Page 59 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

“Ah. Yes. Very good. Thank you all, and you may go. Where is my mother, Jefferson?” he asked the butler, who was regarding Clementine with a steely eye that might have been approval. The man was damnably difficult to read.

“In the red parlour, my lord,” Jefferson replied, without so much as batting an eyelid as he dropped the little bombshell.

“Very good. Come, my lady,” he said, taking Clementine’s hand and putting it on his sleeve. Damn his mother. She would choose the red room. It would likely give his new bride a migraine in short order and ruin his wedding night. His mother’s idea of a joke, he did not doubt. He glanced at Clementine, noting her wide eyes as she entered the Baron’s Hall with its vast ceiling. Cavendish ancestors glared at them from every wall and Beau suppressed a shudder. “Perhaps we should run away to Italy or France. Probably pick a lovely place up in France for mere pennies at the moment,” he quipped.

Clementine levelled a look at him which suggested she did not find this funny, but then he saw her lips twitch, and he relaxed a degree. “That is in very poor taste, my lord, and were you not just now assuring me that everything would be fine?”

“Yes, but that was before Mother decided to greet you in the red parlour. I mean, it really is red, Clementine. It’s like being dipped in bull’s blood and then rolled in scarlet satin. It’s… it’s appalling. I must tell you it was my grandmother’s favourite room. My father loathed it, which obviously meant that Mama insisted no one ever change a thing, even after they were both long dead.” He sighed and shook his head. “Just don’t hold it against me.”

Clementine snorted and he noted the sudden glimmer of mirth in her eyes. “Perhaps I shall decorate it a lurid fuchsia pink, just to make my mark on the place.”

He grinned, relieved she had not lost her sense of humour.

“You are quite wonderful, you know. I’m so glad I married you.” The words were out before he could think about them, and she stopped in her tracks. He stopped too, wondering if he ought not to have said it. She had married him for her family’s sake and—

She kissed him.

Right there and then, where any passing servant might see them, she pressed her mouth to his. Sensation rioted through him, a sense of rightness and of… of coming home, that he had never known before. He pulled her roughly into his arms and she went willingly as he held her close, her arms sliding around his neck and grasping tightly. She kissed him and kissed him, and he kissed her back until he was giddy with it, desire and yearning bursting through his veins like liquid fire, setting his skin alight. How strange, he thought, that she was the virgin and he the one with all the experience, yet he felt as if everything was new, that every touch was one he had never experienced before.

She pulled back, eyes shining, cheeks flushed, and he regretted the need to go to the ugly red room and face his mother when they might go straight to bed. He longed to do just that, but she stepped back, out of his arms.

“We’d best get it over with,” she said regretfully.

Beau lingered for a moment, reaching out to touch her cheek; so soft, the skin like satin beneath his fingers. “You are quite the loveliest thing I have ever seen.”

Her cheeks grew pinker still and her entire being seemed to glow at his words. “Are you flirting with me, my lord?” she asked, looking as if she was uncertain whether to believe him.

“No. I’m speaking the truth, nothing more,” he assured her, and then grasped her hand, towing her on towards the red room. The sooner this was over, the sooner they could be alone together, and that could not happen quickly enough.

Well, he had not been exaggerating. The room was red. It was not only red, it was aggressively scarlet, with hints of crimson and ruby. Every inch of wall, even the ceiling between the beams; every soft furnishing, and the carpets, which were layered four or five deep, blared a differing shade of cherry or burgundy, often with a lurid pattern adorning the fabric. It was perfectly hideous and quite overwhelming.

The Dowager Countess, however, was a dainty woman who did not look old enough to have sired a man of Beaumarsh’s age, let alone size, for she was slender and waiflike. She was beautiful still, and it was easy to see from where her son had inherited his golden good looks. In the garish room, she was the only lovely thing one’s gaze could rest upon, and Clementine did not doubt she knew it.

“Mama, you wretch. Of all the rooms you had to choose from, why in blazes greet us in this monstrosity? Are you hoping to send my wife screaming from the place before she has even sat down?”

“Oh, silly boy, as if I would,” the woman said placidly, inclining her head so her son might kiss her cheek. “And I am certain your bride is made of sterner stuff than that,” she added, looking Clementine up and down, her gaze frank and considering.

Dressed all in pale gold, with her tumbling yellow curls and deep blue eyes, she looked at first glance more like his sister than his mama. Yet as Clementine grew closer, she saw the tell-tale lines around her mouth and eyes that gave the game away.

“My lady. It is an honour to meet you.”

She smiled, and the expression lit her face, turning her from merely lovely to exquisite. “I am so happy that Beau has married at last. I have been longing for grandchildren for an age, you know. I was sorry not to have more babies myself, but they are utterly ruinous to one's figure. At least, to one like mine,” she added, smoothing a hand over the side of her tiny waist. “You appear to be built on far more robust lines, I think, so I don’t suppose it will trouble you in the least,” she remarked, smiling widely.

“Indeed, it will not,” Clementine said, startled by the sudden attack and wondering how to react to it. Her instinct was to ignore the unkind comment, yet a glance at her husband revealed his obvious anger and that there was about to be an appalling scene if she did not do something. Taking a breath, she said the only thing she could think of. “Happily, I am not some poor creature who puts on pounds if I so much as glance at a sugar cube, nor one so vain I should prefer staring into a looking-glass to having a family, so I hope I might provide you with the grandchildren you long for.”

There was a taut silence, and then the countess burst out laughing. “Oh, you are perfect. Well done. I was so afraid Beau would marry some frightful milk-and-water miss who would burst into tears at the first provocation, and it would have been such a trial to bring her up to scratch. But I see I have not a thing to worry about. Congratulations, you wicked boy. It seems, by some miracle, you have not made an appalling choice.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Beaumarsh said dryly as Clementine let out a breath she had not been aware of holding. “You are a horrid creature, and I ought to send you away for six months as punishment.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Never mind. Now, don’t fret, I know you are wishing me to perdition, so I shall not stay. I wished only to greet your lovely bride,” she said cheerily, getting to her feet as she spoke. “I have been in such a dither over what manner of woman a vicar’s daughter might be, and fretting that the ton would eat her alive, but I believe all will be well. You might even be happy,” she added with an impish grin, before blowing them a kiss and heading for the door.

“That’s it? You’re going?” Beaumarsh said, incredulous, though not displeased if Clementine was any judge.

“Yes, of course I am going!” she exclaimed. “I do not wish to be here anymore than you wish me to remain. I’ll see you in… shall we say three weeks? You might endure an entire conversation with me by then without dragging your bride off by the hair. Have fun, my darlings,” she called over her shoulder, and closed the door behind her.

Clementine laughed as Beaumarsh covered his face with his hand. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “She’s dreadful.”

“She’s delightful. I like her very much,” Clementine said, trying not to laugh at his mortification.