Page 17 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #1)

“You’d best ask my father. He spent the evening with him last night,” Clementine replied, deflecting the question. “I shall take three yards of the blue. Can you show me the lace now, please? Just a narrow width for trim.”

Mrs Doomsday sighed, aware that the Honeywell family did not indulge in idle gossip.

“You know, you’re young yet, and pretty with it, Miss Honeywell,” she said, sounding a tad frustrated.

“Don’t you go burying yourself in this little town of ours and cutting off your nose to spite your face.

Take your courage in hand, my pet, that’s my advice,” the lady said, and then, blushing at her own temerity, hurried off to find the lace.

Clementine finished her purchases with Mrs Doomsday before popping into see Mr Muddel to order two pounds of cheddar and a smaller quantity of Stilton.

Then to Mr Twyner to pay for their candle order.

Her errands complete for the morning, she made her way down to the beach to make her way home, preferring this morning to walk beside the sea and then up through the woods than via the town.

She told herself she was not in the mood to chatter with everyone who crossed her path today, for it would take her forever to make her way home if the world and his wife were out and about. But it was not true.

You just want to see Lord Beaumarsh again, you great hen wit , she chastised herself.

It was nothing but the truth. Surely, his cousin would arrive in the town in the next day or two, and then the glamorous Beau Beaumarsh would be gone from their lives.

Everything would go back to exactly how it had been before he had arrived, which, she told herself, was a good thing.

She had been entirely content before he arrived.

This was true enough. Sadly, she did not believe she would be perfectly content once he had gone.

Somehow, Lord Beaumarsh had stirred things up, stirred her up. He had reminded her that, whilst she might be on the shelf, she was only just on the shelf, and things she had not allowed herself to hope for suddenly nagged at her.

Sighing, Clementine turned to stare out to sea, watching the fishing boats on the horizon.

Seagulls wheeled overhead, their raucous cries making her look up, watching them as they glided high above her.

Suddenly she envied their freedom, their ability to just leave the ground behind and fly away, seeking adventure.

“Nonsense,” she told herself, speaking aloud in the hopes she might pay attention this time. “All they are seeking is food and a mate. Stop this romantic babble at once. Else before you know it, you’ll be writing poetry.”

“Are you a poet?”

Clementine gave a little shriek and spun around, her heart beating wildly as the man who had unsettled her so since last night appeared like a genie before her.

He appeared entertained by her reaction and took a step back, holding out a hand in a peaceful gesture. “I mean you no harm, Miss Honeywell.”

“Good heavens, but you made me jump,” she said crossly, irritated by his coming upon her talking to herself, of all things.

At least her annoyance reminded her she thought he was a pretty fribble and there was nothing to get all het up about.

“It is very bad manners to creep up on a person, my lord.”

“I did not creep,” he said, his tone placating. “I swear I did not. Indeed, I called your name several times, but you were so intent on chatting with the seagulls that you did not hear me.”

Clementine blushed, mortified. “I was not talking to the seagulls,” she said defensively, and then wondered if that might actually be better than talking to herself. No matter. It was too late now.

“Who were you speaking to about writing poetry, then?” he asked curiously.

“I wasn’t—oh, never mind,” Clementine said with a shake of her head. “I know you are teasing me, and I shan’t let you rile me, for I promised I would not be rude to you again. So there. You may do your worst, and I shall not rise to the bait,” she added magnanimously.

His eyes shone, a hint of wickedness that made a tremor of unease stir in Clementine’s belly. She ignored it and put up her chin, waiting.

“Was the poem for me, Miss Honeywell?” he asked slyly.

Well, drat the man. Of all the things to say!

Though she had not actually been about to write an ode to the Earl of Beaumarsh—may God strike her dead if she ever considered such a dreadful thing—she blushed a horrible shade of scarlet.

Cursing her fair skin, she just knew he would take it as confirmation of his suspicions and that made the situation entirely worse. She glared at him.

“Certainly not,” she said coolly, wishing she could press her hands against her cheeks to stop them burning so.

His lips twitched, but he forced his features into a sombre expression and nodded.

“No, of course not. I imagine your poems are reserved for more worthy suitors. Does your sweetheart live in the town? Let me guess, he’s a schoolteacher, a fine man devoted to the education of young minds who spends all his spare time doing charitable deeds.

No doubt he does not drink, nor smoke, nor gamble, nor does he take the Lord’s name in vain.

He is a pattern card of decency and honour and adored by one and all. ”

Clementine stared, appalled by the picture he painted. “He sounds a perfect prig,” she said, startling a bark of laughter out of Lord Beaumarsh, who seemed delighted by her reply.

He continued to chuckle and, once again, the warmth of the sound struck her, though not as much as the effect it had on her.

It was a wondrous thing to make the cynical Earl of Beaumarsh laugh with unaffected amusement and she was viscerally aware that the pleasure it gave her was a dangerous sensation, making her crave more.

Don’t be foolish , Clementine scoffed inwardly.

At four and twenty, she was not fresh from the schoolroom and was a long way from having her head turned by a handsome face.

She knew this meant nothing to him beyond a momentary departure from the commonplace.

She meant nothing to him. No more or less than a pleasant diversion for a few moments, in a rural town where there were none of the sophisticated delights of the city to be found.

But all the same, why not enjoy it for what it was?

She was not expecting a proposal of marriage, and he was not about to offer one.

Yet he was handsome and witty, and he made her laugh, and could that not be enough?

Of course it could. So long as they did not overstep any boundaries of propriety, there was nothing stopping them being friends.

They might be alone here, but they were not alone.

There were plenty of people walking on the beach, and a group of children making sandcastles.

Not to mention being in full view of the high street.

Besides, he was friends with her father now, too.

“The poor young man,” Beaumarsh said, returning her attention to their conversation. He emitted an overly sorrowful sigh. “He must be heartbroken.”

“Hardly. He’s in love with my sister,” she said with a snort.

“Ah, the lovely Miss Isabelle?” he replied, grinning.

“Oh, no. He’s aiming higher even than Izzy,” Clementine replied. “He’s holding out for Beatrice, but he shan’t have her, I promise. You’ve not seen her yet or you would not be wasting your time here with me, I assure you.”

Clementine had never in her life been jealous of her sister’s beauty and was therefore startled to hear the faint tinge of bitterness that accompanied this statement. She glanced at Beaumarsh, wondering if he had heard it too, but he merely looked entertained, awaiting more information.

“Bea is a diamond of the first water,” Clementine said gravely. “Incomparable. She is too good for this town, and I intend for her to have a season. She’ll marry a duke, even without a vast dowry behind her, you mark my words.”

“A duke?” Beaumarsh repeated, quirking one elegant eyebrow. “Well, no wonder I have failed to impress you when you have such ambitions.”

“Oh, only for Bea, my lord, not for any of the rest of us,” Clementine said, putting her hand to her heart and affecting a pious expression.

“In all honesty, Bea would be quite content to spend the rest of her days in Little Valentine and marry a local lad, for she has no ambition in that regard nor any concept of her own beauty. I think she would live in a cottage with no modern conveniences and still find herself perfectly content.”

“And you, Miss Honeywell, what would you settle for?” he asked, a teasing note to the question.

“Oh, I shan’t marry,” she said with a laugh. “I shall look after my father, for he will never be where he is supposed to be else, and I shall be a doting auntie to all my nieces and nephews.”

She looked back at him, expecting him to make some playful comment about her lack of ambition when she might have the pious prig of a schoolteacher for the asking, but he did not.

Instead, he looked vaguely annoyed, and she wondered if she had unwittingly offended him again.

Clementine recalled her words, running through them to check she had said nothing that might put his back up, but found nothing.

Uncomfortable with the silence, she carried on talking, aware she ought to shut up but finding it impossible to do so.

“Mr Allenby is our schoolteacher, and I shall tell you a secret, if you promise not to breathe a word to anyone, but I do think him rather a prig. He’s very well thought of, and seems to be good at his job, but he’s so very stern.

The poor boys never seem to have any fun, and fun is important for children, don’t you think?

I know that’s not a very fashionable opinion, but my sisters and I had so much fun when we were children, well, until Mama died, but that’s a different thing. ”

Clementine swallowed, cursing herself for rattling on.

Well, it was a good thing she had never had a season, for she would clearly have wasted the opportunity.

Flirting was obviously beyond her talent.

Not that this came as a surprise, merely rather a disappointment.

As the silence stretched on, Clementine felt increasingly foolish.

No doubt he was cursing himself for having stopped to speak to her and was racking his brain for a polite way of leaving her again.

She ought to say goodbye herself and put an end to the torture, but she was strangely reluctant to do so.

Instead, she kept on talking, though each word made the situation worse.

“Papa is trying to raise funds for a girls’ school, too.

He believes women ought to be educated, as do I, though I imagine you can think of at least one excellent reason against the argument.

I’m afraid I am that scandalous thing, a woman with a brain and a will of her own, which is why I shall never marry.

No man would stand me questioning his good sense or listen to me explaining why my way of doing a thing is better.

Well, apart from Papa, but someone must keep him in order.

He’ll turn up for Sunday service on a Wednesday afternoon without me to keep his appointments in order, you mark my words.

But besides that, no one would have me, and I would never marry a man who thought I was chattel, his to do with as he pleased, or displeased, and so you see, I shall stay single.

“It is really not so terrible a fate, for Mama has left me a little nest egg, and Papa has also made provision too, so I shall do well enough. Also, though it might seem a strange thing to you, people here rather like me and welcome my interfering in their lives, though I cannot blame you for disliking it so, as you do not know me at all and—”

“If you will excuse me.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I beg your pardon, I do not usually rattle on so, but hark at me, tongue enough for two sets of teeth this morning,” Clementine said desperately, giving a nervous trill of laughter that was like no sound she had ever made in her life before.

“Forgive me, but I-I have things I must attend to. Good day to you, Miss Honeywell.”

“Yes. Good day to you, Lord Beaumarsh,” Clementine said jovially. She held herself together until she was sure he was out of earshot before turning and cursing out loud.

What in the name of everything holy had she been thinking?

Utterly mortified, she wanted to do nothing more than curl up into a ball and will herself out of existence.

However, she was not so weak-willed as all that, and so she decided she must make a virtue out of her appalling morning and entertain her friend with all the horrific details.