Taris stood alone by a pillar and seemed to know the exact moment she joined him, placing his arm forwards and tucking her hand in the crook of it when she laid it on his sleeve.
‘I hope this means you have said yes to the dance, Mrs Bassingstoke?’
‘You may not feel the same after I have trodden on your feet for a full five minutes or more, my lord.’
‘You are telling me you are a poor dancer?’
‘The very worst in the room, and one with a minimum of practice.’
‘You do not enjoy dancing?’
‘I did not say that, sir. It is just that I am seldom asked.’
‘Then every man here must be blind.’
She could not help but laugh at his ridiculous comment, though when his arm came around her waist and his fingers clasped her hand she sobered. She had never danced this particular dance, not with anyone at all, though she had practised sometimes in the privacy of her room with a pillow.
Goodness, Taris Wellingham was hardly a pillow and they were so very close, her fingers entwined in his, her pliant body pressed against his hardness.
‘You always smell the same.’
‘The same?’
‘Flowers. You use flowers as a perfume.’
‘An attar of violets,’ she returned, amazed that he had even noticed.
She felt him breathe in, tasting her, the sensual and tiny movement poignant in the situation in which they now found themselves, and behind thick glasses his eyes were opaque amber and watching.
Would he like what he could still see? Did the plain he had spoken of look less inviting in the full light of the candles, a woman who only in fancy and hopefulness could ever stand a chance?
A chance of what?
Her thoughts turned in a tumble. She must not think like that! This was but a dance, a trifling thing and transitory. Around the perimeter of the floor she saw a hundred others watching them and was jolted back. Silly daydreams from a woman who after all wished for neither a permanent relationship nor marriage ever again and was hardly in a social stratum lofty enough to count as a would-be bride should she even want it.
‘Are you in London for long, my lord?’ She sought a neutral topic and the sensible tone in her voice was comforting.
‘One week,’ he answered. ‘I rarely stay for any length of time.’ As if he felt her withdrawal he loosened his hold and the gap between them widened. No longer pressed so close. No longer dancing as if they were the only couple on the floor.
‘Perhaps, then, you might come to my discussion on Wednesday night.’
‘Perhaps.’
She was not dissuaded by his tone. ‘The topic is on the rights of a woman to her own property once she is married.’
He smiled. ‘And you think that would hold my attention?’
‘You are a well-educated man, my lord, and an articulate one. I would think that the unfairness of the situation, where by law virtually all of a woman’s property becomes her husband’s upon marriage, would be of interest to you.’
Again he smiled. ‘You do not take into account my upbringing. As the sons of a duke, we were taught from the cradle that the notion of a husband being the guardian of his wife’s land is just common sense.’
‘Your own mother taught you that? Is she still alive?’ Beatrice could not believe what she was hearing.
When his laughter rang across the room the other couples dancing close to them looked around.
‘The change that you speak of does not happen overnight, Bea, and I should advise you to take care.’
‘Take care?’
‘Some members of the aristocracy may be averse to your liberal views.’
‘The vested interest of men who would not benefit from change, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you one of those men?’
His fingers squeezed hers as if in warning. She noticed that he did not use much space on the floor. They had virtually danced in almost the same spot for the whole of the time.
‘Sometimes opinions that are too strident can cause more trouble than they are worth. A wise woman would pick an argument she could win.’
She felt her heart beat faster and he must have felt it too for he tilted his head in the particular way he had of doing so.
‘I would never hurt you, Beatrice. At least know that.’
‘I do.’
Said with the conviction of a woman who did know, the strange intimacy between them confounding her with the very brevity of their acquaintance. She had never talked with anyone before as she had talked with Taris Wellingham, sparring with words and yet safe! Here was a man who was big enough to allow others their differing opinions whilst testing his own.
So unlike her husband!
‘There is another matter that I should like to discuss with you,’ he said. She felt him looking at her, felt the position of his body straight against her own. ‘I have had a report on the cause of the accident. It seems that the wheel did not shear off on its own accord, but was assisted.’
‘Assisted?’
‘Sawn. Almost in half.’
Taris did not soften his words at all and when she tripped against him held her still.
‘Someone tried to kill me?’
Her question was odd. ‘There were five people in the carriage. What makes you think it was you that they were after?’
Her breath was taken in one trembling gasp and he knew even as she remained silent that there were things she had not told him, but the final strains of the dance had just ended and his brother moved over to join them.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Beatrice was all distance and good manners and he tried to determine in which direction she had stepped away, but could not.
‘I hope she gave you an apology for the other day.’ Ashe placed his arm against his own.
‘I think she gave me more than that.’
‘The Bassingstoke money is forged in steel, Taris, Ipswich steel, and the workers as poorly paid and as underaged as any in England.’
‘You have been busy, brother.’ An edge of criticism curled in Taris’s answer.
‘I like to think of it as careful. The woman was with you overnight, after all, and I thought it only prudent to find out something about her.’
Hating himself for the question, Taris nevertheless asked it. ‘And what did you find out about her?’
‘She was widowed a month before the carriage accident, though few in the area knew her or her husband socially as they did not seem to mingle much. Indeed, it was said that she was rather reserved so I am hoping that she will not present…a problem.’
‘Problem?’
‘She is a widow of means. If she decided that your night together ruined her reputation, you might find yourself in trouble.’
‘The woman came as a friend tonight, Ashe, not to hold me accountable for the consequences of a carriage accident.’
‘Emerald implied that she could be interested in you in other ways.’
‘Other ways?’ Taris did not like the tone of entreaty in his query. What had Emerald seen that he himself had not? The feel of Bea against him was hard to forget. Even here in a roomful of women all vying for his attention he still sought the honeyed and gently lisping tones of the clever Widow Bassingstoke, yearning like an adolescent for her soft full breasts and for her eagerness.
‘Emerald thought perhaps there was more to that night in the barn.’
‘More?’
‘Damn it, Taris, your name has been linked to no woman’s since you returned from Jamaica and that does not come from any lack of interested women. My lady wife thought perhaps the…drought had been broken.’
‘Drought? If you weren’t my brother…’
‘Then I wouldn’t care at all,’ Asher supplied before he could end the sentence. ‘It is only because I am your brother that I take the time to try to protect you.’
‘Well, don’t, for I need neither a nursemaid nor a minder and if you feel I may sully the family name by dallying with someone unsuitable then perhaps you should look to your own recent past.’
‘I didn’t mean…if you liked her it would be different…’
‘Enough, Asher. Rutledge would not take kindly, I think, to seeing two of his patrons having a fist-and-cuff in his salon and any association I choose to pursue with Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke is none of your damn business.’
‘Very well. If you feel that strongly about her…’
Taris suddenly frowned, having the sneaking suspicion that he had just been taken for a ride in the dulcet tones of his sibling, and wondering too just what his defence of the Widow Bassingstoke actually meant.
He knew that she was still here, for he had caught the sound of her voice. His eyesight, however, allowed him no possible means of locating her again and he did not dare to chance sending Bates to wheedle the promise of another dance.
It simply was not done. One dance would not excite the comment two would, and already he could hear in the buzz of comments around him speculation about Beatrice-Maude and their possible relationship, as he seldom took to the floor at any of these soirees. He smiled. Seldom was probably putting a generous face on it—never would be the more appropriate term.
Chapter Seven
An assortment of calling cards and invitations arrived the next morning and Bea found them in a tidy pile on the salver on the hall table.
Lord, she thought as she sorted through them, the impressive list of names making her wonder. She remembered when Frankwell had received cards in Ipswich in the early years of their marriage and the lengths he had gone to arrange them where they might be the most visible.