Page 7 of A Single Obsession

“Harriet, please would you be so kind as to take some coffee to Beaumont? He takes cream, but no sugar.”

Beau tried not to feel hunted. Frances was telling Miss Whitlow how he liked his coffee as if it were a matter of great import. It was tempting to change his habits just to foil her.

“Your coffee,” said Miss Whitlow, holding out a cup to him with a flash of her thin smile, and a flutter of her eyelashes.

Beau took the cup with a murmured word of thanks and breathed a sigh of relief as she walked away.

The relief was premature. Once she had procured herself a cup of tea, Miss Whitlow returned and, as there was no seat for her, Beau rose to his feet, feeling obliged to offer her his own.

He would have made his escape, but Miss Whitlow did not give him a chance.

“So kind,” she said with a simper. “But why don’t we move to the sofa, where we can both sit?”

“I think…perhaps…”

“Yes?” Miss Whitlow fluttered her eyelashes again.

Unable to think of a polite excuse not to do as she suggested, Beau followed her to the sofa. He forced a smile onto his lips, which he hoped would pass for the appearance of pleasure, and took his seat next to her.

Inwardly, he groaned. How had he let this happen? Not only would he be forced to make polite conversation with Miss Whitlow, but he was also in danger of being overheard by his mother and Frances and the irritating man she had married.

“Now, do tell me about Tuesday’s hunt,” said Miss Whitlow, staring up at him with wide eyes. “I am quite certain you rode magnificently.”

“Recklessly, more like,” said Whitlow with a sneer before Beau could think of a reply.

All his irritation at the man’s disapproving comments came back with full force, and Beau struggled to repress a desire to thump him. Why did he have to bring it up again?

Lady Harting gave him one of those cold, penetrating looks he dreaded. “Recklessly?”

“Rode full pelt at a six-foot wall and jumped it,” Whitlow said, his voice dripping with disdain. “And such a needless risk as well as there was a gate just a little further up the field.”

Beau was eager to justify himself before his mother started lecturing him. “You exaggerate, Whitlow. The wall was not more than five feet tall, and I cleared it with room to spare. To ride within your capabilities is not reckless, and I knew I was more than capable.”

Whitlow grew red in the face at the implication that he could not have jumped the wall if he had tried, but it did not shut him up as Beau had hoped.

“What is more,” he continued, “three other riders followed his reckless example, including young Merry, the rector’s son.”

“I see,” said Lady Harting in a voice devoid of emotion.

Beau waited with bated breath, expecting his mother to say more, but instead, she changed the topic of conversation and nothing more was said of the hunt that evening.

Not for a minute did Beau suppose that would be the end of it. He knew his mother too well to hope he could escape a reprimand.

And if she had been unwilling to scold him in front of an audience, it meant she was more than ordinarily displeased with him.

Beau was tempted to hazard his mother’s displeasure and flee from Holybourne House before she could deliver her lecture, but he knew better than to risk it. He needed to let her vent her spleen, because if he left her temper to brew, the outcome would prove even more unpleasant.

Determined not to exacerbate his mother’s mood further by appearing at breakfast in a bedraggled state, Beau sacrificed his early morning ride and arrived at the table neat, well-groomed and on time.

He need not have bothered. His mother ate in her bedchamber, leaving him to eat in restful silence with Lord Harting.

As he left the parlour, a footman stepped forward. “Her ladyship asked if you would be so good as to step up to her sitting room when convenient.”

Beau let out a frustrated huff under his breath at the hypocrisy. The politeness of the message did not fool him. This was not a request. It was a summons.

On his way to the stairs, he stopped to check his appearance in the huge, gold-rimmed mirror that hung in the entrance hall, opposite the Harting coat of arms. A quick glance at his reflection showed he hadn’t yet upset his valet’s handiwork.

Carrick had persuaded him to have his cravat tied in a more complicated style than normal. Whilst Beau agreed it made him look a tad more modish, and therefore more likely to appeal to his fashion-conscious parent, he wished it did not make him feel as if he were being throttled.