Beauty in Breeches (12 page)

Leaning towards her so that his mouth was only inches from her ear, he whispered, ‘When you are my wife you will get to know me better. That I promise you.'

As they entered the ballroom where weaving lines of dancers were progressing in a hectic country dance, Beatrice's restless glance skimmed about her, taking stock of her first Grand Ball. A multitude of voices were raised in avid chatter. Silks and satins in bright and subdued colours paraded before her. Perfumes drifted and mingled into a heady haze as bejewelled ladies nodded and curtsied, while elegant gentlemen in superbly cut evening clothes inclined their heads.

Julius escorted her forwards. A huge sea of people seemed to press towards them and voices erupted as heads turned and fans fluttered and people craned their necks to observe the new arrivals. Although they wouldn't dream of giving Julius the cut, they looked at Beatrice with raised brows and severe disapproval. Knowing how conscious she was of the spectacle she offered, Julius lifted a couple of glasses of blood-red wine from the tray of a liveried footman and handed one to her.

‘Drink this. It will put some colour into your cheeks and give you a little courage.'

Beatrice accepted the glass and took a sip.

They heard whispers from those around them. A stout, elderly woman, wearing a red-satin turban and standing close enough for them to overhear, joyfully
remarked behind a beringed hand to her companion that Miss Fanshaw was so desperate to find a husband that she'd had to do the proposing herself. Another was heard to say that she remembered her when she had come to London with her cousin Astrid. Astrid was a sweet young thing, whereas Miss Fanshaw had such a high opinion of herself.

Julius knew the instant he looked at Beatrice that she'd heard the malicious remarks; because he couldn't offer her any comfort, he slid his arm about her waist and moved towards the dance floor where couples were whirling about to the lilting strains of a waltz. He felt anger and protectiveness begin to simmer inside him, emotions that leapt into steady flame as other venomous remarks reached his ears. He was unable to understand why women were driven to such heartless, vengeful jealousy.

‘This is worse than I imagined,' he said, silencing one malicious female with a slicing look.

He understood why she would naturally dread being the focal point of so many fascinated gossips, but not until she actually lowered her head and bit her trembling lip did he realise that her embarrassment was going to be compounded a hundred times now she was thrust into the limelight.

He was right. Beatrice turned away from him as if she couldn't bear to be there any longer, but Julius caught her arm in a gentle but unbreakable grip. Instinct and experience told him that a little tender persuasion could vastly further her cause and he was
prepared to resort to that, only if logic and honesty weren't enough to persuade her.

‘Don't give them anything more to talk about and condemn you for.'

Beatrice stared at him dubiously. ‘How can I possibly do that? I've done all I can to ruin my reputation before I even started and heaped more embarrassment on you,' she said, realising he was a person with feelings that could be hurt. ‘I am being ridiculed, scorned and snubbed—and even pitied by some, which is the worst thing of all. I wouldn't blame you if you were to drag me out of here and take me back to Standish House—except that I can't go back there. Aunt Moira would take one look at me and laugh, say I told you so and close the door in my face.'

Julius hid his amusement behind a mask of genteel imperturbability. ‘Dear me. This isn't like the reckless, devil-may-care young lady I have come to know. Am I to assume you've had a change of heart, and would like to be free of me?' he taunted gently.

She scowled up at him. ‘The idea is beginning to have a certain appeal, but don't get your hopes up, Julius,' she replied stonily. ‘I am fully committed.'

He laughed lightly. ‘I thought you might say that.'

On the sidelines where she was conversing with an acquaintance, Lady Merrick, seeing what was happening, excused herself and marched towards Beatrice like a protective mother hen guarding her chick. She collected Lord Caruthers and his wife on her way to add to the ranks. Her back was ramrod straight and her jaw thrust forwards in an aggressive stance that
dared anyone to question her judgement in lending her enormous consequence to Beatrice.

Julius shot the three of them a grateful look. Right now Beatrice was vulnerable and he didn't want to do or say anything that would make things worse. So, he ignored the instinct to reach up and brush back a wayward tress of shiny hair from her cheek and squelched the temptation to tell her that he had no intention of dragging her anywhere unless it was into his bed. He was not, however, morally opposed to diverting her resistance with as much alcohol as he could pour down her.

‘Drink your wine and then we'll dance—and smile, for God's sake. If we are to beat the critics and quell the gossip, it is imperative that we put up a united front—in public at least,' he said in a steely voice that was in vivid contrast to the expression of bland courtesy he was wearing for the sake of their fascinated audience. His eyes shot to hers as an absolutely ridiculous thought suddenly occurred to him. ‘You can dance, I hope?'

Beatrice wondered how he would react if she were to tell him that she hadn't danced since the dancing master Aunt Moira had employed to teach her and Astrid had left Standish House two years ago. Instead, with a sparkle in her eyes and a tilt to her head, the smile she gave him was quite sublime.

‘Like a fairy,' she quipped.

 

Eventually, to Beatrice's relief, the flurry created by their conspicuous arrival died down. But when
Julius led her on to the dance floor and gathered her into his arms for a waltz, she wasn't at all sure she could do it, but the challenge in his amber eyes made demurring unthinkable. Giddiness threatened to take hold of her.

‘Relax.' Julius looked down at her. She almost missed her step, but his arm tightened, holding her steady. ‘Focus your eyes on me and follow my lead,' he said, steering her into the first gliding steps as the graceful music washed over them.

Of their own volition Beatrice's feet followed where he led and her mind opened to the sensations of the dance. She was aware of the subtle play of her skirts about her legs and the hardness of her companion's thighs against hers. The closeness of his body lent to her nostrils a scent of his cologne, fleeting, inoffensive, a clean masculine smell. The seductive notes of the music were mirrored in their movements and the sway was a sensual delight. Julius's hand at her waist was firm, his touch confident as he whisked her smoothly around the ballroom.

After looking at them attentively, the couples on the dance floor renewed their interest in the music. Conversations were resumed and everyone got on with enjoying themselves.

Julius stared down at the lovely young woman in the provocative green gown, her eyes as they observed the other dancers both wary and stormy. In the three weeks since he'd kissed her in the garden at Standish House, he'd made no further attempts to kiss her or embrace her. In his opinion he'd been a perfect
gentleman—considerate, courteous, even casual—and the energy of a sexually aroused male, the need in him to make this woman totally his, went by her like the dancers whirling around.

Determined to have the lead in how their marriage was conducted, he said, ‘There is something you should understand, Beatrice.'

She tilted her head to his. ‘What is it?'

‘When you are my wife, I expect you to behave as if you married me because we are in accord—that you care for me more than my title and my money, that you will never discredit my name or your own. What transpires between us in private is our affair. I will conduct myself publicly as if I were the most devoted and faithful of husbands. I will not knowingly do anything to cause you even a moment of humiliation, even though there will be times when you may have cause to regret our bargain.'

Beatrice stared up at him. Bargain? What bargain? her mind warned her in a quiet voice. The silent argument was overturned by the effect of a sombre, handsome face, a deep hypnotic voice and the powerful, tall and strong male body that loomed over her. Here was a man who, to her surprise, was offering to shield her from the world and shoulder her burdens. The combination of that and his good looks was becoming dangerously appealing, particularly because he wasn't offering love or even affection.

‘In the eyes of the world,' he went on, ‘you will be my cherished wife.'

Cherished! Beatrice couldn't believe what he'd
said. It was a word that was sensitive and sentimental. It didn't apply to what was between them and it was totally unlike anything she'd expected him to say.

‘Of course,' he continued, ‘it works both ways. I shall expect the same promises from you. Is that agreeable?'

His future wife bit her lip, considered for a moment, then nodded and with a winsome smile gazed up at him. This was better and much more than she could have hoped for, although she couldn't understand why there was a
frisson
of disappointment underlying her relief. ‘If you are asking me to give a convincing performance for all the world to see that we are a truly happily married couple while continuing as we are now, then I will do my best.'

He looked irritated by her reply, but said, ‘I'm glad we are in accord on that, but as my wife you will find that things will not be the same as they are now. Marriage will change everything.'

Beatrice gazed into his unfathomable eyes, seeing the cynicism lurking in the depths. ‘I don't mean to pry—what you do has nothing to do with me—but I have learned from living in the Merrick household for the past weeks that you are disenchanted with life. I know I shall be marrying a man I don't love—a man who doesn't love me. That's what makes it so perfect. Our marriage won't be complicated by messy emotions. We're the perfect solution for each other. You could say this was fate—if you were superstitious, that is.'

‘Which I'm not,' Julius said with a bite in his voice. ‘I don't believe in fate.'

 

When the dance ended, he put his hand under her elbow and guided her towards the supper room where they were joined by a jolly group of Julius's friends. Over food and wine and easy, lighthearted conversation, they both relaxed. Confident that the firestorm of gossip surrounding Beatrice and Julius had subsided, Lord and Lady Merrick left the ball early with friends to attend a quieter function in Mayfair.

In no mood for dancing and suspecting that in her nervousness, to boost her confidence, Beatrice had drunk too much wine over supper, Julius suggested they get some air on the terrace.

Beatrice glanced at him in mock horror. ‘The terrace? But is that proper? Should I not have a chaperon?'

‘It doesn't matter,' he murmured softly, staring at her with a half-intimate smile. ‘We are already betrothed—and after the amount of wine you consumed over supper, I think some fresh air would not go amiss.'

He flashed her a smile that made her heart rebel against all the strictures she had placed on herself.

‘Ah,' he said in amusement when he saw her eyes darken with warmth. ‘I think you're beginning to like me in spite of yourself.'

‘That is merely a delusion,' she replied, fighting back her laughter.

He knew better, said his eyes.

‘And don't look at me like that,' she reproached lightly. ‘You can't read my mind.'

‘I am older and more experienced than you, Beatrice. I see what is written on your face.'

She laughed. ‘Then I shall have to learn to school it better.'

‘An impossibility for you,' he said in a husky murmur.

Taking her gloved hand, he tucked it into the crook of his arm and led her towards the French doors that opened on to the moonlit terrace. They went down some steps into the lantern-lit gardens. Strolling along the paths, they nodded politely to other couples they passed. At the end of the garden they turned off the path and stepped into a shaded arbour. Beatrice stood and looked at Julius, suffused with trepidation and a tingling excitement that was the result of being alone with him in such a dark, intimate setting. The voices of others died away, leaving only distant strains of soothing music.

‘Dance with me, Beatrice,' he said suddenly, his voice like rough velvet.

Beatrice stared at him, the lilting notes of the waltz floating around her. When he opened his arms, feeling as if she were in a dream, she walked into them and felt his right arm slide around her waist, bringing her close against his solid strength. His left hand closed around her fingers and suddenly she was being whirled gently about the arbour in the arms of a man who danced the waltz with the relaxed grace of one who has danced it countless times. She should have felt overpowered—threatened—but surprisingly she felt protected instead.

Suddenly his arm tightened around her waist, forcing her into closer proximity with his powerful body. ‘You are very quiet, Beatrice. Have you nothing to say?
It is customary to engage in some form of conversation with your partner.'

Tilting her head back, she smiled teasingly up at him. ‘What am I to say? That you dance divinely?'

Julius smiled down at her. ‘That is what I'm supposed to say to you. We could engage in some kind of harmless flirtation. It is quite acceptable for couples to do that when they are dancing.'

‘Why? Is it because otherwise onlookers will perceive they don't like each other? Well, don't expect me to do that because I haven't any experience with flirting—unlike you.'

‘Would you like some lessons?'

‘Are you offering to show me how it's done?'

Julius stared down into her dark-green eyes and momentarily lost himself in them. Desire surged through his body and he pulled her closer still. ‘I'd like to try—although you're doing very well at it right now.'