Ripe for Scandal (19 page)

The rattle of his cup on its saucer snapped his attention away from the horrors of his monetary predicament and back to his
present surroundings. Beau took the cup from him without a word and set it aside. The amusement dancing in her eyes warned
him that he was moments away from her foisting another cup of the vicar’s awful tea on him. There wasn’t enough sugar in the
world to mask the moldering flavor of whatever it was the vicar had served them.

“What sport is there to be had locally?” Beau asked, smoothly moving the conversation on just like the duke’s daughter that
she was. She might have preferred to rub
elbows with the squirearchy and Corinthians, but she’d still been trained to be a proper hostess. It was easy to forget that
fact when she was cursing like a jack tar and throwing her horse over fences that most gentlemen preferred to avoid.

Mr. Tillyard gave them both the fishy eye. “Neither of you from Kent?”

“No,” Gareth said, not sure if they were further damning themselves. “Neither of us has ever lived so far south.”

The vicar harrumphed noncommittally. “Good shooting. Pheasant, mostly. Some grouse.” He rubbed his chin. “Rather poor hunting,
but good beagling. Morton Hall had a fine pack of beagles at one point, or so they say. And there’re the annual races at Ashford.
Nothing like the Oaks or the Derby, of course, but a good day all the same.”

“I’ve never been beagling,” Beau said.

“I would hope not, my lady,” the vicar replied, bristling with outrage.

Gareth watched as his wife took a deep breath and held it, batting her lashes in a way that he knew spelled trouble. She was
practically shaking as she held herself back. Clearly, whatever reply she wanted to make was only going to further scandalize
the old man.

“Is that your dog I always see running on the beach?” Beau finally said, her color still high.

The vicar made a face, as though discovering mice nesting amongst his stockings. “The great black-and-white beast?”

Beau nodded. “I saw him in your garden and thought—”

“Not mine, my lady. Not anybody’s really. Only survivor of a shipwreck some years back. Swam ashore with the first mate clinging
to his neck, but the man died a few days later. Just roams about the village now and harasses the fishermen.”

“Oh.” Beau glanced over at him, her expression forlorn, clearly at the end of her rope when it came to making nice.

“We should be going, sir,” Gareth said, rising from his chair. “I’m sure you have things to do.”

“Yes, yes,” the vicar said. “Get you home while it’s still light. We’ll see you again on Sunday. I’ll have them reserve a
spot for you in the first pew.”

Once they were outside, Beau fastened her hat down securely and slipped her arm through his. “Still enamored with the Hall?”
Gareth said.

“Yes,” Beau replied, “though turning Methodist is looking more and more appealing.”

“I don’t think they’d smile upon your going beagling any more than Mr. Tillyard.”

Beau narrowed her eyes and glared. The wind pulled at her curls, swiping them across her eyes, and she blinked them away.
“I’m going to start my own pack just to annoy him.”

“We could get you a pack of duc de Noaille’s spaniels. Nothing like foreign dogs to set off a good Englishman.”

“Since that’s clearly my intent.” Beau squeezed his arm and sighed. “I do
try
to behave myself, but it’s very hard sometimes.”

CHAPTER 25

I
t makes me nervous when you’re this quiet for the entire day,” Gareth said as he entered the small chamber that Beau had claimed
as her sitting room. Beau looked up, momentarily startled. As she took in his countenance, a smile pulled at her lips.

Mud-spattered and windblown, in a buff-leather shooting coat that had seen better days, there was not a bit of the elegant
London gentleman about him. And she loved him this way. Preferred it, even. This Gareth was hers, and hers alone.

“I’ve been finishing the last few invitations for our party.” She set her quill aside and flexed her cramping fingers. She
licked her thumb and rubbed at an ink spot on her finger. When the stubborn stain remained, she held up her hand for inspection.
“I hope you don’t mind being married to a woman with hands like a clerk.”

Gareth bent with a flourish and kissed her hand. He retained it in his own, thumb circling in her palm. “Not at all. But if
you prove yourself good at sums, I shall
force you to manage the household accounts. They’re a nightmare. I’ve been trying to get them to balance for days now.”

Beau laughed and shook her head. “Mathematics was never my strong point. I always seem to flip the numbers around, and my
tallies never come out right. Father was always wondering how I could be so stupid in that one subject.”

“I suppose I’ll persevere then,” he said with a dramatic sigh. He squeezed her hand and let it go, moving deeper into the
room.

“You carry on with the household accounts, and I’ll carry on with the invitations.” She picked her quill up again and caught
the feathered tip between her lips. Gareth wandered to stand beside the fire. He pushed the log with his foot and bent to
add another, causing a small whirlwind of sparks.

“I’ve already sent invitations to both our families,” Beau said.

He turned to look at her, one brow raised mockingly. He pushed a loose lock of hair behind his ear. “You don’t actually expect
any of them to come, do you, love?”

“No.” She shook her head, worrying the tip of the quill with her teeth again. “Even if we were all on speaking terms, it’s
a week’s journey for any of our parents to reach us, and that’s with the roads dry and easily passable. There’s a reason everyone
stays home and makes do with their neighbors for Christmas and Boxing Day.”

“Or goes for a long visit,” he said.

“Yes, or that. I don’t expect we’ll have above ten families though. Less if the weather turns foul.”

“Are we being high in the instep?”

Beau burst into laughter. “Not at all, I’ve invited the curate, the doctor, even the local solicitor. Our little corner of
the world is simply very sparsely populated. Oh, and the Miss Ackeroyds. They’re very genteel.”

“Even if their mother isn’t,” Gareth said, rolling his eyes heavenward.

“Even if their mother isn’t,” Beau echoed back, giving him a reproving stare. “If any of your friends come—Mr. Devere, for
example—they’ll be happy we’ve some pretty girls for them to dance with.”

“There’s to be dancing, now?”

Beau felt a hint of a blush burn her cheeks. She raised her chin. There was no reason to be embarrassed simply because she
wanted their first party to be a success.

“Only informally. I’m not attempting to bring in musicians or anything grand. Did you find us our Yule log?” she said, switching
the subject.

Gareth grinned, face lighting up in a way that made her suddenly lightheaded. “I did. The men are arranging it in the fireplace
as we speak. I’ll lay you a pony it burns for a week. I’ve a surprise for you too.”

Beau bit back an answering grin and stared at him skeptically. “A good surprise?”

“You’ll have to come and see.” He held out his hand.

Beau put the cap on the ink and set her quill aside. Gareth led her through the house and into the grand hall. Two footmen
and three of their tenants were in the final stages of wrestling a massive log into the ancient fireplace. Piles of greenery
were spread across the long table in the center of the room, where Mrs. Peebles was directing the
maids as they tied it into swags. Peebles himself was busy tucking bits of mistletoe into a large straw ball. The heavy berries
nodded and shook as he worked.

“All the proper frills and furbelows,” Gareth said with a perfectly serious expression that nearly set Beau off laughing.
“Just like at Lochmaben.”

Beau sniffled, blinking away tears. It was just like Christmas at home. Or as like as it could be. “I’ve something for you
too,” she said, glad that her surprise had arrived that morning after he’d ridden out. “Come down to the home farm.”

Gareth tilted his head like a distrustful horse. “The home farm?”

“Yes, the
farm
.” She emphasized the last word menacingly. “Your present arrived while you were gone.”

Gareth followed her into the entry hall and helped her with her redingote. “You didn’t actually get me a pig, did you?”

Beau grinned at him. He made it sound as though a pig were some kind of royal death warrant. “You’ll have to come and see.”

She headed out, not bothering to check that he was following. He was insatiably curious by nature. She knew he would follow.
He couldn’t help himself.

When she reached the home farm, she stopped and leaned against the railing of the newly erected sty. Gareth’s piglet grunted
and climbed up, begging for attention. Beau leaned over and scratched him on his fuzzy black-and-white-spotted head.

“It looks like a rotund carriage dog.” Gareth eyed the piglet with trepidation, much as he had the house upon their arrival.

Beau smiled and continued to scratch the little pig, who was grunting and ugging with delight, its enormous ears flipped back
to show their pink lining. “Mr. Moreland breeds them. He says it’s a Gloucestershire Spotted Pig. The most English of pigs.
I couldn’t resist when I saw them.”

Gareth reached out and scratched behind its ear, just as he would a dog.

“There are apples in the bucket,” Beau said, repressing a smile. “Carrots too.”

Gareth fished out an apple. The piglet took a noisy bite, dribbling drool all over Gareth’s hand. Gareth’s face crumpled into
something between disgust and amusement.

“What shall you name him?” Beau said.

Gareth looked at her as if she were mad. “Does one name pigs?” He held out the apple so it could take another bite. His queue
fell forward over his shoulder, and Beau swept it back for him before the piglet got hold of it.

“All pets should be named.”

“That”—he gestured with the dripping remains of the apple to the piglet—“is a pet?”

“Of course it’s a pet. If I’d wanted to give you a ham, I would have.”

Gareth laughed and tossed the last of the apple to the loudly chewing animal. “He does put me strongly in mind of Lord North,”
Gareth said with a wicked, ingratiating grin. “I shall call him Frederick. And we shall eat his children.”

Beau clapped her hand over her mouth. The piglet’s tiny eyes and fat cheeks were more than a little reminiscent of the former
prime minster, unkind as it was to say.

Gareth leaned his hip against the sty and crossed his ankles. “Please tell me I’m not to be condemned to gaiters too.”

Beau caught her lips between her teeth to keep from grinning. She’d already put a pair in his clothes press, much to his valet’s
horror.

CHAPTER 26