“Miss Leonard, we meet at last.” The viscount acknowledged Hermione with a stiff bow while she swept him a deep, graceful curtsey.
“Lord Benedict, it is a pleasure to meet the beloved brother of my betrothed.”
Often, in the company of grand ladies and gentlemen, Rebecca felt as if she were invisible. Now, she wished she was so she would not have to confront the viscount in her true, humble identity—a penniless governess he would scarcely condescend to notice.
But she was not invisible and Lord Benedict most certainly did notice her. Turning away from Hermione without responding to her greeting, he fixed Rebecca with the icy intensity of his slate-blue stare. “Miss Beaton, I presume? Or am I mistaken about your identity once again?”
“Lord Benedict.” She strove to keep her back straight as she curtsied, determined not to let the viscount intimidate her. “Since you have kindly given me an opportunity to answer this time, I am pleased to inform you that you are not mistaken.”
The excessively polite impertinence of her reply made Claude Stanhope sputter with laughter while Hermione let out a girlish giggle.
Lord Benedict tried to scowl, but one corner of his mouth appeared to resist. “In the course of our previous conversation, I gave you a number of opportunities to correct my error, Miss Beaton. Yet you allowed me to persist in making a fool of myself.”
Put that way, her well-intentioned actions sounded quite mean-spirited. Did Lord Benedict assume she’d kept him ignorant of her true identity simply to amuse herself at his expense? Once again Rebecca found herself unable to answer the viscount, but not because he gave her no chance to speak.
To her relief, the church bell came to her rescue, summoning them to worship.
“Come Miss Beaton,” Hermione tugged on Rebecca’s arm. “Or we shall be late.”
“Sebastian,” Claude Stanhope beckoned his brother. “Perhaps we can speak to the ladies after church.”
With a mixture of eagerness and reluctance, Rebecca followed Hermione into the fine old sanctuary of golden-brown Cotswold stone. She knew very well why she was anxious to escape Lord Benedict and his disturbing suggestion that she had behaved deceitfully. What baffled her was a contrary desire to remain in his company. Perhaps it was that discerning gaze of his, which seemed to see her in a way few others did. Or perhaps it was the compelling music of his voice that made her want to listen even when his words were not agreeable to her.
As the service progressed, she was acutely conscious of the viscount’s fine voice as he joined in the prayers and responses of the liturgy, from two pews behind her.
“Reading from the Gospel According to St. Matthew,” intoned the vicar, “‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’”
Was that what she and Lord Benedict were doing? Rebecca wondered as she listened to the familiar passage with uncomfortable new insight. She had judged him to be just like her haughty relatives while he had judged her to be a mocking liar. It troubled her to consider which of them might be closer to the truth.
“‘Therefore,’” the vicar concluded, “‘all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.’”
How would she feel, Rebecca’s conscience demanded, if Lord Benedict had allowed her to persist in a mistaken assumption when a few words from him might have set her straight? While she might not have strictly deceived him yesterday, she had strayed far from the Golden Rule. Though her pride rebelled at the prospect, Rebecca could not escape the conviction that she owed the haughty viscount an apology. Whether he would accept it was quite another matter.
Hard as he tried, Sebastian found it difficult to concentrate on the service that morning. Against his will, his gaze kept straying from his prayer book to the women seated two pews ahead.
No wonder his brother considered it such a fine joke that he’d mistaken Miss Beaton for Hermione Leonard. Claude’s fiancée had proven to be precisely the sort of silly chit Sebastian expected. Her fluttering lashes, whispery voice and grating giggles told him all he needed to know about her within a minute of their introduction.
Claude had been right in saying she looked younger than her years. Sebastian did not count that in her favor. He had no doubt she acted younger too. In his experience, young ladies as pretty as Miss Leonard had little enough sense to begin with. They tended to be selfish, sometimes cruelly so, and they scarcely knew their own minds from one moment to the next.
If only he’d been able to speak to her yesterday before she’d been put on her guard, he might have persuaded her to release his brother from their ill-considered engagement. No doubt Miss Beaton and her pupil had enjoyed a good laugh at his expense. Perhaps the governess congratulated herself on matching wits with a man like him and coming out the winner. Even as that notion vexed him, he could not quell a stubborn flicker of admiration for such a capable adversary.
Thinking back on their conversation, he was forced to admit Miss Beaton had not spoken a single untrue word, yet she had given him no reason to doubt his mistaken assumption about her identity either. It could not have been an easy balance to maintain. Neither could he deny the misunderstanding was partly his fault. If he had not been so determined to have his say, without interruption or argument, Miss Beaton might have been compelled to reveal the truth.
The moment the service concluded, Sebastian was accosted by a talkative acquaintance and detained for several minutes. Once he managed to break free, he looked around for the women but saw no sign of them. Given the accusing way he had addressed Miss Beaton earlier, he could hardly blame her if she’d fled from the church with all haste. He could not shake an unaccountable sense of disappointment.
Emerging from the dimly lit sanctuary, he squinted against the brilliant spring sunshine as he scanned the churchyard.
Over beside the gig, he spied his brother absorbed in deep conversation with Hermione Leonard. In Sebastian’s opinion, it was grossly unfair that once a man had made an offer of marriage, he was honor-bound to go through with the wedding, no matter what the circumstances. Only the lady had the right to change her mind.
“Lord Benedict?” At the unexpected sound of Miss Beaton’s voice behind him, Sebastian turned swiftly.
Seeing her standing to one side of the vestibule door, he found himself uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
She seized the initiative. “If I may, sir, I wish to continue our conversation from before the service. Upon reflection, I realize I behaved badly yesterday, when you came looking for Miss Leonard. I ought to have informed you at once of your mistake rather than encouraging your continued belief that I was she.”