Page 17 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

The earl chuckled at this observation, and the sound was warm and inviting, disconcertingly so when she had felt so ill at ease in his company on the two previous occasions they had met.

“That’s one way of putting it,” he said mildly. “And yes, he is a rather unconventional manservant, for you are apparently quite desperate to ask me about him, but Kirby’s secrets are his own. I will say that he is an excellent valet, if horribly bossy, and utterly devoted for reasons I cannot fathom. Though I suppose I do pay well,” he added with a cynical curl of his lip.

Clementine digested this information with far more fascination than was good for her, but it revealed such a lot about the two men. More, perhaps, than his lordship intended to show her. Curious now, she could not help but delve a little deeper.

“He has been with you a long time.”

It wasn’t a question, for the rather disrespectful way Kirby spoke to his master illustrated something deeper than merely servant and employer. Why else would Beaumarsh put up with such treatment? Either they had been together since childhood days or were tied together by some shared experience that had formed a bond. Or perhaps they simply liked each other, she admitted, telling herself to stop trying to solve riddles where there were none.

“He has,” Lord Beaumarsh agreed blandly, but offered no further information.

Understanding that the subject was off limits, Clementine nodded. She was a curious devil, it was true, but she had no desire to pry. Deciding she really must go before anyone saw them, she was about to bid him a good day when he asked,

“How long have you been setting the word games in the paper?”

Clementine froze and gaped at him, too astonished to deny it, or to react at all. Five years. For five years she had been setting the puzzle, and no one had ever figured out who the mysterious Mr Benedict Civil was. No one could have had told the earl, which meant he had figured it out.

Lord Beaumarsh grinned at her, a pleased, self-satisfied smile that lit up his face, making his eyes sparkle bluer and brighter than the sea at her back.

“Ah, not such a bottle-headed fribble after all,” he murmured, delighted at having astounded her. Adjusting his position so he was lying on his side, his head supported on one arm, he said, “The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.”

Despite herself, Clementine found she too was delighted by his cleverness, and, strangely, just as much by the smug satisfaction he took in showing her he was clever. Why it mattered to him that his deduction impressed her she could not fathom, but it did, and she was, and so she laughed. Beatrice’s clever pun in Much Ado About Nothing compared Count John to a Seville orange, bitter and sour. From Mr Civil to Mr Seville, it was not such a leap to Clementine.

“Go on, admit it, you’re impressed,” he said, grinning now.

“I am,” she confessed. “No one has ever worked it out. Indeed, Mr Civil is considered something of a phantom, and I have even heard of one fellow insinuating that he is Mr Civil, just to claim the glory,” she added with feigned outrage.

“And were you never tempted to reveal the truth and give the fellow a terrific set down?” he asked, looking at her curiously.

“Good Lord, no,” she said, shaking her head. “To what end? People would only despise me for thinking myself clever. My family knows and applauds my efforts and that is enough.”

“And now I know too,” he added, watching her with interest.

Clementine blushed. Inexplicably, her colour rose to such a pitch she wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run away. It was the way he had said the words, she decided, though there had been nothing suggestive or lewd in his tone, just the implication that they shared a secret, which she supposed they did. Yet it made her feel most peculiar, an odd squirming deep in her belly and such heat rushing beneath her skin it made her blush like the verriest ninny.

Unsettled, and cross with herself for being unsettled as much as with him for causing it, she stubbornly held her ground and did not look away nor flee, though the desire to do both was compelling. He continued to scrutinise her for what seemed an eternity before looking back at the puzzle.

“The word square itself was masterful too. How long did it take you to create it? I confess I was rather a dullard, and it took me a good ten minutes to complete, but my brain has not yet recovered, I fear.”

“Ten minutes?” Clementine repeated, impressed. “You really did it so quickly?”

He gave her a wry look. “My, my, Miss Honeywell, you do think me a sorry specimen. Ten minutes is very much too long, and I truly am blaming my less than perfect health on slowing my mental faculties. I may be an idle creature whose only concern is the colour of his waistcoats, but I received a proper education like all gentlemen.”

Clementine winced a little, recognising the words she had hurled at him in fury, but she refused to feel guilty for them. However, if he was being polite, she could do no less. “I beg your pardon. I ought not to have been so abominably rude, but then you provoked me by accusing me of trying to trap you into marriage, so really, I believe we are even.”

He laughed at that and pushed himself into a sitting position. “I do believe you are correct. It was a most admirable set down, not least for being true, as all the best insults are. Mine, however, was mere fabrication, and for that I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

Clementine regarded him with interest, realising that the indolent, cynical façade he usually wore was absent and recognising his sincerity for what it was. “I do,” she said with a nod. “I cannot blame you for being vexed with me. I must seem like the most appalling busybody poking my nose in where it does not belong.”

“Oh no. Quite a delightful busybody,” he said, lessening any discomfort she might feel at the rather flirtatious words by speaking them with a wry lilt as he got to his feet.

Clementine still felt awkward, however, and suddenly less certain of herself. Viewing Lord Beaumarsh from a distance, with his lordship lounging several feet away from her, felt safe. Rather like viewing a panther sleeping behind the bars of a cage. One could admire the beast and appreciate its beauty without being in the least bit of danger. Lord Beaumarsh, on his feet and standing over her, was quite a different prospect.

She felt suddenly petite and fragile, which was utter nonsense, for she was not especially small and very far from delicate. Yet he was broad and, despite his recent illness, exuded a sheer physical presence that was quite beyond anything she had ever experienced. So, this was a rogue, a libertine, she mused, intrigued by the sensation and realising this magnetic quality was what so many writers tried to evoke in the scandalous novels that Izzy hid under her mattress. Well, yes, she supposed she could see the appeal. For he was beautiful to behold, with the sunlight burnishing his golden hair, his blue eyes glittering, full of knowing and mischief and promises of things she did not yet understand, but would, if she allowed him to show her. Not that he was offering, but the possibility that he might, given the slightest encouragement, was inherent in his entire demeanour. Clementine studied him with fascination, drinking in the revelation of a creature she had only ever read about.

“Good Lord, the way you look at me,” Beaumarsh said suddenly, taking a step back and breaking the spell.

Clementine blinked, wondering at his sudden retreat. He had not been that close, had not been overstepping any mark, not made a move or given any sign that he intended to act in a way unbecoming of a gentleman. Any sensation she had experienced had been nothing more than her instincts prickling, yet he was looking at her as if she had slapped him.