Page 3 of Beth: A Regency Romance Novell

“Praise slips from their tongues like honey.”

A moment later they were gone. Feeling slightly abandoned Beth climbed the stairs to her bedchamber with the intention to don her bonnet and go for a walk in the grounds. She would then spend the rest of the day reading, if she could settle her mind to it.

That evening, by the time the grandfather clock chimed nine, Beth’s nerves had driven her to stalk the hall, causing the footman to offer her a chair.

She had never wanted this. Their sister Bella was blissfully married to a farmer in Yorkshire with their two-year-old daughter, Clara. Beth also preferred the pace of country life, tending the odd assortment of injured animals she’d rescued in the woods at Castlebridge. But it would be ungrateful of her as the youngest sister, to refuse the wonderful opportunity Jenny considered this to be. Beth did want to fall in love and marry and admitted it was unlikely she’d find her future husband while wandering the woods at Castlebridge. While she didn’t wish to marry a duke or perhaps even a farmer, she did wish him to be a strong, compassionate man with broad shoulders she could lean on at times. Someone whom she could laugh with, and share her love of animals.

A carriage pulled up outside, and a knock sounded on the door. Beth allowed the footman to settle her evening cape around her shoulders. With a deep breath, she gathered up her reticule and gloves, and, plastering on a smile, walked out to greet Mrs. Grayshott and her daughter.

Countess Wallington’s ball was a sumptuous affair. The mansion gardens were alight with colored lanterns. A footman showed them into the grand hall where they joined the line of chatting guests waiting to be announced by the butler. The countess, resplendent in gold silk and diamonds, stood at the door to the state apartments where doors had been thrown open to form a large ballroom. She greeted Beth expressing her disappointment that the duke and duchess could not attend. Beth reiterated Andrew and Jenny’s apologies, aware that she was regarded as a poor substitute.

The boards of the dance floor decorated with elaborate floral chalk drawings would soon disappear beneath the dancers’ feet. Mrs. Grayshott shepherded her daughter and Beth through the beautifully dressed crowd. They took chairs against the wall beside potted foliage. The smoky air was perfumed with citrus and floral scents. On the dais the mus

icians began tuning their instruments.

They had barely settled, arranging shawls, reticules, and fans, when a tall, dark-haired gentleman dressed crisply in black and white, emerged from the crush and strode over to them. Phillida turned quickly from arranging her shawl and moved to the edge of her seat in anticipation. She cast a coquettish smile at the gentleman. Beth could quite understand Phillida’s reaction, for he was quite handsome.

He bowed before them. “Marcus Nyeland, Mrs. Grayshott. The Duke of Harrow planned to introduce me to Miss Harrismith this evening, but as he is unable to attend, he’s confident that you will kindly act in his absence.”

Mrs. Grayshott flushed at the mention of the duke. She had talked of little else than how impressive Andrew was on the way to the ball in the carriage and urged her daughter to set her cap no lower than an earl. Phillida had nodded in agreement and patted her light brown locks. “Brunettes are more popular this year,” she’d said, casting a disparaging glance at Beth’s pale blonde curls. It made Beth uncomfortable. Phillida had obviously taken her in strong dislike for she’d rebuffed any of Beth’s attempts to engage her in conversation.

For a moment Mrs. Grayshott hesitated. Then her expression firmed as if recalling the important task assigned to her. “As we haven’t met before, Mr. Nyeland, might there be someone here tonight who could recommend you to me?”

“Forgive me, ma’am for my oversight.” He turned to gaze at a group of men in conversation near a pillar. “If you will wait but a moment, I shall fetch the prime minister. I’m sure he will vouch for me.”

Mrs. Grayshott’s eyes widened. She craned her neck to view the men gathered together several yards away.

Phillida fluttered her fan. “Mama, please…”

“I shouldn’t think it necessary,” Mrs. Grayshott said stiffly, and with a pained look at her daughter, she introduced the gentleman to Phillida and Beth.

Mr. Nyeland complimented Phillida on the delicate beauty of her chicken-skin fan. He smiled at Beth. “Miss Harrismith. Would you grant me this dance?”

Slightly amused by how he’d flummoxed Mrs. Grayshott, Beth accepted him. Had he called the lady’s bluff? When he glanced at her, she’d caught the twinkle in his eye. He had lovely manners. But she sensed Mrs. Grayshott was out of her depth with him. It didn’t matter, Beth was eager to dance, and tried not to notice Phillida’s glare as she rose from her chair.

Her hand resting on the superfine dark cloth of his sleeve, Mr. Nyeland led her onto the floor, and they took their places for the cotillion. With a discreet sidelong glance, she studied him covertly, noting his strong jaw with the faint shadow of a heavy beard, thick dark hair brushed back from a broad brow, and eyebrows arched over deep brown eyes. There was an air of authority about him. Might it be the way he carried himself and the military set of his shoulders?

Dancers packed the lengthy dance floor where candle smoke, overheated bodies, and scents, intensified in the heat from the twin chandeliers hanging from the ceiling roses overhead.

His gaze took her in, a thorough appraisal, while they waited for the dance to begin. “I am congratulating myself on my foresight, Miss Harrismith. Had I left it one moment later to approach you, I would have been batting the gentlemen away like bees from a beautiful rosebush.”

Beth took a breath. He was a rake. No one had quite looked at her that way before. And didn’t Andrew say rakes showered compliments on a lady? She felt vaguely disappointed. “You must never bat away bees, sir,” she said giving him a severe look. “They are essential to nature. They carry the pollen from flower to flower.”

His brown eyes widened, and a brief smile touched his lips. “My compliment seems not to your liking, Miss Harrismith. Should I search for something more apropos?”

Beth shook her head suddenly fighting a grin.

“Oh but I must. I believe I can produce another,” he said. “Let me think. Ah yes, Of all the flowers, methinks a rose is best…”

Beth wanted to giggle. “You have stolen from Shakespeare, sir.”

“Ah! Unfair! When Shakespeare will always say it far better than I. But I agree my choice fails in its intention to describe my delight at meeting you, Miss Harrismith.”

How utterly charming he was. Oh lord. She was succumbing to the charms of a rake when the Season had hardly begun! The way ahead seemed dangerous indeed. Beth firmed her lips and shook her head at him.

He cocked a brow, but his eyes were smiling. “My, but what a suspicious young lady. What must a man do to please you? Please tell me. I should like to see you smile.”

“Merely do not tread on my toes, sir,” Beth said in mock seriousness. She smiled wanting to laugh. She was enjoying herself hugely.

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