Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

S everal days later, Beckett received an invitation to attend a dinner hosted by the Duke and Duchess Curzon. An affair that he'd often attended, but agreeing to go, he couldn't help but wonder if there was an alternate reason behind the impromptu dinner.

The duchess didn't usually throw such events through the Season, preferring hosting afternoon tea or her annual ball, but otherwise nothing more.

His carriage pulled up before the grand Georgian home. He adjusted his cravat and checked his attire before a footman ran to the vehicle door to let down the steps and open it for him.

Stepping out of the vehicle, Beckett took a deep breath and looked up at the mansion that had been his second home for many years. Who else would be here this evening? He could only hope that Mr. Venzellons was not one of them, but something told him he'd be disappointed.

A footman took his greatcoat and led him toward the drawing room where everyone was gathered before the meal. He greeted the duke and duchess, kissing the duchess, whom he saw as a second mother after losing his many years before.

"Tyndall, over here."

Martin's voice caught his attention, and he excused himself and headed over to his friend. "Good evening. Thank you for the invitation."

"Ah yes, well, Genevieve persuaded Mama to host a dinner so she could invite Mr. Venzellons. He's over there speaking to her already. I believe the American wishes to marry her. Can you believe it?"

Tyndall could very well believe it. For all his annoyances when it came to Genevieve, she was uncommonly beautiful and of age.

He took a glass of wine from a passing footman and glanced toward Venzellons and Genevieve.

But he'd be wrong if he expected to see her as he'd always had these past years she'd been out in society, wearing large white wigs with either ribbons or jewels accentuating the opulent pieces.

"I ah…" He couldn't form words. He cleared his throat and sipped his wine, anything to help him function like a human being.

Not since he'd teased her about her hair had he seen it down in its beautiful natural form. But this evening, it sat about her shoulders, long, soft red curls, and a simple ribbon about her crown to hold it away from her face.

His hand shook as he held his glass, unable to tear his eyes from her.

"Stop looking, Tyndall. You'll scare off Venzellons, and no matter what you think, the man is suitable for Genevieve. She's always wanted to travel and see more of the world. A marriage to an American will be good for her. She'll be happy."

She'll be so far away…

He tore his gaze away and fought to look indifferent to the sight of her that still materialized in his mind. Martin suggested they speak to a few of the other ladies present, and Tyndall couldn't agree more.

Anything to keep his mind off what Genevieve looked like this evening. Still, even as he bid good evening to several ladies, one of whom was Lady Matilda, he couldn't keep his attention from snapping back to where Genevieve stood.

She laughed at something Mr. Venzellons said, and Beckett's eyes narrowed. What were they speaking about? Was Venzellons being inappropriate? If the bastard knelt before her and touched her again, he'd not just remove his hands this time but rip his arms off, too.

"Thank you again, Lord Tyndall, for our boating outing in the park the other day. I did enjoy myself."

"Oh," he mumbled, looking away from Genevieve and giving his full attention to Lady Charlotte, who now stood before him. When had she joined their party? Was he so preoccupied with the redhead across the room that he had not noticed? "You're very welcome," he said.

"If you're interested in making me your wife, perhaps we could do it again so you may propose."

"Yes, of course…" Beckett watched Genevieve accept a glass of champagne from Venzellons. Their hands touched, and if he were not mistaken, Genevieve was toying with the gentleman. Flirting.

"Or perhaps you could propose here and now?"

He frowned and turned to Lady Charlotte, realizing what she was saying—what he'd said. "Oh, I do beg your pardon, Lady Charlotte. I did not mean… I wasn't exactly…"

"Paying attention to what I was conveying?" Lady Charlotte stated matter-of-factly. "Yes, I know, and that is why I said what I did to see if you would respond appropriately." She looked in the direction of her friend. "If you like Genevieve, you should tell her before it is too late."

Beckett took in the advice, unsure if he should say anything to her friend whose loyalty lay with Genevieve and not him. She would likely tell Genevieve everything he said, but that wouldn't do at all.

"We're hardly friends, as you know. I do not look at Lady Genevieve in that way."

Charlotte scoffed, and he faced her. "Please." She rolled her eyes, and Beckett wondered if all young women these days were so bold and forthright in their speech.

The Three Graces certainly seemed to be.

"For a gentleman who's not interested, you certainly seem preoccupied with who's courting her."

"I'm hardly interested. I've merely known her almost all my life and do not want to see her make a mistake."

"Mr. Venzellons will not be a mistake. He's a rake, like you. Would you be a mistake? Would you treat her poorly if she happened to marry you? Would you continue your lifestyle no matter if you took vows before God?"

"Well, I…" He frowned, the idea of being with anyone other than Genevieve disconcerting. He'd always enjoyed the freedom of being with women who caught his fancy. But recently, when the prospect arose, the women's faces would morph into Genevieve's, leaving him questioning his choices and leaving him even more flummoxed.

What the hell is going on?

He'd never enjoyed her following him around when he was young, and he certainly didn't want her doing the same now. Not that she was, but somehow, in his obsession with her marrying Venzellons, he'd seemed to have traded places with her.

And that was not desirable.

"It's something to think about, is it not?" Lady Charlotte said, watching him over the rim of her champagne glass as she sipped.

Dinner was announced, saving him from having to say anything more. He moved toward the dining room and took his seat, only to find Genevieve seated across from him, Mr. Venzellons at her side—by design, no doubt by the duchess.

He watched them both, picking up his water and sipping. "Lord Tyndall, what a coup being positioned beside you. I have not seen you in some weeks."

He stilled at Lady Masters' seductive tone. Girding his loins, he faced her, smiling. "Good evening. It has been some weeks. How have you been?" He really needed to stop dallying with widowed women of the ton . It would certainly save him from awkward conversations such as the one about to proceed.

He glanced across the table and caught Genevieve watching him. The sight of her with her natural hair made the breath catch in his lungs.

Hell, she was utterly divine and looked good enough to eat.

He could not stop admiring her, no matter who watched his lengthy inspection of the duke's daughter.

"I would be better if you called on me, my lord. My kitty misses your pets."

He stilled, hoping no one else heard Lady Masters's words or knew how to interpret them more fully if they did.

However, his hope was dashed the moment he saw Genevieve's scour at her ladyship. Surely Genevieve did not know the meaning behind her ladyship's words. It would be worse if she did. For surely then she understood what had transpired between them in the past.

Shame washed over him before annoyance took its place. "You should amend how you speak, my lady. We're at a dinner, not a private setting," he whispered.

Lady Masters chuckled and made a motion to button her lips before turning to the gentleman to her right.

"Excuse me," he heard Genevieve state.

He looked across to see her gaining her feet before she whispered something to her mother and left the room. Would she return? He wracked his mind with a way to go after her, knowing the possibility was out of the question.

Not without raising suspicions.

He caught Venzellons' smirk as he watched Genevieve leave the room, and everything within him stilled.

Had the man insulted her in some way? Had he been inappropriate?

If he had, there would be an outcome that this American may dislike, and that smirk would be enjoyably wiped off his face by his fist.