Victoria Hanlen - The Trouble With Misbehaving

He spoke quietly, smiling. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Daisy.” She popped her thumb out of her mouth, gave him a shy smile and bashfully hid her face in her father’s pant leg.

By now a footman had unloaded his luggage.

“A minute, please.” Beau strode over and opened his trunk. “I have presents!” He pulled out four American frontier coonskin hats and handed one to each child.

“Thank you Uncle Beauford,” they chorused.

“A fine family you have here, Thomas.” He smiled. “It’s good to be home.” He’d longed for a quiet, peaceful rest and a chance to get to know his family. His sister-in-law’s invitation had said a small birthday party for his brother.

“Has Wills arrived for your party? Beau hadn’t seen his second eldest brother, six years his senior, since their father’s funeral.

“He and his wife may be greeting their new babe as we speak. He sent their regrets, and hopes he may introduce you to his family in the near future.” Thomas curled his arm around Beau’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. “My lady wife is eager to make your acquaintance. I don’t know if you were told, but Amelia thought my birthday party the perfect opportunity to show off the new renovations. Once you get settled you can meet all the guests.”

***

The last thing Beau wanted to do after such an arduous trip was sit at a long dinner table with thirty-plus guests and make polite conversation. Yet here he sat, five from the end.

After a bath and an abbreviated nap he’d arrived just in time to take his place at table. Stifling a yawn, he surreptitiously glanced left and right. On either side of him sat two nearly identical, shy young women. Both possessed even features, blue eyes, pale skin, blonde hair and similar white gowns—ideal flowers of English womanhood.

His sister-in-law obviously took matchmaking seriously. The two lasses were daughters of landed gentry and probably considered a reasonable match for a questionably suitable, questionably solvent and questionably steadfast third son of an earl.

Beau sat uncomfortably in his new formal black suit. He slid a finger between his neck and collar and tugged.

Down the far end, at the head of the table, sat his brother Thomas. He now wore a splendid tailored dark suit, stiff white shirt, white waistcoat and a perfectly tied white cravat. Somehow his eldest brother had always looked impressive, yet comfortable, in clothes that would chafe Beau’s hide.

Clearly his sister in law, the new Lady Grancliffe, was having fun restoring grandeur to the earldom and the old hall. Lavish new gold candelabra, sparkling silver and abundant flower arrangements decorated the white tablecloth.

Beau turned to the young woman on his right. “Did you grow up in these parts, Miss Winfield?”

She nodded, giggling, and reached toward her ear to twist a hair curl around a finger.

He turned to his left. “And how about you, Miss Trundel?”

She gave a quick cough he interpreted as a yes. Then she became engrossed in—if he wasn’t mistaken—a silver question mark dangling from her charm bracelet.

He tried again with Miss Winfield. “Have you known Lady Grancliffe long?”

She blushed and shook her head, making her gold and pearl earrings twirl in circles.

He turned back to Miss Trundel. “Is this your first visit to Grancliffe Hall?”

Her rouge-brightened lips puckered. “No.” She twiddled the next charm resembling a canoe—or was it a slipper?

The footmen placed dishes in front of them and filled their wineglasses. Evidently the young women were as relieved as Beau with the interruption, for they made a production of cutting their poached pheasant and savoring their dry rosé in silence.

Far down the table on his side, a glass tipped over. The sound of breaking crystal cut through the hum of conversation. A strange hooting cackle seemed to come from the vicinity of the breakage.

A female voice announced loudly, “No apologies necessary, sir. I’m quite all right. However, I must make an observation. If you’re unable to refrain from spilling your wine, it seems doubtful you could possibly keep any woman happy.”

Beau’s lips quivered. He knew that voice, though it sounded more strident than he remembered. Her insinuation wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow in most dockside taverns he’d frequented, but such words brayed at an earl’s table were nothing less than shocking. Excitement surged through him. And he couldn’t decide if it was from the memory of holding C.C. in his arms, or his prison camp paranoia leaping back to life, screaming trap .

He hadn’t noticed her when he entered the room. What was she doing here? He looked down the table for a woman resembling the coal-smudged shopkeeper he’d kissed at Cremorne. Then he looked again. Only one woman met her basic description, but she couldn’t be her. Everything about her screamed ‘elegant lady.’

A jingling sound drew his attention back to Miss Trundel as she sawed industriously at her pheasant. “My, what a lovely bracelet.” He smiled. “Do the charms have special meaning?”

By now she’d warmed to him, a little, and she smiled shyly. “Yes.”

“That charm, the one that looks like a canoe, what’s its significance?”

Miss Trundel curled her hand to her mouth and whispered, “It’s a banana.”

He gazed at the small charm. “So i’tis. I take it you’re fond of bananas?”

She giggled and leaned to exchange speaking glances with Miss Winfield.

Beau turned to Miss Winfield. She’d obviously been staring at him. Her eyes went wide and her pale skin brightened to crimson.

He worked to give her a smile and took a gulp of wine. This was getting painful. Struggling to extract dull small talk from proper young women barely out of the schoolroom was giving him a headache. He’d much rather talk to a certain cheeky shopgirl.

During the next course, a grating giggle rose above the conversation. It went on and on until finally ending with several porcine-like snorts. “Dear me,” she said, “Yankee Doll? A man of your advanced years and you still have a tendre for dolls ?”

Beau stifled a laugh. The table grew quieter. He stretched forward to see around the other guests and found himself staring. No. She couldn’t be C.C. The woman at the end of the table was resplendent, almost…ethereal.

A low-cut, exquisite lavender gown emphasized her long neck and soft, creamy bosom. Amethysts draped her cleavage. Flower buds adorned an elaborate profusion of sable curls. Her features were more pronounced, lovelier, as if a master artist had applied a regal finish.

He looked closer.

Good God, it was her. What a transformation. And what an enchantress!

Heat rushed through his body as he recalled their kisses. He willed her to make eye contact. As if hearing his request, she turned, raised her thick dark lashes and locked gazes.

Nothing. No reaction. Her eyes could have been marble for all the response they showed. She turned away to speak to another guest.

Beau casually shifted his gaze. Either she was tragically purblind, or she didn’t wish to know him—most likely the latter. She’d sent him three letters, and had been so eager to meet with him she’d chastised him for burning the first two. Now she mysteriously appeared at his family’s country home and didn’t acknowledge him? What was she up to?

The gentleman on the other side of Miss Winfield leaned around her and groused, “I don’t know why they continue to invite that crazy woman. She is positively off her nut, insulting Viscount Falgate that way.” The man shook his head and wrinkled his nose distastefully. “The stories I could tell you about her.”