That Kesgrave had already freed them from their restraints and would have turned his attention to the door as soon as Bea had finished expressing her gratitude had no bearing on Flora’s perception of herself as their heroic savior. As such, she took a sort of proprietary interest in them now as she strode into the drawing room, asserting that the only wretched thing would have been for the pair to wed without their guardian angel in attendance.
Vera, whose aversion to infirmity of any sort was so deeply ingrained even she realized there was something suspicious about her daughter’s praise of her nursing skills, stared in confusion at this mention of a protective spirit and looked around the room as if expecting to see some secondary figure from the Bible standing by the fireplace, such as Noah or Job.
Fortunately, she spotted only her niece, whose customarily wan appearance reminded her why she was so cross in the first place, and she berated the girl with brusque impatience for breaking her promise to wait a full week before making her vows. “I cannot comprehend it. No, I cannot. If you were determined to ignore the wisdom of my counsel, then why do so after our visit to Madame Bélanger? Surely, courtesy demands that you openly rebel the day before a significant investment is made on your behalf? I find your behavior vexing, extremely vexing.”
Since Bea resented the acquisition of the excessively lavish trousseau almost as much as her aunt, she thought this was a fair question and turned her unblinking gaze to Kesgrave for a reply, as the decision to diverge from the agreed-upon schedule had been his. Daunted by neither the presence of Vera Hyde-Clare nor the sting of her disapproval, he returned Bea’s stare with unflinching calm, his own eyes, brilliantly blue and impossibly bright, glowing with a determination to see the thing done. How it might be contrived—with a modicum of dignity or amid an orgy of carping—was of no concern to him, and Bea, who knew his ability to think rationally had been corrupted by the sight of a murderous actor holding a pistol to her back earlier in the day, felt a strange sort of flutter in her belly at the implacability of his intent.
It was, in fact, much worse than a flutter, she realized, as color suffused her cheeks,
And how could she not blush, knowing all too well the thoughts that occupied his mind? She herself shared them, and well aware of how thoroughly unsuited they were for the dowager’s drawing room, she felt her face grow uncomfortably warm.
What a wholly depraved creature she must be to entertain such ideas whilst in the presence of her family!
The case was hopeless indeed when even the shrill displeasure of her steadfastly censorious aunt wasn’t enough to completely quell the anticipatory shiver of delight Bea felt at the inflexibility of the duke’s resolve.
Naturally, she expected everyone in the room to notice the unusual blush, but Flora drew the occupants’ attention by dismissing her mother’s complaint with a brisk wave of her hand. “We could not possibly allow Beatrice to marry Kesgrave with only the rags on her back, for she is not some poor orphan in a fairy story who must sweep out the soot from our fireplace or sleep in a cupboard. She is a beloved member of our family, and I know you would never want her to take a turn around Berkeley Square in a dress marred by a stain of gooseberry jam. Why, one of the neighbors might notice! ’Tis not like this tear in my own gown, which is so small I’m sure not even the dowager duchess will note it.”
As if of its own volition, Aunt Vera’s index finger flew to Flora’s lips as she tried to stop her daughter from speaking of such terrible things as stains and tears. Although the target of her apprehension was in the hallway conferring with her butler, she could not squelch the sensation of the peeress’s eagle eye hovering somewhere over her shoulder observing her family’s every minor imperfection. It was a familiar feeling, as she lived with the perpetual fear of falling short of the other lady’s exacting standards—a dread her daughter routinely exploited in her pursuit of a wardrobe by Madame Bélanger.
Or, if not a full wardrobe, then several new gowns by the exquisite modiste.
Having witnessed Flora’s efforts on multiple occasions, Bea knew exactly what she was up to and was disconcerted to discover she felt a pang of sympathy for Aunt Vera, whose panic prevented her from realizing her daughter’s dress was without defects or blemishes. Bea was saved from succumbing to the odd compulsion to offer her relative comfort by Flora, who blithely continued her speech, insisting the couple had already demonstrated incredible forbearance by waiting so long.
“Instead of offering recriminations, let us be happy for them, Mama,” she exclaimed with giddy assurance. “Life is a precious gift and we must be glad they are alive and well to enjoy this wonderful event, for no one’s future is assured. Why, something dreadful might have happened to them this very day had some divine force not been watching over them. Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero!”
Vera, whose anxiety remained acute as she frantically inspected her daughter’s dress for imperfections, inhaled sharply and called for their carriage to take them back to Portman Square posthaste. “We must return my dear girl to her sickbed, for she is babbling incoherently,” she said, darting an angry look at Bea. “I knew it was too soon.”
The unspoken charge hung in the air for only a moment before her son strode into the room in the company of his father.
“There’s no need to kick up
