Page 45 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Clementine started. She was his very dear friend? Her breath hitched, and it took considerable effort to speak easily.

“We ought not linger alone here, tongues will wag,” she replied, finding herself back in the position of being unable to meet his gaze. How she wanted to look into his eyes and see if that had been a careless remark, or if he had meant it. Would she even know? Could she tell if he were in earnest, or was it just something men like him said to young ladies? Men like him and Lord Stonehaven. Mrs Adamson had not mentioned Lord Beaumarsh, and Clementine supposed she did not know him, but the two men were long-time friends. Were they also birds of a feather?

He nodded and held out his arm to her. After a second’s hesitation, Clementine took it, annoyed with herself for the pleasure she found in feeling his strength beneath her hand once more.

“So, what on earth were you thinking?” he asked, quirking one blond eyebrow at her.

She levelled a look at him. “Mind your own business, my lord. You’ll just have to keep trying to read my mind.”

“Oh, I shall,” he replied, making her increasingly vexed with him.

What was he playing at?

“Why are you here?” she demanded, unable to keep the words from sounding like an interrogation.

His lips quirked. “Ah, that inquiring mind of yours, Miss Honeywell. It cannot stand a mystery, can it? Well, why don’t you work it out? I know how clever you are, I am certain you can unravel the inner workings of an idle peacock like me.”

Clementine blushed scarlet as he repeated the harsh words she had flung at him in a temper. “I-I never meant… I ought not…”

“Oh, no,” he said, wagging his finger at her, a delighted grin quirking his lips. “No, no. Don’t take it back. You were quite correct, I’m afraid. I am an idle peacock. It has taken me a good deal of time to understand that is why I have been so damned bored and unhappy of late. But I believe the penny has finally dropped. There now, I cannot give you a greater clue than that without spelling it out for you.”

Clementine stared at him. “I cannot make you out at all.”

“Well, that’s probably not a bad thing,” he allowed. “I should hate it if you found me boring.”

“Oh no,” she murmured faintly. “Not boring.”

Beaumarsh grinned again, and the expression made her stomach flutter. Stop acting like a ninny, she told herself severely, but it made no difference. He looked so ridiculously pleased with himself, and his eyes…oh, his eyes were so blue. She could never miss the sea if he was beside her, for there it was, endless blue.

Clementine groaned, appalled at her own sentimentality.

“Are you unwell?” the earl enquired in concern.

“Probably,” she muttered, before shaking her head. “No. Quite well, only… I do not have the slightest notion why you are here, and I would not know where to begin in working it out.”

He tutted impatiently. “Don’t underestimate yourself. You can do it.” Clementine squelched the desire to tell him he was the most maddening man she had ever met, temporarily at least, and took a deep breath.

“Very well. You came to tell me what you have discovered about Stonehaven and Mrs Adamson.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said apologetically. “Stonehaven was not in the least forthcoming and would not tell me a thing.”

Clementine nodded, relieved that the man had some redeeming qualities and would not gossip… or was it only that the story reflected so badly on him he’d not repeat it?

“Then you have come to speak to my father,” she said, for her father seemed to hold the earl in high regard, and the feeling appeared mutual.

“That is certainly part of it.” Clementine frowned up at him. “I can only assume it is a private matter, then, and I would not dream of interfering.”

“It is,” he agreed, and there was that disquieting twinkle again. “But I would not dislike your interfering in the least.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, his cryptic comments too confusing for comment. The odd fluttering in her stomach had become something far more unsettling, and she did not know what to make of it, or of him. Best her father speak to him. He was a sensible man, at least, and would know how to deal with the earl if he started talking in riddles.

“I would not do so for the world,” she said firmly. “Come, Papa will be home by now and settling down for a cup of tea. It is the perfect time.”

With that, she picked up her pace, practically marching the earl back to the vicarage in the hopes her father would know what to do with him, for she was at a loss.

Chapter 13

To have one’s cake, and eat it too…