One More Kiss

CHAPTER Sixteen





CECILIA ROSE TO find some tea, but Beatrice kept her seat, more puzzled than upset by the drama that had played out before them. It was more, much more than conflicting thoughts on Saint Paul’s call for wives to be submissive and husbands to love their wives. Lord Jess had introduced the subject of wives and the need for submission, Lord Crenshaw had been angry, and the marquis had been nervous.

One might call it gossip but Beatrice could not resist asking Lord Destry, “What upset you, my lord?”

The marquis had stood up, but he sat in his chair again, turning it so that he faced Beatrice more directly. He tapped his finger on his knee and finally answered her. “Jess deliberately tried to make someone angry and came very close to succeeding.”

“Mr. Garrett? He was not serious about beating one’s wife, was he?” Beatrice could hear the dismay in her voice. “I am sorry if I sound like a governess. I did ask.”

“Garrett beat his wife? Never. He worships the ground Olivia walks on.” Destry hesitated, something so rare in their short acquaintance that Beatrice was afraid for a moment. “Miss Brent, it is not a subject for genteel discussion.” He put his head back on his chair and closed his eyes briefly.

“Now you sound like my governess.” She laughed as she spoke.

Destry sat up straight. “If you are going to laugh at me then I will not try to be discreet and will instead shock you with the truth.”

“I would value the truth more than your attempts at delicacy, my lord.”

He leaned closer. “The truth is that Jess and Crenshaw hate each other.”

“But why? They are very different, I grant you that, but they also have so much in common. They are gentlemen. They both enjoy gaming to the extreme.” Beatrice paused. “It’s the gaming, isn’t it? They had some disagreement over a game of chance. Did Lord Crenshaw accuse Lord Jess of cheating?”

Destry’s laugh was full of irony and not much humor.

Beatrice nodded. “So that is the tawdry incident to which Papa referred.”

“No! No! One has never accused the other of cheating at a game of chance.” Destry shook his head. “You will have to ask Jess for the story. It is not mine to tell.”

“I should not ask Lord Crenshaw?”

“It might be interesting to ask both of them—not when they are together, mind you. But I do not think the baron will answer you, at least not as honestly as Jess would. And he may well be affronted by the question.”

Lord Destry stood up. “Now I need some tea, though I would prefer something stronger. If you will excuse me, Miss Brent.”

It was just short of rude of him to leave her alone, which proved to Beatrice how upset he was. She debated approaching Lord Jess directly but decided that there might be other ways of finding out what she wanted to know.

It was hard to believe that the Lord Crenshaw she knew was less than a gentleman, but she was already realizing that he was more controlling than she had once thought, and much less amiable. Lord Jess, on the other hand, was not just the man of good humor and easy spirits that he pretended to be. There was more to him. When Beatrice looked about for Cecilia, anxious to discuss her confusion, she realized that her sister was no longer among them.

“She went to bed,” Papa told her when she sought him out. “Something about needing her beauty sleep.”

How ridiculous, Beatrice thought. She must have been upset.

“Are you staying on awhile, Papa?”

He glanced at the countess and the two exchanged a smile. “No,” he said with a profound look of disappointment. “The countess has no more tasks for me and I cannot avoid the meetings in town any longer. Roger will have laid the plans before the potential investors but I need to be there to answer their questions.”

“Perhaps you will be able to stop here again before the girls actually have to leave,” the countess suggested. “Havenhall is only a few hours’ travel from London, not such a great detour.”

“Please, Papa, insist that Roger come, too,” Beatrice added. “He works much too hard.” As she spoke Beatrice watched the countess tuck her arm in the crook of Mr. Brent’s elbow.

Beatrice closed her eyes. For the love of God, they are having an affair. Of a sudden, she was sure of it. The way they looked at each other made her think of the way Lord Destry looked at Cecilia, as though looking was not going to be enough.

“Will I see you at breakfast, Papa?”

“If you are up early.”

“I will be there at six o’clock, then.”

“No, Beatrice,” her godmother countered, “I think nine will be quite early enough.”

Papa was always up when the cock crowed. But apparently not tomorrow. What would the others say when they saw him at breakfast? She must talk to Cecilia.

With a fond if slightly embarrassed good night to her father and the countess, Beatrice left the room. Mrs. Kendrick and the earl were discussing something in the passage, and were apparently on their way to bed as well.

Beatrice reasoned that if they were going to the same bed they would not need to stand here to converse. Of course they could be discussing whose bed would be more comfortable.

She giggled at the thought. Her level of sophistication would move up several levels before this party was over. Look at her—she was no longer shocked but laughing, all right, giggling, at the idea of a love affair.

Cecilia was still dressed when Beatrice reached their room, though Darwell was in the small dressing room, ready to help her disrobe. Ceci was staring into the mirror, a distant look in her eyes.

Beatrice went into the dressing room. “Darwell, Ceci and I will help each other this evening. You may leave now.”

Darwell was shocked.

“Yes, I know it verifies that we are not born with a title or raised to be waited on, but it is only one night. I promise that tomorrow I will be as demanding as a duke’s daughter.”

Darwell shook her head, even though her lips twitched with a smile. “You are impertinent, Miss Beatrice, but charmingly so. Thank you, miss, I will say good night and be here in the morning.”

“We are to meet Papa for a farewell breakfast at nine o’clock.”

“Miss Cecilia will not ride in the morning?” They both looked at Cecilia, who had not heard a word they said.

“Perhaps in the afternoon, Darwell,” Beatrice spoke for her sister. “It promises to be a cool day.”

Darwell nodded and with a worried glance at Cecilia moved toward the door. “I trust you understand your sister well enough to deal with her distress.”

“Yes, I do, Darwell. And thank you for your understanding and concern.”

“Do not thank me, Miss Beatrice. It is so plebeian.”

“Yes, I know, but I keep forgetting that I am not supposed to.” Beatrice smiled as the oh-so-proper lady’s maid shook her head in resignation and left the room. Darwell was probably more of a lady than she was.

Beatrice walked over to her sister, who had gone from staring into the mirror to looking out the window.

Standing next to her twin, Beatrice said nothing, waiting for Ceci to speak first.

“I know that all I have to offer a gentleman are my looks and a healthy body for bearing children,” Cecilia began. “But you know there is still a person inside who worries and loves like everyone else.”

When Cecilia turned to face her sister her eyes were glazed with tears. “Yes, the first thing anyone notices about me is that I am pretty,” she continued. “Even knowing how meaningless that is, I did virtually the same thing. I judged a man by his rank and appearance.”

Beatrice was so taken aback by Cecilia’s comment she had no answer. Though she was certain of one thing. “You have far more to offer than a lovely face. You know that. You are thoughtful and kind. Your knowledge of flowers and plants is superior. You can speak French even better than our governess, and Mama wanted you to read to her because your voice is so sweet. That is only the beginning of what makes you a treasure to everyone who knows you.”

“Bitsy, how could I so misjudge the marquis?” Cecilia exclaimed as though she had not heard a word her sister had said. “I mean, how could I take Lord Destry’s measure the way I did, without seeing the man of worth beneath his outlandish behavior?”

“For the love of God, Ceci.” Beatrice was confused and just a trifle exasperated. “What brought this on?”

Cecilia moved away from the window and walked into the dressing room, moving as though her gown weighed a hundred pounds. She stopped in front of the great cheval glass and then turned to face her sister, who had followed her.

“Did you hear what the marquis said when Mr. Garrett asked what we should teach our children?”

Beatrice thought back and shook her head, with apology.

“Lord Destry said that we should teach children to love one another.” Ceci took her sister’s hands. “He is one of the wealthiest men in England, related to the highest ranking nobility, and he thinks nothing is more important than loving one another. Is that not remarkable?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And he said that he did not like intellectual discussions. Silly man.”

Silly man? And suddenly Beatrice understood. Her sister’s opinion of Lord Destry had changed dramatically.

“Are you developing a tendre for him?” Beatrice asked, and then regretted speaking so directly.

“Oh, no! I could never be a duchess.”

Now who was being silly? Cecilia would make a wonderful duchess and not because she was beautiful, but how many times could she argue that point in one night? She would pray that Cecilia was able to determine it for herself.

“Are you tired?”

“I wish I was. I am as wide awake as I am in the morning.”

“Then let’s find out where the gentlemen are gaming, on the pretext of seeing if anyone is riding in the morning. Then perhaps we can join them for a while. We did say we would let them teach us how to game.”

“Oh, Beatrice, I don’t think we should do that. It does not sound at all proper.”

“Of course it is.”

“I do not want to see—” Cecilia stopped mid-sentence and then went on. “That is, I do not want to go downstairs again. I want to go to bed.”

“But you said you are not at all tired.”

“Then we can talk or read to each other. I may not be fatigued but I have had enough of the others for now.”

“The others” being the marquis. “All right. We shall be each other’s maid like when we were younger. Turn around and let me undo your dress and stays.”

Once in bed with a branch of candles lit, Beatrice read a few passages aloud from their favorite poem.

“The Lady of the Lake must surely be Scott’s most successful poem,” Beatrice declared.

They were propped up against their pillows, not looking at each other. In fact when Beatrice glanced at her, Cecilia’s eyes were closed.

“I think it’s the sort of story that appeals to both men and women,” Cecilia mused. “Even more than Frankenstein.”

“Scott has battles and a love story that everyone can admire.” Beatrice set the book on the table next to her bed and blew out all but one candle.

“All right, Ceci. If we were casting it for an amateur theatrical you would be Ellen.” She went on before her sister could object. “Who would you choose to play James Fitz-James?”

“I think Lord Jess,” Cecilia said, playing along. “Even though Fitz-James was, in fact, King James the Fifth. He liked to visit his subjects in disguise so he must have had a sense of fun. Though I am not sure that Lord Jess has the right gravitas for such a role.”

“But the marquis is a more noble rank.”

“Oh no, he must be Malcolm Graeme.”

“Ellen’s beloved?”

“Yes, of course. He and Lord Destry share so many of the same qualities. They both are loyal, and ride like the wind.”

Cecilia ended her words with a jaw-cracking yawn and a murmured apology as she relaxed and closed her eyes. Beatrice felt a moment of annoyance. She was still not tired. What were they doing in bed before midnight? With a sigh she blew out the candle. “Good night, sister.”

A couple of slurred words that might have been “Sleep well” were Cecilia’s only response.

Beatrice settled herself, restaging the cast for The Lady of the Lake. If she were Ellen Douglas she would cast Jess Pennistan as Malcolm Graeme. She did not want a lover who was her height. And Destry would make a fine enough James Fitz-James.