The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

She waved her gloved fist under his nose. “Why haven’t you come to see me, damn you? Why haven’t you even sent me some nice posies, a poem praising my eyebrows, anything that gentlemen regularly do? It has been three days.”

He chewed on the grass, gave her a lazy smile, and leaned back, bracing himself on his elbows. “I am a man, Miss Mayberry. I do the chasing.”

She rose very slowly to stand over him, her hands on her hips. “There was no chasing. You weren’t doing anything at all.”

“Psychological discipline. I would have acted when I felt it was appropriate. I am much better at this form of discipline than you are, Miss Mayberry. I would never take the chance of killing my prey, as you just tried to do. A mathematician could have told you that the weight of such a big girl hurtling through the air would flatten most poor mortals, rendering them beyond earthly cares. Behold me. Even I am nearly expired, and I am a very large male mortal.”

“You are no such thing. I mean, you are large, but you are not nearly dead. You are whining, Lord Beecham. It is not appealing.”

He sighed. “I fear you are right. The next time you choose to do the chasing, however, I would ask that you consider something along a more intellectual, rather than physical, approach.”

“I didn’t have time to think of anything else. You see, my father informed me over breakfast this morning—yes, the dining room still reeks of smoke—that he wishes to return home next week.”

“Ah, then, that certainly changes things. That forces my hand.” He rose, dusted himself off, and straightened her hat, tucking more hair beneath it. Three small grapes decorating her bonnet had come untwisted and were hanging by the side of her cheek. He gently pulled them off and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “Very well, Miss Mayberry, would you like me to bed you and teach you a bit about my sort of discipline before you hark back to the country to all your potbellied squires and all the various and sundry short men who swoon at the sight of you?”

Her mare lightly pushed her nose against her back. Helen laughed, turned, and patted her. “It’s all right, Eleanor, he is just being outrageous and intriguing me. I would be disappointed with anything less.” With those words, she turned back to him. “Lord Beecham, I don’t want you for a lover.”

A dark eyebrow shot up a good inch. “I beg your pardon, Miss Mayberry? You wanted to meet me, you threw yourself at me; your ease with men and all their aberrations is remarkable, at least for a woman. Of course, you are rather long in the tooth, so you have had time to hone your skills. If you don’t want me for a lover, then what do you want me for?”

“I want you for a partner.”

6

NOW THIS WAS A KICKER. A woman’s partner? He couldn’t imagine such a thing. “How very odd. A partner, you said, Miss Mayberry, not a lover? Did you happen to rattle your brains when you crashed yourself into me?”

“Not at all. I have been thinking about this since the first time Alexandra Sherbrooke mentioned your name. I thought, a man with such a demanding sort of life must be quite excellent at devising strategies and organizing details and proper plans so he does not ever find himself at the end when he should be in the middle. You must perform continually at the most rigorously high standards to keep yourself in business, so to speak.”

“You won’t accept that I am simply quite gifted?”

“Oh, yes, there is no doubt in my mind about that. I daresay it’s a talent that most men would barter all their earthly belongings to have in a quite small measure. You have talent aplenty, Lord Beecham. But don’t you see? Your gift, your talent, is only the beginning. You must have all the other attributes as well to keep your reputation at such a high level.”

“Let me see if I have got this correct. You want me to be your partner because I am a fine strategist, I can organize details well, and I always perform at a high level. Does that cover it?”

“Very nearly.”

“I assume you are referring to my performance with the fairer sex?”

“Naturally. But what’s most important, Lord Beecham, is that you set your sights on a goal and you won’t give up until you have attained it. I am right about that, aren’t I?”

“There is no way you could know that,” he said slowly, staring her straight in the eye since he was only two inches taller than she. He suddenly felt as if he were walking down the street, stark naked, holding an umbrella over his head. Everyone was pointing at him. Everyone knew exactly who and what he was—and what he was was decidedly strange. “That is ridiculous. You are merely guessing.”

“Well, you see, I met your Mr. Blunder two days ago. No, don’t go home and thrash him. Mr. Blunder holds you in such high esteem it nearly made my stomach cramp. His worship of you positively spews from his mouth. All he needs is a listener. He admires you vastly.”

“The damned man wants to work me to death.”

“He told me it was amazing what you could grasp with only the most scant of explanations.”

“I am beginning to feel ill myself.”

“He said when you set your sights on something, normally—in his experience at least—it was a lady. But if it wasn’t a lady, then it could be a problem you wished to solve, a situation you wished to resolve, two enemies you wished to bring together to become friends, a political compromise to keep two sides together, whatever. He said you never faltered, never settled for half measures or defeat. Mr. Blunder believes you can do just about anything, my lord.”

“Ah, I see now how you so easily pried him open. You took him to Gunther’s, didn’t you?”

“Why, yes, his favorite ice is raspberry. I saw him standing there, in front of Gunther’s, with the look of a man who would give his last guinea for just one lick. He was very easy, truth be told. He kept eating and talking. And I kept ordering more ices for him and listening. Perhaps I ate an ice or two myself.”

“When I came riding today,” he said slowly, looking around at the half dozen people strolling through the park around them, “I hadn’t expected any of this. Even Reverend Older, a delicious old eccentric, doesn’t compare to you. I am not used to surprises of this sort, Miss Mayberry.”

“Just wait until your birthday, my lord.”