Page 23 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“Certainly.”

A moment later a dozen or more reels of ribbon were presented to Clementine, in varying shades of blue, and different widths.

“This one is lovely,” Mrs Doomsday said, sliding a thick cobalt blue length between her fingers. “Blue suits you, what with your fair colouring and those cornflower eyes of yours. Have you seen that lovely fabric in Madame Auguste’s window? You’d look as pretty as a picture in that.”

“And wear it on what occasion?” Clementine said with a laugh, well aware that Madame Auguste and Mrs Doomsday had an accord, where Madame bought all but her most exclusive fabrics from Mrs Doomsday, and Mrs Doomsday persuaded her clientele to go next door to Madame, instead of doing the work themselves.

“Well, to an assembly, or to catch the eye of a handsome lord. I hear you’ve met him. Is he splendid?” Mrs Doomsday asked eagerly, leaning closer to Clementine, the hope returning to her eyes at the prospect of a bit of gossip.

“You’d best ask my father. He spent the evening with him last night,” Clementine replied, deflecting the question. “I shall take three yards of the blue. Can you show me the lace now, please? Just a narrow width for trim.”

Mrs Doomsday sighed, aware that the Honeywell family did not indulge in idle gossip.

“You know, you’re young yet, and pretty with it, Miss Honeywell,” she said, sounding a tad frustrated. “Don’t you go burying yourself in this little town of ours and cutting off your nose to spite your face. Take your courage in hand, my pet, that’s my advice,” the lady said, and then, blushing at her own temerity, hurried off to find the lace.

Clementine finished her purchases with Mrs Doomsday before popping into see Mr Muddel to order two pounds of cheddar and a smaller quantity of Stilton. Then to Mr Twyner to pay for their candle order. Her errands complete for the morning, she made her way down to the beach to make her way home, preferring this morning to walk beside the sea and then up through the woods than via the town. She told herself she was not in the mood to chatter with everyone who crossed her path today, for it would take her forever to make her way home if the world and his wife were out and about. But it was not true.

You just want to see Lord Beaumarsh again, you great hen wit, she chastised herself. It was nothing but the truth. Surely, his cousin would arrive in the town in the next day or two, and then the glamorous Beau Beaumarsh would be gone from their lives. Everything would go back to exactly how it had been before he had arrived, which, she told herself, was a good thing. She had been entirely content before he arrived. This was true enough. Sadly, she did not believe she would be perfectly content once he had gone.

Somehow, Lord Beaumarsh had stirred things up, stirred her up. He had reminded her that, whilst she might be on the shelf, she was only just on the shelf, and things she had not allowed herself to hope for suddenly nagged at her.

Sighing, Clementine turned to stare out to sea, watching the fishing boats on the horizon. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their raucous cries making her look up, watching them as they glided high above her. Suddenly she envied their freedom, their ability to just leave the ground behind and fly away, seeking adventure.

“Nonsense,” she told herself, speaking aloud in the hopes she might pay attention this time. “All they are seeking is food and a mate. Stop this romantic babble at once. Else before you know it, you’ll be writing poetry.”

“Are you a poet?”

Clementine gave a little shriek and spun around, her heart beating wildly as the man who had unsettled her so since last night appeared like a genie before her.

He appeared entertained by her reaction and took a step back, holding out a hand in a peaceful gesture. “I mean you no harm, Miss Honeywell.”

“Good heavens, but you made me jump,” she said crossly, irritated by his coming upon her talking to herself, of all things. At least her annoyance reminded her she thought he was a pretty fribble and there was nothing to get all het up about. “It is very bad manners to creep up on a person, my lord.”

“I did not creep,” he said, his tone placating. “I swear I did not. Indeed, I called your name several times, but you were so intent on chatting with the seagulls that you did not hear me.”

Clementine blushed, mortified. “I was not talking to the seagulls,” she said defensively, and then wondered if that might actually be better than talking to herself. No matter. It was too late now.

“Who were you speaking to about writing poetry, then?” he asked curiously.

“I wasn’t—oh, never mind,” Clementine said with a shake of her head. “I know you are teasing me, and I shan’t let you rile me, for I promised I would not be rude to you again. So there. You may do your worst, and I shall not rise to the bait,” she added magnanimously.

His eyes shone, a hint of wickedness that made a tremor of unease stir in Clementine’s belly. She ignored it and put up her chin, waiting.

“Was the poem for me, Miss Honeywell?” he asked slyly.

Well, drat the man. Of all the things to say! Though she had not actually been about to write an ode to the Earl of Beaumarsh—may God strike her dead if she ever considered such a dreadful thing—she blushed a horrible shade of scarlet. Cursing her fair skin, she just knew he would take it as confirmation of his suspicions and that made the situation entirely worse. She glared at him.

“Certainly not,” she said coolly, wishing she could press her hands against her cheeks to stop them burning so.

His lips twitched, but he forced his features into a sombre expression and nodded. “No, of course not. I imagine your poems are reserved for more worthy suitors. Does your sweetheart live in the town? Let me guess, he’s a schoolteacher, a fine man devoted to the education of young minds who spends all his spare time doing charitable deeds. No doubt he does not drink, nor smoke, nor gamble, nor does he take the Lord’s name in vain. He is a pattern card of decency and honour and adored by one and all.”

Clementine stared, appalled by the picture he painted. “He sounds a perfect prig,” she said, startling a bark of laughter out of Lord Beaumarsh, who seemed delighted by her reply.

He continued to chuckle and, once again, the warmth of the sound struck her, though not as much as the effect it had on her. It was a wondrous thing to make the cynical Earl of Beaumarsh laugh with unaffected amusement and she was viscerally aware that the pleasure it gave her was a dangerous sensation, making her crave more.

Don’t be foolish, Clementine scoffed inwardly. At four and twenty, she was not fresh from the schoolroom and was a long way from having her head turned by a handsome face. She knew this meant nothing to him beyond a momentary departure from the commonplace. She meant nothing to him. No more or less than a pleasant diversion for a few moments, in a rural town where there were none of the sophisticated delights of the city to be found. But all the same, why not enjoy it for what it was? She was not expecting a proposal of marriage, and he was not about to offer one. Yet he was handsome and witty, and he made her laugh, and could that not be enough?

Of course it could. So long as they did not overstep any boundaries of propriety, there was nothing stopping them being friends. They might be alone here, but they were not alone. There were plenty of people walking on the beach, and a group of children making sandcastles. Not to mention being in full view of the high street. Besides, he was friends with her father now, too.