Beautiful Things: Second Sons Book One

Tom paced his room like a caged animal, wearing out the carpet as he made each turn from wall to door. He was dreading every minute that ticked by, waiting for the gong to signal dinner. Coming to Alcott was a mistake. He was in no right mind to seriously consider securing himself a wife. Was such a thing even possible in three short weeks?

If Tom ever learned the identity of the first man who thought up the idea of buying military ranks, he’d drag him out in the yard and shoot him. Advancement should be earned, not bought. And Tom had earned it. Eight long years in the service, steadily ranking up. He’d seen quite a bit of action; he’d earned the respect of his men. He should be in Town celebrating his promotion, not pacing in his dress uniform, readying himself for another round in the ring with a pack of ravenous ladies.

The sound of the gong echoed down the bachelors’ wing, and he groaned. He checked himself over in the mirror, righting the knot of his black cravat. This dress jacket was too tight in the shoulders. He dragged his fingers twice through his hair, trying to tame his unruly curls, before leaving it as a lost cause.

Burke met him in the hall, and they went downstairs together. Most of the guests were already below. For a moment, Tom was taken aback by the bright display of silks and feathers. The neck of each lady glittered with jewels. Being so accustomed to seeing only men—and only men in uniform at that—he imagined a flock of exotic birds fluttering before him. The ladies all cast eager smiles with rouged cheeks, eyes twinkling with excitement.

He quickly followed Burke’s lead and offered his arm to one of the passing girls. It was Blanche.

She accepted his arm with a smile. “Oh Tom, did you hear daddy is a knight now?” Her falsely high voice set his teeth on edge.

“I did,” he replied, but she barely heard it, for she was already talking about the cost and style of her gown.

“—and the lace was imported from France, you know. Have you ever been to France? We could speak French if you like, for I am practically fluent. Just listen to this: Où est mon parapluie?” She giggled. “Well, what do you think? Do I not sound positively Parisienne?”

Entering the dining room felt like stepping into a forest scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There was a fairy-like quality to the sweeping floral arrangements. It was as if a garden was growing all around them. Potted trees festooned with glittering orbs framed the room, while vines were draped over the massive hearth. A harpist played softly in the corner. Candlelight shimmered off all the crystal and glassware.

Blanche cooed with delight. “Oh look, Tom. Isn’t it just like a fairy land?”

The seating was arranged, so Tom helped Blanche find her place, then he found his own at the opposite end of the table. Thank God for small mercies. He was seated between Miss Harrow and a resplendently dressed young woman wearing a feathered turban. He glanced down to note her name card: Lady Olivia Rutledge. Christ, this was the daughter of the Marquess of Deal. After the Corbins and the marchioness, Lady Olivia was the highest-ranking person in the room.

He glanced again at Miss Harrow, noting those beautiful dark eyes. This girl was trouble. Tom might be able to resist, but he doubted very much Burke could do the same.

She smiled at him. “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Good evening,” he replied.

Before he could say another word, the butler’s voice rang out through the room. “His Grace, the Duke of Norland, and Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Norland!”

George swept in with his mother on his arm. The duchess looked like an ocean goddess, draped in layers of blue silk. Brilliant sapphires glittered at her neck. The table bowed as one, while George helped his mother to her chair. Then he moved down the length of the table and took up his place at the other end. A footman pulled out his chair and he sat. The table followed suit, with the gentlemen helping the ladies before all were settled.

Miss Harrow turned away to speak with the gentleman to her right. Tom recognized him immediately as old Mr. Selby, the curate of Finchley, the little village that sat in the shadow of Alcott Hall. In the noise of the room, he couldn’t hear what she said, but she drew a smile from Selby almost at once, and a moment later they were both laughing.

Tom waited for the footmen to serve the first course before he dutifully turned to speak to Lady Olivia.

“Did you have a difficult journey?”

“It rained,” she said dispassionately, sipping her leek soup.

“Yes, well…it’s the season for it,” he replied lamely.

When Lady Olivia made no effort to ask him a question in return, he let himself take a few sips of his soup. He was saved having to think of another question when Miss Harrow reached for the salt, accidentally bumping his wine glass. He caught it with a quick hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cried, her hand brushing his as she too tried to catch the glass.

He flinched at the touch. She had her gloves off, folded in her lap for the dinner, so her bare hand wrapped around his and the glass, steadying both. His eye traced a line up her arm to her elbow.

“Heavens, that was a near thing,” she said with a soft laugh. “Thank goodness for your fast reflexes.”

He blinked. Was she flirting with him? Or was it just something to say? Christ, she was looking at him. She said something else and he missed it. “Beg pardon?” he said.

“I asked how long you’ve been in the country, sir,” she repeated.

“My ship put in at Portsmouth at the end of May.”

Her eyes flashed with interest. “Oh, I only meant the countryside…but you’ve been out of England, sir?”

He nodded. “I spent a little over two years stationed in the West Indies. Jamaica, Barbados, British Honduras…a few other places.”

“You make me quite envious, sir. I have never left England. What was it like?”

He considered for a moment. He wasn’t used to talking to ladies about his misadventures. “It was…hot,” he replied.

A silent moment stretched between them, and he wanted to kick himself. Damn it all. Tom, get it together.

Her lips quirked. “Well, it must not be so very foreign. England is hot too.”

He didn’t know her well enough to determine if she was teasing him. Her countenance was open, and she was relaxed, willing to listen if he had something to say. If not, he was sure she’d engage with Mr. Selby instead. He didn’t want to lose her attention yet.

“Aye, but you’ve never known a heat like this,” he said. “Months of cloudless skies, the sun sitting low like a golden orb. Your skin burns, turning pink and freckled before it bronzes. You’ve no doubt noticed my horrible complexion,” he said, pointing at his deeply tanned face.

“I had noticed, sir,” she replied with a smile.

“We deserve hazard pay for the suffering our poor hides endure,” he said, drawing a laugh from her. This was easy. Was this flirting? Or were they just talking? Tom was so out of practice. Either way, wasn’t he supposed to be focusing his attention on a lady of wealth and consequence? Miss Harrow had neither…but he wasn’t ready to turn away.

“And what did you like best about your time in the West Indies?” she asked.

He considered, rubbing his thumb up the stem of his wine glass. “The water,” he murmured. He could almost smell it, feel the movement of the waves, hear it lapping against the sand. It was a rhythm as known to him as his own heartbeat.

“Is water in Jamaica so very different from England?”

He turned to catch her dark eyes, noting the way the candles reflected in them. “Imagine the deepest shade of sapphire,” he began. “So dark it appears almost black. Then, as you near the shore, it changes to the most alluring shade of blue, sparkling in the sunlight. Best of all is when you come right up on land, and the blues turn jade green, before a glittering stretch of aquamarine carpets the sand with each rolling tide.”

Her mouth opened slightly, and his eye settled on her pink lips. When she noticed, she reached distractedly for her own wine glass. “Heavens, Lieutenant. You should have no problem securing yourself a wealthy wife, so long as you paint her such a pretty picture—”

He registered her words at the same time she did. While he frowned, she blushed, setting down her glass.

“I’m sorry, that was unpardonably rude. I should never presume to know you, sir.”

He recovered first. “Am I so transparent?”

She was still flustered. “I…well, that is to say…”

He leaned in. “Be at ease, Miss Harrow. I’m on leave, it’s true. And it is the hope of my captain that I follow the path of other officers and marry to rank up. You do not speak out of turn to admit you know my plans.”

She sighed with relief. “Surely you will find a lady well worthy of you amongst this glittering assemblage. But I should consider myself quite safe,” she added.

He raised a brow in question.

“If I am to call you out so brazenly before they serve the fish course, should you not take the measure of me as well?” She leaned in. “You already know I have no title, no family, and not a shilling to my name. I shall add that I have exactly three morning dresses and two evening dresses…oh, and these pearls are fake,” she added, gesturing to the single strand of pearls around her neck. “There, we can be friends again.”

They both laughed. Burke wasn’t the only one in trouble.

“I fear we must turn now,” she said. “But when it is my turn to have you again, you shall tell me more about the waters of Jamaica.” With a smile, she turned and immediately fell into conversation with the curate.

Tom sat for a moment, eyes on his plate. Miss Harrow was…odd. No, that wasn’t the right word. Curious? Unique. Special. He smiled. Yes, that word would do nicely.

He felt eyes on him and glanced up, gazing across the table. James wore half a scowl as he cast a pointed look at Lady Olivia. Christ, Tom had a duty to perform. He couldn’t leave the lady to sit alone all evening.

Think of a question, Tom.

“Do you spend much time in Deal? Or are you more accustomed to Town?”

“I prefer Town,” she replied. “But we will winter in Deal.”

“And…how do you choose to occupy yourself? Do you sketch or sew or—”

“No.”

He lowered his fork. “No, you don’t sew or…”

“No, we’re not going to make small talk,” she replied, without a shred of shame at her remarkable rudeness. “I would make you a terrible wife, sir, and you’d be a sorry excuse for a husband.”

He felt sure he must have heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”

She gave him a level look, that pinched expression and the spray of feathers in her turban putting him in mind of an angry peacock. “I am the daughter of a marquess. Did you know that?”

He kept his face carefully expressionless. “I was aware, yes.”

“Good, well then you’ll no doubt be aware that the man I marry will claim a barony and thirty thousand pounds.”

“I—”

“I’m six and twenty, sir. I don’t have the time or the patience to offer attention to inconsequential suitors. You are a middling level officer in His Majesty’s Navy, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“You have no title or prospects beyond maybe a captaincy, am I correct?”

Why did he suddenly feel like his tongue was tied in his mouth? “Well—”

“Let me use language you’ll be sure to understand,” she said with a sneer. “I’m angling for a much bigger fish, Lieutenant.” She shot a pointed look down the table at George. “Now smile, and eat your soup,” she said dismissively. “We’ll be able to turn again soon.”

At a complete loss to register any emotion but shock, Tom stuck out a hand and snatched up his glass of wine. He drained it and held it aloft for the footman to refill it. He couldn’t help the grin that played on his face as he fought the urge to reach down and cup his manhood right there at the table. For he was quite sure, if he had the ill manner to check, he’d find it was missing.