a Puritanical mood.”

“If you say so,” Sylvie said resignedly. She was rather hoping that her mistress had taken a permanent dislike to the gown and would hand it on to her.

Sometime later Bea looked at herself in the glass with some satisfaction. She looked—as her grandmother might have said—as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. The dress was made of the finest jaconet muslin in a pale amber, trimmed with deep layers of pointed blonde lace. It had long sleeves, and while the bodice clung to every inch of her bosom (and several inches that weren't hers at all), it was so high-necked that it practically touched her ears.

“No Spanish papers,” Sylvie suggested, as Bea sat herself at the dressing table. Once she'd gotten over the disappointment of having her mistress actually wear the coveted gown, she'd started enjoying the dressing, as always. Truly, she was lucky. Her mistress was lovely, invariably cheerful, and, most importantly, took clothing very, very seriously.

“You're absolutely right,” Bea said, nodding at her in the mirror. “The papers are far too red. My cheeks should be just the palest pink. Didn't I buy something called Maiden's Blush at that shop in Bedford Square?”

Sylvie was rummaging through a smallish trunk that stood open to the right of Bea's dressing table. “Here it is!” she said, holding up a small bottle. “Although you may wish to consider the Royal Tincture of Peach,” she added, handing over another bottle as well.

Bea tipped both colors onto a bit of cotton and considered them carefully. “Maiden's Blush, I think,” she decided. “The Peach is lovely, though. Perhaps I'll use it on my lips.”

“Don't you think it will be rather pale?” Sylvie asked doubtfully.

“No, no,” Bea said, deftly applying a translucent layer of rouge. “I'm nothing more than a seedling today. Utterly missish.” She ignored the little voice in the back of her mind that kept insisting on the contradictory nature of her actions. Why shouldn't such an experienced trollop as herself dress any way that she pleased? Illogical or no.

“Ahh,” Sylvie said. She loved a challenge. “In that case, I shall change your hair, my lady. Perhaps if I twisted a simple bandeau through it? These beads are entirely too
knowing.
”

“You are a blessing,” Bea told her with satisfaction. “What on earth would I do without you?” A few moments later, she grinned at herself in the mirror. Her hair had the simplicity of a fourteen-year-old. She looked utterly milk-and-water. A mere infant!

She refused to think about the perverse impulse that was driving her to demonstrate to Stephen Fairfax-Lacy that she was not as experienced as—well, as she was. For a moment she almost deflated. Why on earth was she pretending to a virtue she didn't possess and had never before aspired to, either?

There was a knock on the door, and Sylvie trotted away. Bea delicately applied kohl to her lashes. Not even for the sake of innocence would she emerge from her room without coloring her lashes.

“May Lady Rawlings visit for a moment?” Sylvie called from the door.

Bea hopped up, slipping her feet into delicate white kid slippers. “Esme! Do come in, please!”

Sylvie opened the door, but Esme just stood there for a moment, blinking. “Bea?” she said weakly, “is that
you?
”

“Do you like it?” Bea said, laughing.

Esme dropped her considerable girth into a chair by the fireplace. “You look like a green girl, which I gather must be your aspiration.”

“Precisely,” Bea replied triumphantly.

“I do like the color you're wearing on your lips, although I could never wear something so pale myself. Where did you buy it?”

“It was the perfumer on St. James Street, wasn't it, Sylvie?” Bea said.

“Indeed it was, my lady,” Sylvie replied.

“I haven't been to London in over six months,” Esme said, wiggling her toes in front of the fire. “I hardly remember what the inside of a perfumer looks like!”

“How appalling,” Bea said, tucking herself into the chair opposite. “I suppose that carrying a child does limit one's activities.” She felt very pleased at the idea that she herself would never be banned from London for that many months. Being unmarried had definite advantages.

“Actually, it's this respectability business,” Esme answered.

“Lady Godwin did mention that you are—” Bea stopped, unable to find a tactful way to phrase Esme's ambitions.

“Aspiring to be above reproach,” Esme said.

“We all aspire to something, I suppose,” Bea said, rather doubtfully.

“Did you buy those slippers from Mrs. Bell?” Esme inquired. “I adore the daisy clocks on the ankle.”

“Mrs. Bell tried to convince me to buy a shawl with the same daisy pattern. But I thought that might be too kittenish.”

“You're risking kittenish now, if you don't mind my saying so, but you somehow manage to look delightful instead. At any rate,” Esme said with a sigh, “I came to warn you that although my Sewing Circle has
finally
departed, I was maneuvered into asking them to return for a late luncheon. So please, feel free to eat in your chambers unless you wish to be showered in Bible verses.”

“Sewing Circle?” Bea repeated rather blankly.

“Did Arabella forget to tell you?” Esme said, standing up and shaking out her skirts. “I've joined a local Sewing Circle. We meet every week, at my house, due to my delicate condition. Arabella joined us this morning, which caused great excitement and led to the luncheon invitation.”

“Never tell me that Arabella is able to sew!” Bea said with fascination.

“Absolutely not. But her tales of the Countess of Castignan certainly kept everyone awake. The problem is that the most repellent of the seamstresses, Mrs. Cable, and my aunt have taken a fervent dislike to each other. So there is more than a slim possibility that lunch will be a demonstration of gently bred fury.”

Esme paused at the door. “I have been trying to come up with a seating arrangement that will keep my aunt and Mrs. Cable apart, and I have decided to scatter small tables in the Rose Salon.” She gave Bea an alluring smile. “If you feel sufficiently brave, I would love to put you at a table with Mrs. Cable. She has a marked tendency to punctuate her conversation with ill-chosen Bible verses. Given your current appearance, she will deem you among the saved and be cordial.”

Bea managed to simper. “Actually, I am quite well versed in the Bible myself.”

“Oh goodness, how wonderful! I
shall
seat you just beside Mrs. Cable, if you don't mind. You can quote at each other in perfect bliss.”

“Mr. Fairfax-Lacy seems quite sanctimonious,” Bea put in before she could stop herself. “Mrs. Cable would likely approve of him. All those good works.”

“Do you think so?” Esme asked with some doubt. “I believe that the man is undergoing some sort of internal upset. He doesn't appear to be interested in Parliamentary doings at all. And that
is
his reputation, you know.”

“All work and no play?”

“Precisely.” Bea thought about Stephen's activities in the goat pasture and rather agreed with Esme. The man was not thinking about Parliament. No: he was on the hunt for a mistress. Or perhaps a wife.

“But he must be accustomed to tedious speeches, so I shall put him at your table,” Esme continued. “Helene can sit there as well and rehearse dallying with Mr. Fairfax-Lacy. You must prompt her if she neglects her practice. Although I must tell you, Bea, it's my opinion that your poetry will have to do the trick if Helene and Fairfax-Lacy are to become intimate. I've known Helene for years, and it simply isn't in her nature to play the coquette.”

“But she
did
elope,” Bea said, wondering how on earth that had happened. Who would elope with a woman who had all the sensual appeal of a matron of sixty? Yet when Helene laughed, she was surprisingly captivating.

Esme shrugged and opened the door. “Her husband, Rees, effected that miracle somehow, and they've both spent the last ten years regretting it. I do believe the marriage ended before they even returned from Gretna Green, although they resided together for quite some time.

“I am counting on your bravery at luncheon, then.” She paused for a moment and looked at Bea. “Amazing! I would hardly have recognized you. I suppose you are revisiting the artless Lady Beatrix Lennox of age sixteen or thereabouts.”

Bea gave her a rather crooked smile. “I hate to disillusion you, Esme, but I was fourteen when my father discovered that I was coloring my lashes with burnt cork. He never recovered from that initial shock.”

“Oh, parents!” Esme said, laughing. “You should hear my mother on the subject of
my
innocence! Or the lack thereof. According to my mother, I sprang from the womb a fully fledged coquette—shaped in my aunt's image, as it were.”

Bea grinned. “You could do worse.”

“Much,” Esme said with an answering grin. “At luncheon, then!”

 

When Bea slipped into a chair next to the redoubtable Mrs. Cable, her mind was not on the meal. She was wondering precisely how a Puritan gentleman greets a woman he vigorously kissed in the goat pasture the previous afternoon. Would Stephen pretend that they had never grappled with each other? That his tongue hadn't slipped between her lips? That she hadn't—

Bea could feel that rare thing, a real flush, rising in her cheeks, so she hurriedly pushed the memory away. She hadn't spent a good twenty minutes painting herself with sheer layers of Maiden's Blush only to find herself blushing.

The gentleman in question was rather exquisitely dressed himself, if the truth be told. Bea watched under her lashes as he strode into the room. He was wearing a costume of the palest fawn, with a severely cut-away jacket. For a man who spent his time roaming about the House of Commons, he seemed to have unaccountably powerful thighs.

“Oh Lord, there he is,” Helene moaned, sitting down next to her. “This is such a foolish idea.”

“You've no reason to worry,” Bea said to her encouragingly. “The poem can do the work for you.”

“Countess Godwin,” Mrs. Cable announced, snapping her napkin into her lap, “we have met, although I expect you have no memory of the event.”

“I remember perfectly,” Helene said. “And how pleasant to see you again.”

“It was a dinner that Lady Rawlings gave some few months ago,” Mrs. Cable told Bea.

“How lovely that must have been!” Bea said breathlessly. She was rather enjoying playing the role of a virtuous maiden. It was a new experience, after all, since she'd spent her youth trying to infuriate her father with less-than-virtuous antics.

“It was not lovely,” Mrs. Cable said darkly, “not at all. Countess Godwin, I daresay you have formed the same aversion as I to even thinking of the occasion. Quite scandalous.”

Bea clasped her hands and widened her eyes. Stephen was on his way to their table, and she wanted him to see her in the midst of full-blown girlishness. “Oh, what could have happened!” she cried, just as Stephen arrived.

Helene, who had just noticed Bea's transformation, gave her a sardonic look. “Nothing you couldn't have topped, Bea.”

The Puritan created a diversion by bowing and introducing himself to Mrs. Cable, who seemed enraptured at the idea of sharing a table with a Member of Parliament.

Somewhat to Bea's disappointment, he didn't even blink when she gave him a girlish smile and a giggle. Instead he bowed just as one would to a damsel still in the schoolroom, then turned readily to Countess Godwin and kissed
her
hand.

“Earl Godwin was there, of course,” Mrs. Cable said in her sharp voice, returning directly to the subject. “Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, we are discussing an unfortunate dinner that I and Countess Godwin attended in this very room, some months ago. I won't go into the details in present company.” She cast a motherly look at Bea, who bit her lip before she could grin, and then looked modestly at her hands.

Stephen caught a glimpse of Bea's downcast eyes and felt like bellowing with laughter. She was a minx. It wasn't only that she was dressed as primly as an escapee from a nunnery. Somehow she had managed to make her whole face look as guileless as a babe in arms. Gone was the mischievous twinkle and the lustful glances. She had the aura and the innocence of a saint, and only that one dimple in her cheek betrayed the fact that she was enjoying herself mightily. Other than that dimple, she was the picture of a naive duke's daughter. If there was such a thing in England.

“I daresay your husband told you,” Mrs. Cable was saying to Lady Godwin, “that he and I exchanged some pointed words on the subject of matrimony. Not harsh, not at all. But I think I made my point.” She smiled triumphantly.