Page 37 of The Duke of Seduction
“I might have if I’d met her instead of you that night.”
Their gazes connected, and he was suddenly more aware of her hand on his arm than he’d ever been. Heat radiated from her touch, and he recalled the scent of lilies and honeysuckle—how she’d smelled when he’d kissed her neck.
She looked away first. “Yes, well, if you could write a poem about her, she would appreciate it. As would her mother. Apparently, she prays for it daily.”
Beck groaned. “Perhaps this is a mess. I hadn’t intended for it to become such a…thing.”
“It’s too late now. It’squitethe thing.”
He hated all the trouble he’d caused, and he wasn’t sure he’d successfully find her a husband. He wished there was something else he could do. Something he could control. A thought occurred to him. It was a small gesture, but he suspected she’d appreciate it. “Lady Lavinia, does your interest in geology extend to fossils?”
Her dark eyes brightened. “Oh yes, I have a small collection.”
He did too. He’d gathered them around his home as a boy, and now they sat in a box in his study. They’d be much more appreciated in her possession. He made a mental note to write to his stepmother and have her send them to him.
“Would it be untoward if I asked you to call me Lavinia?”
Her question caught him off guard.
She waved her hand. “Of course it would be. But I don’t care. We’re friends, and my friends call me Lavinia.”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“No, but our entire association isn’t appropriate. As long as we’re breaking the rules, we may as well go all in.”
He smiled at her argument. “All right.”
She tipped her head as she looked up at him. “Your friends call you Beck?”
He nodded. “My given name is William Beckett. I was Viscount Beckett before I inherited the title. Everyone has always called me Beckett or Beck. Except my mother. She called me Will.” A long-buried pang of sadness crested over him—like a giant wave from the sea, a disruption in the rhythm.
“When did she die?” Lavinia asked softly.
“When I was fifteen.”
“You miss her.”
He nodded. “I do, but I was lucky to gain a stepmother I love and who loves me.”
“Bother, we’re nearly back,” Lavinia said. “But I think we’ve said all we need to.”
Not really. He was enjoying their conversation far too much. On the other hand, he was eager to get home and empty the words milling about his head onto foolscap.
“Look for my sign,” he said. “I’ll let you know when Horace arrives and when you should come to the park to meet him.”
“Very good. And you’ll write a poem to Sarah. Make it good, please—your best. She likes dogs, if it helps to know that. And horrid novels, but maybe don’t write about that.”
He laughed again. “I’ll write something deserving of your praise.”
“Don’t write it for me. Write it for her future husband.”
“Yes, of course.”
They walked to her mother, and he left rather quickly, both because he was eager to write and play his guitar and because he didn’t want to make small talk with the countess. Or encourage her to think he was going to court Lavinia.
That wasn’t going to happen. They were friends, and he liked that, despite the oddness of it. A rake and a young unmarried lady were the unlikeliest of friends. And if Society knew of it, there would be hell to pay.
Luckily, Beck didn’t believe in hell. He couldn’t. Many would say his sister was there, and that was a notion he simply couldn’t endure.
