Page 28 of The Governess and the Rogue (Somerset Stories #6)

Chapter Twenty-Three

M y Bea.

The two words played over and over again in Bea’s mind in a continuous refrain all through tea in the drawing room, another round of gift giving, and a foray into the gardens so the children could test their skill with the various trifles Jack had given them.

It was still echoing in her head during dinner, and afterward as Jack’s family engaged in several boisterous rounds of charades.

Jack had uttered the words with a grin, and seemingly without thinking. But they had sounded sincere enough that, several hours later, Bea’s heart had still failed to regain its normal rhythm.

She cast him a discreet glance as they sat together on the tufted damask-covered sofa in front of the marble fireplace in Beasley Park’s silk-papered drawing room.

What an excellent actor he was. The things he said.

The way he looked at her. The casual manner in which he’d taken her hand and kissed it when she offered the winning guess during their final game of charades.

He gave his family every impression that he cared for her. Indeed, his actions were so persuasive, Bea could almost believe it herself. The fact both vexed and impressed her by turns.

As for the rest of the Beresfords, they were nothing like Bea had expected.

Oh, they were handsome enough, to be sure, as well as being impeccably dressed.

And they certainly hadn’t refrained from asking Bea questions about where she was from and how she and Jack had met.

But they didn’t appear to look down their noses at her for all that.

They weren’t outwardly rude or disdainful.

They weren’t even as top lofty as Lord St. Clare had initially seemed.

On the contrary, they were loud and opinionated, frequently talking over each other, and engaging in good-humored banter.

They also didn’t relegate their offspring to the nursery for the whole of the evening.

All nine of the children had joined the adults for charades.

The game had soon devolved into gleeful laughter and energetic verbal sparring as a result.

The Beresfords, it transpired, were a competitive lot.

Lady Kate was still lamenting her loss over coffee, long after the children had been sent off to bed.

She sat on the sofa opposite Bea and Jack, clad in a stunning dark blue silk dinner dress with a loose-fitting midsection. She balanced her coffee cup on the swell of her belly. “The teams were poorly organized,” she said. “That’s your fault, Ivo.”

Ivo straightened from petting one of the wolfhounds. It was sprawled on the carpet near the settee where he and his wife were seated, along with four other sleeping dogs. “I disagree,” he said. “The teams were perfectly arranged. You thought so too before you started to lose.”

Kate narrowed her eyes at her brother. “You make me out to be a sore loser.”

“You sound like a sore loser,” St. Clare remarked quietly. He stood by his wife’s chair near the crackling fire, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

“Only because I’m not at my best,” Kate retorted. “Be warned. Once this baby comes, and I am myself again, I shall show you no mercy.”

“It’s not Ivo you should be worried about, sweetheart,” Charles said from his place beside her. “It was Miss Layton who trounced you.”

“And whose idea was it to put Miss Layton on Jack’s team if not Ivo’s?” Kate demanded.

“Miss Layton will always be on my team,” Jack said. “A fiancé’s privilege.”

Bea’s heart thumped hard. She forced herself to take another drink of her coffee.

It was rich and strong. Everything Lord and Lady St. Clare had served today had been equally luxurious.

Though not in a strictly traditional sense.

Dinner, for example, had contained a great many more vegetable dishes than it had mutton, chicken, or beef.

“Hannah abstains from all animal flesh,” Meg Beresford had explained to Bea at the table. Married to Ivo, she was a soft-spoken, red-haired lady, with a delicate stammer. “She’s a member of the Vegetarian Society. She claims it’s a question of conscience.”

Bea had no knowledge of vegetarianism in England, but she was quite familiar with it in India. There it was a matter of religion—and compassion. It seemed strange to find the practice observed here in the Somerset countryside, among the descendants of countesses and earls.

Or perhaps not so strange, the more Bea observed them. For all their wealth and pedigree, they struck her as people of principle. Of conscience and compassion. And of decided opinion.

“That’s not how it works,” Kate said to Jack.

“The loser’s lament,” Jack retorted without malice.

Kate scoffed at the accusation. “Spouses and sweethearts have an unfair advantage. It’s why Charles and I can’t be on the same team.”

Jack leaned back on the sofa, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. “Charades are dull sport in any case. When I’m fully healed and you’re safely delivered of my new niece or nephew, you and I shall have a proper contest.”

Kate’s face immediately brightened. “A race?”

Jack smiled. “Why not?”

“I can think of several reasons,” Charles said ominously.

Kate flashed her husband an arch look before returning her attention to her brother. “Have you ridden since…?”

Jack’s smile dimmed. “I wouldn’t call it riding, but yes. I’ve been on horse.” He lowered his coffee cup back to its saucer with a soft clink. “I was thinking of taking one out tomorrow.”

“To anywhere in particular?” St. Clare asked.

Jack met his oldest brother’s gaze. “To the Priory.”

“Marston Priory is Jack’s estate near Exford,” Kate said to Bea. “It used to belong to my mother’s side of the family, but Jack bought it outright some years ago. My brother James has had the running of it.”

“Until now.” Jack returned his coffee cup to the silver tray on the low table in front of the sofa. “Henceforward, I’ll be the one managing things. I’ll ride out in the morning to get the lay of the land.”

There was a protracted silence.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” St. Clare said. “Better you should take a carriage.”

Jack shrugged off the suggestion. “It’s but six miles each way. Seven at most. I could manage it blindfolded.”

“We’re not talking about your vision,” St. Clare said. “We’re talking about your leg.”

Hannah covered St. Clare’s hand gently with her own. “My father was able to ride soon after his leg injury. He still can, though he’s older, and arthritis has set in.”

“I suspect our mother has something to do with that,” Charles said. “The two of them often ride together.”

“A good point,” Kate said to Jack. “You shouldn’t go alone. If you must ride out, take Maberly with you. Or perhaps Charles or Ivo can?—”

“I was thinking of taking Bea,” Jack said.

Bea felt the eyes of everyone else turn upon her. A flush of embarrassment crept up her throat. “But…I can’t ride.”

One would think she’d just declared that she couldn’t breathe air.

“Can’t ride!” Kate exclaimed. “You’re not serious?”

Bea managed a faint smile. “Is that so shocking?”

“We’re a horse-going family on all sides,” Ivo said. “My maternal grandfather, Squire Honeywell, was famous for his bloodstock, and my father’s family kept a notable stable. Charles’s family too, and Meg’s. We all have that in common.”

Bea carefully placed her cup and saucer on the tray beside Ivo’s.

She was already lacking in so many respects.

She didn’t have the right clothes, the right looks, the right pedigree.

She’d thought for a moment that by prevailing at charades she’d begun to fit in, but not anymore, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “There weren’t many opportunities to ride in India. ”

Not for a governess.

“Have you ever b-been on a horse?” Meg asked.

“A few times,” Bea said. “Nothing to mention.”

“Then you can’t even ride a little?” Kate asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Bea replied.

“I’ll teach you,” Jack said.

Bea’s gaze jerked to his. Her pulse gave an erratic leap. “Oh no,” she objected. “You wouldn’t wish to waste your time doing that.”

“Nothing I’d rather do,” he said gallantly.

She shook her head. “Really, Jack. I’d only slow you down.”

“I’ll be slow enough on my own until I get my bearings. It will be the perfect conditions for you to learn.” Jack looked to St. Clare and Hannah. “Do you still have that old mare the children learned to ride on?”

“Nightshade?” Hannah asked. “Why, yes.”

“She’s nearly twenty, Jack,” Kate protested. “She hasn’t got any pep.”

“Pep isn’t required,” Jack said. “So long as she’s steady and reliable.”

A dozen objections sprang to Bea’s lips, but she had no opportunity to make them.

The Beresfords were off on another subject with lightning speed, discussing past horses and past races they’d had with each other.

Before long, it was time to retire. Even then, Bea had no opportunity of waylaying Jack, for Meg quietly commandeered her attention as they exited the drawing room.

“I presume you d-don’t have a riding habit,” she said.

“Indeed, I do not,” Bea replied.

“I’d be happy to lend you mine. It will be a little too big on you, but that’s easily remedied. My lady’s maid is capable of performing miracles.”

Some of the tension in Bea’s muscles eased. That was one worry dealt with at least. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

Meg smiled. “Not at all.”

* * *

Bea sent up a silent prayer for her own safety as Maberly tossed her up into the sidesaddle. Jack came forward immediately after, supplanting his batman at the black mare’s side. He helped Bea put her foot into the stirrup as she struggled to get her other leg over the pommel.

One of the grooms was at the mare’s head, holding her bridle. The mare herself stood quiet, except for the occasional impatient strike of one steel-shod hoof against the cobblestones of the stable yard.