The Notorious Countess
Liz Tyner
“People must have something to talk about… And I do make for a good tale.” After escaping an unhappy marriage, Lady Riverton enjoys her notoriety among the ton…even if her reputation isn’t deserved. But when she’s caught in a most compromising position with Andrew Robson, for the first time the truth is even more scandalous than the rumors! And yet, in Andrew’s arms, Beatrice finds she’s no longer defined by her reputation and is free to be the woman she truly is. Is it time for Beatrice to trust in Andrew and end her reign of scandal once and for all?
‘I am used to having people speak of me,’ she said. ‘They must speak of someone, so why not me? I have laughed the loudest. Life is a grand jest.’
Then she reached up, pushing an escaped curl towards her bun but feeling the wisp spring back into place.
‘Perhaps.’ He stepped forward and with his left hand captured the curl. His fingers brushed her skin as he slipped the errant lock behind her ear. ‘But, Lady Riverton, there is more to you than words in a scandal sheet.’
She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘You don’t understand the vipers of the world. They wish to bite, not cuddle. I cannot turn them into lambs.’
‘No …’
His voice quietened, but it didn’t lose the rumble, the masculine richness that pulled her like a vine twining towards the sun.
‘I can help you, though. We can create a new world around you. One in which you glitter as you should. This blunder tonight could be fortunate. It can be the moment you begin painting the world around you in the colours you wish.’
‘You are daft. No one has a brush that can do as you suggest.’
‘What is the harm in trying?’
Author Note (#ulink_2cd6f2f9-a243-53a4-b319-8a96c8cf0a77)
Hand me a romance novel with a tortured hero, brooding in his mansion, rescued from his solitude by the love of a beautiful woman, and I’m hooked. But I wanted to add a different perspective to the old tale of a beauty and her brutish hero. I thought of a heroine wanting to hide in her art studio, and a hero hoping to rescue her from her scandals.
After viewing James Gillray’s caricatures, and some of the less acceptable drawings his contemporaries created, I realised that an unfavourable portrait circulating in the early 1800s in London might have been similar in consequence for the subject as having a picture posted on the internet would be today. The term ‘scandal sheet’ is relatively modern, but I wanted to use it as a vehicle to illustrate the concept of news travelling fast.
With that in mind, Beatrice and Andrew’s story began—and I embraced writing it. I hope the characters curl into your heart as they did mine.
The Notorious Countess
Liz Tyner
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com (http://liztyner.com).
Contents
Cover (#u5e220b5d-42bb-5531-aff6-090a0d441a18)
Introduction (#uec406aeb-32b2-527e-9ece-823f9bc71001)
Author Note (#u471e87ba-6939-5f44-9906-f81ec34d7e60)
Title Page (#u0fef0fb6-d9fd-579b-ab47-bb7bdd2bd416)
About the Author (#u79f73780-9ad1-55fe-a23e-98d1e7449729)
Chapter One (#u9f6b58f4-f5cd-5194-9e0b-067586688713)
Chapter Two (#ub75c7789-5997-5caa-9c6d-ac95b2211417)
Chapter Three (#u3fda64d7-a3b5-5c6b-8475-126a958d2bc3)
Chapter Four (#u83ae6080-edf3-5876-8661-5e90d1d3e66e)
Chapter Five (#u974689da-cbf5-564f-a88d-6335c1104ff6)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_6234ea9c-8b58-5e96-8a86-34685c61d910)
Andrew Robson felt a burning urge to smash in his cousin Foxworthy’s nose. One more story about Lady So-and-So’s eyes or Lady This-and-That’s breasts or Lady Whoever’s whatever and he would punch Fox right in that ugly face of his that women swooned over.
Brandy in hand, Fox leaned sideways, catching his balance to keep from falling off the desk. ‘You’re a virgin.’ He sloshed liquid on his frock coat, but it hardly showed against the dark wool.
Andrew gripped the ledger. If it had been any other book, Fox would have felt the weight of the volume right between the eyes. ‘My life is not your concern.’
‘How many times have I invited you along on my encounters and you have declined?’ Fox finished his brandy and then stared at the empty glass, yawning. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he grumbled, and reached for the pull to summon a servant. He missed and almost lost his balance again.
‘Reach the decanter yourself,’ Andrew snapped.
Fox yawned, refilled his glass and pinned a glance on Andrew. ‘Who have you done?’
Andrew picked up his brandy, swirled the liquid and downed it. ‘A gentleman doesn’t speak of such things to another man.’
‘Neither does a virgin. And I’ve told you of every skirt I’ve lifted since I discovered what I had behind my buttons.’
‘I suppose less than half of those tales are true and less than half of those occurred as you recounted them.’
Fox grimaced, patting the stopper on the decanter. ‘I do not do numbers, my friend. Quality—not quantity—always my rule.’ Fox frowned. ‘You’re my cousin. My blood. And you’ve no notion of the true pleasures of life. You stand there so—’ He twirled his finger. ‘Sombre, dressed like a man in mourning... Or dressed like the man already buried. And you’ve reason to look grim, I suppose. No woman to put a smile on your face.’
‘I have to hide you from enough husbands and beaus that I don’t relish doing it for myself.’ That was the only thing he truly hated about Fox. His cousin did not understand how his actions could affect others.
‘I told you,’ Fox murmured. ‘They jump to conclusions. Because I am such a stallion, a man cannot bear to see me even talking with his wife without assuming I have ulterior motives.’
‘You do.’
‘But you do not. You ever tup that Hannah woman you spoke so poetic about?’
‘Most certainly not. She was quality. An innocent. One does not despoil innocents.’
‘She wasn’t when she was in my bed last summer.’
Fury pumped into Andrew’s body. ‘You did not defile Hannah.’ He slapped a palm on to the book on his desk. ‘Even you could not have taken an innocent.’
Fox shrugged and held up the glass. ‘We were in love. You should try it.’ He gave the lopsided grin which made skirts flutter. ‘You’d be a lot happier if you’d just drop your trousers more.’
Andrew’s hand clenched the book. He stepped towards his cousin, the tome held firm. He might not throw the book at him, but he could use it to knock him to the ground. ‘You dared ruin an innocent? Unforgivable!’
Fox saw something in Andrew’s eyes, because he stepped quickly behind the desk. ‘She really wasn’t a loss, Andrew. Trust me. Just another butterfly for my nectar.’
‘I will kill you.’
‘Andrew.’ Fox put the glass on the table and held up both hands, backing away. ‘Innocent cousin. You only feel this way because you have not been able to put your little sceptre in the proper hands.’
‘You are going to die—’ Andrew slammed the book down, almost hitting the inkwell, and knocking a vase of roses to the carpet. He skirted around the desk. Fox sidestepped.
‘My funeral,’ Fox muttered, head high, ‘will be attended by many distraught ladies.’
‘—a slow death. A particularly slow death.’ Andrew stepped forward, crunching glass and crushing a bloom under his foot, bringing the scent of roses into the fray.
‘And move into eternity with a smile on my face for ever.’ Fox’s words wavered into a chuckle.
Andrew realised Fox was sliding closer to the door. Andrew dived across the corner of the desk, grabbing Fox’s coat-tails, pulling him back and slamming them both to the floor. Fox grunted as Andrew landed on his cousin’s back.
Fox scrambled, trying to crawl from Andrew’s grasp. The cur would take his punishment. He would learn respect for women.
Andrew secured Fox’s wrist, stopping his escape, but Fox kicked out, delivering a bruising blow to the shin. Andrew shifted forward, grabbing the neck of Fox’s coat and digging his fingers into the back of the cravat, pulling it tight.
Fox coughed and sputtered.
Andrew gave another lunge, pinning his cousin to the floor. The cravat worked to hold the bounder still.
‘I’ll forgive you for killing me, but do not hurt my face,’ Fox growled. ‘I’ll get you a woman. Let me go. The passions you do not release are turning you into a savage.’
Andrew gave a twist of the cloth. ‘If you dare ruin another woman, you will not live to regret it.’
‘You’re...choking me...’ Fox’s voice wavered.
Andrew applied more pressure and then let up slightly. ‘You will propose to Hannah.’
‘I cannot,’ Fox said, arms flailing. ‘She is in love with Lord Arvin. I allowed her to call me by his name and we were both pleased.’
Andrew paused. ‘I find that more than a little odd.’ He released the cravat, twisted his body up and slapped his hand across the back of Fox’s head with a satisfying pop. Fox’s hair briefly splayed before falling back into a tousled look Andrew could not even accomplish with a valet’s help.
Andrew perched back so Fox could rise.
‘You would,’ Fox said, sitting and arranging his cravat. ‘You do not have the first notion of passion. You need someone like Sophia Swift to teach you’
Andrew stood and dusted his knees. ‘I will not get within a furlong of that crazed woman.’ He straightened his lapel and spoke softly. ‘She bit me.’
Fox stilled. ‘Women sometimes bite. It’s all in play.’ He took in hearty breaths and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll explain once I have another drink.’
Moving quickly, Andrew pulled off his coat and slung the garment on the desk. Then he undid the buttons of his waistcoat and dropped the silk to the floor. He pulled his white linen shirt from his trousers and raised the garment from his skin. He pointed to the scar on his chest.
‘She. Bit. Me.’ His teeth clamped on the last word.
Fox leaned forward, staring, eyes wide. ‘Made a lasting mark.’ He peered closer for a few seconds. ‘She does have well-spaced teeth.’
‘I am sure she will be happy to bite you. I will even suggest it to her. But I cannot remain enthusiastic when a woman draws blood and it is smeared on her cheek. I cannot.’
That had been in his sixteenth year. His father had suggested that Andrew must partake of a woman’s favours or he would never be able to use good judgement in finding a wife. He gave Andrew instructions he said he wished his own father had given him. He’d even made sure Andrew could stay the whole night at Mrs Smith’s establishment.
Sophia was only a few years older than Andrew and she’d promised to show him all he would ever need to know. They’d had a grand time initially, but that had not lasted long past the first kiss. She was all he could have wanted—and then her passion had overcome her.
‘Hellish.’ Fox stared at the skin. His voice rose. ‘And she was willing?’
‘She was. I was not—any longer.’ Andrew threw down the tail of his shirt. ‘Some day a wife will see these marks.’
Fox straightened. He squinted and said, ‘Do not concern yourself. While saving a lady—an invalid grandmother—from a cutpurse, the thief bit you. He was taken to Newgate and sentenced to death.’ Then his eyes twinkled. ‘Or maybe just tell the truth.’ His voice turned poetic, he took in a breath and put a palm to his chest. ‘A woman driven mad by passion.’
‘She is just mad.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘Fingernails like talons and...three mirrors.’ The sight of the dishevelled woman begging his pardon from three angles had been rather like a bad dream.
‘I might take you up on the offer to meet her.’ Fox looked the ceiling. ‘To see if you tell the truth.’
‘Oh, by all means, please do. The two of you should get on quite well together.’ He shook his head. That night he’d felt he’d been in a room with a marauding animal. In the beginning, Sophia’s vigour had grown with his own, but then he’d had to calm her when she’d realised what she’d done to him. He’d spent an hour reassuring her that it did not hurt—all the while it did hurt. He’d not wanted a repeat of such an encounter. The one time he had let himself be swept away by passion, it had turned on him. His father had been right that the encounter with Sophia would make Andrew a man. He’d felt one from that night forward, though perhaps not in the way his father had intended.
‘You really must learn to experience life.’ Foxworthy’s throat rumbled with a fluttery burst of smug disapproval.
‘Ha,’ Andrew grumbled, pulling his coat from the desktop and hooking a hand over the back of a chair. He slid the seat to the front of the desk. He sat, and both hands gripped his coat, but he didn’t don it. ‘I see you dancing on clouds one moment. The next you are wallowing on the floor in a drunken heap because of the fickle nature of your heart. You think to be in love and say she is the one for you for ever, and then she falls into your arms and you can’t bear her. Next you distance yourself and hurt her. Or she returns to her husband and forgets you—in which case you cannot get her name off your lips.’
‘It’s all worth it.’ Fox sniffed.
Andrew snorted. ‘The next time you are knocking on my door at midnight wanting to hide due to a jealous husband or you’re gasping tears of despair because this month’s one and only true love has not fallen at your feet, I will remind you, But it’s all worth it, and kick you out on your arse.’
Fox straightened tall, his chin up. ‘I visit your house because I wish to play cards with you. Sometimes I am a bit melancholy due to the fickleness of women. Or sometimes I may have had a misadventure. But I am not hiding.’
‘You wish to sleep without worry of someone bursting into your house to kill you. You learned nothing from your father.’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘And you learned nothing from yours.’
A cannon blast of thoughts plunged into Andrew’s head and mixed with a powder keg of emotion. Andrew clenched his fist, tightened his stance and locked eyes with Fox. Neither moved.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Fox said, raising hands, palms out. ‘You know I meant nothing by that.’
Slowly, with the precision of climbing backwards from a cliff edge, Andrew calmed himself. He would not let anger overtake him. Even when he had throttled Fox, Andrew knew he’d not really been in a fury, but acting in the only manner Fox listened to.
Andrew squelched the emotion and controlled himself. Fox did not consider his actions or his speech before doing either. His cousin never saw the rashness of any behaviour. He likely would have been killed long before if not for Andrew’s intervention.
‘Fox. Tread softly.’ Andrew spoke in a controlled voice.
Fox examined Andrew’s eyes, and then stepped back, raising a palm. ‘I meant nothing by it. You know that. So your father had one little misstep in life.’ He shrugged. ‘He was better to us than my father ever was. I did not mean to speak ill of him. I have mourned him more than I would my own father.’
The familiar pang of grief touched Andrew’s chest, but anger tempered it. He wasn’t furious at his father any longer, but Fox was another matter. He continued to cause disruption in other people’s lives by acting on his desires. Constantly, Fox either broke someone’s heart or his own, and he always landed on Andrew’s doorstep. But within a few days, his cousin’s melancholy would fade and he’d be in love again, for what it was worth.
Fox sighed, but then his eyes sparked and his lips turned up. ‘It saddens me to see you dying on the vine.’
Andrew blinked. ‘Dying on the vine? No. If I need to see the rightness of my actions I only have to look at you. You’re the one landing in an overripe mess on the ground.’
‘Sadly, I think you may have a point.’ Fox turned his back. ‘I may have erred. Caused irretrievable damage to a young woman.’
‘You’ve done that countless times.’
‘But this time...’ His shoulders heaved from the breath he took. ‘I fear she was of too gentle a nature. Too delicate. And I worry that she will not recover.’ Fox turned to Andrew. ‘I have received a post from her friend telling me of the woman’s deep sadness. I fear... I fear she might take her life.’
‘You cannot be serious.’
‘I am, very.’
‘Then you must inform her family so they can take care she is not overwrought too extremely.’ He moved forward. He would make sure Fox did not shirk his duty.
‘I can’t. She does not live with them. She’s a pathetic little thing. Companion. Survives in her lady’s shadow. Never gets to go about. The other women jest about her. Call her a spinster. I thought to show her some compassion and make her realise how beautiful she is on the inside. Instead, she became quite infatuated with me. When I told her I did not love her, I thought she understood. But it’s said she is quite despondent. I fear seeing her again. It will only increase her misery.’
‘Seeing you does increase mine. But you must make sure she does not do something even more foolish than she already has.’
‘If I promise—’ Fox put a hand across his heart ‘—that I will take more care in the future, will you please check on her to see that she is recovering? Ascertain she will get over me. Just give her one of those same talks you give me about what a disaster I am.’
‘I cannot visit a lady’s residence in such a way. It is unthinkable.’
Fox regained his easy posture. ‘You can with Tilly. She’s a companion and her mistress will be away tonight. I can send her a note asking her to be at the servants’ entrance for a private message from me. She will do it.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘I cannot let the poor woman expect someone she loves and then tell her you will not be there.’
‘If anyone can convince her that I am a waste of her tears, it is you. You’ve recited the words to me so many times that you should certainly be able to recall them again.’
‘You must do this yourself.’
‘No. It will only increase her agony,’ he pleaded. ‘She will believe someone else telling her that I am not the one to lose her heart over. I have tried. She did not listen. And you can make certain she will not do something foolish like take her own life.’
‘We will find someone else to do it.’
‘You are the only one. There is no one else. If word were to get out and her reputation tarnished while she is so fragile, it would be too much. You must help me this one time. And I promise, I will mend my ways.’
* * *
Beatrice moved from the carriage on to the town house steps, then to the threshold. The door opened before her and she glided inside—until her dress stopped moving, jerking her to a stop. Turning, she snapped the silken hem of her skirt loose from the edge of the open door and heard the rip.
‘I would have corrected that for you,’ her brother’s butler intoned with a voice that could have rasped from a long-dead ghost. If one looked closer, most of Arthur’s appearance would have done well on a spirit, except for his height and posture.
‘I cannot wait all day,’ Beatrice grumbled to Arthur, but she stayed at the doorway, and dared him with her face.
‘I must beg pardon. It’s my age, you see. I’m slow.’ His face revealed no expression. ‘Forgetful. It is hard to remember how a person should act.’
‘Nonsense,’ she muttered. Then she appraised him. ‘How old are you?’
‘One hundred and three—in butler years.’
The maid stopped behind them, carrying Beatrice’s reticule, her book and her favourite woollen wrap that she only used in the carriage, because it was quite tattered, but so comforting.
‘And what is that in people years?’ Beatrice asked the butler.
‘I cannot remember.’
‘Arthur—’
‘It’s Arturo.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
He raised his nose, and spoke with the same air as King George. ‘I am quite sure, madam. I was there.’
‘It’s Arthur.’ Arthur’s father had been the old duke’s butler, and to lessen the confusion when both men were servants in the same household, Arthur had been called by his given name.
He gave a rumble from behind closed lips and then spoke. ‘Whatever Lady Riverton wishes. But Lady Riverton could take better care of her garments. Mrs Standen complains when you’re careless and she has to do extra mending.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘Listening to a wife is a husband’s duty, Arthur.’
‘Arturo.’
‘Arthur,’ she commanded. Shaking her head, she moved to the front door, using both hands to lift the dress so the torn hem didn’t drag. She stopped at the base of the stairs, turning back to see the butler’s eyes on her.
She gave him her best snarl, and even though his eyes were focused on nothing his lip edged into a smile.
She moved up the stairs and the maid followed along.
‘Dash it,’ Beatrice grumbled to herself, examining her feet. ‘I do not know what I was thinking when I chose these slippers to wear to Aunt’s house.’
Taking painful steps, Beatrice scrambled upwards, pleased to be spending time at her brother’s London town house instead of her country estate. ‘Go to the kitchen and have Cook prepare something delicious,’ she instructed her maid.
When Beatrice reached her room, she sailed past and moved on, stopping at her companion’s door. Without knocking, she pushed it open, speaking as she entered. ‘Tilly. I could not believe...’ She paused, staring at her companion. Tilly dropped the comb in her hand.
Tilly wore the amethysts. The amethysts Riverton had given her before they married. And—she gasped—Beatrice’s own dress. She’d recognise the capped sleeves with lace hearts anywhere. And the bodice. Fortunately, Tilly didn’t fill it out quite as well as Beatrice. She needed a few stitches to take in the gaping top.
True, Tilly was a cousin and deserved some leeway, but not the dress.
‘Cousin, dearest...’ Beatrice kept her voice sweet—overly kind ‘...when you took ill and couldn’t go with me to your mother’s, I understood. Now I wonder what kind of illness requires amethysts.’ She walked closer, examining Tilly, noting the redness of her face. ‘In case you hadn’t guessed, I didn’t stay at your mother’s as long as planned. Returned early to make sure you were feeling better.’ She frowned, taking a step closer, noting again the colour of Tilly’s face and not all of it belonged to emotions. Beatrice sensed a hint of rouge on her companion’s lips and some face powder. ‘I believe your megrim has quite faded. Am I right, Tilly?’
‘Yes,’ Tilly mumbled, eyes not quite subservient.
‘Tilly.’ Beatrice stopped. ‘You will personally launder the dress this moment and return it to my room. You know full well it is The Terrible Dress.’
‘Yes.’ Tilly dropped her head. ‘I know you never wear it, so I thought—’
‘I never wear it because it is the one I had made for— And I had it on the day that...’ She crossed her arms.
‘But he’s dead now.’ Tilly’s chin jutted. ‘Died in another woman’s arms, I heard.’
‘Fine, Tilly.’ Beatrice took a step forward. ‘You may have the dress. Keep it. I will have your things sent after you. Go tell the groom you’ll be leaving as soon as they’ve eaten. Tell them to take you to my house to work with the housekeeper.’
‘I refuse. I am sick of the smell of your paints and I am sick of not going to soirées and I am mostly sick of you.’ Tilly reached behind her neck and unclasped the amethysts, and thrust the necklace into Beatrice’s hand. ‘You truly are a beast.’ She pulled at the pearl earrings, removing them, and putting them in Beatrice’s grasp as well. ‘But thank you for the dress. I look better in it than you anyway.’
Tilly reached into the wardrobe and took out a satchel, and thrust a few folded things into it. Then, leaving the wardrobe door open, she sauntered to the dressing table. She placed her brushes and scents into her case. ‘Do send my things to my mother’s house.’ She strolled across the room, Beatrice’s imported lavender perfume wafting behind her. The special blend.
Looking over her shoulder, Tilly stopped at the door. ‘And by the way, the night you threw the vase at your husband...’ her voice lowered to a throaty whisper ‘...I made it all better for him on the library sofa.’ The door clicked shut.
Beatrice shut her eyes. Riverton. The piece of tripe had been dead over two years and she still didn’t have him properly buried. He kept laughing at her from the grave.
She’d moved from the house and stayed with her brother to get Riverton’s memory to fade, but nothing worked.
Love. The biggest jest on earth. Marriage. A spiderweb of gigantic proportions to trap hearts and suck them dry.
She kept the jewellery in her left hand, then went to the wardrobe and looked inside. A stack of linens. She picked up a pair of gloves she remembered purchasing, but wasn’t certain she’d given Tilly. She slammed them back into the wardrobe. Tilly could have them with good wishes.
Beatrice shuffled through more things belonging to her companion, then she sat on Tilly’s bed. Looking around the room, she noticed the faded curtains. Those had once been in the sitting room and they’d been cut down. And the counterpane on the bed, it had once belonged— She supposed it had been on her bed, then later someone had altered it to make it smaller.
So Tilly thought she had a right to the discards—even Beatrice’s husband. She held up the amethysts. But these were not tossed out. She doubted she’d ever wear them again. She’d visit the jewellers and see if he might reset them into something more cheerful.
A tepid knock sounded at the door.
She supposed it was Tilly, wanting to beg for forgiveness—or a chance at the pearl earrings.
‘Enter.’
The maid opened the door, then took a step back. ‘My apologies, Lady Riverton. I came to tell Miss Tilly a note had arrived.’
Beatrice clenched the jewellery in one hand, and then held out the other, unfurling it forward, palm up.
The maid’s eyes showed her realisation that she had no choice. Slowly, she put the paper in Beatrice’s hand.
Beatrice gave a light nod, both thanking and dismissing the servant.
When the door closed, Beatrice sat alone with the amethysts, the memories, and the note. She’d worn the lace-sleeved dress on her wedding trip. She’d also worn it the day she’d pried Riverton from the screaming maid. Then she’d had to grasp scissors from his shaving kit to keep him from her own throat. It was a wonder he didn’t get blood on the cloth, but she’d only grazed him.
The nickname she’d received had infuriated her brother, the architect. Enraged him. No one dared mention it around him and he insisted she repair it. Although in truth, he was more likely to snap someone in two than she ever was.
The irony of it did not escape her. She was called the Beast and yet he was the one with the temper.
Her brother had hated Riverton’s indiscretions more than she had. Wilson had raged, feeling the need to protect his sister. She’d not wanted even more scandal, so she’d worked hard at keeping a happy, uncaring facade. She suspected her brother had thought of having Riverton killed, but neither of them had wanted to risk such tales getting about. She didn’t mind the stories about her family, as long as they were adventure-filled and showed her relatives in a dashing light. Except, she hadn’t done so well in keeping the on dits adventurous with the scissor incident. Memories of that day returned. Her husband would have strangled the servant—and the girl’s crime had been in not realising he was at home and taking the cleaned bedclothes into the room. He’d thought the maid some kind of burglar.
Riverton. Might he rest in pieces. Small ones. With jagged edges.
She opened the note.
Tilly,
I have procured the amethyst earrings you so desire. They can be in your hands on the morrow if you can convince Lord Andrew you are a retiring sort and deeply distressed because I have tossed you aside. But mostly you must be able to get him to console you and overcome his reluctance to enjoy all the treasures a man can have at his fingertips. Sadly, he has refrained from such joys in the past.
He will arrive at the servants’ entrance as the clock strikes midnight. If he stays until morning and you put a smile on his face, I’ll have the amethysts to you by next nightfall.
Sincerely,
F.
Chapter Two (#ulink_42a6c008-7c99-58b2-b9eb-241d823b59ad)
Beatrice flipped the paper over, saw no other markings, and then read it again.
A virgin? Lord Andrew? The name was familiar. Perhaps she’d heard it from her brother, but if so that meant he was the duke’s brother.
She folded the paper and tapped the edge against her bottom lip, a scent of masculine spice touching her nose. But he was too old, surely, to be a virgin.
Sniffing the paper, Beatrice remembered the curling warmth she’d first experienced in Riverton’s arms and how precious she’d felt. She grimaced. Those feelings had changed. Riverton had a gift for saying anything a woman wanted to hear, up to and including a marriage proposal.
When he’d told her that her lack of height made her even more beautiful, she’d not minded wearing the slippers with no heels. He’d even complimented the bit of imperfection of her nose being longish and the way her brown hair always curled and curled. He’d sworn sirens must have looked exactly the same to have been able to entrance so many men. Riverton knew exactly what she’d been unsure of and he’d fanned the insecurity away, pulling her into his web.
She’d never again be so daft. But no matter how much she wished otherwise, she’d loved the feeling of being cherished. Of course, she later discovered she’d have been better off falling in love with a maggot-infested rotting carcase. She was hard-pressed to tell the difference.
Now she was left with the memory of betrayal, and how much a man’s caresses could soothe and deceive. And the utter aloneness of being utterly alone. A man could visit a brothel and heads turned the other way, pretending to see nothing. Women, however, had no such meeting place.
She had no wish to court, or do anything to risk another marriage, but she longed to be held. Most widows could be free with their affections—but ones with the notoriety she had didn’t get many requests for late-night waltzes. She hadn’t really been aiming for Riverton’s private parts after he’d released the maid and turned on her instead, but he’d spread that tale from Seven Dials to Bond Street. He’d even claimed to have been asleep at the time.
What man would court a woman who might trim his anatomy while he slept?
To be held again would be nice... But for him to have to pay Tilly? She shut her eyes and shook her head. One could not imagine how ghastly he must look. She shuddered, imagining the popping waistcoat buttons and a scalp with little white flecks outnumbering the strands of hair. Perhaps his nose was longish, too. She gazed in the mirror, turned her head sideways and sighed. Her mother’s nose.
She crumpled the paper slowly. Even for the most dazzling earrings Tilly was terrible to do such a thing.
Or maybe Tilly was lonely. Incredibly lonely. Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself. Snuffed candles could do wonders for a man’s bad complexion. And wine. A lot of wine.
And a duke’s younger brother. She wasn’t sure which duke—most of them were so advanced in years she’d paid more attention to their grandsons than younger brothers or even sons. Surely this one would appreciate a little less than what Tilly would have offered. A virgin could be cuddled and coddled, and would leave thinking he’d been given a quite wonderful treat. She could even give him the little love nibbles that had always sent Riverton into those spasms of bad poetry.
And she would not let his age diminish him in her sight.
The lord might appreciate the care of a sensitive woman. Small niceties. She believed strongly in helping those less fortunate. The needy. The terribly, terribly lonely. Perhaps he was just very shy.
She walked to Tilly’s mirror and reached up, releasing her brown hair to flow around her shoulders. Then she grasped the strands, jerked the hair into a severe knot to capture the curls and jabbed the pins in. Not her best look, she realised, noticing how the bun listed to one side. She’d have to cover her hair anyway.
But if Tilly could wear Beatrice’s clothes, and her perfume, then perhaps Beatrice could wear a mob cap with ties under the chin and take Tilly’s room. And the housekeeper, Mrs Standen, had some hideous frocks stored. A pair of spectacles she used when mending. Even if Beatrice happened to meet the lord later, she doubted he’d recognise her.
Beatrice hoped Mrs Standen wouldn’t mind parting with some of her perfume, too. Beatrice swore the old woman mixed vanilla and cinnamon—because she always smelled as though she’d been rolled in confectioneries. A perfect scent to entice a mature virgin. She’d see if she could turn a sow’s ear into a delightful diversion—and give the poor old man a memory to take to his grave.
He’d never know she was Lady Riverton, or—she snorted—according to the scandal sheets, Beatrice the Beast.
* * *
Andrew ignored the view of the town houses out the carriage window, thinking back to Fox’s words. This was just another example of uncontrolled emotions destroying someone’s life. This woman had let her heart lead her and now that same heart was on the verge of destroying her.
This would not be the first time he’d seen a woman distressed over a man’s perfidy and had to calm her. Fox knew. Andrew had confided in Fox years ago.
But that was the past. Life went on—usually.
He’d taken great pains with his appearance, knowing the importance of creating a look of assurance and authority. Fawsett, his valet, had practically hummed his approval. The white cravat lay just so and the black frock coat accentuated Andrew’s lean form, and fit him with the same precision a suit of armour might. His chin burned from the close shave and the careful application of the shaving soap which reminded him of the mild scent of freshly sawn wood. He inhaled deeply.
He’d been pleased at the maid’s quick appraisal before she skittered away when he’d been leaving his home. He’d seen a certain glint behind her eyes.
The boots, new. The clothing—impeccable. Hair freshly trimmed and he’d had to stop Fawsett to keep him from combing the dark locks into waves.
He stepped down from the conveyance and paused. He recognised the house. He’d not heard the address or he would have known. This was the architect’s house. The one he’d hired to make drawings for the renovations he’d had done. A brute of a man who would have been entirely too tiresome except he was better than Nash. Only his reputation for throttling people who disagreed with his quest for perfection kept him from being the most sought-after architect in England.
But, perhaps a mistake had been made.
He looked to the driver. ‘Are you sure this is the residence Fox mentioned?’
The man nodded. ‘Yes. Foxworthy told me to see you to the servants’ entrance.’
Andrew felt little hiccoughs of despair in his midsection. He hoped this woman was not someone he’d seen before or would be seeing again. He did not want to meet her and feel her embarrassment later when she recalled their conversation.
He trekked the steps which led to the tradesmen’s entrance almost directly under the main door and was one level lower than the street.
He’d barely knocked when the latch opened. A shadowed face stared at him.
Blazes. This was Fox’s amour?
She wore one of the little caps like his grandmother had worn and spectacles, and her hair escaped from under the cap and straggled around her face. The tiny candle she held gave her shadows he supposed he should be thankful for, and the dress—long-sleeved with hanging things and loopy frizzles around her neck. His grandmother would never have worn anything so frightfully odd looking.
Surely she wasn’t—? ‘Tilly?’ he asked.
She raised the candle up, then down, then up again. He’d never seen a candle follow the gaze so.
‘Dash it,’ she muttered and took a step forward, nearly singeing him with the flames. He stepped away from the tiny wick.
‘Tilly?’ he repeated, knowing without any hesitation she was Tilly.
Andrew looked at the spinster, clamped his jaw and then opened his mouth, choosing his words delicately.
She let out a whoosh of air, nearly putting the candle out. He stepped backwards and she lunged, grabbing his sleeve. ‘Inside. Quick.’
He hardly had a choice—she was about to burn him with the flame. He puffed the candle out.
Dragging him into the house by his arm, she muttered, ‘Dark. Pardon. Follow me. I know the way.’
He kept his steps guarded, hoping not to trip over her skirts.
‘Oh, my,’ she muttered, moving towards a narrow band of stairs, pulling him along behind her.
He planted his feet firmly at the base of the stairway used by the servants. ‘Fox is deeply distressed—’
She turned to him, still gripping his sleeve. ‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘We can talk in...’ she paused ‘...upstairs.’
‘Very well.’ He must accept that she had to guard her reputation.
* * *
She opened the door to a cramped room with a small bed, not big enough for his length. A wardrobe hulked over the space in the corner. A rather unappealing chamber, although it was hard to tell with only an insignificant candle lit—far from the bed. The room had cooled from the day’s heat.
She lit a lamp and placed it beside the candle. Then she pulled the chair closer to the bed, pointing him towards the seat of it. She sat on the bed and held out her arm, indicating he sit. Next, she clasped both hands on her knees.
This was not the shy, grief-stricken woman he’d expected. He sat. ‘You appear to be forgetting about my cousin rather well.’
‘Your cousin?’ She firmed her lips. ‘I am deeply distressed. Very sad.’
‘I thought you might be dejected by his loss of affection.’
‘Yesterday, I was,’ she said, ‘but this morning I woke up all afresh.’
He stood. ‘I am pleased to hear that. I must be leaving—’
She also rose, and then took his hand.
‘I am so desolate.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘Beyond despair.’
He stared at her and she smiled. ‘If it means a chance to keep you here longer,’ she added. ‘Once I saw you standing at the doorway, I completely recovered.’
He examined her face. ‘So you have not really been sorrowful over the loss of Fox in your life.’
‘Fox? Lord Foxworthy?’ She leaned forward. ‘In truth, I danced with him once.’
Andrew didn’t speak.
‘He’s a bit over-fond of himself, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘And wears those indigo waistcoats to make his eyes look bluer. Plus, he flutters his lashes too much when he’s talking.’
‘His mother buys those waistcoats for him and he wears them to please her. Underneath all that nonsense he spouts, he’s not a bad person. Though he has been complimented on his eyes about one hundred times too much for his own good.’
‘Personally...’ she leaned forward ‘...I like a nice brown in eye colour.’ She appraised him. ‘Though it’s hard to tell in this light.’
‘I think there’s been some mistake,’ he said.
‘No mistake,’ she said. ‘And you do not have to, um...’ She shrugged. ‘The earrings. Fox may keep them. I don’t want them. Meeting you is all the reward I need.’
He took in a breath, his thoughts exploded and everything became very clear. ‘I am...so relieved.’ Fox! Andrew would let him choose what clothing he wished to be buried in, and then Andrew would assist with the final arrangement of his cousin’s body.
She put a hand near her face and fanned as she stared at him. ‘I could see you as a knight, or a conqueror. Something majestic. But I am sure you hear that all the time.’
He needed to make sure she knew this was not a transaction. Nor was it to be an adventure such as in the sordid tales Fox told. ‘I think you might have formed a wrong conclusion.’
‘Yes.’ In the dimly lit room her teeth flashed. ‘I thought you might be rather...um, unsightly. Rather old.’
‘Speaking of age...’ He stepped into the middle of the room. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
She moved farther from him. Her mouth opened, but she didn’t speak.
‘Age?’ he repeated.
‘Twenty-six. Barely.’
‘You jest.’ Maybe ten years ago.
‘I assure you,’ she plucked the spectacles from her face and leaned closer. Then she paused and her eyes remained on him, but her head turned to the side. Her voice softened. ‘You did not think I could be twenty-six?’
Without the eyepiece, he could tell she was younger than he’d first thought. His courtesies did not desert him, although his honesty did. ‘I cannot believe you a day over twenty-three.’
She placed the spectacles on the nightstand, then gave a pleased tilt of her head, smiling. ‘And your age?’
‘Two years older than you.’
‘Perfect,’ she said, touching a hand to her face.
A spot of red darkness showed on her knuckles. Surely this lady had not injured herself over Fox? He could not pull his eyes away. ‘What is that?’
She raised her hand, looking at the back. ‘Vermilion.’ She shrugged. ‘I painted this morning. Just a miniature I am working on. I have a few supplies here.’
He breathed again.
Her fingers reached out and clasped his.
For a moment they both stood motionless, the room soundless.
‘I expected—’ She seemed to have trouble with her words. ‘I didn’t expect you to be so... Well, I thought you’d be more— You’re not—’
At her appraisal, pleasure sparked in his body.
She exhaled a breath that came out as a sigh. ‘Oh, my.’ She peered at him. ‘You’ve legs like a racehorse—only more my speed.’
He tipped his head in recognition of her compliment. Women did not comment on a man’s legs, but he was quite willing to let her continue.
‘And shoulders.’ Her hand still held his, but the free one patted along the top of his coat. ‘Hard to believe.’
He concealed his smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘A reward. For me.’ She chuckled and released his fingers. She clasped her hands at her chest, almost bubbling her words out. ‘I am so very grateful. I did not expect a man anything like you.’
‘You’ll get the earrings,’ he said. ‘But they will be from me. Not my cousin Foxworthy. And simply a gift of friendship. Nothing else.’
She tiptoed up and spoke, her lips almost against his ear, and the wine scent of her breath touched his nose. ‘I will treasure the gift. A memento of a wonderful meeting. Between friends.’ Her hands patted down his arms, then moved to his chest and gave little brushes. ‘Lord Andrew, I would have found time to get away from my painting had I realised men like you were about.’
She leaned closer. She smelled of—not some jarring scent which spoke of illicit pleasures, but wholesomeness. Of home and hearth.
She wobbled a bit and he steadied her, both hands on her waist. She must have had a considerable amount of wine.
‘I should leave,’ he said, still holding her. The garment bunched under his touch. She felt like a wraith under her clothing. The dress did not fit her at all.
‘Yes, you should. But not just now.’ She melted against him with a satisfied, ‘Ah...’ that he could feel from his chest to his heels. ‘Let me enjoy this moment. It has been a very long time since—’ she had her arms around his waist ‘—never.’
‘Never?’
‘Well, never like you. You’re all sturdy. And you smell a bit like a tree. I’ve never been near a man who smells like a forest.’
Rivers of warmth flowed in his body and he moved carefully, trying to keep her clothing from gathering under his hands and letting the shape of the woman underneath wisp into his mind. She had a nicely rounded derrière. Perfect, in fact.
But that didn’t matter. He needed to leave. Now.
He stepped back as he moved to extricate her hands, but she stumbled. He steadied her.
‘Did you drink an awful lot?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I was rather enjoying being close to you and wanted to continue. If you would just stand there a moment longer. Small price to pay. Much less expensive than earrings and, from my perspective, better than any jewellery.’
The door seemed to be getting further away.
With the delicacy of handling an eggshell, but the firmness of his strength, he took her arms and held her erect while he moved back. ‘I must be going. I have a cousin to throttle.’
She gasped. Her smile evaporated. ‘Well, that was a slap across my face.’
He didn’t move. ‘I would never—’
She interlaced her fingers. ‘I would have preferred you to have said something along the lines of, I must go now. I wish to thank Foxworthy for the chance to meet you.’ She slid her hands apart and her fingers splayed, before she waved him away. ‘Never mind.’
‘Miss Tilly, I did not mean any offence.’
She took in a breath so big he was surprised any air remained for him to breathe.
‘Ohhhh. Never mind. Truly. Never mind.’ Her hands flared out at the sides of her body. ‘What you said reminded me of quite a few very unpleasant things.’
He took her hands, not saying a word until her fingers relaxed. ‘I would not wish to remind you of anything bad. And I am not the least upset at Fox for engineering the chance to meet you. I am only displeased that he tricked me.’
‘I would not really rate that as high on the betrayal scale as some things a cousin could do. And I suspect my cousin has been quite the little vindictive wench in my life. She always has been so sweet to my face. So kind, and yet, now that I look back, I suspect on those moments she was kindest, she was really most cruel.’ She bit her lip for a second. ‘I just realised that I have been befriended for years by someone who possibly delighted in every bit of misfortune I have had.’
She turned, folding her arms across her chest, and looking to the wall. ‘Perhaps you should go now. I have a cousin to throttle.’
She shivered. He didn’t know why, but the movement reminded him of a little bird who’d fallen from the nest. He couldn’t very well leave and not put her back on firm footing.
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he rubbed softly, soothing the tremors. He leaned down, lips close to her ear. Voice soothing, he said, ‘Simple fix, really. I’ll introduce your cousin to mine. It will all work out. They’ll take care of themselves for us.’
‘Oh,’ she said, leaning back against him, moving so her face was only inches from his. ‘I suspect they have already met...’
‘Then we must make certain they see more of each other.’
‘You’re perfect. Handsome and vengeful all in one.’
He wrapped her in his arms. He had no choice. ‘Not normally. Handsome, that is.’
‘Modest, too.’
‘Extremely.’ They stood so close, comfortable, as if they’d been friends for years. She caused the most satisfying warmth in his body. ‘But I really must go. And I am pleased Fox provided me this opportunity.’
The door didn’t get closer. Wasn’t really his fault. And this was an innocent encounter. The mob cap reminded him to take care. A woman in a cap did not incite any desires in his body—much. He brushed his face against the cloth and his hands clasped at her waist. The fabric of her gown bunched under his fingers. He smoothed it gently.
‘Are you by chance in search of a mistress?’ she asked. ‘I would like to apply for the post. Temporarily only.’
‘No. I want no entanglements.’
She squeaked.
She pulled away, her warmth leaving his body, but she turned and, even in their closeness, threw herself against him, holding him with all her might. ‘No entanglements. Vengeful, and legs to spare. This is too perfect. I am dreaming.’ She relaxed away from him, put her hand up, feeling his jawline, running her hand up until her fingers nestled in his hair. She chuckled. ‘You can be in my dreams any time.’
‘I would be honoured. But...’ he placed a kiss on her nose, surprising them both ‘...I must arise early in the morning.’
‘I completely understand.’ Her breath touched his lips.
‘Goodbye.’ At the end of the word, their lips met. Nothing mattered but holding her. Their kiss ended, but only barely.
‘It was nice to meet you,’ she whispered against his skin.
Andrew let his fingers drop over the hooks at the back of her gown, amazed at how easily the clasps slipped open. ‘Likewise.’
She pressed against him, causing his desire to rampage. The pulses of heat in his body could have melted carriage wheels.
One of her slender fingers traced down, stopping at the knot of his cravat. ‘I do not understand how you men wear such things. They look so stifling.’
‘I hadn’t noticed it before. But you’re right. It’s decidedly warm.’
‘And it will be much—cooler in here if you remove it.’
Reason entered his thoughts. He could not risk the morass of passion.
But then azure eyes flickered at him and lips parted, and he was looking down into a perfect face. He cupped his hands to her cheeks just to hold her for a moment. Tilting her head back, he pressed his mouth against hers. Nothing in the world mattered, but Tilly.
Her body pressed into his arousal. She shivered and kicked her shoes away.
Then she snuggled close again and he reached down, tilting her chin up so he could see her lips. Luscious red, full, shaped with promise for a man’s gaze.
A promise they delivered on. No other woman had kissed him with the innocent abandon she had.
This woman was worth waiting for. But he didn’t want to wait. He’d waited a damn lifetime and a half. He could wait—later. The last hooks fell away at his fingertips and this time when she stumbled, he fell with her on to the bed, cushioning their fall with his hands. They were half on the bed, half off.
Putting a knee on the bed, he slid her to its centre, looking into the most the angelic form he’d ever seen.
She half-sat. Her hand stopped just before she reached her lips. She moistened her fingertip with her tongue. Then rubbed her finger at the fullest part of her bottom lip. Placing a kiss on her finger, she blew it in his direction.
She reached down, slowly, bringing her dress up the length of her legs. The creamy whiteness contrasted with the room. She lifted her skirt higher, and higher, and he could not move. She stopped, just before unveiling herself completely, and he was frozen, awake but dreaming.
Her knees moved apart, the fabric of her gown sliding down, covering the valley between her legs. ‘I want to be the first thing you think of when you wake tomorrow.’
He regained the use of his voice. ‘I can assure you, you will be the first and only woman I think of tomorrow.’
He reached for the cravat at the same time as he heard a muted irate voice, and footsteps outside the door. And he was too far from the candles to snuff them.
‘—and then she threw me out bodily and told me she would send my things to Mother’s, but I want my clothing now—’ The screeching voice stopped and a strange woman stepped inside, followed by a man he knew.
The pair became immobile. The architect took up the entire doorway.
‘Pardon me,’ Andrew said, giving a light bow.
‘Oh, my,’ the woman with the lamp said, then she smiled and looked up at the man beside her. She turned her eyes back to the bed. ‘For shame.’ She snickered.
‘Tilly. Leave.’ The man’s voice sliced the air into slivers.
Andrew looked to the bed. Tilly didn’t move. The woman with the lamp, however, put her hand on the door facing. ‘I guess you may as well send my things. I don’t need them as badly as I thought. I need to have a few words with Mother. And she thinks I’m— Ha!’ She waved. ‘Farewell.’
She flounced out.
Andrew looked on the bed at Tilly and saw that her skirts had managed to slip down to demurely cover her knees, and she reached up to push the shoulder of her dress correct, but it didn’t stay.
‘Wilson,’ he inserted, moving a step towards the bed, shielding Tilly’s body from view. ‘I understand your wish for decorum in your household and I regret the display, but I do believe Tilly’s mistress is away and she is not needed, and we were just leaving.’
‘Get. Away. From. Her.’ Wilson’s fists clenched and his eyes had a cold stare.
The woman pushed herself up and she stared at the architect. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ she asked.
Andrew looked to the bed. A companion should not speak so to the master of the house. ‘Tilly?’
Andrew dodged the fist. Heard the woman scream ‘No’ behind him, and then next thing he knew, she’d thrown herself between them.
Just as deftly Andrew moved her aside. He stood ready to flatten the other man.
‘Will,’ she snapped out from behind Andrew. ‘You shouldn’t be in Tilly’s room.’
‘My house!’ Wilson growled. ‘Lord Andrew, I do not know how you convinced my sister to dress in such attire to satisfy some strange craving you might have. I would never have thought you leaned that direction.’
Hell, Andrew thought as another realisation erupted inside him. He had erred. Just like his father. But he was not wed and he would not disgrace Tilly. ‘This woman and I,’ Andrew said, ‘are extremely fond of each other and are considering marriage.’
‘As if I’d let you marry her—’ Wilson exploded.
‘She’s old enough to decide for herself,’ Andrew said, his fists ready. ‘She’s on the shelf.’
‘She’s a widow,’ Wilson said.
Andrew lowered his hands and looked at her. Wilson had called her his sister. A widow. He’d heard of her. Thoughts pounded in his ears. This woman was not Tilly. ‘Beatrice the—?’
‘I would not continue that sentence,’ the woman on the bed told him, standing and smoothing down her skirt. Her mouth had a feral twist. ‘Else you will see what a beast I can truly be.’
* * *
The only sound since Andrew and Wilson entered the library had been the pouring and sloshing of liquid. The room couldn’t have been much wider than the length of two carriages, yet Andrew wagered his brother’s ducal town house lacked the same refinement. The filigree pattern of the gold had been subtly recreated in the weave of the curtains. Even the door panels had matching designs. Only the painting by the sconces jarred the room’s decor—an odd scene of a woodland frenzy with a growling bear, a badger-type animal and a dragon poised for combat.
The cabinet set back into the wall where the decanters rested wasn’t only to store things, but to display beautiful glass. Andrew stood at one edge of it, the architect at the other.
Andrew waited for Beatrice to join them. Wilson had insisted she change from what he’d referred to as her costume.
Beatrice the Beast. He’d nearly pounced on Beatrice the Beast. Not surprising, really. He’d let down his guard.
‘A marriage will be forthcoming,’ Andrew said. ‘I will not tarnish a gentlewoman’s reputation. It is unforgivable.’
‘I suppose she could do worse.’ Wilson broke the silence. ‘She has, in fact. Riverton. Thought an earl would do better by her than he did. Sad he died so. First, he waited too long after the wedding. When he did fall ill, he didn’t suffer enough. The bumble berry didn’t even appreciate good design when he saw it. If not for the generous marriage settlement on Beatrice and the provisions in his will... Still, I didn’t see how much of a scoundrel he’d become or I’d never have let him near Beatrice. Would have cracked him like a chestnut.’ He thumped his glass on to the wood and stared at Andrew. Wilson’s eyes reflected the sheen of brandy.
Andrew quirked his lips. ‘I certainly hope for Beatrice’s sake you could tackle something larger than a chestnut.’
‘I’m sure I could.’
Andrew moved, reaching for the decanter to pour more brandy into Wilson’s glass. He let his brandied breath reach the architect’s face. ‘If you need any help defending your sister, let me know. I will certainly be able to crack any chestnuts.’
Wilson’s brows acknowledged the statement. ‘Only reason I agreed to draw plans for you,’ Wilson said, ‘was because you appreciate a good design.’ His brows snapped together. ‘Look how you’ve repaid me. I created a masterpiece for you and you—’
‘I made an error, but I will correct it. I thought she was—someone else.’ He paused. ‘She is a fascinating woman.’ Andrew put the glass to his lips, let the brandy rest in his mouth, and then swallowed. ‘Even with the cap, she does burst into a person’s notice.’
‘You’re the first man I know of she’s shown any interest in since Riverton courted her, wed her and finally did the one decent thing of his life and died. Beatrice has such a sense of honour that she made me swear not to kill him.’ He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘My trusting sister. If I were capable of murdering Riverton, I could certainly lie about it.’
The architect lifted the decanter. He poured more liquid, then thumped the container against the table top. ‘And you must know of the nickname she’s gathered in the papers because of the unfortunate incident with the scissors. It didn’t help when not too long after she hit Riverton’s carriage with a parasol because the lightskirt he’d loaned it to made such a spectacle of showing up at the house. Beatrice’s home.’ He swallowed a drink. ‘My sister’s actions catch every eye.’
‘With the scissors, she near cut her husband’s—leg off.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘Exaggeration. He healed. And he deserved it. At the time I was disappointed in her for not doing more damage.’ The architect’s eyes focused on Andrew and his voice burned into the air. ‘I dare say Beatrice would have little reason to dismember you. You keep your cards well hidden.’
Andrew nodded. He preferred to live his own life and not let others live it vicariously through the scandal sheets. He’d seen enough suffering because of their sharp-edged ink.
The architect shrugged. ‘You can’t be as bad as Riverton, or whatever else she might pull out from under a dustbin. I admit, Riverton presented well and I thought he would make a better husband than he did.’
The door crashed back and Beatrice swayed in, perched on slippers which would topple a lesser woman.
She waved an arm, ‘I hope you two have settled your differences. I must get a letter written to Mother so when she reads of this, she’ll not feel the need to interfere.’
She had a dazzling smile, chin out, and just the whisper of what might have been tears at her eyes.
‘Your brother and I have discussed this, Lady Riverton, and I would like to talk with you alone.’
Andrew knew he’d lost control in the bedchamber and she would not suffer for it. He would not repeat his father’s mistakes. Although he harboured no animosity towards his father, he retained the rage of how innocents could be hurt because someone else traipsed through mud and sloshed it in all directions. He would not cause anyone pain or embarrassment because of his actions.
‘No need.’ She raised her hand, fingers splayed, and rotated her wrist. ‘The scandal sheets need to fill their papers. People must have something to talk about. Better me than their neighbours.’ She moved her head, then stilled a moment as if posing for a drawing. ‘And I do make for a good tale.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_da69d11d-3a20-5d9c-9a03-4ecdf2e3f394)
Andrew stared at Beatrice. Mob cap gone. No henna mishap. Her hair did slip out of her bun into curls around her face, which he rather liked. Blue eyes radiant without spectacles and a— He blinked. No loopy things or hanging things. He blinked again. This was not the time to be noticing her round parts. He needed to look at the sharp parts. Lady Riverton was not a wallflower by any stretch of the imagination.
Beatrice raised her arms higher, fingers outstretched, a performance. ‘This is what I get for doing a good turn.’
‘Even I do not believe that was your motivation, Beatrice.’ Her brother’s voice bit the air.
She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. He is a—’ She looked at Andrew. ‘He’s not especially hideous looking, I admit.’ Then she squinted and regarded him. ‘I do not really understand your predicament.’
‘Deuce take it, Beatrice...’ the architect huffed ‘...he’s male. You’re not. That’s all the reason he needs for trying what he did. The situation was not proper. I cannot have this behaviour under my roof. Nor can I countenance your total disregard for the family’s reputation. Think of it, Beatrice. You cannot like to be known as Beatrice the Beast. Now it will be Beatrice the Brazen Beast. By now the tale is halfway to India. I was too shocked to silence Tilly.’
‘I do not think you could have,’ Beatrice said. ‘She is not the cousin I thought she was.’
Andrew watched. Her eyes blinked more when she spoke a dramatic word, emphasising, putting a point to it. The room was her stage at the moment.
She groaned and her head fell back. ‘If only Mother had named me something else. Honour. Patience. Prudence.’
Wilson spoke. ‘We were lucky not to be named after plagues. Once Mother hears of tonight, she will say I cannot control you and she will insist on more influence in your life. Think of it.’ He whispered his last words. ‘Mother. On a righteous tear. You must find a way to convince her you are behaving properly, Bea. Lie all you must. Cover your tracks. Keep out of the papers.’
Beatrice shut her eyes, then opened them and looked at Andrew. ‘If you’d been as I imagined, none of this would have happened. But you stood there...’ She took in a breath as if smelling a delicate rose. ‘I simply cannot blame myself.’
Andrew saw her, down to the barest freckle she had just below her eye at the outside corner. ‘Marry me.’ His words held no inflection and he didn’t turn from her gaze. ‘Wilson can draft a note for the scandal sheets, hinting a betrothal is forthcoming. He and I can discuss the details of the marriage while you pen a letter informing your mother.’
Her mouth opened. Her arms fell to the side. ‘Lord Andrew?’ she gasped. ‘You have not even waltzed with me.’ She shivered and speared him in another way. ‘Absolutely not. No. Not now. Not ever. Not even— No.’
Andrew didn’t move, but watched the muscles in her face and they could not be still.
The architect strode to the door. ‘I’ll give you some privacy to come to a respectable conclusion, Beatrice, while I...pen a letter to Mother telling her how I have things well in hand. I’ll dispatch it tonight so she will see it when she wakes.’ He touched the door. ‘I will close this. Please do not do anything to disgrace yourselves.’ He put a hand to his cheek. ‘Oh, too late.’
The door closed decidedly.
‘Thank you for the delicate reply.’ He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. ‘Since all my limbs are unharmed, I will take it that you are considering it.’
‘Oh, most certainly,’ she said. ‘I so wish to return to one circle Dante forgot to mention—the unexplored tenth level of hell.’
He realised his first marriage proposal was taking the same turn as their earlier romantic encounter. But she had no scissors.
‘Perhaps you misunderstood the question I neglected to ask properly. Lady Riverton, will you marry me?’ He had no wish to be like Foxworthy, always in a race to abandon a woman so he could find another one to desert.
‘You could not have misunderstood my answer.’
‘I understood.’
‘The only reason you ask is because Tilly discovered us and spread the news.’ She shook her head. ‘My refusal meant that I am declining.’
He moved away from the wall and stood so close he could touch her. ‘But, Beatrice, a betrothal would certainly—’
‘It would nothing.’ She turned away from him. Her tapered fingers tapped her forehead. ‘Now I will have another mark against me. What is one more?’ She lowered her hand and looked at him. ‘Cousin Tilly will have the enjoyment of disparaging me over this. I am to be the Beast for ever and I find I am quite used to it.’ She laughed, but the sound had a hollow ring to his ears.
‘You do not have to wed me. We merely need to give the idea we are betrothed.’
‘No. I do not even want to be seen as considering marriage.’
‘You could be viewed as a changed woman. My name has not once appeared in print. I am the younger brother of a duke. My brother next in line has three sons. I’m not an heir to the title, so you will not be viewed as angling to be a duchess. Not even close. We are not a family to appear in the scandal sheets, except for my cousin Foxworthy, but we are connected through our mothers—so his actions don’t reflect on the family name. My reputation can certainly weather this little mention and you can change the way the world sees you. We could manage this.’
‘Andrew.’ She spoke slowly. ‘Do you even read those papers?’
‘I prefer not to.’ He moved forward and reached to take her hands in his. He looked down. ‘What do you have to lose?’
‘I’ve had a lie of a marriage. I see no reason for a lie of a betrothal. I made myself a promise never to wed again. The first time cured me of any notions in that regard. My husband—he didn’t improve with age, drink or distance. I was lucky he had a taste for poppies and managed to do himself in before too many years passed.’
‘I have heard that many wives do appreciate a husband who dies early on in the marriage.’
Her mouth turned up at one side, but her gaze speared him. ‘Saves on the cost of carriage repair.’
Then her shoulders drooped. ‘You tempt me, but it is only a momentary spasm and it passes.’ She sighed. ‘At the end of my time with Riverton—’ her voice lowered ‘—and we really should not call it a marriage—I only cared because Riverton couldn’t be discreet. The marriage itself was neither here nor there because I hadn’t spent time with him in several years. But I always had the feeling people knew more about him than I did and I didn’t like being... By then he wasn’t even someone I would have wanted to speak of at a soirée. So having him as a husband was rather unfortunate.’
‘I assure you, I would not disgrace my wife so.’
She gave a tilt of her head. ‘Oh, you say that now. But in five years? Ten?’
‘Lady Riverton. I do not make a habit of such.’
She shook her head with a wobble, making the movement sarcastic. She turned away, walked to a sconce and stared at it. ‘Yes. You are behind. But once you get started, what’s to stop you from making up for lost time?’
‘I would say it’s unlikely that I would be so inclined,’ he admitted. ‘At this point in my life, I realise I should take even more care than I have in the past. Tonight, for example. You can see how unrestrained behaviour led to both of us being in the wrong bedchamber at the wrong time.’ He spoke softly. ‘I do not regret holding you close. But I now see quite plainly that it is good for me to be working in the late hours of the night. In the past, when I have wished for a woman’s attentions, I have forced myself to work, either with pen in hand or hammer.’ He smiled. ‘You may note that I have quite the list of completed projects behind me—too numerous to mention. I have easily surpassed every person of my years in accomplishments.’
Without his celibacy, he would not have been able to increase his small inheritance. The town houses he had purchased and directed to be remodelled had taken vast efforts of economy to repair with so little capital. At the beginning, he’d feared he was going to lose everything with small rent coming in and so much being swallowed by delays and unexpected costs. He’d worked around the clock, planning and researching and overseeing every aspect he could. He’d hired Wilson to design more structures and, when those were completed, things changed quickly. He’d had funds to call upon and reinvest with each successive venture.
On several occasions recently he’d taken a pause from the work and had ridden by his properties, knowing they had been nothing until he imagined them. A contentment had filled him. Now they would be a part of the landscape for long after he’d left the world. How much better that was than the complications he’d found when desires raged within him and he attempted to appease them.
She examined him again. ‘You. No one has ever mentioned you with any talk but of...work. Wilson says you’re such a stick, I thought you quite, quite aged.’
He smoothed down the front of his coat. ‘I am extremely responsible. I have not had much time for soirées or frivolity in my life.’
She still smelled of baked goods, which disturbed him. He wondered if he would ever be able to eat a cake again without thinking of unrequited lust.
She looked at him. ‘I will never marry again. It doesn’t agree with my voice. Makes it rise to a shrill note. It seems to not do well for my husband, either. I do appreciate the offer of helping me. I am grateful for your consideration of my reputation.’ She ducked her chin, and smiled at him. ‘Very grateful.’
Truly, Andrew didn’t think his own reputation would be damaged to be associated with Beatrice for a short while.
A few days earlier, Andrew had overheard his valet and one of the maids muttering behind a door. He’d been described in exemplary terms, then he’d heard the last words, added almost as one might curse. ‘Dull as ditch water.’
He’d turned and left, not retrieving the drawings he’d left in the chamber—pleased. He’d worked hard to resist temptations of all sorts. He’d not let himself be idle for long periods, drink too much with Fox, or spend funds extravagantly.
He imagined they would hear of tonight’s indiscretion, but it would not be a concern. One small blot that hurt no one. He would make sure it did not tarnish Beatrice.
Helping Beatrice would be a pleasant diversion from the hours and hours of instruction he directed to his man of affairs and the restless moments which spurred him to complete his vision of his home. Whenever a room was finished, he had immediately noticed the shabbiness of another area and had begun a new renovation. The carriage house would soon be completed and his entire home and grounds would be as they should be.
Beatrice’s movements returned his thoughts to her and caused the warmth that had settled in his chest to strengthen.
Her nose crinkled and the challenge faded from her eyes. ‘I’m quite used to not being portrayed well. I am not fond of it. I don’t like it, but it’s...unpleasant only. I don’t lose any sleep over it. Tilly might not even mention...’ She waved her fingers. ‘No. I know she will mention it, but our encounter might not appear in print.’
‘I would not wager silver on that.’
She crossed her arms ‘I will survive with a smile on my face.’ Her nose wrinkled again. Sighing, she uncrossed her arms. ‘Once a beast, always a beast. Perception is everything. Perception is reality. What people believe to be the truth is their truth. I’m used to them getting the facts wrong and changing the details. Besides, Beatrice the Benevolent will not sell the papers.’
‘It could.’
Her tone lowered. Her lips turned up at one edge. ‘No.’ That snort again. ‘Read the print. I’m sure you could dig up a copy somewhere.’
‘What harm is there in trying? We can work together. One small act on your part will not change any perception of you, but if it is taken as part of a journey, the views of you can be changed. A house is not built with a single stone. Think how many years of your life you have left. Do you wish to be a beast when you truly wear the spectacles and cap?’
* * *
Beatrice paused, considering. The man stood before her in the same stance of a warrior who might have stepped from a painting and she wasn’t sure if he looked at her as a friend or foe. His eyes had narrowed a bit and she would wager he examined her more deeply than anyone else ever had.
The silence in the room oppressed her. ‘Just leave,’ she said. ‘I am used to the nonsense said of me. I have been notorious my whole life.’
That was true. Her bosom had not developed overly large, but it had matured well before the other girls her age. The stable boys had noticed and smirked. The children all acted as if she’d grown her breasts on purpose. Her mother had thought them blessings and insisted the modiste make Beatrice’s gowns show more flesh than Beatrice had preferred. Her mother had forbidden Beatrice to wear a shawl, saying the family must always keep up appearances and one could not wear such a lowly garment.
Her friends and their mothers had thought Beatrice brazen even then. She’d endured it with a smile, laughed it away, jested and pretended her figure was all a woman could wish for. And all men could wish for. On that, she didn’t think she’d been entirely wrong. Riverton had certainly been aware of her shape, wanting her to continue in the same gowns her mother had chosen. Within a month of marriage, she’d visited a modiste and ordered all new gowns in a cut she preferred.
She’d thought to gain respect as a countess, but then the whispers had reached her ears. Riverton admired all shapes and sizes, except—hers.
‘I am used to having people speak of me,’ she said. ‘They must speak of someone, so why not me? I have laughed the loudest. Life is a grand jest.’ Then she reached up, pushing an escaped curl towards her bun, but feeling the wisp spring back into place.
‘Perhaps.’ He stepped forward and, with his left hand, captured the curl. His fingers brushed her skin as he slipped the errant lock behind her ear. ‘But, Lady Riverton, there is more to you than words in a scandal sheet. I believe your brother once told me that his sister took to art the way some mothers take to their children. He said you hired several men to create figures on the ceiling and you sat in the room with the workmen, entranced, at your easel and canvas, trying to reproduce the scene of the men painting.’
‘I may have.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Art is taking something from the air and putting it in front of you so others can see what you see—with a splash of your imagination added.’
‘Why do you not do that with your own image?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You draw attention and it has been turned against you. Use it to your advantage.’
She sighed. He had no idea how many times her name had been mentioned in print. No idea how many stories about her husband had been whispered. How many times she’d been about and pretended not to know when she was being discussed, even if sometimes the words had been whispered so loudly she wondered why they were not just said to her face.
Her stomach churned, remembering the marriage. The foul smell of Riverton when he would return home after weeks. She’d hated the servants seeing him. Hated the knowledge that the footmen had had to treat him almost like a child who could not be reprimanded, but had to be cajoled.
She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘You don’t understand the vipers of the world. They wish to bite, not cuddle. I cannot turn them into lambs.’
‘No.’ His voice quietened, but it didn’t lose the rumble, the masculine richness that pulled her like a vine twining towards the sun. ‘I can help you, though. We can create a new world around you. One in which you glitter as you should. This blunder tonight could be fortunate. It can be the moment you begin painting the world around you in the colours you wish.’
‘You are daft. No one has a brush that can do as you suggest.’
‘What is the harm in trying?’
She didn’t answer, with words, but her lips turned up. ‘You have lost your senses.’
‘I can help you.’
She examined his face. No laughter lurked. Brown eyes with the tiniest flecks of green studied her. In all her marriage—all her life—she’d never felt another person could see into her as deeply as he did.
She took a quick step back, breaking the connection—giving the world a chance to start moving again. ‘You really don’t know what you say.’
‘I will let you consider it, tonight,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we will take a ride in the park. We can discuss it further then. You’ll have a chance to decide if you’d like to rebuild your reputation.’
He moved closer, leaning in, lips almost against her cheek. ‘Let that be the first thing you think of when you wake tomorrow.’
After he left, she wasn’t quite certain if he’d kissed her cheek or not, but she was certain her heart was beating.
Chapter Four (#ulink_d0561e4a-f4a7-5bb3-980c-78a5e5f33fbc)
When Andrew returned to Wilson’s home the next day, the door opened one small creak at a time and the butler came into view. Andrew noted the crevasses of age on the man’s face. Wilson should have considered the man’s health. Ire spiked in Andrew’s body at the architect’s oversight. The frail servant should have been pensioned off years ago.
‘Please let Lady Riverton know that Lord Andrew awaits the moment when he might again be in her presence,’ Andrew said.
An infant could have taken a nap in the time it took for the man to nod. But the butler’s eyes now had nothing slow about them and he examined Andrew in much the same way a woman’s father might assess a suitor.
In the sitting room, Beatrice didn’t keep him waiting. She whooshed into the room within seconds of the door opening, beaming a greeting. She wore a dress the colour of a calm sky and the garment clung above the underlying corset, moving with each step. Even if he turned his back, he would have been aware of her.
She immediately asked if his carriage was ready and was at the door before he finished an answer.
When he assisted her into the curricle and her skirts swished by his hand, he wondered what he’d been thinking to take her for a ride in the park. At the time he only considered it a necessary means to increase the appearance of an established relationship between him and Beatrice. He hadn’t thought of the narrowness of the seats in the small open carriage and how close their bodies would press.
As the carriage turned into the park, a breeze wafted, cooling the air and bringing the floral perfume of Beatrice against his face. He didn’t miss the smell of baked goods. He much preferred the lavender.
Sitting shoulder to shoulder, aware of every one of her curves, he forced himself to think of plans for Beatrice’s reintroduction to society.
She turned her face to him. From the gentle brushes of movement at his side, he knew he need move only the barest amount and she would be in his arms.
‘I don’t think your sleep agreed with you,’ she mumbled. ‘You look quite grim.’
He nodded, aware of her fluid movements, confined by the seat, and yet she didn’t still. Her body moved constantly, checking its boundaries.
She coughed and lost all seriousness. ‘Did you, um, think of me last night?’
His thoughts jumped from her body to her words. ‘Of course.’
Her shoulders wobbled and she managed to squeeze so close to him he braced himself not to be pushed out of the other side of the conveyance. Tickles of warmth moved from the place she touched to flood his entire body. Wide eyes blinked up at him in feigned innocence. ‘I do have a place in the country...’ Then she grimaced. ‘Except it’s rather crowded. My mother’s there.’
‘I was trying to think of ways you might impress the ton.’
‘I did not think of that once after you left.’ She moved closer to her side of the curricle. ‘They cannot be impressed by me. I assure you. They’ve spent too many teatimes murmuring about what has happened in my past.’
Andrew slowed the horse.
‘Past. Present. The future. You must only consider the future now. I don’t believe anyone is really aware of the events of the night yet,’ Andrew mused, ‘so I want us to be noted today. A pre-emptive move for when Tilly’s words are spread about.’
He ignored the scepticism on her face. ‘Also, you might adopt a worthy cause and pour yourself into it. A cause which shows your heart. With your ability to draw attention you’ll gather print. At first people will be unimpressed, but over time you’ll gain acceptance. People are fascinated when others change from what is expected. Think reformed rakes. Ordinary people into war heroes. Women who sacrifice for others. Those gather a lot of discussion.’
‘So you think to tame the Beast.’
‘I think for you to tame her,’ he said. ‘Things have been exaggerated in your past and now you will merely control what is noticed and embellished.’
She gave a distinctive grimace and touched the blue at her sleeve. ‘Not the carriage incident.’
‘You must also refrain from rolling your eyes in public, I suppose. And smirking. And using scissors.’
‘Is this better?’ She brushed her shoulder against his again, kept her chin down and looked up at him. Her lips parted. ‘This is my entranced gaze.’
‘You do that very well.’ Too well. He could become quite lost in it. But that would never do. Her volatile nature caught his attention, but concerned him at the same time. He could help her become less explosive in public. True, she didn’t deserve all the bad reports. Those did not concern him in the least.
But the bursts of energy—the disorder of her spirit—those concerned him. She’d dressed in a mob cap and impersonated her companion. He smiled at the thought. His friends sometimes did outlandish things. Harris had once worn a bonnet and cape—nearly scaring Waters into an early grave. They’d all laughed for months over that. But friendship was one thing. A romance something else. And someone like Beatrice was best kept at a distance. He could not let himself become close to her. She was too much like wildfire and the night before he’d been closer to being dry tinder than steel.
There was a definite discreet nudge of her elbow to his side. She kept her eyes forward, but her head tilted in his direction. ‘You’re not terribly unpleasant to look at either, Andrew. Have you had your portrait done before?’
‘As a child. I hated it beyond belief. I had to stand still for hours while the artist scowled at me from head to toe.’
‘Trust me, I would not frown if I painted you.’
The lilt in her voice caused a similar response inside him. ‘It will not hurt for us to be seen about together. We can use the abruptness of it to your advantage and to add interest. We can both attend my older brother’s soirée and then, a few days later, the theatre. This will bring everyone’s attention to you afresh. You’ll have a chance to attract the right kind of notice.’
She did need some guidance concerning how her actions were interpreted by others and he could assist with that.
Her lips thinned. She sniffed in and then expelled the air with more force. ‘They may be wondering at what moment I will begin to attack you. The suspense of it all.’
‘Let that work in your favour now.’
‘It sounds like acting a part. A grand performance. I might like it a lot. Though you are sure your brother will not mind my presence?’
‘He will be delighted.’ Not really, but it didn’t matter. He’d be too refined to show even the flick of an eyebrow to anyone but Andrew.
She smiled and he could see the remains of the boisterous child she must have been. And something he didn’t think would ever be tamed. And some sort of planning of her own.
‘Beatrice,’ he said, firmly, reprimand in his words. ‘Think demure.’
With a little smirk of agreement, she blinked away her thoughts. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’d like to be seen differently. With my brother being such a bear, and me being a beast, it would be wonderful to be invited—anywhere. My mother doesn’t know it, but she reminds me of a dragon.’
Now the portrait above the mantel in her brother’s house made sense.
Two public meetings with her should be enough. Perhaps three. He’d make sure some of the more retiring men noted her. Women were not the only wallflowers. Lord Simpson could hardly raise his eyes to anyone and he lived an exemplary life. Palmer was rough at every edge, yet he’d been faithfully married until his wife passed. Either of those men would be suitable for an adventurous woman such as Beatrice.
‘I understand. When Riverton and I courted, his past was seen as a youthful indiscretion. Older women smiled at us as if remembering how it felt. Young women looked enviously at me... Then, reality.’
Coldness replaced the warmth in her voice. ‘I was blissful—blissfully unaware of what a pit I was dancing into. Trust me. Marriage is a lovely thought, but a bad reality. If murder were not frowned upon so much, few marriages would last beyond two years.’
‘Your opinion is harsh.’
‘That opinion wasn’t pulled out of the air. It is based upon careful study, my marriage and eavesdropping.’
‘But my plans work on the premise that you are correct in how research is done by others. Now we must assume everyone is also taking careful study and eavesdropping. That will be to your advantage.’
‘It’s not been a boon in the past.’
‘It will now.’ He would guide her. She wasn’t the only one involved in this pretence, but his role in it would be short.
‘I would love to attend the duke’s soirée—if you are certain your brother will not toss me out—and I will act quite the perfect lady.’ She stretched her arm forward, fluttered a gloved hand at a passer-by and smiled warmly.
Without looking his way and in an undertone, she said, ‘I feel no one wishes to see me, but everyone wishes to watch me. But I will attend the soirée.’
He paused, reminded again of a baby bird fallen from its nest. He did not want Beatrice to feel alone in the world.
Chapter Five (#ulink_45baa1f3-9631-5d02-8a2a-4d2a506c5bd9)
Beatrice looked across the room and her stomach churned. Everyone in the ducal residence seemed too full of gaiety, except when she stood near. The scandal sheet had not been kind. Wilson had grumbled, but the plan to escort her to the duke’s soirée had pleased him. She imagined everyone wondering if she’d truly been invited.
If Andrew had seen the scandal sheet, he might have decided to call the whole thing off. He would be wise to do so. He’d not even been mentioned. Apparently Tilly hadn’t recognised him and the servants probably had not even known who he was.
Chattering voices, smiling faces and a sea of glasses going bottoms up, and the feeling that everyone in the room was speculating about her private life—as if she’d had one since she married.
So much like when her glittering world as Riverton’s countess had crashed.
Had she known how events would unfold, she still would have stopped Riverton when he attacked the maid, but she wouldn’t have kept quiet and let his version of what happened become labelled as fact. And she would have found another way to convince his mistress that she wasn’t welcome.
She looked to the doorway, wondering if Andrew would arrive. She tamped down those thoughts. At least she could be certain if he did arrive he would not be sotted. Long ago she’d learned it was better not to coerce a man into attending an event where he didn’t wish to be.
Then two men entered the grand doorway and Beatrice knew who they were just from their outline.
Since the unfortunate encounter, she’d discovered all she could of Andrew and his family. She’d already known of Foxworthy. Every woman in the ton knew of Foxworthy. Andrew she’d only known of from her brother. Wilson had made him sound so tedious. He’d complained that Andrew often asked for the near impossible to be designed, and Wilson had made Andrew sound meticulously stuffy.
Seeing the cousins side by side, though, one didn’t doubt their bloodlines. If they hadn’t already been written up in Debrett’s, then she supposed the regent would take one look at them, consider it an oversight and rush to correct the error. No woman in the country would even think of questioning a decision like that. The mothers of unmarried daughters would merely rub gloved palms together—thankful of a boon for the marriage mart.
Dressed in black evening wear, the men appeared to be bookends of each other, but her eyes never really made it to their faces. Both stood tall enough to clear a regular-sized door, but only just. Framed by the entrance, they appeared as works of art.
She tried to imagine how she’d missed Andrew before. Possibly because Riverton had taken so much of her and she hadn’t been about in society much since then.
She’d been very young and entranced with Riverton when he’d approached her father and brother with a dream for a new mansion. She’d been too much in love and too green to have any idea what he would be like. His family had flatly forbidden the union, which she knew now had earned her a proposal and a special licence. Riverton had been doted on far too much to believe he didn’t have a right to his every wish and he’d been one toddle away from falling into a tangle of his own excesses. Perhaps he’d thought she could save him. Or perhaps he’d known she couldn’t.
Watching, she could tell when the men’s presence became noticed. Women began to flutter around Foxworthy. One would have thought the sun had just risen. And Fox was clucking to the cluster, gathering them, letting them fluff and preen, while he crowed and postured.
Andrew excused himself and moved aside. Women tried to catch his eye, but he never noticed, intent on stepping away, eyes searching. She knew the very instant he became aware of her, because he stilled.
Her thoughts exploded with possibilities. Her breathing quickened. Strong jaw. Yes. Nose. Yes. Pleasant skin. Brows. All the normal male attributes, arranged in just the right proportions. What she wouldn’t give to pull that white cravat aside and see his Adam’s apple. She could almost feel it under her hand. Little bristles from shaving. Masculine mixed with softness of skin. Her mind instantly took care of the excess clothing for her, letting her imagination see him as if no barrier existed.
Beatrice kept her face serene. His body would be perfect for art. It was much like his thoughts if the dearth of information about him was to be believed. Pristine. Cautious. Wilson said Lord Andrew had refused to accept less than perfection from any of the craftsmen he’d hired to work on his properties. A man who did not tolerate flaws well.
He walked to her, moving among the other guests with a quick word here and there, but with little detour. She watched his movements more closely than she’d ever studied another man. Other needs had been foremost in her mind on the night they’d met, but now she could see him with shadows flowing over his face. This was the man she’d been looking for, if not all her life, then at least for a year. If she could convince him to let his hair become a bit unkempt. His jaw could use a bit of darkness on it, too. The valet would have to spare the razor perhaps. She could paint him as a knight, a rogue, a rake for any century.
Yes, the man was exactly what she needed for inspiration. Already she could imagine him, standing bold, sunlight flowing haphazardly over him. The contrast of light and shadows emphasising the nature of a person, good and bad. If he held a sword, tip into the ground beneath him, perhaps a sheen of moisture on his face, hair in damp spikes on his forehead, framing his eyes. Standing as if he’d been awakened from another century, and risen, ready to do battle with whatever the fates thrust his way.
She might well send Tilly the amethysts with a lovely note. Not any time soon, though.
When he stopped in front of her, she looked up into the depths of dark eyes. Her words crumbled at his feet even before they were spoken. His jawline was firm, but not too long to detract from the beauty of his face. It only made him seem stronger. And she knew, if he were to gain weight as years passed, the thinness of his cheeks would fill and he would only become better to view.
She imagined all the ravages of life she could think of on his face. Andrew would not disappoint in later years. His bone structure was that of society’s world, but her brother had said he’d dressed in workman’s clothing at the back of his home where repairs were being done. Wilson claimed Andrew had selected the men who worked on his repairs, inspected their work and directed them. Looking at Andrew, she could imagine him bounding up a ladder, scampering along the frame of a roof, or carrying lumber on his shoulder. Her fingers burned to return to her brushes. She could not speak.
The night she’d first met him would have been so different if she’d known. He would have walked into a room lit by a thousand candles and her eyes wouldn’t have blinked.
‘Lady Riverton,’ he spoke courteously, but nothing soothed her in his countenance. She suspected he didn’t enjoy the attention turned his way.
Watching his expression, she flicked a finger against the back of the amethyst earrings he’d sent. They’d arrived that morning. His eyes flashed a glint of a smile and his lips firmed, but he appeared to struggle to keep them that way.
‘Lord Andrew.’ She waited half a breath. The moment passed and it almost felt as if they were strangers. The man in public did not seem quite the same as in private. But that was for the best. It would not do to become close to him.
But she wanted to paint him. Certain risks came with that. She had never been able to distance herself from a model completely.
‘This is my entranced look for today,’ she said, covering for the fact that she knew she gazed at him too strongly.
His nod would have been imperceptible to anyone standing near.
‘I thought you might wish to change our—your plans after the sheet was printed. You weren’t named,’ she said. She didn’t want him trapped in any mire. He would not take well to it.
He leaned in slowly, his voice strong, assured and moving over her like a warm fog enveloping a valley. ‘The plans have not changed, Beatrice.’
In response, he took her gloved hand and tucked it around his arm. ‘The only reason I did not approach the man who printed that trash and thrash him is because he will be quite useful.’
His breath brushed past her ears. Her heart beat in her chest, her knees and her toes. He had to know every eye in the room was on them.
Her mind recovered first and then she gasped. Yes, he knew everyone watched. She could not let herself be fooled.
His eyes tightened. ‘Are you choked? Do you need a glass of lemonade?’
‘Only the glass. Perhaps with something else inside it.’ She had to get herself out of the crush of people. To think. ‘Later.’ Those same butterflies in the brain feeling from before. Oh, she could not let herself fall into that chasm.
She must talk to him privately. It would look as if they were moving away to be alone because they were besotted. He might not react well, but so be it.
The scent of shaving soap bathed her, but then she realised the aroma might not be shaving soap, but laundered wool, mixed with leather and something she couldn’t quite place. Then she remembered. When the carriage house had been expanded, that gentle scent had wafted through the air mixed with the sound of hammers. She shivered inside. He really did smell a bit like a forest.
If she could translate this man into a portrait, it would be her masterpiece.
She leaned closer as they walked. ‘I must paint you,’ she whispered.
His feet stopped abruptly, causing her shoulder to bump into his, her opposing foot swinging wide. He steadied her.
He raised a brow as he moved forward with her. ‘No.’ He proceeded on, leading her through another doorway and to the entrance of the duke’s gardens. They stood on the steps, the doors behind them. In front, light shone to the open grounds. Several people lingered about, but far enough away to ensure privacy for Beatrice’s words.
‘No?’ she said. ‘I’m quite experienced. I assure you. I’m naturally talented.’
‘I am certain.’ He pulled his arm from hers, but he remained close, his words low. ‘I do not have time to be painted. I have too many irons in the fire as it is. I have no time for it.’
Someone chattered, moving closer. She smiled while tightening her arm.
Voice low, she whispered, ‘You should make time for art.’
For a moment, neither spoke, moving aside for a couple to return inside. Once the door snapped shut behind them, he gave her a rueful smile.
‘I admit, I do appreciate that likenesses are captured for the family to view after a person is gone. But that is about the extent of my tolerance for such things.’
‘Art is my reason for life.’ What spirit possessed her, she didn’t know or care—it always remained nearby. She wondered if she wanted to push him away.
He was a man who could not even allow himself flaws. His clothes fit him to perfection and he was as comfortable at the soirée as if he were the duke himself. She felt like a scullery maid trying to be a countess. She always had to some extent, but then she had not been born into such a life. No matter how much she spent on clothing, her corset always chafed, or the pins in her hair fought to loosen, or her shoes tightened on her feet. She pretended to brush her glove over her shoulder, making sure her chemise had not slipped from under her dress. Luckily, her stockings remained in place. So far they had not tried to bunch at her ankles.
She’d like to be someone other than herself for one night, she supposed. Now she just wanted to leave. To get back to the studio and paint. To close herself into her world and forget about the words that might be printed about her. She did not belong at a soirée—she belonged at a studio.
When she opened her mouth to speak, he stepped away.
A memory surfaced—Riverton leaving while she begged him to stay and left her with the knowledge he was going to another woman. For a moment, a familiar emotion surfaced and stilled the blood in her veins. She took a breath, and reminded herself that Lord Andrew meant nothing and had promised nothing. Fate had brought them together, or Tilly, or a mistake, or whatever it could be called. He didn’t owe her anything, truly, and yet he’d agreed to help her. She would paint him. The art would be a gift to him. A thank-you for trying to retrieve her reputation. She could already imagine showing him a life-sized mirror image of himself.
‘Lady Riverton. We should perhaps return to the others and waltz.’ His voice barely reached her ears.
She considered her goal and then thought of him. ‘Andrew. If you don’t dance with me, you might not be connected to me. Let us part now.’
She hadn’t called him Lord Andrew, but he had not seemed to notice, which she appreciated. Riverton would have shot her a killing glare.
‘No. I am desperate for a waltz with you.’ His lips didn’t smile, but happy crinkles appeared at his eyes and his voice was just a touch more resounding, possibly able to carry to others. ‘A waltz, Beatrice?’
She kept her words for his ears only. ‘Don’t say you were not warned.’
‘Is your dancing that bad?’ His face tipped near hers, words soft.
She raised her chin. ‘It’s quite grand.’
He clasped his hand over her gloved fist and pulled it to his lips for a quick brush, then opened the door for her. ‘Then I will not give you an opportunity to refuse.’
When she stepped into his arms for the waltz, she did not care what was said about her, even in the past. It had led to this moment and this dance, and she looked into the eyes of her muse.
‘Andrew. You must pose for me. We did get along quite well the other night and we do now.’
‘I cannot be blamed for that. You looked so lovely in the spectacles and mob cap. I was overcome with madness,’ he whispered, but his eyes sparked humour. ‘And the name... I’ve always had a penchant for women named Tilly. Sadly, I was misled.’
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