Bassingstoke actually meant.
He knew that she was still here, for he had caught the sound of her voice. His eyesight, however, allowed him no possible means of locating her again and he did not dare to chance sending Bates to wheedle the promise of another dance.
It simply was not done. One dance would not excite the comment two would, and already he could hear in the buzz of comments around him speculation about Beatrice-Maude and their possible relationship, as he seldom took to the floor at any of these soirees. He smiled. Seldom was probably putting a generous face on it—never would be the more appropriate term.
Chapter Seven
An assortment of calling cards and invitations arrived the next morning and Bea found them in a tidy pile on the salver on the hall table.
Lord, she thought as she sorted through them, the impressive list of names making her wonder. She remembered when Frankwell had received cards in Ipswich in the early years of their marriage and the lengths he had gone to arrange them where they might be the most visible.
For her part now she stacked them up and placed them face down, hoping that no one would make the effort to come and call and agitated by the fact that they might.
She knew exactly why she had suddenly become fashionable. It was the direct result of her dance last night with Taris Wellingham. She had heard it from her servants, who had heard it from those of the other grand houses, the grapevine of gossip as rapid and faultless as any paper in print.
Chewing on the edge of a nail, she glanced up and caught sight of herself in the mirror above the mantel and was glad that Taris Wellingham could only see the vague outline of shapes.
If he could see properly, she doubted he would make the effort to dance with her at all. Perhaps everything she was imagining between them was pure falsehood.
She lifted her wrist to her nose and smelt. Violets. Her mother would pick posies sometimes and place them in her room in the old house above Norwich before she had been betrothed. Nearly half a lifetime ago.
When Elspeth appeared at the door a few moments later Beatrice was already sorting through a pile of new books in her library. This room of all the rooms in her house was the one she most favoured. To have a place where she could set out each tome was a delight above all the others and to read in the daylight without any interruption was something she had not been able to do since…for ever.
‘You look happy this morning, Bea. Could that have anything to do with your apparent success at the Rutledge Ball last night? Molly mentions the name of Lord Wellingham?’
‘I danced only one turn with him, Elspeth,’ she returned. ‘In a ball with a programme of at least twenty-nine other dances I fail to see the significance of such an action.’
‘Word is that he seldom favours the waltz. It also says that he has not danced at a soiree in years.’
Beatrice remained silent.
‘Lord Taris Wellingham is one of the most powerful men in England, Beatrice. He is the also the gentleman that all the young girls set their caps at and a lord who, although charming, is decidedly unavailable.’
Bea waited to see if Elspeth would mention the problem of his sight, but she did not. Still, as the silence lengthened she was loath to just leave it there.
‘I heard some woman speak of a property…Beaconsmeade I think it was they said.’
‘His seat in Kent. A magnificent house by all accounts it is too, and its master a man who should not be trifled with. You can see that in his visage, for the mark on his face is rumoured to have come from a pirate’s bullet in the West Indies.’
‘You are jesting with me, surely. What possible tie could the son of a duke have with such people?’
‘I do not know. All I do know is that he is a man whom any woman, no matter what her age, might be swayed by.’
Bea began to laugh. ‘The woman that you are alluding to meaning me?’
‘Even a sensible woman has her dreams.’
‘I was married for twelve years, Elspeth, and I can honestly say to you that the experience was such that I would never repeat it. Not for any man.’
‘Oh, it was not marriage I was thinking of. I do not think he would offer that…’
A violent blush of red had Bea turning away. She felt her fingers shake as she reached for the collar of her dress, pulling the light wool from her throat to allow the slight feel of air against her skin.
His hand on her breast and his tongue tracing the shape of her nipple before pressing closer…
‘Are you well, Beatrice? You seem somewhat distracted this morning.’
With an effort Bea pulled herself together.
‘Your very liberal opinions are sometimes distracting—I was not born into a family such as your own with the penchant for expressing ideas that are…so radical.’ When she saw the slight frown on her friend’s face she hurried on to allay any worry. ‘That is not a criticism of you, Elspeth, for I wish with all my heart that I could throw caution to the wind in the way that you so effortlessly seem to.’ She was horrified as tears came behind her eyes, and the bone-deep desire in her breast for something more surfaced.
Taris Wellingham. He had sent no card this morning, just as he had not tried to approach her after the waltz they had shared. Perhaps his eyesight was such that he could not find her, though she suppressed that excuse; if the servant had sought her out before, then he certainly could do so again.
No! She tried to push the desire she felt for him beneath the easier banner of sense. Of course he would not be searching her out. She was a woman who had broken every rule of good sense after all. First with the easy giving of her body in the night-snowed barn and then again yesterday at the small park when she had failed to offer any support after his unexpected and genuine confession.
The heavy ring of her doorbell brought her from her reveries to find Elspeth had left. She listened to the sound of the visitor’s voice with growing concern. A young woman’s voice. But not one she recognized.
When the maid brought in her card, Bea was surprised. Lady Lucinda Wellingham! Bea indicated that she would receive her and sat down to wait, not wanting to appear quite as flustered as she felt upon hearing the name.
‘Mrs Bassingstoke?’ The same woman tooling the horses in Regent Street all those weeks ago came into her room. Not daintily either, but with a decided purpose. Bea noticed she did not wear gloves and that the hat she had donned barely covered her silky blonde hair.
Beautiful. Like all the Wellinghams were beautiful, though her fair hair and blue eyes were not mirrored in either of her brothers.
‘You are Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke, are you not?’ she asked, a heavy frown easily seen between her brows.
‘I am,’ Bea returned and stood, though she was nowhere near as tall as this newcomer and wished suddenly that she had kept her seat.
‘The same Mrs Bassingstoke involved in an accident
