Beauty in Breeches (5 page)

‘There you are, Beatrice. I thought you had disappeared for good.'

‘Are you enjoying your party, Astrid?'

‘Oh, yes. Mama has gone to a lot of trouble and expense to make it right. Although I do find it all rather awe-inspiring,' she admitted, envious of her cousin's self-assurance.

Beatrice nodded in agreement. Looking around, she saw couples wandering away to indulge in a little starlit privacy. Lord Chadwick was watching her from across the stretch of lawn that lay like a rich velvet carpet between them. He raised his glass and bowed briefly, his smile both approving and challenging as his gaze from beneath hooded lids swept over her with practised scrutiny. She turned away to listen to what Astrid was saying.

‘George is paying a good deal of attention to Leonora Fenton, Sir Philip Fenton's daughter. He always does. He's never said anything, but I think he's quite taken with her. What do you think, Beatrice?'

Beatrice glanced towards where George conversed with a slender, extremely attractive young woman in a yellow high-waisted gown. ‘She's very pretty. But I wonder if your mother would agree to a match between them.'

‘I don't see why not. George is of an age to choose his own wife. Miss Fenton has all the required requisites—title and money—so I don't see why Mama
should have any objections. But come, Beatrice,' she said, linking her arm through her cousin's, ‘I care nothing to standing still. Let's circulate. I want to have a word with you about this wager you have made with Lord Chadwick. It is quite insane—you know that, don't you? Mama is furious.'

‘She's already spoken to me about it, but I know what I am doing. I will not be bullied out of it. I have no intention of backing out.'

‘But—you could get hurt. Lord Chadwick is not the sort of man to take kindly to being bested by a woman.'

Beatrice stared at her. ‘Bested? Yes, I might well beat him. I certainly intend to try. But does the forfeit I will demand of him not concern you?'

‘No. When you accepted his wager I heard you tell him that you will not ask him to return Larkhill to you, but I suspect it features somewhere in the forfeit.'

‘Yes it does. I wanted to speak to you about the race, Astrid. Your opinion matters to me very much. Aunt Moira has her sights set on Lord Chadwick as a serious contender for your hand in marriage. Will it upset you very much to see us together, racing hell for leather against each other?'

Astrid paused and turned to her cousin, her attitude one of calm resolve. ‘Be assured, Beatrice, that whatever aspirations Mama has of my future husband, it will definitely not be Lord Chadwick. I will not marry him, not even to appease Mama.'

They carried on walking. Astrid said nothing else. Beatrice had expected something—a word of blame, of disappointment, of condemnation for the manner
in which she had asserted herself in Lord Chadwick's eyes, but she had nothing from Astrid but a calm look which was somehow full of relief…and gratitude.

Why
, Beatrice thought, seeing her gentle cousin truly, as if for the first time,
I have done her a favour
. Astrid really didn't want to marry Lord Chadwick. She never did. She was being pushed into it by her forceful mama, and she, Beatrice, was giving her a way out.

Astrid glanced across at a young man sitting on a bench in the shadow of a spouting fountain. ‘Will you excuse me?' she said a little breathlessly, excitement leaping to her eyes and brightness lighting her face as she spoke. ‘I can see Henry and I simply must speak to him.'

Beatrice watched her hurry away. Normally Astrid was always far too timid and serious to be giddy. And yet when Henry Talbot was near it was like the sun coming out after a dark period and she suddenly became light-hearted, foolish and gay. With a smile Beatrice turned and sauntered in the direction of the house. Her step was light as she walked slowly along a walkway lined with a profusion of fragrant pink roses that clambered all over trellising. It was a tunnel of shadow, broken at intervals by warm squares of light from lanterns hanging in the trees. With a contented sigh she closed her eyes and listened to the murmur of distant voices, a wistful expression on her lovely face. It was a warm night, heavy and sweet with summer scents.

She intended to find a quiet shady place on the terrace to sit a while before going to her room. The
warmth of the evening caressed her bare shoulders and a light breeze stirred the skirts of her gown.

‘Well, well, Miss Fanshaw! So we meet again.' Julius was ahead of her and, seeing her walking alone along the privacy of the arched walkway, he had paused to watch her, completely captivated by the look on her face. This was not the face of the young woman who had boldly challenged him to race his horse against hers earlier. Then her haughty manner had marked her as strong of character whereas now, with her eyes closed and a gentle smile on her lips, there was a softness about her, an elusive gentleness that declared her to be as fragile and vulnerable as the roses that clambered about them.

Clearly she was a woman of ever-changing moods and subtle contradictions, and while her physical beauty first arrested the attention, it was this spectrum, this bewildering, indefinable quality that held him captive. A strange sweet melting feeling softened his innermost core without warning, the place in him that he usually kept as hard as steel.

His appearance pulled Beatrice from the strange spell that had seemed to enclose her. She started, alarmed by the unexpected greeting, and opened her eyes. He appeared too suddenly for her to prepare herself, so the heady surge of pleasure she experienced on seeing him again was clearly evident, stamped like an unbidden confession on her lovely face.

Stepping in front of her, he towered above her. His smile was full of gentle mockery when he said, ‘Are you about to retire, Miss Fanshaw?'

Beneath his impassive gaze Beatrice stood perfectly still, refusing to blush or look away, her delicately beautiful face framed by a halo of golden hair—a dainty image of fragility standing before a man who dwarfed her.

‘I thought I might.'

‘A sensible move, I would say. I fear if you party too long into the night you will not do full justice to the race tomorrow.'

‘Your concern—if that is what it is—for my state of health is quite touching, Lord Chadwick. But worry not. If I were to party till dawn, I would still beat you hands down.'

‘Your courage and confidence are to be admired, but you are going to be disappointed. I'm afraid the outcome is inevitable.'

‘I don't think so,' she remarked.

‘And here was I thinking you might wish to retract your challenge.' He stared at her with impudent admiration, letting his gaze travel from her eyes to her mouth, then down to the swell of her breasts. Beatrice wished she had a shawl to cover herself, as she felt her cheeks grow hot beneath his scrutiny.

‘My challenge stands. Now be so kind as to step aside.'

He did as she bade, but she was not to be rid of him. As she continued to walk on he fell into step beside her.

‘Will you return to the party?' he asked.

They had reached the terrace and she stopped and turned to him. ‘I might, but then I might not.' Taking a
deep breath, she looked up into the night sky and saw the moon, a new moon, a thin sickle of a moon. Seeing it for the first time, she closed her eyes.

Beside her Julius followed her gaze, his eyes on the slender sickle. ‘Have you made a wish?' he asked.

Opening her eyes, she nodded.

‘Then I hope the new moon brings you luck.'

‘So do I, but I believe you make your own luck in this world.'

‘That is a very cynical view, Miss Fanshaw.'

‘I have a cynical outlook on life, Lord Chadwick.' She gazed up at the stars beginning to twinkle. ‘I love looking at the sky at night,' she murmured. ‘There are so many stars up there. To some people all the constellations just look like a jumble of stars, but they're not. See that bright one over there?'

Julius continued to look up, as if he, too, found something of interest there. ‘That's Jupiter.'

‘So it is—and over there is the Great Bear—and you see that faint smudge,' he said, pointing at the sky, ‘that is the Andromeda constellation, which is the nearest galaxy to our own Milky Way and was named after the mythological princess Andromeda. The seven stars of the Plough are the easiest to make out, which is of the constellation Ursa Major.'

Beatrice laughed. ‘You are very knowledgeable about the stars, Lord Chadwick. Do you make a study of the galaxies yourself?'

‘I spend a lot of my time travelling. On board ship the nights are long and one spends many hours on deck,
looking at the sky. The northern sky—which you are looking at—is very different from the southern sky and so is the sky around the equatorial zone. I'm sure you would find it interesting.'

‘I'm sure I would—if I ever get the opportunity to travel. It never occurred to me that the sky would look different in other parts of the world. Do you think anyone lives up there, that any of those stars are inhabited with people like us?'

‘I don't know. What do you think?'

‘I don't—not really. But then, it would be arrogant of us to assume that out of all those thousands and millions of stars the Earth is the only planet where life exists. It's like saying the Earth is the centre of the universe and everything revolves around it.' She dragged her gaze from the sky and looked at him when she heard him chuckle. Her lips broke into a smile. ‘What is it? Why do you laugh?'

‘I am astonished. Since when did young ladies begin studying astronomy?'

‘I don't know about the others, but this particular young lady began as soon as she learnt to read.' He was smiling, a smile she found almost endearing. He did seem to have a way about him and she could not fault any woman for falling under his spell, for she found to her amazement that her heart was not so distantly detached as she might have imagined it to be. Even his deep mellow voice seemed like a warm caress over her senses. For all the animosity she felt for him, she could not deny what a fine specimen of a man he was.

He took her hand to kiss it. He looked so relaxed
that she found herself responding to him. Then a glint of mischief in his eyes reminded her of who he was. Shaking off the effects of his winning smile, she took herself mentally in hand and snatched her hand free. She tossed her head proudly, but Julius Chadwick was undaunted by her show of indignation. He touched her arm very gently and reached so close that she could smell the sharp scent of his cologne.

‘Please forgive me,' he murmured, softly and with disconcerting sincerity. ‘I was boorish in my behaviour to you earlier when you accepted my wager. It was never my intention and now I heartily beg your pardon.'

Beatrice was astonished. She stared into his deep amber eyes, looking for the mockery, the veiled contempt. She found neither. ‘No more than I was,' she conceded.

‘You were angry and I understand the reason and you intend to punish me for it. Will you not tell me that I am forgiven?'

Beatrice found herself weakening before his smile. Her own smile came slowly. ‘Very well. You are forgiven.'

‘Then I am once more a happy man and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.' He raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a light kiss on them. As he did so he surreptitiously pressed a small object into the palm of her hand. ‘I would like you to have this. It is just a small token of my respect and admiration,' he said. ‘May it serve to remind you of happier times and of the value I place on your forgiveness.'

Beatrice uttered her thanks and watched him turn
and stride away. When he was out of sight she opened her hand and looked down at the small object he had placed there. Only then did her brief softening turn to humiliation. The colour drained from her face. Damn him, she thought. He had used subtle trickery and flattery on her and she had fallen for it and allowed herself to become as stupid and gullible as all those silly girls who simpered and followed him around like sheep.

What he had given her was a gold signet ring she had last seen on her father's finger. She had not given it a thought during all the years she had been without him, and now she knew that this, too, must have been among the things he had taken from her father. It did remind her of happier times, but it also reminded her of how those times had cruelly ended. With the death of her mother following so soon on her father's suicide, the deep, dark void of hollowness and sorrow was complete.

Wounded and angry, she could not even begin to imagine the desperation that had driven her father to part with his ring, but as she stared down at it she swore she would make Lord Chadwick pay most dearly for what he had done to her. She would not rest until she had retrieved everything her father had lost to Julius Chadwick. Nothing would stand in her way after she had come this far.

 

The dew was still on the grass when Beatrice headed for the stables the next morning with her riding crop tucked underneath her arm. She arrived to a great fuss of excitement. She had done as her aunt had said and
thought good and hard about the wager, but it had made no difference. Her mind was made up. Respect was everything to her aunt and what her niece was doing would have a damaging effect on her own standing in society, but in the end nothing was changed. Beatrice would not back out now.

Everyone had heard about the race and had come to watch. Major had been brought out of his stable and tacked up. The stable lad was giving his powerful haunches and glossy neck one last polish. He was by the mounting block, arching his neck and pawing the ground, waiting for his mistress.

The groom knew of her aversion to the side saddle and that she preferred the masculine way of riding astride, so Major had been tacked up appropriately. No one was surprised to see Beatrice wearing her breeches, for it was a familiar sight.