Bath Scandal by Joan Smith Page B

My Firefly took it last year. Three-year-old. Well, has to be, what? Running her sister, Flame, this year.”
    “I meant the social Season, in London.”
    “Oh, that Season. Mmm.” No comment occurred to the duke on that Season. “Are you going to Bournemouth?” he asked.
    Southam frowned in perplexity. “Bournemouth?”
    “Hurdle races start this week.”
    “No, I shan’t be attending those.”
    The duke gave Gillie a commiserating look and turned to speak to her. Southam ran out of ideas, and the conversation lapsed, to the mixed relief and regret of both participants.
    Nothing of great interest occurred over the remainder of the evening. At eleven sharp the music stopped, and the guests left. Southam accompanied the ladies to Saint Andrew’s Terrace. He accepted Mrs. Searle’s invitation to join her for a glass of wine, apologizing for the lateness of the hour.
    “It is only eleven-thirty!” she said, laughing. “Your carriage does not turn into a pumpkin at midnight, I hope. Good gracious, in London the parties go on till three or four in the morning. Here in Bath we frequently go out for a late supper after an assembly. Of course, when we are chaperoning the young debs, we must curtail our activities.”
    “I hope having Gillie is not too great a restraint on your amusements.”
    “Not at all. I enjoy her company.” She turned to Gillie. “You had best run up to bed now, dear,” she said.
    Gillie came to kiss her good-night. “It was a lovely party, Aunt Bea. Good-night, Rawl.” She stopped before leaving and said to her brother, “I don’t suppose we could go to Bournemouth?”
    “Did the duke suggest it?” he asked.
    “He asked you if you were going.”
    “No, best not. Deborah expects me home Monday.”
    Gillie’s face stiffened, and she left without further entreaties.
    Southam noticed with chagrin that his sister showed more warmth for this new friend than for himself. “Why does she call you Aunt Bea?” he asked, to conceal his annoyance.
    “Because we wanted some friendlier term than Mrs. Searle, after we had become bosom bows. I could not permit her to use my first name without some handle. Such familiar terms between a chaperon and her charge might lead to trouble.”
    “You are cousins. She might have called you Cousin.”
    Bea shrugged. “We are connections, Lord Southam. I am neither her cousin nor her aunt.”
    “Nor mine, either, but I hope, now that we are friendlier, that you will permit me to call you Beatrice.”
    “You are old enough to rob it of impropriety,” she answered saucily.
    “I notice that here in Bath age is no deterrent to merry-making.”
    “No, indeed. I greatly enjoy my maturity. In fact, I am happy to be rid of the burden of youth. Older ladies, especially if they are widows, are not so encumbered with rules as are debs. So long as one heeds the usual proprieties, a widow may do pretty well as she pleases.”
    “Now that Gillie has left, let me ask you frankly, is she a nuisance for you? Does she tie you down more than you like?”
    “Not at all. It is an interesting change, to hobnob with the younger set. Having missed out on motherhood, I am enjoying the privileges without the total responsibility.”
    “It is truly remarkable how well she has taken to you.”
    “I hope I am not that hard to get along with!” she exclaimed.
    “That was not my meaning. It was meant as a compliment. She is a difficult girl to handle.”
    “Not really. It boils down to understanding her. She cares more for horses than most girls her age. If one hopes to engage her in social doings, one must wedge them in sideways, under the guise of horsey doings, or with an outing involving horses in the offing. When she catches some other lady throwing her hankie at the duke, she will realize he is a man and she is a woman. Then she will go after him hammer and tong, even if he does not wear a bridle.”
    “I fear the idea has not occurred to her yet. A pity he will be