Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4) Page 9

  She blushed and suppressed an embarrassed smile. “Unless I can amuse you, Your Grace, then it could be full, true laughs.”

  A grin emerged. “Well, then, Miss Reynolds. Amuse me.”

  “I thought you found me amusing without any effort on my part. I need only say something inappropriate.”

  He smiled wider but did not laugh.

  Her insides shook with nerves, but she played a few notes. “Or you may laugh in tune with the scale. Such like . . . Ha! Ha! Ha!” She sang-laughed, punctuating each exclamation with a sharp inward jab of her stomach muscles.

  He joined in, going up the scale with her at an octave lower. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  “Very good,” she said. With full school-mistress primness she added, “Except your pronouncing of the feigned laugh could be improved by rounding your aitches and ahs even further.” She rounded hers until her words were spoken completely from the back of her throat.

  He laughed, a genuine one. She grinned, pleased with herself for making him laugh. “Now, again.”

  They repeated the scales with the “ha,” until she burst into giggles and his deep, booming true laugh rolled through the music room.

  Lady Judith made a noise of prim disapproval as she looked over her spectacles at them.

  “How do we sound, cousin?” the duke asked.

  “A great racket.” She continued with her knitting.

  “Thank you for your honesty.” He bowed to her with all gravity and lifted a half-smile to Beauty.

  Once warmed up enough, they ran through the piece from the night before twice. He improved each time, as did her fingering.

  “Sing with me, Miss Reynolds. A duet.”

  “I do not know how to blend soprano and bass voices.”

  “Let us practice on it until we have mastered it.”

  They worked to blend their voices. She pushed the romantic nature of the lyrics to the back of her mind and focused on her performance, doing all she could to blend with his singing.

  “Your voice is beautiful,” the duke said.

  “Thank you for the kind words, but my voice is merely passable. It is on the thin side, unlike yours.”

  “I enjoy hearing you.”

  She changed the subject. “And what will you sing next for the company?”

  He shuffled through the selection of songbooks she had pulled from their music collection.

  “Ah, how about this? ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ from Thomas Moore’s A Selection of Irish Melodies.”

  “It is not summer yet, and you ensure there are roses throughout the year.”

  “I do. But those are hot house roses. I find the outside roses, un-pampered and fully exposed to the elements, have a vitality and an admirability that the cosseted ones do not.”

  Why did she feel he was no longer speaking of roses?

  They sang through the song. The melody was lovely, but the lyrics were imbued with loneliness. The last lines lingered, filled with melancholy.

  “Oh! who would inhabit

  This bleak world alone?”

  A shadow fell over the duke’s face, pinched the corners of his visible eye and his mouth. He bowed to Beauty and Lady Judith, not looking at either, and left the room.

  Chapter 14

  William found her in the garden, walking among the bare rose bushes in the afternoon sun.

  “Good day, Miss Reynolds.”

  She greeted him, and he joined her in her walk.

  His emotions were conflicted. He had kept his distance from her for several weeks, had practiced caution and courtesy, had made himself as unthreatening as possible. He hoped it would help her grow more comfortable and easy in his presence.

  And she was more easy. She opened to him, turned to him, more freely than she had before. But he felt a wall still between them.

  Impatience gnawed at him. He wanted to be with her always, not just when socially acceptable.

  How did one arrange for a young woman to fall in love with one?

  He did not know. He was floundering.

  But he felt, more and more, like abandoning caution for more drastic measures.

  He restrained himself, clasped his hands behind his back, and endeavored to merely converse with her.

  “Miss Reynolds. I know you were not always living in a country cottage. Will you tell me your history?”

  “We once were prosperous, as I believe you know.”

  “Yes. But tell me how it affected you?”

  She pursed her lips, clasped the book she held to her chest.

  “Well. Father gave us the education of gentlewomen, hoped we could marry well. The largest of dowries were planned.

  “My sisters were both seeking titles, you see. I know you will hold us in contempt for this, as those with titles often did, but still they worked and schemed and refused other amiable offers.

  “Then one day the money was gone.” She let her arms go and swung them, the book in one hand. “It wasn’t that fast, of course, but the change still was abrupt.

  “First, Father’s warehouse burned to the ground. Taking expensive wares with it. Then the ships were lost. Three of them, almost at once. It was impossible to believe, though it assuredly happened.

  “Then the crops failed, rioters raided the granary, stole and burned. What was the point of burning the wheat, if they so desperately needed food? The men were caught and hanged, but the damage was done.

  “Father started selling our art and furniture. My mother’s jewels that had been passed to her daughters, we had to sell them.

  “It was a cascade, all through the fall, until winter became desperate. We scraped through that winter on hope—hope that his other ships would arrive, laden with their goods.

  “We did not know two had fallen to American privateers. Pirates, really.

  “And the ship from India fell prey to a storm it could not outrun. It was damaged, and its silks and spices water-logged. It limped heavily into harbor with most of its contents destroyed.

  “There were two other ships we did not know the whereabouts of, the ones you discovered for us. But they were missing then.

  “My sisters were consumed with the unhappiness of no new dresses and invitations drying up. I was not out yet, so it did not afflict me in that way, but I was sent home from the school I had been attending because my father could no longer afford the fees.

  “He bitterly said a gentlewoman’s education would do me no good now. ’Twould’ve been better if he’d have had me trained in cooking and laundry-working, ‘twould have served me in better stead.’ ”

  “A bitter disappointment to you all,” he said, glad to see their misfortunes as young Beauty had seen them.

  “Yes. My sisters took it the hardest. Their suitors, the perfectly suitable, comfortable suitors they had kept dangling, no longer came round. Their friends in the gentry did not accept them anymore.

  “It was like the loss of money, the misfortune, was a contagion that others could catch. We were quarantined, alone, shunned.”

  “Lepers?” he said. “I know how that feels. I know how it is to be ostracized from society.”

  “How can that be? You are a duke!” She turned to him with incredulity in her face. “Your title alone should open every door to you. You should have the ear of the monarch himself.”

  “The mad one, or the portly Regent?”

  “Exactly. The royal family themselves are sufferers of being what is not ideal in royalty. You are scarred, yes, but you have your mind.”

  “Do I?” He raised his brows at her.

  “Of course you do. Do not be silly, Your Grace.” She rolled her eyes at him.

  He smiled. She unsuccessfully suppressed a grin.

  At some moments the incredible and impossible urge to kiss her hit him, as it did at this moment. He pushed back against his inclination and put more distance between them.

  Marry me, Beauty.

  It
rose up in his throat, and he clamped down on it, choked on it. He could not, would not.

  ***

  The duke’s amused smile fell abruptly, his eye widened, and he stepped back. An expression Beauty could not interpret overtook his face. He turned away from her and resumed walking.

  “How did you come to be called Beauty, Miss Reynolds? It is not your Christian name.”

  The change of subject was abrupt. Beauty skipped a few steps to catch up with him, her heart hammering from the sudden emotional upheaval.

  “Ah, no. I was christened Isabelle. My family called me Belle, and as my brothers were learning French, they began calling me Beauty, and it stuck.

  “It did annoy my sister Elizabeth so. She is the true beauty in the family. But my father adopted it as well, and eventually everyone was calling me Beauty.” She was babbling, filling the strained silence.

  She paused and stopped walking, her mood lowering. He turned and watched her, patient and listening.

  “But it was rather a cruel joke,” she admitted. She twisted her fingers together. “I was an awkward child and adolescent. Very shy. It was often thrown at me as an insult.”

  He frowned. “How could that be? You are—” He stopped.

  She widened her eyes, her heart thumping. “I am . . .?” she prompted.

  “Forgive a pretty speech, but, Isabelle Reynolds, you are the epitome of the word beauty.”

  She caught her breath and looked down. “A very pretty speech, indeed, Your Grace.”

  But she could not help looking up at him again, her cheeks warm.

  His gaze on her was gentle, admiring.

  Then he shifted, looked uncomfortable, and soon excused himself.

  ***

  As their morning practice was ending, Beauty struck up a waltzing tune on the pianoforte. Lady Judith had not joined them that morning, and Beauty felt lighter without the woman’s judging presence. The music room doors were all open and with servants bustling in the hallways, she felt her reputation was safe enough.

  She ended the waltz with a flourish and asked the duke, “Do you ever hold balls at the Castle?”

  “We used to, but not since my father died.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Because my mother can’t see to dance, and I do not have the legs for it.”

  “Your limp? It doesn’t seem so bad.” She walked from the music room to the drawing room, and he followed, the limp appearing only a slight hesitation in his step this morning.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. It has got better over the years, but I still do not have the dexterity to do myself a credit on the dance floor.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but how did you injure your knee? It wasn't from the small pox, I would assume?”

  “No, not directly. After I recovered, but was left—” he gestured at his face and covered eye—“and being young and foolish, I wished to prove myself.

  “I took to reckless riding. I took a jump I shouldn’t have. The horse stumbled, rolled over me. My leg twisted, broke, and the knee was damaged. The surgeon wanted to take the whole leg off, but I refused, as did my mother. No one wanted a one-legged, one-eyed, thirteen-year-old duke. That I can walk at all now is progress that took years of pain, healing, and determination.”

  “I’m glad you can walk.” She looked up at him, smiling.

  “I am as well.” He smiled back.

  “But you aren’t willing to dance?”

  His smile disappeared. “Of course not. I don’t dance. But you do, I take it?”

  She walked through the large drawing room. She suppressed a grin as he followed behind her.

  “Yes, I love to dance. Though I’ve never been to a real ball.” She sighed. “I had all the training at the lady’s seminary I attended; it was one of my favorite things at school. I danced at a few children’s balls and family parties, but I wasn’t out before my father’s troubles began.”

  “There will be opportunities, Miss Reynolds, I’m sure, soon enough.” He did not appear to like the topic, but then he asked, “What is your favorite dance?”

  She reached the closed doors to the ballroom and threw them open. She turned around and grinned at him.

  “Oh, all of them, any of them! Country dances, Scottish reels, the Cotillion, even the Minuet, though it is stuffy. I love to dance!” She pivoted and ran into the open space of the ballroom, her toes pointed. She spun. She curtsied to him. She grinned.

  He stood in the doorway to the ballroom, watching her with an upturned eyebrow.

  “I think I favor the Quadrille,” she said. “Though it was new when we were taught it, and I’ve never had the opportunity to dance it in company. Do you know it?”

  “No, though I’ve seen the cartoons making fun of it.”

  “Oh, it’s a lovely dance.” She went through a few of the figures, partnerless. “If you do not know the Quadrille, then I suppose you do not know the waltz at all?”

  “Certainly not.” He snapped his posture to straight alignment and gave a stern, disapproving stare. “A most inappropriate and scandalous dance.”

  Her shoulders fell, disappointed.

  He smiled, revealing he was teasing.

  She giggled. “Have you even seen it danced, Your Grace? Why, I hear even Almack’s has waltzing constantly, now.”

  “And how would you know of what goes on at Almack’s?”

  “Newspapers do reach North Lenton eventually. And some scandal sheets, even. Elizabeth keeps abreast of it all as much as she can. Have you ever been to Almack’s?”

  “I have, once. I was dragged there. And as I do not dance, I can assure you, it was a dreadfully dull affair. Terrible vittles.” He advanced into the ballroom, stood closer to her.

  “What is it I’ve heard? Day old toast and weak lemonade or some such?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed. “Why do people want so much to obtain vouchers, then?”

  “All snobbery. It means they’re a part of the most exclusive of society.”

  “Ah, my sisters were never able to obtain vouchers. Even at the height of father’s wealth. It enraged Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, not just wealth is needed, no matter how immense. I’m sorry, Beauty.”

  “Oh, do not be sorry! It sounds awful! I love to dance, but a private family ball with good food is infinitely preferable to snobbish discomfort and an unsatisfied palate.”

  ***

  “Shall I tell you a secret? Though you disapprove?” She gave William a teasing, entreating look.

  His heart gave a thrill. Beauty was becoming comfortable with him. She had never acted so girlish in front of him before.

  “I would treasure a secret.”

  “I believe my very favorite dance shall be the waltz.”

  “Of course, how could it be otherwise?” It was not his favorite topic, but she looked lovely in the morning light coming through the tall ballroom windows.

  She smiled. “You are teasing me. I know how to waltz, at least, a little. But I’ve never danced it with a man. Our school mistress, Madame Perry, did not approve of it, so forbade the dancing master to teach us. But a few girls at the seminary learned it privately and taught the rest of us in secret. It was delightful. But I have only danced it with other young women. I would love to dance it as it is meant to be danced.”

  His stomach tightened. “I’m afraid I cannot help you there, Miss Reynolds. I have not danced since I was thirteen.”

  “That is so sad.” And her eyes told him how saddened by his state she was. He frowned. He was not looking for pity from the woman he loved.

  It was better than contempt, though not by much.

  ***

  Beauty walked with the duke through the formal French garden, its tall topiaries casting long shadows in the evening light. They spoke of books: Clarissa, Pamela, the gothics of Mrs. Radcliffe, Ivanhoe and the Waverly novels, Byron and
his poetry.

  “You do not feel a kinship with Lord Byron, Duke? Dangerous, full of passions, and even with a limp, or so I’ve heard.” She lifted her brows at him.

  “That overly-pretty popinjay? We have nothing in common whatsoever.”

  She smiled and tried not to laugh at him.

  “Except for Harrow. But he attended after me, and lo, what stories I’ve heard about how he comported himself there.” The duke’s face grew more grave. “No, the character I feel quite the sympathy for is the monster in Frankenstein—created full-formed, but scarred and monstrous. Possessed of intelligence, but shunned and rejected for his appearance.”

  She frowned.

  He continued. “I emerged from the fever and the pox a new person. An utterly worse one.”

  They stopped, and she turned to him, troubled.

  “I had been a popular lad, so I like to think, but so much may have just been position. Lord Stanbridge, my courtesy title, had little trouble making and keeping friends at school. But after . . . after I was the duke . . .” He frowned, his heavy brows furrowed. Then he lifted his head and lightened his expression. “Well, it is not all their fault. I never went back to Harrow after I became the duke, and I closed myself off from those that might have stayed my friend.”

  “Why, do you think?”

  “I suppose because I knew those boys—just boys, mind you, but privileged ones—and knew how they treated people of lesser station who looked like I now did. I knew they would want to treat me the same way, but with the title of duke, outranking them all, that would complicate it. I didn’t want the hypocrisy of toad-eating when I knew they’d be abusing me to my back. And those that would abuse me to my face, I didn’t want to face that either. And so . . .”

  “And so.”

  “I avoided them altogether. I was tutored at home by the finest masters that could be brought in, and since, I have limited my involvement with others.”

  “But you did go to Cambridge?”

  “Yes, and took my seat in the House of Lords when I came of age. It was my duty, so I faced it.”

  She frowned over his revelations. “Duke, please tell me you do not let a few pockmarks and an eyepatch keep you from interacting with society! You cannot be disrespected in the House. Why, think of Lord Nelson! He was without several limbs. You are not so damaged as that, and he was a national hero.”