4

"I hear another Lord is available; he is taking breakfast…" Beaufort heard the quiet, giggly whispers of the spinsters who were already outside.

He carefully walked through the ballroom, not daring to quirk his face into the parlor, as he was quite sure Amelia would be there, or Alexia being taught by the governess. He did not want them to know he had arrived—not just yet. He needed to gift them his presents once this stroll of the upcountry was over, and again, he had not seen Christian in forever, and Andrew… well, he knew less how to react or, better, how Andrew would react when he came face to face with him. Did he still remember him anyway?

"There he is…" The spinsters giggled, their smiles quite sure—to Beaufort, they might have hurt their cheeks.

He walked down the staircase steadily as his eyes met at once with the same lady—the previous lady of yesterday's night, today's breakfast… She was beautiful, he inwardly complimented. But still, the question lingered—who was she?

"Sir, please." The lady called out, as the spinsters' eyes flashed in displeasure or wonder as to why he was introduced as "sir." He needed to introduce himself.

Compelled to do it, by the little glances the group of ladies were giving him, there was no choice of statement. This was the Lancaster upcountry house; of course, one or two had heard of him. Of course, they had. How would he introduce himself? Lord Beaufort Lancaster, or just Lord Beaufort?

"Lord…" He started. Suddenly, the lads who had been standing further away, observing the green compound, came nearer to where he was.

He knew one of those gentlemen. There was Lord Barista, of Ninety-Second Street, London. He was the heir to the Earldom of Brighton. Many referred to him as Lord Brighton. Not him, though! The next was Lord Neil, second in line to the Winchester house. Lord Neil Winchester, whose father had a known scandal—died bedding a maid!

His mouth unintentionally curved into a smile as he saw Lord Barista Brighton approach them, his eyes widening once he met face-to-face with Beaufort.

"What honor as perfect as this!" Lord Barista stated, his eyes widening larger, his hands opening up as if in wonder—whether to embrace Beaufort or just give him a friendly handshake. "Lord Beaufort, Earl of Lancaster, pleasure, is it not?" He stated the words too loudly opting on the latter handshake, so that all the ladies' mouths formed an "o" as the other lads approached further, ready to greet him.

Beaufort was never ready for this sort of attention. People respected royalty. People adored men with ranks in front of their names…

"Are you… Is it you?" The lady from the previous encounter stated, her voice too shaky but still very distinct for Beaufort to hear, despite all the voices of— "Are you married? How was the journey? When did you get back? Are you looking for someone? You should get married. We should discuss the inauguration bond between Liverpool and Lancaster. We should have a drink later…" And all the more that an Earl needed to hear when everyone came to the realization of his presence or his title.

"Christian should know…" The lady added, already working her way to catch the hems of her lengthy gown, and probably flee into the inside of the building or wherever Christian was…

"No… Wait. I shall. Let's stroll through Lancaster at least. I shall meet family during lunch," Beaufort replied quickly, as the girls nodded, some extra pushing up their busts, or touching them to show Beaufort what he would miss if he dared leave them single.

Without notice, the lady somehow hooked her hand into Beaufort's lengthy arm and called on the rest to follow them as they walked through the pavement and out of the huge Lancaster guards.

Beaufort did find the lady quite amusing when she tangled her hand with his, but what got him most was the fact that she was too relaxed about it, as if she would do it over and over again. He knew not whether it was a friendly gesture or a familiar style of hers, but it quite woke the butterflies in his stomach, and worse could not quite contain the need for the nature walk—to breathe the fresh air, admire the beauty of the town, speak to the trees if need be, and observe how far the chirping birds would fly. Or better, see if they still made patterns like love and letters when they flew up high.

He could not quite think of being in that moment. His thought was—why was she still holding his hand? Was it not inappropriate?

"Lancaster is beautiful," the lady stated, unlocking her hand from Beaufort's right when they approached Lancaster Park, but still walking beside him.

"It is," Beaufort voiced out, not sure if it was enough for her to hear. She was unavoidably making him nervous, and it was not a thing he quite liked.

"I knew you, but I knew… I could not quite recognize you from the drawing. You both have grown. Andrew and you, and Christian," she added, and Beaufort nodded, his mind surely calling on him to ask that question. Are you Lady Louisa?

"Andrew married already," he replied and caught a small cough, choke, or laugh-choke from her. He needed a hint at least.

"What is it you have heard about his wife?" she asked, and Beaufort lightly stood, his eyes on a bench that was at the far end, with a huge pool of water in view from it.

"Lady Louisa," Beaufort replied. "Is what I have heard of her," he added, in a chivalrous smile.

"Are you not—?" He opted to ask if she was not Lady Louisa, but somehow bit the inside of his cheek, his tongue running along his upper front teeth to stop his speech.

"They say she's not engaged, don't they?" she asked, and he just smiled.

"Who says it?"

"I've heard it," she replied quickly, her feet walking towards the bench Beaufort had glimpsed earlier. "No heir…" she added again once she was opting to sit on the bench. "I am bad, am I not?" she added again, her shoulders slouching back in disappointment, eyes on Beaufort, who sat next to her but left an inch of space between them.

"How is Andrew?" he finally questioned, his eyes far ahead to the pool that reflected the few clouds and the blue sky. "I hear he has changed," he added, his voice softer, eyes far ahead to nowhere, but his mind on the old Andrew that had not changed.

"Locks himself in the escape room at the music room," she replied, her voice weaker. "Especially now when there are visitors," she added. "Has been there since last year, and the previous… well… anyway, should we not enjoy what brought us here?" She changed the topic, and somehow Beaufort's eyes met hers, him making a heavy sigh, knowing or feeling what it was she was feeling.

By means and manners that he knew Andrew, he would never make his wife have empty feelings and full hurts every day, each day. He knew that his mother had somehow made engagements with the Whitmore family, but that was all that Victoria had told him.

"Lads and Merrils, by all the primes and irrationals, I swear—" Beaufort stated out of the blue, and what followed was a heartfelt laugh from the lady. Lady Louisa—he was now sure, more than ever!

"A deviation of a mere decimal alters the universe… I swear I am less symmetrical than they think. I am calculative…" she replied.

"Still uses the words?" Beaufort asked.

"Every night when he wishes to see me!" she stated, and somehow that felt a little difficult to digest for Beaufort.

He wanted to ask for clarity on "see me?" but he chose not to ask. First, because she was married; second, because, well, this was his sister-in-law… So he just went quiet, fixing his gaze away from Lady Louisa to the far pool.

It was beautiful, the pool. It indeed was. Why would it not be? Why would it be anything less?

What was he doing here with Lady Louisa? He should be careful. He needed to be careful. He had a past, a reputation... The same old statements started floating back into his mind. They were dancing now, more than ever—in rhythm, in chorus, in autotune, in a voiceless tune beyond mere letters… all…

"Who do you like most among the ladies?" she suddenly asked, probably filling in the small silence that had settled between them.

"I do not know them," he replied, eyes still far away. He had not even locked eyes with those young, naïve spinsters. The only person his gaze sought was—

"What's your ideal? Perhaps starting there would be better," she replied instantly. Beaufort caught the small gesture of her hand leaning on her chin, tilting forward slightly to observe him more closely.

She had puppy eyes—that was all he noted. Especially from that position, looking up at him, her eyes glistened with hope, pride, and curiosity.

Then, a small raise of her brow, followed by a slight smile, forced Beaufort to avert his gaze before he…

"My type, you ask?" he added, his eyes returning to the pool.

"Yes," she said, settling back into her previous position, leaning against the bench.

Married women.

That was the answer he wanted to blurt out, to chortle in amusement. But this was Lady Louisa—a lady he could not allow to know of his indulgences, his sins, his acts. He'd rather have her believe the lies surrounding his status, status of what he spoke, and not what some knew, everyone probably. And yet, he could not find a common description of what his type was.

He knew she was looking at him, waiting for an answer. And he knew he was still staring at the pool, his mind scrambling for the best response.

He could not say what he truly liked.

A woman who made rules for him.

A woman tied to another man.

A woman who knew what she wanted.

A woman who had her own affairs and merely needed him to ease her way—sexually, of course.

He could never say any of that. And yet, he could not conjure up a pleasant description of any other kind of woman he might call his type. Nice, spinster ladies did not thrill him. He wanted someone he had to chase.

He somehow enjoyed the thrill of shaking hands with a gentleman while inwardly recalling the moans of his wife seeking more. Listening to the same man lecture him on the virtues of marriage while his mind played echoes of his wife's breathless pleas from the night before.

"I don't think you'd delight in knowing," he finally replied after a lengthy pause.

"Oh, but I would! How grand it would be for me to match-make you. There are many ladies here to choose from, or should I call on my cousin, Lady Bridget—"

"No," Beaufort choked out before she could even finish, immediately following up with a laugh. "Apologies," he added, shaking his head. His mind knew—Lady Bridget was Lady York's daughter, and there was far too much history in between.

"She is beautiful. I should tell her to visit. She just returned from Russia," Lady Louisa continued.

"I decline," he said firmly, shaking his head. That could not happen.

"Her name starts with a B, just like yours. We could start there…" She stood suddenly, eyes far ahead, probably realizing the spinsters she had brought for a walk were already out of sight. "I should go check—scandals should be avoided," she stated sternly, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. "Her name is Bridget," she added, gathering the upper part of her gown in preparation to walk.

Beaufort caught sight of the white of her stockings beneath her dress. White palm shoes.

What lay beneath?

He quickly looked away, banishing any unwanted thoughts.

"Come!" she called out, forcing his gaze back to her. She waved her hand, beckoning him over, the other hand lifting one side of her gown.

'Lady Louisa!'