The Trouble With Misbehaving. Victoria Hanlen

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      Beau sat uncomfortably in his new formal black suit. He slid a finger between his neck and collar and tugged.

      Down the far end, at the head of the table, sat his brother Thomas. He now wore a splendid tailored dark suit, stiff white shirt, white waistcoat and a perfectly tied white cravat. Somehow his eldest brother had always looked impressive, yet comfortable, in clothes that would chafe Beau’s hide.

      Clearly his sister in law, the new Lady Grancliffe, was having fun restoring grandeur to the earldom and the old hall. Lavish new gold candelabra, sparkling silver and abundant flower arrangements decorated the white tablecloth.

      Beau turned to the young woman on his right. “Did you grow up in these parts, Miss Winfield?”

      She nodded, giggling, and reached toward her ear to twist a hair curl around a finger.

      He turned to his left. “And how about you, Miss Trundel?”

      She gave a quick cough he interpreted as a yes. Then she became engrossed in—if he wasn’t mistaken—a silver question mark dangling from her charm bracelet.

      He tried again with Miss Winfield. “Have you known Lady Grancliffe long?”

      She blushed and shook her head, making her gold and pearl earrings twirl in circles.

      He turned back to Miss Trundel. “Is this your first visit to Grancliffe Hall?”

      Her rouge-brightened lips puckered. “No.” She twiddled the next charm resembling a canoe—or was it a slipper?

      The footmen placed dishes in front of them and filled their wineglasses. Evidently the young women were as relieved as Beau with the interruption, for they made a production of cutting their poached pheasant and savoring their dry rosé in silence.

      Far down the table on his side, a glass tipped over. The sound of breaking crystal cut through the hum of conversation. A strange hooting cackle seemed to come from the vicinity of the breakage.

      A female voice announced loudly, “No apologies necessary, sir. I’m quite all right. However, I must make an observation. If you’re unable to refrain from spilling your wine, it seems doubtful you could possibly keep any woman happy.”

      Beau’s lips quivered. He knew that voice, though it sounded more strident than he remembered. Her insinuation wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow in most dockside taverns he’d frequented, but such words brayed at an earl’s table were nothing less than shocking. Excitement surged through him. And he couldn’t decide if it was from the memory of holding C.C. in his arms, or his prison camp paranoia leaping back to life, screaming trap.

      He hadn’t noticed her when he entered the room. What was she doing here? He looked down the table for a woman resembling the coal-smudged shopkeeper he’d kissed at Cremorne. Then he looked again. Only one woman met her basic description, but she couldn’t be her. Everything about her screamed ‘elegant lady.’

      A jingling sound drew his attention back to Miss Trundel as she sawed industriously at her pheasant. “My, what a lovely bracelet.” He smiled. “Do the charms have special meaning?”

      By now she’d warmed to him, a little, and she smiled shyly. “Yes.”

      “That charm, the one that looks like a canoe, what’s its significance?”

      Miss Trundel curled her hand to her mouth and whispered, “It’s a banana.”

      He gazed at the small charm. “So i’tis. I take it you’re fond of bananas?”

      She giggled and leaned to exchange speaking glances with Miss Winfield.

      Beau turned to Miss Winfield. She’d obviously been staring at him. Her eyes went wide and her pale skin brightened to crimson.

      He worked to give her a smile and took a gulp of wine. This was getting painful. Struggling to extract dull small talk from proper young women barely out of the schoolroom was giving him a headache. He’d much rather talk to a certain cheeky shopgirl.

      During the next course, a grating giggle rose above the conversation. It went on and on until finally ending with several porcine-like snorts. “Dear me,” she said, “Yankee Doll? A man of your advanced years and you still have a tendre for dolls?”

      Beau stifled a laugh. The table grew quieter. He stretched forward to see around the other guests and found himself staring. No. She couldn’t be C.C. The woman at the end of the table was resplendent, almost…ethereal.

      A low-cut, exquisite lavender gown emphasized her long neck and soft, creamy bosom. Amethysts draped her cleavage. Flower buds adorned an elaborate profusion of sable curls. Her features were more pronounced, lovelier, as if a master artist had applied a regal finish.

      He looked closer.

      Good God, it was her. What a transformation. And what an enchantress!

      Heat rushed through his body as he recalled their kisses. He willed her to make eye contact. As if hearing his request, she turned, raised her thick dark lashes and locked gazes.

      Nothing. No reaction. Her eyes could have been marble for all the response they showed. She turned away to speak to another guest.

      Beau casually shifted his gaze. Either she was tragically purblind, or she didn’t wish to know him—most likely the latter. She’d sent him three letters, and had been so eager to meet with him she’d chastised him for burning the first two. Now she mysteriously appeared at his family’s country home and didn’t acknowledge him? What was she up to?

      The gentleman on the other side of Miss Winfield leaned around her and groused, “I don’t know why they continue to invite that crazy woman. She is positively off her nut, insulting Viscount Falgate that way.” The man shook his head and wrinkled his nose distastefully. “The stories I could tell you about her.”

      “Why is she here?” Beau responded.

      “I don’t know. Ask your brother. It’s his party.”

      Beau eased back into his chair. Fascinating. At the pleasure gardens C.C. had looked like a trade woman or possibly a governess. Her note asked him to meet her at a time when a proper, respectable woman would have long since departed. Now she looked like a goddess and sat disparaging a viscount at an earl’s dinner table.

      Was she a Union spy as he’d suspected? And what about her business opportunity? Had it been truthful or was she ‘off her nut,’ like the fellow said? For certain, the woman was unsettling. But dear God, what a beauty, and by the way she tempted his reckless side, a lot could be forgiven.

      At the conclusion of dinner, he waited for her in the hallway. When she exited, he stepped in front of her and bowed. “Hello again, madam.”

      She quickly looked behind her. Lord Falgate lingered in the doorway talking to another guest. “Not now,” she muttered under her breath. “Excuse me sir,” she announced louder and held her frothy bell-shaped skirt to edge around Beau.

      Her curt dismissal only tweaked his curiosity more. Could it be she didn’t want Lord Falgate or someone else to know she and Beau were acquainted? Was she married after all? He almost followed her down the hallway, СКАЧАТЬ