The Wedding Season (3 page)

Then an idea struck him—one that might kill two birds with one stone. “If you have questions for me, that sets us even. Claude tells me you were Miss Leonard’s governess before you became her companion and chaperone.”

“That is not a question, sir.” The lady’s lips blossomed into a playful grin. “Unless you mean to inquire whether your brother’s information is correct, which it is. Squire Leonard hired me to be his daughter’s governess not long after her mother died. In addition to educating her to the best of my ability, I hope I have been able to supply her with some of the companionship and advice of a mother.”

Though Sebastian knew he ought to follow up on the perfect opening Miss Beaton had provided, the only words he could produce were, “Not a mother, surely! You are far too near her age. I refuse to believe you could be more than a slightly elder sister.”

His words clearly pleased the lady. “You are most chivalrous, Lord Benedict. I assure you, Hermione considers me more than equal to her late mother in years.”

To Sebastian, that further demonstrated Miss Leonard’s immaturity. “Chivalrous? I cannot allow that. I have been called it even less often than
gracious.
You must mean to atone for the little trick you played on me by turning my head with flattery.”

“No indeed!” she cried. “If I have a fault in that regard, it is being far too blunt-spoken for my position.”

“Others may consider it a fault, Miss Beaton, but I do not.” He found it refreshing to converse with a woman who did not simper or act coy, one who owned to her mistakes and possessed a sense of humor that was pleasantly infectious. If only more of the marriageable ladies in London were like this insignificant country governess, Sebastian would have had fewer reservations about letting his brother come to town.

Claude finally took his eyes off Hermione Leonard long enough to notice his brother and her governess.

“Bravo, Miss Beaton!” He swept her an exaggerated bow.
“I don’t know how, but you seem to have a knack for managing my irascible brother.”

Sebastian bristled at the notion of being
managed
by any woman.

But before he could summon a cutting retort, Miss Beaton spoke up. “You give me too much credit, sir, and your brother not enough. Considering the regrettable beginning of our acquaintance, he has been most forbearing, gracious and chivalrous.”

Claude’s eyebrows shot up. “Then there can be only one explanation. This man must be an imposter! Confess, villain, what have you done with my brother?”

The ladies burst into laughter. Though Miss Leonard’s shrill giggles still grated on Sebastian’s nerves, they sounded far more pleasant in harmony with Rebecca Beaton’s warm chuckle.

“Enough of your impudence, boy.” Sebastian assumed a mock scowl to prove his identity. “Why don’t you invite the ladies to Stanhope Court for tea so Aunt Eloisa and I can become better acquainted with your fiancée?” He mentioned his widowed aunt so there could be no suggestion of impropriety.

“I should like nothing better! What do you say, ladies? Will you grace the dull old place with your presence?” Claude’s handsome young face beamed with such pleasure, it gave Sebastian a twinge of guilt, which he promptly suppressed.

His brother must assume this invitation signaled Sebastian’s acceptance of the betrothal. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth.

“We’d be delighted to accept!” Hermione Leonard exclaimed. “Wouldn’t we, Miss Beaton?”

Her companion’s response was less hasty, which Sebastian
approved, even though it made him anxious that she might refuse.

After thinking for a moment, she nodded. “We are not otherwise engaged. And I doubt your father will be sufficiently recovered from his cold to want our company.”

“Excellent! We will look forward to your visit.” Sebastian felt more confident of accomplishing his goal than he had since learning how Miss Beaton had duped him. If he could enlist her able assistance, he was certain his brother’s imprudent engagement would be as good as broken.

“Y
ou certainly managed to charm Lord Benedict.” Hermione glanced around the elegant interior of the viscount’s carriage a few days later. “Fancy him sending this to fetch us to tea.”

“I’m certain it has nothing to do with me,” Rebecca protested, smoothing the skirt of her neat but unfashionable dress. They had not even reached the viscount’s mansion and already she felt hopelessly dowdy. “No doubt it is his lordship’s compliment to you as his brother’s fiancée.”

“Hardly.” Hermione grimaced. “Did you not see the way he looked at me the other day or hear his tone when he deigned to address me? It positively dripped with scorn. I’m certain Lord Benedict is still violently opposed to my wedding his brother.”

“Dripped with scorn? Violently opposed?” Rebecca shook her head. “You are exaggerating. His lordship may have been a trifle cool, but surely that was my fault for misleading him as I did. I expect he did not feel kindly disposed toward anyone connected with me.”

Hermione’s delicate features tightened into a doubtful frown. “At first, perhaps, but you soon won him over. By the
time the two of you finished talking, Lord Benedict seemed quite taken with you. Yet he still appeared to regard me as the most odious creature he had ever beheld.”

Reaching across the carriage, Rebecca caught Hermione’s ice-cold fingers and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “Lord Benedict is barely acquainted with you. He objects to your match with Mr. Stanhope on general principles—and not very sound ones, in my opinion. Once he gets to know you better, I’m certain he will be delighted to welcome you into the family.”

“I hope you’re right.” Hermione caught her full lower lip between her teeth. “I fear I am not at my best around his lordship. He is so haughty and severe, I am quite afraid of him. When he gives me that cold blue stare, I feel every bit as foolish as he seems to regard me.”

“Perhaps he is a little proud, but given his wealth and position, that can hardly be surprising.” What did surprise Rebecca was hearing herself rise to Lord Benedict’s defense. “Yet he is not too proud to make a jest at his own expense. And when he laughs, he doesn’t seem the least bit severe.”

Why did she feel compelled to stand up for anyone who was being criticized—even a powerful man more than capable of taking his own part? It must be a habit from her school days. The one thing that had made that miserable place bearable was the close friendships she’d forged with a group of fellow pupils. They had banded together to comfort, cheer and defend one another.

Hermione regarded her former governess with a rather superior smile. “It seems his lordship has succeeded in charming you in return, though I would not have believed him capable of it.”

That pointed observation threw Rebecca into confusion. Hermione made it sound as if there were romantic feelings
between her and the viscount. “Now you are talking foolishness. I simply tried to keep an open mind and not let my opinion of the gentleman be prejudiced by a bad first impression. You should do the same.”

“Of course!” cried Hermione. “You’ve given me the most brilliant idea.”

“To keep an open mind about your future brother-in-law? It is a good idea, but hardly brilliant.”

“Not that.” Hermione leaned toward Rebecca as if imparting a secret. “Since Lord Benedict is so partial to you, could you use your influence to persuade him to give our engagement his blessing? Please, Miss Beaton!”

“What influence could I possibly have over a man like his lordship?” Rebecca firmly dismissed the notion—from her own mind as much as Hermione’s. “He is not
partial
to me, only polite.”

Seeing the younger woman’s crestfallen look, she relented…a little. “Still, you may rely on me to acquaint Lord Benedict with your many good qualities.”

Eager to turn the conversation from that awkward topic, Rebecca pointed out the window. “Look, there is Stanhope Court. What a fine house it is. And what superb views it must command from the hilltop!”

A few moments later, the carriage came to a stop before the viscount’s magnificent mansion. Rebecca had often glimpsed it from a distance, but had never before seen it up so close. The front façade, of honey-brown Cotswold stone, looked very grand and imposing with a high portico supported by six lofty pillars. A pair of great wings swept behind the house on either side, no doubt enclosing a rear courtyard that gave the place its name.

As she climbed out of the carriage behind Hermione, Rebecca was torn between wonder and an acute sense of her
own insignificance. Though she recalled living in houses almost as impressive as this one, she had never been welcome in any of them. Only in more modest surroundings had she found a measure of acceptance and affection.

To her surprise, Lord Benedict and his brother came out to meet them.

“Thank you for accepting our invitation, ladies.” Claude Stanhope swept them a deep bow. “This house has been empty for so long, it is a pleasure to have company at last.”

Offering Hermione his arm, he escorted her toward one of the sets of stairs that led up to the portico.

That left Rebecca alone in the presence of the viscount and feeling self-conscious after her conversation with Hermione. It had been one thing for Lord Benedict to treat her as something approaching his equal when he’d mistaken her for Squire Leonard’s daughter. His manner on Sunday she attributed to the time and place, for were they not all meant to be brothers and sisters in the sight of God?

Now, with his large, splendid house towering in the background, she could not fail to realize what an enormous gulf separated a powerful peer of the realm from someone little higher than a servant.

But Lord Benedict bowed and offered her his arm, as if she were an honored guest. “I fear I am to blame for Stanhope Court being neglected.”

The blue gaze he fixed upon her did not seem cold at all. In spite of Rebecca’s determination to resist any such foolish fancy, she could not ignore a warm glow of sincere regard.

“Why are you to blame?” She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, steeling herself to betray no sign that this first contact between them gave her any particular enjoyment.

But it did, hard as she tried to persuade herself otherwise.
There was a solid dependable strength about his arm that appealed to her far more than it ought to.

“This poor house was a casualty of my mission to secure more support for our men at arms,” he replied with a mixture of pride and chagrin. “When Parliament wasn’t sitting, I twice made the voyage to Portugal. I wanted to see firsthand what our troops needed to win the war. The rest of the time, I cadged invitations to house parties where I could meet with other Members of Parliament and promote my views.”

Rebecca’s respect for the viscount grew with every word he uttered. Though he made it sound as if he were apologizing for his actions rather than bragging about them, it was clear he had worked tirelessly for something he believed in. “Perhaps
you
should have hosted a party,” she suggested, as they passed through the elegant entry hall with its fine marble floor, “and invited those people here.”

“I’m not certain who would have accepted an invitation from me in the end.” His firm mouth briefly arched into a wry grin. If Rebecca had not been watching his face so carefully, she might have missed it. “I had become such a notorious bore on the subject. Besides, everyone knows married gentlemen make far better hosts.”

“Were you too busy promoting your cause to seek a wife?” Rebecca recalled something he had said during their first meeting about never having children.

Surely now that the war was over, such an eligible and attractive man would have no difficulty securing a bride. Somehow the thought of him having a wife provoked a rush of contradictory feelings in her. On one hand, it seemed wrong that so good a man should always be alone. Yet at the same time, she resented the thought of him belonging to another woman.

Rebecca chided herself for such ungenerous feelings, especially when Lord Benedict flinched at her words. She hoped her offhand remark about such a private matter had not offended him.

But before she could stammer an apology, the viscount recovered his spirits and continued their conversation. “I fear I neglected a number of things in my zeal to do my duty, Miss Beaton. This house…my brother’s welfare…”

He gave a rueful nod down the wide, portrait-hung gallery toward young Mr. Stanhope, who was ushering Hermione into a sitting room.

Was that why Lord Benedict had taken such a forceful interest in his brother’s engagement, Rebecca wondered, because he felt guilty for failing in his brotherly duty? She could understand such feelings all too well. With a pang of shame, she recalled promising to advocate on Hermione’s behalf with his lordship. Yet she had not said a single word about the poor girl.

“As for that,” she hastened to rectify her lapse, “Mr. Stanhope does not appear to have suffered any neglect. He possesses most engaging manners and has become a general favorite in this area ever since he took up residence. Though you may not approve of his attachment to Miss Leonard, I can assure you she is an excellent match for him in every way that truly matters.”

A doubtful frown darkened Lord Benedict’s striking countenance, but it was too late for him to say anything disparaging about Hermione for they had reached the sitting room.

They had not been ten minutes at tea before Sebastian wondered why his brother could not see what was altogether obvious to him. A country squire’s daughter such as
Hermione Leonard was simply not cut out to be the wife of a future viscount. Apart from a brief greeting to their aunt, he’d scarcely spoken a word since she arrived, and not for a lack of effort on his part to draw her out.

“Another plum puff, Miss Leonard?” He held out the overflowing tray of cakes and pastries. “You’ve eaten so little, I fear our hospitality does not meet with your approval.”

“Not at all.” She reached toward the plate with wary hesitation as if she feared the walnut tea cake might be poisoned.

“For pity’s sake, Sebastian,” his brother snapped, “don’t hound Miss Leonard to eat if she’s not hungry! I told you this was twice too much food for the five of us.”

With a shrug, Sebastian offered the plate of sweets to her companion. “Can you find anything to tempt you, Miss Beaton?”

“Indeed, sir.” She picked up a rout cake and set it on her plate, then reached for a jam tartlet. “The only difficulty lies in choosing between so many temptations.”

“Then by all means have as much as you wish of everything,” Sebastian urged her. “I like to see a lady with a healthy appetite.”

It accorded well with the rest of her character. She did not pretend excessive delicacy as so many ladies of fashion did. Sebastian was certain she could not be prone to swooning or any other such affectations. It surprised him how much at ease she seemed in his house. Though clearly impressed and appreciative, she was not overawed by the grand old place. Her demeanor presented such a contrast to Claude’s gauche, uncommunicative fiancée, he could not help but be impressed.

“That is most generous of you, Lord Benedict.” She cast
a cheerful smile around at all the others. “But I fear my digestion will suffer if I overindulge in such rich fare.”

How would he have borne this visit, Sebastian wondered, if not for Miss Beaton’s presence? Somehow she managed to keep up an engaging flow of conversation to cover for Miss Leonard’s sulky silence.

“What a marvelous art collection you have, Lord Benedict,” she remarked, effortlessly filling yet another awkward pause. “That portrait of the young lady with the long curls is very fine indeed.”

“You have a good eye for painting, Miss Beaton. That lady is our great-great-grandmother. She sat for the Restoration Court painter, Lely. It is one of the most valuable in our collection.”

“I’m certain Miss Leonard recognized the artist’s style,” Miss Beaton continued. “She is an accomplished artist herself. She has done some very clever sketches of our acquaintances and a charming series of watercolors of the garden at Rose Grange.”

Her praise of Miss Leonard put Claude back in good humor. “Hermione tells me you are quite skilled at drawing and painting, Miss Beaton. Might I persuade you to undertake a commission for me?”

Sebastian marked the lady’s hesitation and approved it. As she took a slow sip of tea, he sensed she was searching for the right words to frame a polite refusal.

“I should be reluctant to disoblige you, Mr. Stanhope, but I fear Hermione has been too kind in her praise of my skill. You would be much better served bestowing your commission upon her.”

“I would, of course.” Claude helped himself to another pastry from the tray. “But I fear the task might be beyond even her considerable powers. I desire a sketch of
her,
perhaps tinted with watercolors. I am certain you possess both the talent and appreciation for your subject to render a flattering but accurate likeness.”

Miss Beaton’s reluctance vanished in an indulgent smile. “Very well then, sir. If you have faith in my powers, I shall be happy to make the attempt.”

Would the lady be as willing to undertake a different sort of commission which he intended to offer her? Sebastian bolted a mouthful of tea. Though she had not known him long and the acquaintance had gotten off to a bad start, Miss Beaton did not appear to hold it against him. Indeed, he sensed a deep bond of mutual respect and sympathy between them that he fervently hoped might win her over.

Their tea was not a success, Rebecca was forced to admit, in spite of the quantity and variety of baked delicacies on offer. Though Lord Benedict made an effort to be civil to Hermione, the poor girl seemed to sense his veiled hostility, which dampened her spirits. Afraid of saying the wrong thing, she spoke hardly a word even when the others tried to draw her out. Her wary silence only made his lordship impatient and Claude Stanhope irritable.

Desperate to fill the tense pauses in conversation, Rebecca found herself talking far more than she was accustomed to. She seized every opportunity to pay tribute to her former pupil’s cleverness, good nature and many accomplishments. Yet she feared her praise rang hollow in the face of Hermione’s wooden silence.