Regency Society Collection Part 1. Sarah Mallory

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       Chapter Eight

      Beatrice-Maude’s salon was crowded with people and Taris hung at the back of the room beside a bookshelf, his hand against the heavy wood of it to give him balance. He rarely came to anything like this, the inherent danger of tripping always close, but Jack had accompanied him tonight and had gone to help himself to drinks at a generously laid table his friend had used much detail in describing.

      The shape of someone loomed in front of Taris though he had no way of knowing who it was, so he stopped and waited, pretending to take interest in the numerous titles he had felt on the shelf.

      ‘Good evening, Lord Wellingham.’

      Bea’s voice. Taris could not quite believe his luck. He moved to face her.

      ‘Mrs Bassingstoke. I thought I should take you up on your offer to broaden my mind.’

      ‘And I am pleased that you have done so.’

      ‘My sister has told me that she made your acquaintance.’

      Silence greeted the statement.

      ‘Lucinda can be a chatterbox.’

      Again there was silence.

      ‘Put more bluntly it would probably be prudent not to relate any secrets into her safekeeping.’

      ‘Secrets such as my not being able to have children, you mean?’

      Taris winced at her direct honesty. ‘Playing your cards close to your chest is sometimes a wiser option.’

      ‘As close as you play yours?’ The query made him wary and he jammed his hands into his pockets. No one had ever spoken to him as this woman did.

      ‘Sometimes secrets hold us back,’ she added, her husky lisp more evident today than he had ever heard it.

      ‘Twenty-eight and a sage!’ He could help neither the anger in his reply, nor the memories of her naked skin against his own.

      ‘A barren sage,’ she returned, challenge evident in the edge of her words. ‘And one who it seems has forgotten the golden rule.’

      ‘Which is?’

      ‘In society a lady does not ever question the intent of a gentleman with a better pedigree than her own.’

      ‘You sound scathing. I am certain such rules cannot have ever bothered you before, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

      ‘You would be surprised…’

      ‘But not enlightened?’

      Her laugh was light and real, so different from the shallow false humour he heard in other drawing rooms of this city.

      ‘It seems perhaps I was remiss in scolding you, my lord. Do you have a drink?’

      ‘Jack Henshaw has gone to get me one.’

      ‘Do try the punch. I made it myself. A non-alcoholic concoction with more than a hint of fruitiness!’

      ‘Sounds delicious.’

      She began to laugh again. ‘The discussion will begin in another five minutes or so. I do hope that you will be happy to contribute.’

      ‘I fear in this room, Mrs Bassingstoke, that my opinion will not be popular.’

      ‘Oh, you might be surprised. The tolerance is as remarkable here as the range of opinions. Indeed, sometimes I think Parliament might do well to mimic us.’

      ‘I will make sure to relate that to Lord Grey next time I see him.’

      ‘Little voices can hold as much sway as more important ones.’

      ‘A sentiment I would never question.’

      ‘Even with the weight of privilege full upon your shoulders?’

      ‘Such a bigot, Mrs Bassingstoke.’

      Her giggles were like a fountain of joy ringing around the room and chasing away the darkness and her touch upon his arm was taken with the ease that it was given.

      Not forced or obtrusive, but natural and easy.

      The shadows of many people swirled around him, the timbre of voices attesting to a very large number. He did not recognise any of them. The occasional accent was of a member of the trades or a dweller from the parts of London that were considered undesirable by the ton, though Beatrice made no mention of occupation or their standing in society as she introduced him.

      Finally they stopped and the room seemed to quieten. Whether she had raised her hand he could not tell because she had moved away from him now and Jack was once again at his side.

      ‘The place is full to bursting,’ his friend said quietly. ‘Cowan is here and Lansdowne, and the wife of Lord Drummond is sitting with her sister in the corner.’

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