The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“I don’t think I will ever look at a buttock of beef again the same way,” Helen said.

There was a stain of ashes on her nose, a small streak down her cheek. Lord Beecham lightly rubbed it off with his fingertip.

He said close to her hair, which smelled a bit like smoke, “Not only am I to your nose, I can even see the ribbons you’ve threaded through your hair.”

Flock cleared his throat. “I believe, Miss Helen, that you should repair once again to the drawing room. I will bring what food is edible and you will dine there. However, I must first go outside, where Monsieur Jerome is very probably pacing nervously, the poor Frog, to tell him that his feu du monde was an unexpected surprise.”

“Bring more champagne,” said Lord Prith. “It is one of those dark moments.”

5

LORD BEECHAM STRETCHED out in his bed, his head pillowed on his arms, and watched the thin, lazy light from the one candle beside him curl upward to form vague outlines of exotic shapes above his head.

It was the strangest thing. Tucked in among those weaving, ever-changing shapes above him he again saw Helen Mayberry with her father’s bright-red wool scarf tied around her neck, the knot right in the middle of her breasts. He had wanted to laugh his head off, but managed to hold back, nearly choking when he swallowed the wrong way.

She had worn that ridiculous scarf the entire evening, tied between her breasts, its tails hanging down nearly to her thighs. They had finally dined on potatoes, beautifully stewed and smoked, three different oyster dishes, also richly and unintentionally smoked, and some dressed green beans that looked gray. Lord Prith had sighed. The damned Frog chef was always making Helen oyster dishes, he told Lord Beecham, to tantalize her more base desires. He supposed that Helen had base desires, but understandably he did not like to think of his only precious little girl in that light.

“Poor Jerome,” Helen had said, taking her father’s words in affectionate stride. “Flock said he has written to all his relatives in France to learn more recipes for oysters. Since we are at war with France, I doubt he will be receiving additional cooking instructions anytime soon, at least, I hope, not until after we have left London.”

Lord Beecham nearly laughed again, but caught himself in time. “Perhaps he needs a touch of discipline,” he said after swallowing a singularly doughy bite of a roll that was so filled with smoke it turned the butter black.

“Eh?” said Lord Prith. “What is this, boy? You know about discipline?”

“Certainly, sir. I am an Englishman.”

But there had been no further discussion of discipline because Flock had come into the drawing room at that moment to inform his lordship that it was time for their walk. Lord Prith shook Lord Beecham’s hand and bade him good night, kissed his daughter and bade her sleep well, straightened the red wool scarf around her neck, and left the drawing room, whistling. It was close, but Lord Prith’s head missed the lintel by a good inch.

“Flock and my father take a twenty-minute walk every night that it isn’t raining. It was getting late and Flock needs his sleep. Nine hours a night, he tells my father.”

She laughed, shook her head, and showed him out not five minutes later.

And now he was in bed, lying there, seeing her twining in and out of those damned smoky shapes over his head in his bedchamber. She was still wearing her father’s red wool scarf and he was still thinking about inching his fingers down beneath that lovely ivory gown of hers to touch her warm flesh.

“She will give me excellent sport,” he said, blew a kiss to Helen in and among the shadows overhead, blew out the candle, and smiled as he watched the dash of candle smoke explode into the air.

Lord Beecham knew women. He knew strategy. He was a master hunter.

He made no effort to see Miss Helen Mayberry for three days.

On Thursday afternoon the small park across from Lord Beecham’s town house on Grosvenor Square was rioting with spring flowers—sunny daffodils, pale lavender lilacs, creamy red azaleas. There were other richly bloomed flowers peeking out here and there, but he didn’t know what they were called. It was a beautiful day, and he decided he had worked enough on the estate accounts. He informed his secretary, Pliny Blunder (an unfortunate appellation that the man did his best to overcome by working harder than any three secretaries in London), to leave him alone, that he was pale from being locked up in this damned estate room for so long and that he was going riding.

Pliny didn’t want him to quit working, however, having produced a thick pile of accounts and correspondence that would surely prove his worth, if only his lordship would put off—for just another hour, maybe two—his quite unnecessary ride in the park.

“My lord, you are not at all pale. Look yon at the accounts for Paledowns. Well, not really that many accounts from tradesmen and that sort of thing, but I have many recommendations, my lord, that have added excellent bulk to the pile.”

“Recommendations, Blunder?”

“Yes, my lord. Your aunt Mabel is so very frugal that now she is refusing to buy new sheets even after Lord Hilton put his foot through one when he was visiting just last month.”

“Prepare a very civil letter to my aunt Mabel telling her that you are ordering new linen and it will be delivered to her.”

“But my lord, I know nothing about linen.”

“That is why God created housekeepers, Blunder. Speak to Mrs. Glass. Now you will leave me alone. You may torture me tomorrow morning, but not before ten o’clock, do you understand me?”

“I understand, my lord, but I cannot be happy about it.”

“Get Burney to saddle up Luther now, Blunder. Run to the stables—you are on the pale side yourself—to inform him. I am leaving right now. My eyes are crossing, my fingers are numb, my brain is an ascending balloon—all hot air. Leave me alone.”