Page 28 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“You absolutely have,” Bess said. “Nobody will be able to hear your opinions if you race to the finish line.”
Lord Linfield sighed, dropping his shoulders. He turned his eyes back to the paper, but Bess cut him off once more.
“And if you find yourself beginning to speak too quickly, if you find yourself getting out of control,” she began, “simply take a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Force your anxious thoughts to calm down. And then, begin again. It will make your heart slow down.”
Lord Linfield made eye contact with her once more. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I probably seem like an imbecile to you. Unable to read these very simple words.”
“No,” Bess said, drawing her hand across her chest. “Absolutely not. I remember, ah. When I was a debutante, during my first Season, I was so terribly anxious that I could hardly look anyone in the eye. I kept my eye to the floor, muttering to whoever spoke to me. I remember a friend of mine, Olivia, told me that no man would ever ask me to dance, let alone marry me.” Bess sighed, giving Nathaniel a genuine smile. “Of course, I grew better and better as the Season crept on. My father hired someone to teach me the basics.”
“I’ve been to my share of debutante balls, Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Linfield said. “And I—”
“Then you must remember how articulate the women were when they did speak,” Bess said. “You must remember that, although I’m sure they allowed you the floor for the majority of any given conversation, when they did utter anything, they did it with grace and certainty. That is what I’m attempting to translate to you.”
Lord Linfield gaped at her as if she had two heads. “I never thought past my own tongue at those balls,” he said.
“Perhaps that’s your struggle at the speeches, as well,” Bess said, giving him a small grin. “If you aren’t thinking about the person in the far back of the crowd, the person you might have very, very little to do with, on a personal level, then you’re delivering a poor speech. You have to be speaking both to the common man and the richest Londoner. You have to make them believe that you understand them.”
“Oh, Lady Elizabeth. For me to understand anyone, I should have spent fewer hours out in the woods with my hunting dog,” Lord Linfield said, his smile widening.
“I should say so. You have your head in the clouds,” Bess said, teasing him. “But it’s time to come back to the cobblestones, where you belong.”
They held one another’s eyes for a long moment, during which Bess marvelled at how witty she sounded with him. She’d always been accustomed to stepping off to the side, instead of ever hurting a man’s feelings. But with Lord Linfield, she was his instructor, and as such, it only behooved him for her to fight back, in a sense, with articulate banter. She knew he wasn’t accustomed to this, perhaps not from any woman or man. But for whatever reason, it was working miracles.
The pair of them worked tirelessly for the following twenty minutes, with Bess pushing Lord Linfield to memorise more of the words and use his hands to enunciate meaning. When one of the maids from the kitchen arrived to inform them of dinner, Bess remembered that Irene and Richard were half the room away. Bess strode towards Irene, finding her eyes half-closed and her chin lolling along her shoulder.
“Irene!” Bess hissed. “Hey!”
Irene erupted from the chair, seemingly shocked. She gaped at Bess, then at Lord Linfield and at Richard, who stood near the fireplace. “Oh! Goodness. Is it already time to eat?” she asked.
But of course it was. The four of them sat around the dinner table, with Irene gazing hungrily at the slices of freshly baked bread. The cook bumbled in, slipping a platter of chicken near Lord Linfield, who busied himself slicing into it and passing out the chunks of meat to the rest. Bess watched him work, watched the firmness of his muscles as he cut. She swallowed, turning her eyes towards Irene. But Irene had caught her in the act of inspecting Lord Linfield! She winked at Bess, causing Bess’s cheeks to grow bright red.
It wasn’t right. Bess knew it. She stared at the chicken before her, poured gravy over the top. Richard and Lord Linfield began to speak of something they’d seen in London earlier that day, a brawl between two carriage boys. As they spoke, Irene kicked Bess's ankle beneath the table.
“Are you a child?” Bess mouthed to Irene, knowing the men wouldn’t notice.
Irene just shrugged in return, giving her a wink.
“Absolutely not,” Bess mouthed again.
“I don’t suppose you’re the one attempting to teach me better speech mechanics when it seems you can’t possibly control yourself at the dinner table,” Lord Linfield said.
Bess turned her head fast, giving Lord Linfield an embarrassed smile. “It’s really only our secret language, you see,” she said. “It’s terribly embarrassing to admit.”
“Is it?” Lord Linfield said. He tilted his head towards Richard, playing along. “I believe Richard and I have a sort of secret language, as well. Why, just as we’ve been sitting here, he’s translated what a bore he thinks most women are, in comparison to you. Of course, I echoed back that it just upholds what I truly believe about you both.”
“Oh. And what’s that?” Bess asked.
“That yes, of course, you’re not boring,” Lord Linfield said, his voice bouncing. “But you’re certainly strange. And one could say that that’s always better than boring, wouldn't you agree?”
Dinner seemed much more uproarious than previous times. Bess marvelled at how easily she and Lord Linfield spoke with one another. She’d never felt so uninhibited around a man before, not even when she’d been madly in love with Conner. In fact, when she had been in love with Conner, she’d felt her tongue was sloppy, and her brain was weak. She’d had so much to lose with Conner—had worried each and every day that he might abandon her for someone else. Of course, she hadn’t imagined that “someone else” would be her father.
When Lord Linfield and Richard walked the women to the door, he kissed both of their hands and paused for perhaps just a flicker of a second longer upon Bess’s. Bess felt the warmth of his hand, just below hers—loved the feel of his breath upon her. When she drew her hand back, he again looked into her eyes.
“I look forward to using the techniques you taught me at tomorrow’s speech,” he offered. “Along with, of course, the upcoming ball I’m meant to attend this weekend.”
“Oh?” Bess asked, surprised to feel a punch in her gut at the mention of this. “A ball?”
“A friend of my father’s would like to introduce me to his eldest,” Lord Linfield said. “Yet another person in this world looking to match me. Be my suitor.” He shrugged slightly. “Although, perhaps she’s the one? Who am I to say.”
