Beauty in Breeches
Autore
Helen Dickson
Letto da
15,8K
Capitoli
10
Chapter One
Beatrice halted her horse beneath the spreading canopy of a great beech tree. The scene was like a little tableau to be viewed by any who passed by. The summertime smells of Larkhill wafted around her. She knew every tree, every meadow and bridal way and rutted track, and every stream where trout could be found. Everything around her was pulsating with life, except the beautiful old house where the squire, her father, had once ruled. The house sat like a queen in the centre of her domain. It faced due south so the sun, before it sank over the gently rolling hills in the west, shone on the mellow stone walls all day, making them warm to the touch.
From her vantage point she watched a happy group of fashionable society people stroll along the paths in the long-neglected gardens. The beautiful ladies wore high-waisted dresses, their fair complexions protected from the sun by delicate parasols, the gentlemen attired in the pinnacle of fashion. Her eyes were drawn to one of the gentlemen like metal filings to a magnet. He stood out from the others by his admirable bearing and heightened stature. She had never seen him before, but by instinct she knew who he was.
Lord Julius Chadwick—the Marquess of Maitland.
Her heart tightened with a long-held hatred and resentment. He was walking at a leisurely pace with his hands clasped behind his back. Making no attempt to hide herself from view, she continued to watch him as he strolled closer to the house. The sun’s rays caught his hair. It was thick and dark and curled into his nape.
As if he could feel her eyes on him he paused and waited a moment before he turned and looked directly at her. Surprised to see her there, he broke away from the party. His handsome face was set in lines which were quite unreadable, but his amber eyes danced as though he found their meeting and the manner of her dress vastly entertaining. Below a white silk shirt, skin-tight breeches clung to her long, shapely legs above black riding boots. Being buff in colour, from a distance the breeches gave the impression that she was naked from the waist down. She had tied back her abundant gold-and-copper curls with a bright emerald-green ribbon.
Beatrice sat on her horse unmoving, as if she were some stone goddess, insensate but powerful. She gripped the reins in her slender fingers and stared back at him, defiance in every line of her young body. She was seeing this man in the flesh for the first time in her life, but she had thought of him often over the years. He had appeared in her mind like some sinister spectre, a malevolent giant, with the power to do as he liked—as he had when he’d blotted all happiness from her future.
Her head lifted and there was no softness in her eyes, which had turned to flint. Her mouth hardened to an unsmiling resentment. She had no doubt that he was curious and wondering who she was and what she was doing trespassing on his land so close to the house. He made no attempt to approach her or speak to her. Neither of them moving, over the twenty yards or so that separated them they continued to watch each other until, with a casual toss of her lovely head, Beatrice turned her horse and disappeared as silently as she had come amongst the tall, shadowy trees.
At Standish House, just two miles from Larkhill, Lady Moira Standish was taking tea in the drawing room. She was a striking woman, tall and robust with iron-grey hair, good cheekbones and a square jaw. Her husband had killed himself when he had taken a tumble from his horse during a hunt three years ago, leaving her a very wealthy widow. With a twenty-five-year-old son and a nineteen-year-old daughter, she had much on her plate if she was to see them affianced before the year was out. Her son, George, had inherited Standish House on his father’s demise. The dowager Lady Standish continued to act as mistress. When George took a wife she would move into the dower house.
She had returned from London that very day, where she had been on a short visit with her daughter, Astrid. She sat stiffly upright on the green-and-gold brocaded couch. With a firm hand she fluttered a delicate ivory-and-lace fan before her heated face. Her grey eyes were narrowed with annoyance as she darted sharp disapproving glances at her niece, who had just burst into the room, shattering the peace. Beatrice presented a frightful vision in her breeches, stained from her ride. Shoving her untidy mop of hair back from her face, the girl sank into a chair in a most unladylike pose and yawned, doing little to hide her boredom.
As she looked at her, Lady Standish wondered if this niece of hers would ever grow up. She was clever, intelligent, quick-thinking and sharp witted. She was also problematical and a constant headache. Beatrice was little more than an impoverished orphan, but she still walked about with her head high, just like her arrogant, reckless father before her. She was more beautiful than Astrid would ever be, but she lived for the moment and noticed nothing that was not to do with outdoor pursuits and horses.
‘Really, Beatrice,’ Lady Standish exclaimed sharply, wrinkling her nose as the smell of horses wafted in her direction. ‘I have told you time and again not to appear before me dressed in those outrageous breeches. They smell of the stables and that is where I wish they would remain. It’s high time you stopped gallivanting about the district and occupied yourself with something useful. I swear one would think the expensive governesses we provided for you would have taught you about behaviour and comportment. Do you forget that you are quality born with bloodlines, breeding and ancestry? And don’t slouch. It’s bad for the posture.’
Beatrice sat up straight and obediently squared her shoulders and raised her chin, though she continued to fidget in her chair. Her aunt rarely spoke to her, except to lecture, criticise, instruct or command. ‘It is certainly desirable to be well bred,’ she remarked calmly, ‘but the glory belongs to my father and his father, not to me.’
Lady Standish rolled her eyes upwards and worked her fan harder, the corkscrew curls on either side of her face almost springing to life. ‘That is rubbish, Beatrice, and just another one of your absurdities. Glory? See what good his glory has done you—having to live off your only kin. Your father was a fool, throwing his money away without a care to anyone but himself.’
Beatrice looked at her wearily. She had heard the argument so often she knew it by heart—it failed to shake her kinder memories of her father. ‘I loved him dearly,’ she said simply. ‘He was a good father.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion. The devil did his work when he made you just like him, you ungrateful girl.’
Beatrice flinched, but her aunt ranted on, turning her narrowed eyes upon her and shaking a bejewelled, damning finger. ‘He left you in a fix—no dowry and now you’re eighteen years old with not a penny to your name. There isn’t a man that will marry you without one. The Lord knows what a task you are for me.’ Lady Standish sighed heavily, as if tired of her burden. ‘It’s better that you were married and off my hands—and I know I shall have to provide your dowry to bring that about, but I pity the man who would wed you. I swear you will be the death of me—I know you will. And do wear a bonnet when you are out. Your face is much too brown and freckles are most unbecoming on a young lady.’
‘Yes, Aunt Moira.’
Beatrice knew she was a disappointment to her aunt, that she had never considered her anything but an irksome responsibility. Lady Standish tried to instil discipline in her and to make her into an obedient, biddable young woman like Astrid—Astrid had exquisite manners, was skilled in everything a young woman of quality should be, would sit still and work her sampler, would stay clean and tidy—and she failed miserably.
Beatrice tried not to fidget for fear that if she moved it would draw her aunt’s attention again, but she was weary of tiptoeing about the house and doubted her ability to last much longer. Life was hard for her at Standish House, but she wearily accepted the way her aunt treated her without complaint. She had been out since dawn, for the countryside was the only place she could seek succour from her aunt’s angry, cruel taunts.
Beatrice glanced at her cousin Astrid, whose face was alight with intense excitement over her forthcoming birthday party in two weeks. It was to be an afternoon of enjoyment at Standish House, which was more appealing to Astrid than a grand ball. Bright sunlight on the windows streamed through her light brown ringlets shot through with chestnut glints. She was pouting prettily and sitting poised and straight backed, her hands folded in her lap. She was small and slender, with china-blue eyes and rosy dimpled cheeks. She bore only the faintest resemblance to her cousin Beatrice and was cast in a sweeter, gentler mould than Beatrice’s nature could ever imitate with success. The apple of her mother’s eye, Astrid was in the ascendant.
‘I have returned to organise Astrid’s birthday party,’ Lady Standish said. ‘It is to be a large affair, with only the finest society people invited. You should have seen her in London, Beatrice. I think Lord Chadwick was most struck.’
Beatrice was all attention. ‘Lord Chadwick? The Marquess of Maitland?’ she said mechanically. She realised her aunt was watching her intently and that her face was unguarded before her.
‘Of course. There could scarcely be a better match.’ Lady Standish paused to take a sip of tea. ‘There is no need to look so incredulous. It is quite natural. Did you not think Astrid was to marry some time?’
Beatrice gaped at her. If she had not been so taken aback by her aunt’s pronouncement that made her want to shriek, she would have laughed aloud. She had given little thought to the matter of Astrid’s future. She never thought beyond her own life, what she wanted—of returning to Larkhill, which was so very dear to her.
‘Lord Chadwick—he has been abroad for several months on one of his ships and only recently returned—showed great interest in Astrid. Indeed, the attention he showed her was commented upon by several; I am hoping he will approach me to offer for her. He is of excellent family, of sound character, sharp wits, intelligence and his fortune is quite remarkable. Through his own endeavours there is a fleet of ships flying his flag and carrying his cargo. He has mines of gold and silver that bought those ships, and his ownership of land is so vast no one knows how much. Astrid will indeed be a fortunate young woman if she manages to secure him.’
‘He sounds an impressive figure, Aunt Moira, but a grand title, wealth and happiness don’t always come hand in glove,’ Beatrice retorted tersely.
Lady Standish gave her a sour, disapproving look. ‘Any woman would be a fool to turn away from it. Astrid is certainly willing to entertain Lord Chadwick. The wedding will be a truly grand affair, with one of those new-fangled wedding tours to France and Italy, before they settle down to married life at Highfield Manor in Kent. It is an estate of some significance.’
While her aunt twittered on, Beatrice kept her face lowered, feigning interest in a magazine so Lady Standish could not see her, would not see that her face was white. She blindly turned a page so that her aunt would not be able to tell she could not control a grimace of anger and the tears stinging hot. She felt murderous. She wanted to leap to her feet and remind her aunt of the harm Lord Chadwick had done her family, harm she seemed to have forgotten, or considered unimportant when it came to choosing a husband for her darling Astrid. But Beatrice had not forgotten.
Beatrice wanted Lord Chadwick to suffer all the torments of the damned and crawl to her for forgiveness for being the architect of all her misery. She simply could not bear the thought of Astrid being the Marchioness of Maitland, Lady Chadwick, living her life in grand style, while Aunt Moira would have Beatrice married off to the first suitor who chanced her way.
‘Of course, should Astrid marry Lord Chadwick it will be a perfect match. If he offers for her now, they can be betrothed before the little Season starts in the autumn.’
Astrid had come out the year before and had been the toast of the Season. She had received several offers of marriage, but Lady Standish had considered the young men who made them too low down the social ladder and not rich enough for her daughter and had declined their offers, hoping for better things, a brilliant match, and to that end she had in mind Lord Chadwick.
‘If he does indeed offer for Astrid, it will be a spring wedding.’
Beatrice was unable to keep quiet a moment longer. Blinking back angry tears, she looked at her aunt. ‘But, Aunt Moira, how can you let such a thing happen? He alone is responsible for all the misfortunes that have befallen me. I shall neither forget nor forgive what he did to Father. Would you not feel as I do?’
‘That is in the past and you would do well to put it behind you since nothing can be done about it now.’ She gave her niece a watery smile. ‘If you think of your scriptures, Beatrice, you will remember being taught that Jesus told us to love our enemies?’
‘Jesus hadn’t met Lord Chadwick,’ Beatrice retorted bitterly. She glanced at Astrid’s crestfallen face and dared to ask, ‘And is this what Astrid wants—marriage to a total stranger?’
‘He will not be a stranger to her by the time they are married. The marriage of my only daughter is of great importance.’ Her aunt’s face was stern, her eyes as hard as steel. ‘This is family business, not sentiment.’
‘But—Lord Chadwick has not offered for me and he might not,’ Astrid said quietly, hesitantly—the old habit of obedience and deference to her mother had a strong hold on her. ‘He has shown kindness towards me and nothing more. I—think you read too much into it, Mama.’
‘Nonsense.’ Lady Standish waved the objection aside. ‘It’s early days, I agree, but he did pay you a good deal of attention. It shows real promise. He saw what a gem you are. The party must be a success. It is a perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Lord Chadwick that you are, at county level, well qualified to be his bride. We must ensure that you spend as much time in each other’s company as possible at the party.’
‘But—Mama, he may not want to.’
Her mother shot her a dark look. ‘Don’t argue, Astrid. I do know what I am talking about. Marriage is not something you can settle for yourself. You are young, you can’t decide these things. You have to be guided. In the end it will be down to me. I will decide where you wed.’
‘But Lord Chadwick is hardly a suitable candidate,’ Beatrice dared to voice. In this instant she refused to sit with her head bowed as Astrid always did. She sat with her head high, one dark eyebrow slightly raised, and she met her aunt’s level gaze as if she were her equal. ‘Do you forget what that man did to my father—and that my mother was so ill and distressed by the whole sorry affair that she died of a broken heart? The man should have been horse-whipped for taking advantage of a man in a weakened state.’
Lady Standish looked at her coldly. ‘How dare you speak to me in that tone, Beatrice. Know your place. But since you are so eager to have your say, I will tell you that I do not forget and I do not like it that you feel you must remind me. But I do not hold it against Lord Chadwick. Your father—my own dear husband’s brother-in-law—was lamentably weak. His weakened state, as you put it, was brought about by an over-indulgence in alcoholic spirits. It was his fault that he lost Larkhill and shot himself. It cannot be blamed on anyone else.’
Her aunt’s cruel words cut Beatrice to the heart. ‘I blame Lord Chadwick absolutely,’ she persisted firmly. ‘I always will. Anyway, what is he like, this noble lord? Does he have any afflictions?’
‘Not unless one considers shocking arrogance an affliction,’ Lady Standish answered sharply. ‘Of course he has every right to be so, with friends constantly following in his wake. Why, if it were up to females to do the asking, Lord Chadwick would have had more offers of marriage than all the ladies in London combined.’
‘I can’t see why,’ Beatrice remarked in a low, cold voice. ‘He is absolutely loathsome to me.’
‘Oh, no, Beatrice,’ Astrid said breathlessly, rising quickly to his defence. ‘You do not know him. He is handsome and charming; I know you will think so too when you meet him.’
Only the prospect of another dressing down from her aunt prevented Beatrice from saying that she had already encountered the odious Lord Chadwick at Larkhill and was not hankering after an introduction.
From the open window of her bedroom, with her shoulder propped against the frame and her arms folded across her chest, Beatrice gazed dispassionately as the titled, wealthy and influential guests gathered on the extensive lawns of Standish House to celebrate Astrid’s nineteenth birthday, which was to go on into the night. The terraces all around were ablaze with blossoms, magnolias and sweet-scented azaleas.
Guests continued to roll up the drive in chaises and carriages, many open so the occupants could bask in the sun’s warmth. A full staff of footmen were on hand to assist them from their carriages and a full army of servants ready to dance attendance on them as they wined and dined. Trestle tables decorated with summer flowers had been set up in the shade of the terrace where only the finest food was served and bowls of punch and chilled lemonade. Tables and chairs were scattered about the lawns, and, for anyone overcome by the heat, ice-cold drinks had been laid out in the drawing room.
Standish House was no more than two hours’ drive from London. It was a fascinating, gorgeous paradise populated by beautiful, carefree people in all their sumptuous finery. Several of the gentlemen sported military uniforms, a reminder to everyone of the battle they had fought at Waterloo a year ago. To Beatrice, the scene held little interest and no beauty, but there was something morbidly compelling about observing from a distance how people interacted with each other. At eighteen years old, restrained and guarded, she did not believe in the inherent goodness in anyone.
George and Lady Standish received the guests— Lady Standish, in her element, looking as if she would burst with her own importance. She presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of lavender-grey shot silk, with a matching turban trimmed with large purple plumes. A picture of sweet perfection, Astrid, looking like an angel in her high-waisted cream gown and perfectly coiffed hair, a bunch of fat ringlets trailing over one shoulder, was surrounded by fawning fops. Against a fabulous colourful backdrop of banks of rhododendrons, azaleas and a small lake, she was seated beneath a white gazebo. Her face was pink and rosy and glowing with happiness, the very picture of a demure young lady on her birthday as she raised her head and laughed delightedly at something that was said.
Voices and laughter and the clink of champagne glasses drifted up to Beatrice. One newly arrived guest caught her attention as soon as he alighted from a splendid midnight-blue open carriage, the Chadwick coat of arms emblazoned on the door. He was accompanied by two gentlemen and two ladies.
Julius Chadwick was as handsome as any man present, wickedly so, with his superb build and panther-like black hair. As he strolled the lawns with a smooth, elegant stride, every movement polished and assured, he was a natural target for the sighing host of young girls making sheep’s eyes at him.
Through narrowed eyes Beatrice watched him. Conversations among the guests had broken off; even the servants passing among them with trays of food and drink almost bumped into each other as they paused to look at him. He was tall, rugged and muscular, with dark good looks and an aquiline nose; despite the way he casually moved among the guests, looking completely relaxed, he seemed to radiate barely leashed, ruthless power.
In contrast to the pale complexions and bored languor of the other gentlemen present, his skin was deeply tanned by a tropical sun. He exuded charm, yet there was an aura about him of a man who had seen and done all sorts of things—terrible things, dangerous things, forbidden things—and enjoyed it, and Beatrice could not deny that if she had not already determined that he was her enemy, she would have liked to get to know him.
He was elegantly attired in a beautifully tailored dark-green jacket that clung to his wide shoulders. His pristine white cravat was folded precisely and secured by a winking gold pin, and dove-grey tight breeches outlined his long, muscular legs above highly polished Hessians—the perfect outfit for a wealthy gentleman meeting his neighbours for the first time.
Beatrice was distracted when Lizzie, one of the chambermaids, came in bearing an armload of freshly laundered linen.
‘Great heavens! Miss Beatrice! Why aren’t you at Miss Astrid’s party? Why, it’s a grand affair and it’s high time you went out and enjoyed yourself.’
Beatrice shrugged and turned to survey the scene once more with little interest, her arms folded across her chest. ‘You know I’m not one for parties, Lizzie. Besides, I doubt my presence will be missed. And why Astrid insisted on Aunt Moira inviting half of London society to Standish House I cannot imagine. It’s such an extravagance.’
‘Is it, now?’ Lizzie said, in total disagreement. ‘Your cousin is a young lady of considerable beauty and consequence. Her mama will be hoping she will attract the attention of one of the wealthy young men she has invited.’ Placing her burden on the bed, Lizzie raised her brows and stared disapprovingly at Beatrice’s breeches. ‘Perhaps if you took more care in your appearance, you, too, would attract the same kind of attention. You are a very beautiful young woman, Miss Beatrice, and you should socialise more.’
Beatrice accepted Lizzie’s well-intentioned rebuke with cheerful philosophical indifference. ‘I’m not so vain that I allow my looks to concern me. It would take more than silks and satins and powder and paint to make me into a proper lady, Lizzie.’
All Beatrice’s hopes of becoming a lady had been dashed when she had been thirteen years old. She was an only child, the daughter of Sir James Fanshaw. She’d been raised at Larkhill. Apart from visits to Standish House when she was allowed to play with Astrid, her parents had kept her isolated in protective gentility, hidden behind the high stone walls of Larkhill like an enchanted child, waiting for the magic of a prince charming to set her free.
And then one day her prince did come, but not in any magical way like the one she had read about in her story books, on a white steed and as handsome as a Greek god, but in the dark forbidding form of a thief of the highest order. Her papa had lost Larkhill to that man in a game of cards; afterwards, unable to live with the shame of what he had done, he’d shot himself.
The humiliation, shame and heartbreak of it all and being forced to live in shabby, penny-pinching gentility on the charity of her mother’s brother, Lord Standish, was too much for her mama. Unable to come to terms with her husband’s suicide, ill and distressed she had taken to her bed and retreated into herself and did not speak to anyone. Just six months after coming to live at Standish House, she had followed her husband to the grave. Even now Beatrice felt the wrenching loss of her parents.
Aunt Moira was a woman of strong personality who had despised Beatrice’s father’s weakness and despised even more her mother’s inability to come to terms with her loss. Unable to turn Beatrice out since her husband would not allow it—and if she did it would reflect badly on her—she had grudgingly endured her impoverished niece living at Standish House with the intention of finding her a husband and getting her off her hands as soon as possible. But her strong-willed niece had other ideas and they did not involve a husband.
Beatrice had a mop of unruly chestnut-and-copper curls, a small, stubborn chin, pert nose, and a pair of sooty-lashed, slanting sea-green eyes that completely dominated her face. Her face was lightly tanned from being outdoors riding Major, her precious horse given to her by her uncle before his tragic accident, or fishing and shooting with her feckless and charming, though eternally loyal, rogue of a cousin called George. Even though she lived in a house full of people, Beatrice was her own person and as isolated as she had been as a child at Larkhill.
‘Do you know that man, Lizzie—the one with black hair and wearing a dark-green coat—the arrogant one? Who are those with him?’
Lizzie, a young woman who always knew everything, came and peered over her shoulder, her eyes settling on the object of Miss Beatrice’s interest. The gentleman in question was conversing with others close to the house. ‘Why, that’s the Marquess of Maitland, Lord Julius Chadwick—and as handsome as a man can be, don’t you think?’ she uttered on a sigh, as struck as all the other females drooling over him. ‘According to Miss Astrid, he’s been off on one of his sailing ships to some far-off foreign place I’ve never heard of. Came back last month—much to the delight of the ladies of the ton. He’s staying at Larkhill and has brought a small party with him. That’s Lord Roderick Caruthers he’s talking to, and his wife, Miranda. Sir James Sedbury and his sister Josephine are also in his party. I heard Lord Chadwick is extremely rich.’
‘Apparently so,’ Beatrice said with derision. ‘Most of his wealth has come from what he can attain from others. He’s a gambler—and good at it. I know that for a fact.’
Hatred and an odd sense of excitement stirred in her heart as her interest in Lord Chadwick deepened. Of course she’d already known he was at Larkhill with guests, but she could not seem to check her desire to find out as much as possible about him. As if he could sense her eyes on him, he paused his conversation with Lord Caruthers and looked up and Beatrice was caught in the act of staring at him. His light amber eyes captured hers and Beatrice raised her chin, looking at him coldly, trying to stare him out of countenance. A strange, unfathomable smile curved his lips before he looked away and carried on his conversation. She might as well have been invisible for all the notice he took.
‘It would be a feather in your aunt’s cap if Miss Astrid managed to capture that particular gentleman. She’s counting on it and has made no secret of it either,’ Lizzie prattled on as she busied herself storing away the linen. ‘What a match that would be—to have her only daughter a marchioness and married to a man of such wealth.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Lizzie,’ Beatrice murmured drily. What Lizzie said was true, but Beatrice knew they were ill matched and that marriage to a man of such strong character would terrify her gentle cousin when the time came for her to walk down the aisle.
‘Now he’s back and being a man still in his prime, I imagine he will be looking for a wife.’ Having finished packing away the linen, Lizzie came and peered over her shoulder. ‘Look at Miss Astrid. How beautiful she is—and enjoying herself. Whereas you, Miss Beatrice—volatile and moody, that’s what your aunt says you are. Now why don’t you put on something nice and get along down there and join in the celebrations?’
Deep in thought, Beatrice continued to lean against the window frame as she watched the man she truly believed to be the architect of all her misery. A man in his prime, Lizzie had said, and probably looking for a wife. But who said that wife had to be Astrid? Beatrice had dreamed of Larkhill, of one day returning to live there. She did not dream now. She started to think. In the back of her mind a plan was forming to give her back her home and to forge out some stability for her future.
Suddenly she was presented with an idea that brought her up straight—an idea that was as preposterous as it was splendid and she congratulated herself on having thought of it. Her mind was racing like a ferret in a cage to find the spring on the trap that would catch Lord Chadwick. She let the silence ride and watched him with renewed interest, her green eyes as inscrutable as a snake’s. So, they thought she was moody and volatile. Well, let them. After today they would know just how moody and volatile she could be.
As the afternoon wore on, the more liquor the guests consumed and the more boisterous they became. Beatrice observed Lord Chadwick’s popularity as people rushed to speak to him. He talked and joked, speaking to those around him with lazy good humour. He threw back his head and laughed loud at something her aunt said to him, his even white teeth gleaming between his lips, causing everyone within close proximity to turn their heads in his direction, such was the effect this handsome, most popular bachelor of London society had on others.
She particularly watched him when he conversed with Astrid, noting that he never betrayed any emotion other than polite interest, and there were moments when he observed the festivities that his expression slipped and he looked bored, as if he would prefer to be elsewhere.
Beatrice folded her arms across her chest. Already she had decided to use this handsome lord in her desire to return to Larkhill. She could not help her aunt’s dreams. She had her own dreams. Someone had to be disappointed. However, she did consider what Astrid’s feeling might be on the matter and she would speak to her first, but an opportunity had presented itself that she did not intend letting slip away. This was the time and the place. The way to capture Lord Chadwick was to surprise him before his conscience was awake, not to let him prepare and consider and reject her in advance.
With Henry Talbot, the son of a close neighbour by her side, Astrid wandered away from Lord Chadwick and Beatrice saw her aunt’s bright, demanding stare, prompting her daughter to make herself available to Lord Chadwick once more. Beatrice saw Astrid’s shoulders slump and watched her walk back to him. Her cream parasol trembled over her fair head as he stepped forwards to meet her. He bowed low and took her gloved hand, but Beatrice knew, with keen insight, that it was not the heat of passion Lord Chadwick felt for Astrid. And what was her silly cousin blushing for? Why was she trembling?
‘What’s happening now?’ she asked Lizzie when the maid returned to the room. ‘It looks as if some kind of debate is taking place at the far end of the garden.’
‘And so it is. One of the footmen told me in the kitchen that the main topic of conversation just now is the racing at Goodwood and about Lord Chadwick’s acquisition of a horse he purchased recently at Newmarket. Apparently he’s challenged anyone to a race who thinks they have a mount that can beat his. As yet no one’s been brave enough to take him up on his challenge, but it still stands.’
A slow smile curved Beatrice’s mouth and her eyes lit. ‘Well now, that is most interesting.’ At last she’d heard something that caused her to turn from the window. Despite the impropriety of what she was about to do and her aunt’s wrath when she found out, she would seize this God-given opportunity before it slipped away. ‘You’re right, Lizzie,’ she said, with more enthusiasm than she’d shown all day. ‘Perhaps I should go down. Help me dress, will you? My green, I think. I must look my best for Astrid’s party.’
Assured of her beauty, the green of her gown making her hair glow more golden and her eyes to shine brighter, she was endowed with a boldness second to none. The beautiful setting, the laughter and the warmth of the day spurred Beatrice on through a sea of nameless faces to carry out her scheme to its limit. She was quite mad, of course, but that neither concerned nor deterred her from her purpose. She was not about to act like a rider who falls from their horse before the race was done.
With a false smile pinned to her face, she followed the pretty path that wound its way through the attractive garden drenched in warm sunshine, her eyes on the large group of people at the other end. Some of the fashionable, overdressed gentlemen were sprawled out on the lawn, drinking champagne and talking and laughing much too loudly as the liquor loosened their inhibitions. Beatrice was confidently aware of the gleam of her silk dress hinting at the contours of her long shapely legs as she walked. Long gloves encased her arms and her shining hair was caught up at the crown in a mass of thick, glossy curls.
She was surrounded by other ladies, beautiful ladies, but when Beatrice put her mind to it only she had that perfect self-conscious way of walking. She moved as if every man present was watching her. She walked as if she were irresistible, such was the power of her conviction that she would achieve her goal in what she had set out to do. Even the diamonds adorning the throats of the ladies winked at her like bright-eyed conspirators as they caught the sun. A certainty stronger than anything else assured her that her hour of triumph was near.
She was aware of the stir she created as she continued to advance, with a strange sensation of fatality and enjoying a kind of immunity. A lightning bolt of anticipation seemed to shoot through the crowd, breaking off conversation and choking off laughter as some two hundred guests turned in near unison to see where she was heading.
In the surrounding haze Beatrice no longer saw anyone but him. Her attention was focused entirely on him. She looked at him fixedly. Had she wanted to look away, she could not have done. She was not even conscious that people were watching her, feeling they were about to witness something surprising.
Never had Beatrice seen such a figure of masculine elegance. Lord Julius Chadwick looked so poised, so debonair. His movements, his habitual air of languid indolence, hung about him like a cloak. With his dark hair tousled by the breeze, he looked every inch the well-heeled businessman and landowner—and a great deal more dangerous than the average country gentleman.
The perfect fit of his coat and the tapering trousers accentuated the long lines of his body. It was impossible not to respond to this man as his masculine magnetism dominated the scene. A slow half-smile curved his lips and she saw him give a careless shrug. He raised his fine, dark eyebrows at some remark. She completely ignored the young women in the knot eyeing him with encouraging, flirtatious glances over their fans, tittering and giggling. Where other women might have succumbed to the irresistible pull to see behind the cool façade and start uncovering the man beneath, Beatrice could feel the palpable danger around him. She was never a rational person, but this time she knew she should have the good sense to heed the warning and turn and walk away. But her mind was made up. Too much was at stake.
Lord Chadwick cast a pair of laughing eyes over those around him; his gaze came to rest on a pair of jade-green eyes in which gold-and-brown flecks blazed, a sure sign that their owner was under some urgent compulsion, staring at him with a fixed intensity. He stood watching her in silent fascination, then he smiled slowly. Julius was easily moved by the beauty of a woman and the calm boldness with which this one was looking at him intrigued him.
He saw a sculpted face of unforgettable beauty, with high, delicately moulded cheekbones, a perfect nose and generous lips. It was a strong face, but essentially feminine. Her hair was burnished gold by the sun. Bright curls clustered in artful disarray on the top of her head, a few gilded wisps wreathed about her delicate ears and nape, drawing attention to her slender neck. There was something unusual in her attitude. A strange sense of shock quivered through him when he recognised her as the woman he had seen at Larkhill some days past, and again today when instinct had drawn his gaze to an upstairs window of the house. Who was she and why did she watch him so intently?
Beatrice faced him with outward calm. She looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment, as though estimating her chances. The corner of her mouth rose insensibly as her eyes narrowed. Now that the moment of confrontation had arrived she was strangely relieved.
‘I hear you have offered a wager to anyone who believes their horse can beat yours. I will accept your challenge,’ she announced clearly. A loud gasp ran through the guests as they gathered about, parting for her to pass through. At the sight of Beatrice Fanshaw the frosty eyes of the hopeful young ladies pierced her back with a thousand darts; those young ladies fanned themselves with growing annoyance.
Lord Chadwick excused himself and came forwards to meet her. Her face was uptilted; as he looked at her, deep inside, he felt something tighten, harden, clarifying and coalescing into one crystal-clear emotion. Taking her gloved hand, he gallantly bowed over it. As she lightly rested her fingers in his, he brushed them with a kiss.
‘Whoever you are, you look extremely beautiful, a rare jewel adorning the garden.’
How dashing he is, Beatrice thought, smiling triumphantly at him as he looked at her searchingly. The warm liquid of his amber gaze missed nothing as he became caught up in the excitement of her presence. She totally ignored the other women struggling to maintain their composure as they tried to hide their hostility towards her.
‘What it is to be so popular, sir. I thank you for the compliment,’ she said coolly, lightly, withdrawing her hand, as if his compliment meant nothing to her at all while secretly feeling a trifle flattered that a man should find her attractive, ‘but I have an aversion to flattery.’
His eyebrows lifted at her forthright remark. ‘Really? I am surprised to hear that since every female of my acquaintance welcomes adulation from the opposite sex.’
‘Do they?’ she replied airily. ‘Flattery and false praise are much the same in my book.’
Curious about her casual, cool manner, yet undaunted, his smile was humorous. ‘I assure you that my flattery was genuine and well meant. It is not flattery to tell the truth.’
Beatrice glanced around. ‘You appear to have attracted a great deal of attention yourself. Why, ladies surround you like moths around a candle.’
He tilted his eyebrows with amusement and leaned forwards so that only she might hear his words. ‘Many moths, but only one rare butterfly. Besides, I have never been partial to moths,’ he murmured, and Beatrice read in his face such evident desire that heat flamed for a moment in her cheeks. A curious sharp thrill ran through her as the force between them seemed to explode wordlessly, but she did not forget who he was or why she was here.
He took a step back from her. ‘So, who have we here?’ he asked, regarding her down the length of his aristocratic nose. Her body was slender but rounded in all the right places and disturbing in its femininity. The swell of her hips was outlined softly beneath the soft folds of her gown and her breasts, exposed just enough above the low neckline, hinted at their firm shapeliness. He had not been so intrigued by a woman in a long time. ‘Will someone not introduce us?’
Beatrice stiffened as his challenging and impertinent eyes sharpened and narrowed in amusement. And did his gaze actually linger on her breasts pushing their way up out of her bodice, or was it only her confused imagination that made it seem that way?
With Henry Talbot by her side, Astrid glanced up at him shyly and said breathlessly, ‘Oh, this is Beatrice, my cousin, Lord Chadwick. She is quite mad about horses. Indeed, she can think and talk of nothing else from morning till night. It comes as no surprise that she is interested in taking you up on your wager.’
Julius arched a brow, smiling. ‘Beatrice?’
‘I am Beatrice Fanshaw,’ Beatrice provided, lifting her chin proudly and looking directly into his narrowed amber eyes. Her own were glowing with brilliance and fire, her gaze never wavering from his face as she awaited his reaction to her announcement.
In a split second his smile was wiped clean from his face and his eyes were now sharp and penetrating with interest and something that resembled shock. The young lady who had so intrigued him a moment before had suddenly taken on a whole new identity. ‘Ah! Fanshaw! Of course. How very interesting. I do recall the name.’
‘You should. My father was Sir James Fanshaw.’
‘I remember your father. However, I was not aware that he had a daughter.’ Already nettled by her cool attitude, Julius delivered his reply with a small bow and an exaggerated show of disdain. ‘It is obvious you know who I am, Miss Fanshaw.’
‘You are Julius Chadwick.’ Her words were firm and measured as she failed to address him with the courtesy of his title. ‘The same man who ruined my father.’
‘And is that what all this is about? You are here to beg me to retrieve all that he lost?’
Something welled up in Beatrice, a powerful surge of emotion to which she had no alternative but to give full rein. It was as if she had suddenly become someone else, someone bigger and much stronger than the woman who had joined the party. Her eyes flashed as cold fury drained her face of colour and added a steely edge to her voice.
‘Those who know me know that I never beg, Lord Chadwick, and by my oath I intend to take more from you than an old man’s loss.’ Her promise was made with an icy, threatening calmness.
Julius looked at her, his face a mask of indignation, but then he was so taken aback by her outburst that his superiority evaporated. He stared down at the lovely young woman whose fury turned her eyes to a darker green.
‘Dear me, Miss Fanshaw. I can see I will have to watch my step.’
‘More than that, my lord. You are the man directly responsible for my father’s death.’
Her attack took him so completely by surprise that he looked startled for a moment and more than a little uneasy, then a hard gleam entered his eyes, for his conscience was sore with the irony of trying to protect the reputation of his own undeserving father while—at least where Miss Fanshaw was concerned—damaging his own. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied, aware that those around them had fallen silent and were watching and listening with an uneasy, open curiosity. ‘Your father brought about his own death.’ He smiled. ‘It was easy to beat him. He had no skill when it came to cards.’
‘Then why did you allow him to stake Larkhill? You certainly didn’t want it—indeed, you have not spent a penny piece on it since, for it is crumbling with neglect. Do you enjoy taking things from people who are weaker than you—humbling people? In my opinion that is the mark of a coward.’ She took a step towards him and was pleased to see him take a step back.
Not discouraged and ignoring the gasp that went up from the crowd, he gave a bark of laughter. ‘You call me a coward?’
She smiled. ‘Only a coward would do what you did. You knew he couldn’t win. You knew his loss would destroy him. Didn’t that worry you?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Not unduly. He was a grown man. He knew perfectly well what he was doing when he staked a house and estate that was already mortgaged up to the hilt.’
Beatrice stared at him in disbelief. ‘I might have known you would say something like that to discredit my father, but I do not believe you.’
He shrugged. ‘You may believe what you like, but it is true. I do not lie. I did not find out myself until later—when I had to find the finance to pay off the mortgage.’
Beatrice looked at him directly, finding what he said hard to believe and wondering what sort of man this Julius Chadwick actually was. ‘My father was a man without deceit, a man you could trust, who had fallen on hard times. And you, Lord Chadwick, took advantage of his weakened state. Larkhill meant more to me and my mother than to be put on a gambling table in a seedy gentleman’s club.’
‘It was a private gentleman’s club,’ he countered, needlessly provocative. ‘There was nothing seedy about it.’
‘A gambler would say that. So now you have two homes.’
‘Three, actually.’
Momentarily thrown, she stared at him in amazement. ‘Three? How can one person live in three places at once?’
‘I don’t. I travel a lot,’ he stated by way of explanation. ‘Miss Fanshaw, must I remind you that we have an audience. Might I suggest that you lower your tone? You embarrass us both with your show of emotion. I understand your antagonism towards me, which must have increased a thousandfold as you have allowed it to fester over the years. Indeed, I would feel very much the same were the situation reversed.’
‘I’m glad you understand,’ she uttered scathingly, ‘although it doesn’t alter the way I feel. I am not like my father. If you are a courageous man, you will allow me to accept your wager.’
‘If nothing else, you are forward and recklessly bold, Miss Fanshaw.’
‘I always believe in being direct and I enjoy walking on the wild side. I am sure you find it shocking and unfeminine that I have interest in things beyond petit point and fashion, but that’s the way I am.’
‘I do, but in your case I will overlook your unfeminine interests—but will your aunt, Lady Standish?’
‘I don’t doubt she will flay me alive for daring to intimate that I am anything less than a perfect lady. But a perfect lady I am not and never will be. You are staying at Larkhill?’
‘I am. I’ve been out of the country for several months; now I’m back I intend spending more time in London. I found the time was ripe to visit Larkhill, to look over the property and decide what is to be done.’ A subtle smile curved his lips. ‘There are many factors which might influence how long I stay.’
‘Then I hope you enjoy your stay. So, Lord Chadwick, what do you say? Will you accept my challenge?’
‘I am a huntsman, Miss Fanshaw. I enjoy the chase.’
‘Aye, and once the prey is caught, the sport is over. You should know better than to gamble against my good friend Julius at any game of skill,’ Lord Roderick Caruthers warned. Like everyone else he had been listening to the interesting altercation between these two.
Beatrice looked at Lord Caruthers coolly. ‘Lord Chadwick and I are not acquainted, sir, so how could I possibly know that? But I am sure that if he is as skilled as you say he is, then he will have no qualms about me taking him up on his challenge.’
