Ann Lethbridge - Regency Society

Beatrice leapt into the fray. ‘I hardly think that the virtual loss of a woman’s property on marrying can be compensated by the unlikely event that if she breaks a law her husband may take the blame for it.’

Taris was beginning to feel the flimsiness of his arguments, but pressed on regardless. ‘Female capriciousness is well documented and some might say that the art of marriage is nothing more than an economic transaction tied to the protection of the great estates.’

A murmur settled around the room, and he realised he had probably used the wrong word when describing the changeable character of women. Beatrice’s quick reply was well worded.

‘Others would argue that it is nothing more than a sham to allow men the right of power over something that was never theirs in the first place, Lord Wellingham.’

‘ Yet you do not take into account that economic manoeuvring favours a bride as well as a groom if the financial aspects are considered openly. The benefits of a well set-out investment can hardly be to the disadvantage of either party.’

‘Well set out for the husband, my lord. Should he wish to confine her against her will and administer any properties himself he is well within his rights to do so.’

‘Our world is not peopled with characters from Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, Mrs Bassingstoke, and the “vile Lovelace” exists only in a story.’

Laughter resounded and Taris fought to hear Beatrice’s voice above it.

‘Any husband may “correct” his wife should he wish to do so and the tales of such cruelty are certainly not solely the preserve of popular fiction.’

There was a tone in her voice that was not simply academic, a tone that trembled beneath the tenets of truth and chased away any desire he might have had to keep such a disagreement going.

‘Touché,’ he returned with a smile as he leant back against the wall and took a sip of fine brandy. ‘I concede my case entirely.’

‘It’s not like you to give up a fight, Taris?’

Jack’s question a few seconds later held a warning within it that he did not like as the chatter around them grew more general.

‘You are beginning to sound just like my brother.’

‘And your week is beginning to ring with the dubious clanging of firsts, my friend.’

‘How so?’ Finishing his brandy, Taris knew exactly what was coming.

‘The first waltz, the first concession of an argument you could have won had you truly wanted to…’

‘You read too much into these actions.’

‘Do I, indeed? Your Mrs Bassingstoke is coming towards us, by the way, and she looks like a cat who just swallowed the cream. Perhaps your reasoning in playing the “honourably beaten” was sounder than I gave it credit for, after all.’

Taris shoved his glass into Jack’s hand. ‘Get me another drink, will you?’

‘I will do so only because I detect your desire to be alone with the clever widow,’ he returned, laughter imbued in his retort.

‘Lord Henshaw looks as though he is enjoying our soiree,’ Beatrice said less than a few seconds later. ‘I hope that you are too?’

‘The debate is all that I imagined it to be.’

Her answer was worried. ‘I think our discussions go better when the opinion for and against them is more evenly divided.’

He laughed. ‘You won the argument, Bea.’

‘But not well. I think you gave up on me for some reason.’

He felt her hand on his arm, the pounding awareness between them blotting out all other noise.

‘Could I speak to you alone? After this is over?’

‘Yes.’ She gave her promise easily and as the world and its noise and need cascaded again on to them she was claimed in speech by another before disappearing into the crowded room.

Taris Wellingham had spoken carefully and well in the debate, she thought. A man who was confident in his ability to woo a crowd and gracious in defeat.

He was nobody’s man save his own, the one concession to his limited sight an opened hand that lay on the wall behind. He always did that, always created an anchor to the environment around him. The fence at the park, the ledge of the window in the carriage, his foot against the edge of the ditch in the snow outside Maldon.

A small habit that would be unremarkable without the knowledge that she had of how little he could really see. She watched him now from the other side of the room, watched his ease in a setting that was eminently foreign to him. The signet ring on his little finger glinted in the light as he pushed his dark hair back, his eyes creasing at the corners when he smiled.

Taris Wellingham was a man who might trace his ancestry back through all the years of history and yet he had conceded the argument to her with grace. She wondered suddenly whether he had done so by choice, as there had been a tone in his words denoting empathy that she found disconcerting.

The quick flash of her husband ‘correcting’ yet another opinion came to mind and she pushed it back, all the laughter and discourse in this room as far from the big Ipswich house as she could ever be.

Lifting her glass of punch to her lips, she dragged her eyes away from the enigmatic and mercurial Lord Wellingham and wished the hour before everybody would leave away.

Everyone was gone. Almost everyone, she amended and looked again to see that Taris still sat on the blue sofa in her salon.

‘I could stay if you want…?’ Elspeth was uncertain as she gazed towards the room.

‘I am a twenty-eight-year-old widow, Elspeth, and sense is my middle name.’

‘Still, a man like that could—’

She did not let her finish. ‘Look at me, Elspeth. A man like that is here merely to speak to me and I am very happy to listen.’

‘You are not as plain as you might say, Beatrice, and sometimes when you argue a point so very cleverly every male in the room looks at you in the way of men who are wanting much more than just words.’

‘A sentiment I shall receive as a compliment. But you forget I have no wish to take any such flattery further.’

‘Very well, then. But I shall be back in the morning to make certain that…’

‘And I shall look forward to the company.’

Bea was pleased when her friend finally allowed her to shepherd her out; turning, she walked into the salon, shutting the door against the bustling of servants clearing away the last of the plates and the glasses in the dining room.

‘Thank you for allowing me to talk to you privately,’ he said and waited as she sat next to him.

‘If this is about my conversation with your sister…’

He raised his right hand and she came to a stop. ‘Did Mr Bassingstoke ever “correct” you, Beatrice?’

Her world spun in a receding dizzy arc as she clutched at the arm on her end of the sofa. Had he seen the movement? For the first time since knowing of his blindness she was glad of it.

‘All my arguments were purely theoretical, my lord,’ she returned, her voice sounding almost normal, ‘and I could easily take umbrage should you think a man might rule me like that.’

‘A lack of sight has some benefits, Mrs Bassingstoke. One of them is the ability to determine the cadence of untruth.’

She was silent.

‘At Maldon you limited our liaison to just one night. I would like to negotiate for another.’

‘One night…?’ Her voice was squeaky.

‘More if you are offering.’ His smile made his eyes dance and the glasses gave him a rakish appearance. His cane lay untouched against his thigh as if, for the moment, he was comfortable and relaxed. Still, he looked much too big for her small salon, a tiger readied to pounce, the amber in his irises predatory. She could not move, could not rise and say nay to any of it, could not remember the promise that she had made to herself of ‘never again’.