The Greatest Lover Ever (20 page)

His dark eyes seemed as mysterious as the shadows in the wood as he stared at her. “I have always imagined her so.”

Struggling for levity, Georgie responded lightly, “She was a troublesome female, as I recall.”

He inclined his head in assent. “She led the faerie king a merry dance. Then she fell in love with an ass.”

“Because the faerie king gave her a potion to teach her not to flout him,” she countered. “
I
should not forgive him so easily.”

“The poor fellow was desperate, I expect. Men commit every kind of folly when…” He broke off. “At all events, the affair ended happily.”

“I wonder,” said Georgie. “In my experience, people don’t change that much, particularly strong-willed characters like those. My guess is they reenacted that same comedy over and over, tormented one another until the end of time.”

Beckenham fell silent.

The parallels were obvious. She was constitutionally incapable of being a biddable wife. She would have given him no peace.

Violet, however, was perfect for him.

But she could not convince him of that with words. She must
show
him how superior Violet was to all those other debutantes. How much better she’d be for him than Georgie ever was.

As they rode silently back to the house, Georgie began to plan.

Chapter Twelve

“You spent the morning cavorting about the countryside with the one lady at this gathering you ought to avoid.”

Lydgate curled his lip in disgust and tossed Beckenham the pair of gloves he’d taken down from the wall of Beckenham’s purpose-fitted boxing saloon.

Beckenham caught them, wondering what Lydgate would say if he knew about that kiss.

Beckenham was an enthusiastic pugilist, and one of his few indulgences beside his stables was converting the outbuilding next to the bathhouse into an appropriate place for all kinds of indoor physical activity.

The walls were lined with racks of equipment, from shuttlecock rackets to cricket bats to boxing gloves, bows and arrows and foils.

He pulled the boxing gloves onto his hands. “Less talk, more action, Lydgate. I’m going to black those pretty blue eyes of yours.”

Lydgate gave a dramatic shudder. “Not the face, dear coz. Anything but the face.”

Beckenham knew he didn’t have a chance of hitting Lydgate’s face unless Lydgate allowed him to. On Beckenham’s good days, they were fairly evenly matched. Beckenham’s weight and power against Lydgate’s superior agility.

Today was not going to be one of Beckenham’s good days.

If he’d cherished any illusions about that, their first, rather one-sided bout left him in no doubt.

Panting, he said, “It was a chance meeting. Besides, we spoke only of my courting Miss Violet.”

He punctuated the sentence with a right aimed at the shoulder, which Lydgate easily dodged.

“And?” said Lydgate, shifting his feet and boring in with a one-two feint and punch that smacked Beckenham in the ribs.

With a grunt, Beckenham drove through the pain to land a blow to Lydgate’s chest that sent him staggering back a pace. Lydgate’s eyebrows twitched together, and the light of battle joined gleamed in his eye.

Answering his cousin’s question, Beckenham forced out, “Says she wants me to marry her sister. Says I’m the man to run Cloverleigh to her satisfaction.”

Lydgate danced back, dashing his arm across his forehead to wipe away sweat. “Generous of her.”

“I thought so.” It had been generous. Even the sweetest-tempered female, which Georgie most assuredly was not, would have found it difficult to say those words.

She was capable of that kind of quixotic generosity, he found.

“So you’ll fix your interest with the sister?” Lydgate persisted. He bore in with a few jabs toward Beckenham’s smarting rib cage, but it was mere flourishing; he didn’t have his mind on the fight.

Beckenham shrugged. “It does seem like the perfect solution.”

And Georgie didn’t mind. Didn’t mind at all. Encouraged him, in fact.

Damn
her.

They finished the bout and Lydgate took himself off, presumably to meddle in someone else’s affairs. Beckenham went to the bathhouse and indulged himself in a long, hot soak, before entering the fray once more.

*   *   *

Georgie entered the drawing room, where the ladies gathered that afternoon. She intended to while away the time before dinner with a gothic novel she’d managed to unearth in Beckenham’s austere library.

Tempted though she was to curl up in the window seat of that dark, masculine cave and stay out of sight, she had a duty to Violet to protect her from the cats. Quite apart from that, she refused to hide herself away as if she had something to be ashamed of.

“I suppose you do not embroider, Miss Black,” said Lady Charlotte, interrupting a particularly stirring passage between the star-crossed lovers in Georgie’s novel.

“Hmm? Actually, I do embroider. Just not at this moment,” said Georgie. She closed her book. “I cannot imagine why you should suppose otherwise. Isn’t every young lady taught such things?”

Lady Charlotte smiled. “I simply thought … You are known to be such a keen sportswoman.”

“Am I?” Georgie opened her eyes wide.

“Indeed.” Lady Charlotte used sharp little white teeth to snip off a thread. She raised her voice a little, so the others could hear. “In fact, I propose we set up an archery tournament tomorrow, so that Miss Black might show us her skill.”

Hmm. Georgie’s gaze flickered to Violet, whose fingers tinkered idly at the pianoforte. “Thank you, but I believe of the pair of us, my sister is the superior archer. She will represent the family.” She raised her voice a little. “What say you, Violet? Will you give Lady Charlotte here a contest with your bow?”

“Indeed. I’d be delighted,” said Violet serenely.

Butter wouldn’t melt,
thought Georgie with smug satisfaction.

Looking a little discomfited, Lady Charlotte said, “I shall speak with Lord Beckenham about the arrangements.”

“Splendid,” said Georgie.

Unbeknownst to Lady Charlotte, she could not have chosen a milieu to set off Violet to better advantage.

While she was no great horsewoman and she could not bring herself to fire a pistol, Violet had a precision of eye that made a sport like archery second nature to her. What’s more, she looked ravishing in profile. Georgie knew just the right hat she should wear for the occasion: a cunningly wrought little piece that slanted rakishly over one eye.

Well done, Lady Charlotte,
Georgie thought. The girl was shrewd enough to know that as a sports enthusiast, Beckenham would take a keen interest in the event.

Georgie glanced over at Lady Arden, who sat at the escritoire, writing letters until the pile at her elbow seemed to grow monstrous. The business of matchmaking and meddling was never done, it seemed.

Lady Arden was like a sparkling spider at the center of an intricate web of relatives, allies, and persons who owed her a favor. Georgie knew that had she desired, her kinswoman would have arranged an eligible match for her.

She wasn’t damaged goods; she still had a very generous dowry, thanks to her mother’s fortune. Gentlemen proposed to her regularly, either in fits of mad passion or with a clearer eye to the main chance.

She’d never been tempted. She intended to rub along with her stepmother until her twenty-fifth birthday, when she’d inherit the fortune her irate papa had not been able to bring himself to deny her. She’d always intended to set up a permanent household of her own in London. Now, she rather thought London would not be far enough from Winford for her comfort.

The gentlemen arrived then, freshly changed after a fishing expedition, and all pretense of interest in embroidery or music was promptly abandoned by the ladies.

Lady Charlotte said, “Will you join us, Lord Beckenham? Do sit down.”

“No, thank you. I’m about to take the gentlemen on a tour of the estate. Dull stuff to do with the new drainage system. Not a subject for ladies, I’m afraid.”

Beckenham hadn’t so much as glanced in Georgie’s direction since he’d entered the room.

In other circumstances, she would have insisted on going with the men. She’d vastly prefer riding about Winford, learning about new farming methods, to sitting quietly in the midst of all this repressed animosity. As it was, she opened her book again and began to read.

*   *   *

Lady Arden held up her hands for silence. “My dears, I have a proposition to make. Whenever I am hostess at a house party, I like to make my guests sing for their supper, so to speak. Ordinarily, this takes the form of a concert or a little embroidery project that will keep the ladies occupied and useful while the gentlemen commit various atrocities on the local wildlife.”

She smiled, as there were titters from the assembled young ladies.

“This time, I have arrived at something quite different. In the lake, there is an island with a grotto. Man-made, of course. The interior of the grotto requires a little something in the way of decoration.”

She gestured to the three footmen who flanked her, holding large baskets and pails and various other pieces of equipment. “Here we have a collection of seashells I had delivered. You, my dear ones, will be covering the walls with these shells.”

“Oh! I have seen this before, at a house in Ireland,” said Lady Harriet, clapping her hands.

Lady Charlotte looked doubtful. “Mama will kill me if I break my nails.”

Lady Arden stared at her. “Then you’ll have to take care, won’t you? Come along, girls. I’ll show you the way and then you may continue.”

Georgie longed to escape the suffocating tension in the drawing room. This seemed too rich an experience to miss.

“What on earth?” she murmured to Lady Arden as they left the drawing room.

“I like to set challenges for my ladies,” she explained. “Being a countess is not all about keeping one’s nails pretty. You need to be prepared to roll up your sleeves on occasion. We’ll see which of them shows her mettle.”

“But I thought you were completely for Violet, my lady,” said Georgie, puzzled. “Don’t tell me you are impartial in this.”

“I expect Violet to pass this test with flying colors,” said Lady Arden serenely. “But remember that I also have my family to consider. It is an excellent opportunity for me to assess brides who might be eligible for my boys.”

By “her boys,” Lady Arden meant the gentlemen from the Black family whom it was her duty to marry off successfully. She had no children of her own.

“Dear ma’am, your name ought to be Machiavelli,” murmured Georgie, smiling.

Lady Arden sighed. “My talents are quite wasted,” she mourned. “Had I been a man, I should have been Prime Minister.”

“But where would the fun be in that?” said Georgie.

Lady Arden laughed. She wielded an enormous amount of power through her family and social connections. Everyone knew it. Even the Prime Minister.

The ladies piled into two little boats, each rowed by a footman, with the third footman bringing up the rear with the equipment.

With much giggling and fluttering, the ladies allowed themselves to be handed out of the boats, onto the sloping bank of the man-made island.

The grotto looked cold and dank, a perfect setting for hoary tales and hermits. They waited outside while the footmen unloaded supplies and lit lamps. Then they ventured in.

The space was surprisingly large, cold and cavernous, and oddly damp.

“You expect us to cover the entire thing by the end of our stay?” demanded Lady Charlotte. Heavens, but the girl was tiresome.

“Many hands make light work,” quipped Lady Arden. “If you are the stuff of which countesses are made, you will have it finished by the time you leave this house.”

The implication was akin to a threat. Georgie bit back a smile.

Miss Margo deVere, game as a pebble, said, “Right-ho! Will you show us how it’s done, my lady?”

“But of course.” Elegant as a rose, Lady Arden set out the tools of their craft. “I have sketched out a design you may follow if you wish, or you may each design your own panel of wall and do it that way.”

She nodded to a waiting footman and he stepped forward with a pail full of gray slurry and a box full of tools. Lady Arden selected a trowel and held it up. “This is what you spread the mortar with, do you see? So. Select the shells you wish to use.”

She took a handful and set them down on the stone table in the center of the room. “Now, get up some of the mortar on your trowel and spread it thickly on the surface. Then you simply press the shells down into the mortar. Work quickly, and only spread as much mortar as you think you’ll need for the shells you have to hand, otherwise, the mortar will dry before you can press them in.”

She demonstrated, quickly making an attractive pattern of shells on the table itself.

“It’s like a mosaic,” said Lady Harriet. “I have seen sketches of Roman mosaics my father brought back from Pompeii. Only they were done in tiny tiles.”

“Precisely,” nodded Lady Arden. “I think it will be best if each of you work on your own panel, so that I may judge how well you do.”

She roughly divided the irregularly shaped room into sections and handed the ladies chalk. “You can mark out your design on the wall with the chalk, or you may do it freehand if you prefer.”

She looked over at Georgie. “Might I leave you in charge here?”

“Of course. Is there a trowel for me? I believe I shall finish your work on the table here, if I’m to stay.”

“Certainly, my dear. I’ll leave you to it, then.” She smiled at everyone. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Georgie seated herself at the little stone table and sorted through her allotted shells. As she worked, Georgie kept an assessing eye on the girls. Violet stared at the wall with a thoughtful brow before drawing some tentative lines. Then she shook her head and wiped them away with a cloth.

Miss deVere had already begun mortaring and sticking shells in a cheerfully haphazard design that somehow seemed to work quite well. Lady Harriet was making a very detailed, very pretty sketch of a lion that Georgie doubted could be easily translated with the materials to hand, but she would like to see the poor girl try.