Page 13 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)
“I am,” she confessed. “No one has ever worked it out. Indeed, Mr Civil is considered something of a phantom, and I have even heard of one fellow insinuating that he is Mr Civil, just to claim the glory,” she added with feigned outrage.
“And were you never tempted to reveal the truth and give the fellow a terrific set down?” he asked, looking at her curiously.
“Good Lord, no,” she said, shaking her head. “To what end? People would only despise me for thinking myself clever. My family knows and applauds my efforts and that is enough.”
“And now I know too,” he added, watching her with interest.
Clementine blushed. Inexplicably, her colour rose to such a pitch she wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run away.
It was the way he had said the words, she decided, though there had been nothing suggestive or lewd in his tone, just the implication that they shared a secret, which she supposed they did.
Yet it made her feel most peculiar, an odd squirming deep in her belly and such heat rushing beneath her skin it made her blush like the verriest ninny.
Unsettled, and cross with herself for being unsettled as much as with him for causing it, she stubbornly held her ground and did not look away nor flee, though the desire to do both was compelling. He continued to scrutinise her for what seemed an eternity before looking back at the puzzle.
“The word square itself was masterful too. How long did it take you to create it? I confess I was rather a dullard, and it took me a good ten minutes to complete, but my brain has not yet recovered, I fear.”
“Ten minutes?” Clementine repeated, impressed. “You really did it so quickly?”
He gave her a wry look. “My, my, Miss Honeywell, you do think me a sorry specimen. Ten minutes is very much too long, and I truly am blaming my less than perfect health on slowing my mental faculties. I may be an idle creature whose only concern is the colour of his waistcoats, but I received a proper education like all gentlemen.”
Clementine winced a little, recognising the words she had hurled at him in fury, but she refused to feel guilty for them.
However, if he was being polite, she could do no less.
“I beg your pardon. I ought not to have been so abominably rude, but then you provoked me by accusing me of trying to trap you into marriage, so really, I believe we are even.”
He laughed at that and pushed himself into a sitting position. “I do believe you are correct. It was a most admirable set down, not least for being true, as all the best insults are. Mine, however, was mere fabrication, and for that I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
Clementine regarded him with interest, realising that the indolent, cynical facade he usually wore was absent and recognising his sincerity for what it was.
“I do,” she said with a nod. “I cannot blame you for being vexed with me. I must seem like the most appalling busybody poking my nose in where it does not belong.”
“Oh no. Quite a delightful busybody,” he said, lessening any discomfort she might feel at the rather flirtatious words by speaking them with a wry lilt as he got to his feet.
Clementine still felt awkward, however, and suddenly less certain of herself.
Viewing Lord Beaumarsh from a distance, with his lordship lounging several feet away from her, felt safe.
Rather like viewing a panther sleeping behind the bars of a cage.
One could admire the beast and appreciate its beauty without being in the least bit of danger.
Lord Beaumarsh, on his feet and standing over her, was quite a different prospect.
She felt suddenly petite and fragile, which was utter nonsense, for she was not especially small and very far from delicate.
Yet he was broad and, despite his recent illness, exuded a sheer physical presence that was quite beyond anything she had ever experienced.
So, this was a rogue, a libertine, she mused, intrigued by the sensation and realising this magnetic quality was what so many writers tried to evoke in the scandalous novels that Izzy hid under her mattress.
Well, yes, she supposed she could see the appeal.
For he was beautiful to behold, with the sunlight burnishing his golden hair, his blue eyes glittering, full of knowing and mischief and promises of things she did not yet understand, but would, if she allowed him to show her.
Not that he was offering, but the possibility that he might , given the slightest encouragement, was inherent in his entire demeanour.
Clementine studied him with fascination, drinking in the revelation of a creature she had only ever read about.
“Good Lord, the way you look at me,” Beaumarsh said suddenly, taking a step back and breaking the spell.
Clementine blinked, wondering at his sudden retreat.
He had not been that close, had not been overstepping any mark, not made a move or given any sign that he intended to act in a way unbecoming of a gentleman.
Any sensation she had experienced had been nothing more than her instincts prickling, yet he was looking at her as if she had slapped him.
“My lord?” she said in confusion.
Beaumarsh stared at her and shook his head. “When you focus your attention on a fellow, it’s like you might see directly into his head and poke about in his brain,” he said peevishly.
Clementine laughed and then wondered if she ought to be insulted by his words. Honestly, she couldn’t be bothered even if it had been an insult. She was too intrigued. “I assure you, I cannot do so,” she told him gravely.
“Hmm.” He looked unconvinced. “It’s my belief you are lucky you were not born a few decades earlier.”
“You mean I might have been burned for a witch?” she said with a snort.
“Yes, I don’t doubt. A handy method for getting rid of females with too much perspicacity or knowledge.
I cannot help but observe, Lord Beaumarsh, that it is your fear of my knowing what is in your head that makes you ill at ease, for you know as well as I do, I cannot perceive that which you do not willingly share. ”
“Ah, but I don’t believe that,” he said, shaking his head and staring at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
“What was it you gleaned about Kirby, about me, from the little I told you about him? There was a look in your eyes like I had revealed something of great interest that was most unsettling.”
Clementine opened her mouth to deny it and then closed it again.
Though she hated to admit it, she was rather enjoying their conversation and was loath to put an end to it just yet.
So instead of doing the sensible thing and refusing to be drawn, bidding him a good day, she considered what she had inferred from his words.
“Mr Kirby treats you with what some might consider a lack of respect, and yet he is clearly devoted to you,” she said, observing his face to see if his reaction confirmed her words.
“There is a strong bond between you, one that runs deeper than employer and employee. That speaks of a long-standing relationship, or perhaps one forged in fire, by enduring an experience that shaped you both. But you refuse to acknowledge the sincerity of Mr Kirby’s devotion, putting it down to the fact that you pay well.
That speaks to me of a man who does not value his own consequence and feels he does not deserve such devotion.
You do not like yourself very much, I think, my lord,” she said gently, careful of his feelings and very aware she ought not to speak so intimately, and yet he had asked her to do so.
The coldly elegant, cynical lord she had first met at The Mermaid’s Tale made a sudden and aggressive reappearance.
His face shuttered, his bearing stiff where it had been relaxed.
She felt the chill immediately. To her surprise, she deeply regretted having offended him, for whilst his good opinion was nothing to her, she had not meant to upset him and had clearly touched a nerve.
That had been thoughtless of her and not well done.
Just because the words might be true did not mean he wished to hear them spoken by a stranger.
“As I said, Miss Honeywell, a fellow does not enjoy having you poke about in his brain,” he said curtly.
“My lord, I beg your pardon. That was dreadfully—”
“Think nothing of it. I invited you to speak your mind, did I not? Now, I believe I have had enough fresh air for one day. If you would excuse me.”
“Of course,” Clementine said, cursing her unruly tongue as she watched him snatch up the blanket he’d been sitting on and stride away.
She wished he would allow her to apologise.
What had she been thinking, saying such a thing?
Yet it had seemed so obvious. Before her stood a man who had every advantage life offered, and yet he seemed not to value himself in the least. Why was that, she wondered?
What had given him such a low opinion of himself?
“Not your business,” she told herself sternly as she sat down on a rock, brushing the sand from her feet now they were dry. “You must stop interfering in other people’s lives. Well, unless they specifically invite you to interfere,” she amended, and then sighed.
She was a hopeless case.