feet two inches tall and some may call me…thin.’
‘Some?’
‘My husband always did. He thought that if I ate more I should appeal to him better, but no matter how much I tried—’ She stopped, horrified as to what she had just confided in him, when for all the years of her marriage she had told every other soul nothing.
‘Pride can be a dangerous thing, Beatrice-Maude.’
She pretended not to understand what he meant. But she knew exactly the tack that he was following because pride was all that had ever stood between her and chaos. Pride kept her quiet and biddable, because the alternative of others knowing what she had suffered was just too humiliating.
Honesty fell between them like a stone in a still and deep pond, the ripples of meaning fanning outwards as the consequences became larger and larger. Withdrawal had its own set of repercussions, just as pretence did. Still, here on the balcony, with the distant strands of Mozart on the air, she was careful. A woman with the candour of her past licking at twenty-eight long years and a future before her that finally looked a little bright. She could allow no one to tarnish that. Not even Taris Wellingham, with his magical hands and his handsome face.
No, plain was measured in more than just the look of one’s countenance, she decided right then and there. Indeed, it was a bone-deep knowledge that no amount of clever repartee might disavow, a knowledge engraved with certainty in each memory and action and hope. Unchangeable, even with the very best of intentions.
When the door behind him opened to reveal Lord Henshaw, she used the moment to escape, excusing herself before walking away with the swift gait of one who was not quite breaking into a run.
Taris listened to her go, knew the exact moment that she disappeared from the balcony, her footsteps quick and urgent.
‘You are due to speak in five minutes.’
‘Rutledge sent you to find me?’
‘He is a man who likes things to be on time.’
‘May I ask you a question, Jack?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘What does Mrs Bassingstoke look like to you?’
‘Mrs Bassingstoke?’ Surprise lay in Jack’s reply as Taris nodded. ‘She is shapely in all the right places and her character is determined. If I were to pick just one word to describe her I would choose “original”.’
‘What colours does she favour in her clothes?’
‘Bright ones.’
‘And her hair? How does she wear that?’
‘Pulled back, though errant curls show around her face.’
The silence between them was alive with questions. Then a burst of music alerted them to a change in the main salon and Taris felt Jack’s arm against his own as they made their way inside.
Taris Wellingham’s speech was received with all the acclaim that it deserved, Bea thought, as it came to an end, his articulate arguments as to the necessity of better treatment for those who had served in the army both persuasive and compelling.
‘Lord Wellingham has a way with words,’ she heard an older lady say behind her.
‘And a way with the ladies! Look at how the young Lady Arabella Fisher is eyeing him up. There are whispers that the announcement of an engagement will be forthcoming and she is said to be extremely wilful.’
‘Well, she certainly is beautiful and her father’s land runs alongside Lord Wellingham’s at Beaconsmeade.’
An engagement! Beatrice pushed her disappointment down as a waltz began and a flurry of excitement filled the room. She had no reason to hold any opinion on Taris Wellingham’s love life. He was still young enough to take a bride and to all intents and purposes Lady Arabella Fisher was more than suitable. Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, Bea wished that she had been even half as beautiful, the thought so vain and vapid she almost laughed at it. What would happen when the woman found out that Taris’s sight was not as it should be? Would she be kind?
Couples were now taking their places on the floor. Of all the dances this was the most intimate and the most favoured, the tedious figures of the quadrille something to be got through while one waited for the waltz.
Bea was just preparing to retire to the supper room, for she had seldom been asked to dance at any soiree, when a man appeared at her side.
‘My master has sent me to ask you if you would accompany him in this dance.’
‘Your master?’
The young man reddened.
‘Oh, I am sorry. Lord Taris Wellingham is my master. He said that you know him.’
A quick spurt of shock kept Bea speechless, but she managed to nod and followed the Wellingham servant.
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.’