Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(46)

“Why not?”

“I suppose I thought that you might have tried to attract Christopher’s attention to yourself. As ludicrous as that would have been.”

Beatrix tilted her head slightly. “Ludicrous?”

“Perhaps that’s not the right word. I meant unsuitable. Because a man in Christopher’s position needs a sophisticated woman. Someone to support his position in society. With his fame and influence, he may enter politics someday. And he could hardly do that with a wife who spent most of her time in the forest . . . or the stables.”

That delicate reminder was like an arrow through Beatrix’s heart.

“She’s more suited to the stables than the drawing room,” Christopher had once said.

Beatrix stretched her lips into a careless grin, hoping it didn’t resemble a grimace. “Yes, I remember.”

“Again, my thanks,” Prudence said warmly. “I’ve never been happier. I’m coming to care for him very much. We’ll be betrothed soon.” She glanced at Christopher, who was standing near the ballroom entrance with a group of gentlemen. “See how handsome he is,” she said with affectionate pride. “I do prefer him in his uniform, with all those lovely medals, but he looks splendid in black, doesn’t he?”

Beatrix returned her attention to Prudence, wondering how to get rid of her. “Oh, look! . . . There is Marietta Newbury. Have you told her about your impending betrothal? I’m sure she would be delighted to hear of it.”

“Oh, indeed, she would! Will you come with me?”

“Thank you, but I’m terribly thirsty. I’ll go to the refreshment tables.”

“We’ll talk again soon,” Prudence promised.

“That would be lovely.”

Prudence left her in a swish of white lace.

Beatrix let out an exasperated puff that blew a stray lock of hair away from her forehead. She stole another glance at Christopher, who was involved in conversation. Although his demeanor was calm—stoic, even—there was a gleam of perspiration on his face. Looking away from his companions for a moment, he discreetly passed a shaking hand over his forehead.

Was he feeling ill?

Beatrix watched him closely.

The orchestra was playing a lively composition, obliging the crowd in the ballroom to talk loudly over the music. So much noise and color . . . so many bodies confined in one place. A percussion came from the refreshment room; clinks of glasses, flatware scratching on china. There came a pop of a champagne cork, and Beatrix saw Christopher twitch in response.

At that moment she understood.

It was all too much for him. His nerves were stretched to the breaking point. The effort at self-discipline was requiring everything he had.

Without a second thought, Beatrix made her way to Christopher as quickly as possible.

“Here you are, Captain Phelan,” she exclaimed.

The gentlemen’s conversation stopped at this untoward interruption.

“There’s no use in hiding from me,” Beatrix continued brightly. “Recollect, you promised to stroll with me through Lord Westcliff’s picture gallery.”

Christopher’s face was still. His eyes were dilated, the gray irises nearly extinguished by black. “So I did,” he said stiffly.

The other gentlemen acceded immediately. It was the only thing they could do in the face of Beatrix’s boldness. “We will certainly not keep you from making good on a promise, Phelan,” one of them said.

Another followed suit. “Especially a promise given to a delightful creature such as Miss Hathaway.”

Christopher gave an abbreviated nod. “By your leave,” he said to his companions, and offered Beatrix his arm. As soon as they were out of the main circuit of rooms, he began to breathe heavily. He was sweating profusely, the muscles of his arm unbelievably hard beneath her fingers. “That did your reputation no good,” he muttered, referring to the way she had approached him.

“Bother my reputation.”

Being familiar with the arrangement of the manor, Beatrix led him to a small outdoor conservatory. The attached circular roof was supported with slender columns and dimly illuminated with torchlight shed from the surrounding gardens.

Leaning against the side of the house, Christopher closed his eyes and drew in the cool, sweet air. He seemed like a man who had just emerged from a long swim underwater.

Beatrix stood nearby, watching him with concern. “Too much noise in there?”

“Too much of everything,” he muttered. After a moment, he slitted his eyes open. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Who was that man?”

“Which one?”

“The one you were dancing with.”

“Mr. Chickering?” Her heart felt considerably lighter as she realized that he had noticed. “Oh, he’s a delightful gentleman. I’d met him before in London.” She paused. “Did you also happen to see that I spoke to Pru?”

“No.”

“Well, I did. She seems convinced that you and she will marry.”

There was no change in his expression. “Perhaps we will. It’s what she deserves.”

Beatrix hardly knew how to reply to that. “Do you care for her?”

Christopher gave her a look of scalding derision. “How could I not?”