Page 45 of Harpy of the Ton
Who were these men to speak as if she were not among them? Couldn’t she—or any woman—be permitted to speak for herself?
Another nudge, and the Beast leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Wife, you’re disrespecting Sir Halford, and embarrassing me. Where are your manners?”
Did he expect her tocurtsey?
The firmness with which he clenched his jaw spoke of grim determination. A ripple of fear—accented with a wicked hint of anticipation—threaded through her at the notion ofa little marital discipline. How might he respond if she tested his patience?
But now was not the time.
“Wife.” The Beast’s voice came out in a low growl.
“Lawrence…” his friend said.
“No, Ned. She must learn.”
Bella gritted her teeth. There was no reason why she should curtsey to these people. In any case—how did one curtsey?
A memory flashed before her—a young woman in a dark gown covered with a crisp white apron, bobbing before her, down and up like a cork in a pond.
She bent her knees. The hem of her gown dipped into the mud at her feet, and she glanced up in shame. What they must think of her!
Her feet caught her hem, and she stumbled forward. Tears stung her eyes at the furtherance of her humiliation. Could life get any worse?
Then a strong pair of arms caught her.
“There, love! I’ve got you.”
She glanced up and met his gaze. Clear gray eyes stared back at her, a glimmer of desire in their expression. Then the desire was replaced by guilt. He righted her and resumed his attention on Sir Halford.
“Rest assured I’ll take good care of her.”
Was he trying to convince Sir Halford—or himself?
The squire nodded, then squeezed his horse’s flanks and continued on his way, his wife in his wake.
“Well, Ned, it’s time I took Bella home,” the Beast said.
“Aren’t you wanting me to drive you in the cart?”
“We can walk.”
“Suit yourself,” Ned replied, his voice wavering with what sounded like anger. “Mind you do the right thing.” He climbed onto the cart and drove it toward the inn.
“Come on, Bella, love.” The Beast offered his elbow. “Best we get you home. It looks like rain, and you’ll not be able to do your chores if you catch cold.”
Before she knew it, she’d slipped her arm through his, as if it had always belonged there, and they set off along the track.
“Chores?” she asked.
“Surely you remember your chores?”
“I don’t even rememberyou.”
“I’m your husband.”
“No—I mean—what do I call you? What’s your name?”
“Can’t you recall it? It’s Lawrence Baxter. But you usually address me as husband.”
