Her Officer and Gentleman by Karen Hawkins Page A

door and standing to one side. “Ye just go and enjoy yer jaunt in the park. And yer man.”
    Beth sailed by her maid. “I shall, Annie. Just for you.” As she ran down the stairs, Beth wondered if Westerville would indeed be in the park. It was possible, as the day was uncommonly beautiful. Such weather brought people out in droves.
    Her heart thudded a little faster at the thought.
    The viscount interested her. Not as a potential mate, of course. He was definitely not the sort of man one settled down with. No, he was more the dangerous break-your-heart type. Beatrice had been right about that. Fortunately Beth had no desire to settle down just yet, and a pleasant flirtation would certainly be more fun than having to play the stuttering fool to a group of moneygrubbing and dull lords. The problem was, she could not do both—flirt with the viscount and frighten off her other suitors. Which meant that a flirtation simply could not happen.
    Some of the brightness went out of the day. Beth found her feet slowing as she crossed the foyer to where a footman held open the door. Outside, she could see Beatrice and her groom beside a beautiful new cabriolet, but Beth could muster no excitement.
    She suddenly hoped she wouldn’t see the viscount in the park after all. Mustering a fading smile, she made her way to where Beatrice was waiting.
     
    The door to Christian’s bedchamber closed firmly. He opened his eyes and threw a hand over his face as the sun splintered through the crack in the curtain. Good God, what time was it, anyway? Squinting, he peered at the clock on the mantel, cursed loudly, and threw back the covers.
    “Good morning,” Reeves said from the wardrobe where he was placing some stifflystarched cravats. “Your robe is on the foot of the bed. I would appreciate it if you would wear something. ”
    “I don’t need my robe. Just give me my breeches.”
    Reeves sighed but handed the article of clothing to Christian.
    Christian pulled them on. “You may look now.”
    “Thank you, my lord. Your valet, Walters, is unable to assist you this morning. He is suffering from a toothache.”
    Reeves opened the wardrobe door. “Shall you wear the black waistcoat, the black waistcoat, or the black waistcoat?”
    “I like black.”
    “From the looks of things, I’d say you quite adore it, my lord. Passionately. With all of your soul. Your heart. Your every breath—”
    “Give me my damned waistcoat!”
    “Yes, my lord.” Reeves pulled a waistcoat from the wardrobe and eyed it for a long moment. “I wonder if I have wronged you, my lord. Instead of an unfortunate and inexplicable passion for black, perhaps you sustained an unmentionable loss of some sort, say, of a favorite racehorse or a hound that did well at the hunt—and you feel the need to mourn it for the next fourteen years.”
    “Reeves—”
    “Or are you perchance allergic to color staining dyes?”
    Christian found himself grinning. “I’ve always favored black. It’s a powerful color.”
    Reeves held up a black waistcoat and then placed it against yet another. “It is rather powerful. As are all mourning clothes.”
    “I wanted to arrive in London with some fanfare. It is important that I stand out.”
    “Ah. I see.” Reeves placed one of the black waistcoats on the bed. “You would be a lump of coal among the jewels. A fat, black pigeon in the face of so many brilliant peacocks. A—”
    “Bloody hell, were you this annoying with my father?”
    “I fear I was more so, my lord. I was younger then and could go on and on and on—”
    “Good. The old bastard deserved a difficult time.”
    “So many people believe.” The butler handed a fresh shirt to Christian, then placed a heavily starched cravat on the bed. After Christian had donned the shirt, he took the cravat and carefully wound it about his neck, then tied it in an intricate pattern.
    He examined himself in the mirror and dipped his chin just the slightest bit to adjust the