Beauty in Breeches (2 page)

‘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.