The Beaumont Betrothal
Northbridge Bride Series Book 2
Leigh D’Ansey
Contents
The Beaumont Betrothal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Excerpt from The Duke’s Blackmailed Bride
Also by Leigh D’Ansey
About the Author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Beaumont Betrothal © Leigh D’Ansey Copyright 2019
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in any information retrieval system or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact information [email protected]
Cover Art by Tania Hutley
The Beaumont Betrothal
With her family facing ruin, Sophia Cranston enters an arrangement to marry Freddy Beaumont, the heir to an ancient earldom. But when a stranger arrives in their midst and claims he is the firstborn son and legitimate heir, Sophia’s world is sent spinning.
Bruno Cavanaugh is astounded to discover the mother he never knew was the first wife of the Earl of Enderby. When he meets Sophia Cranston, he is instantly captivated, but his delight is short-lived when he finds she is betrothed to his half-brother.
The long-awaited second novel in The Northbridge Bride series. The Beaumont Betrothal is a sexy Regency Romance by Leigh D’Ansey, author of the best-selling The Duke’s Blackmailed Bride.
Chapter One
“Mama, we have had this conversation a thousand times!” Sophia ignored her mother’s disapproving glare and reached for another sandwich. “Why can you not understand? I do not wish to be married—” she paused, sending her mother a pointed stare, “—or more likely traded, as if I were a cattle beast.”
“Wishes are for fishes! Wishes are for those who can afford to trawl this way and that before closing in on their quarry.” Margaret, Lady Cranston, maintained her hold on the fluted teacup and saucer on her lap, while the fingers of her other hand latched about the sandwich before Sophia managed to lift it from the plate.
Sophia’s nostrils flared. “Such a short step from the marriage market to the gore of the hunt, Mama.” She set her own teacup into its saucer with a decided clink.
Lady Cranston’s mouth tightened. “You may wish all you like, Sophia, but thanks to your late father’s public faithlessness and his reckless profligacy, your marriage prospects are severely diminished.”
With a brisk swipe she removed the entire plate of sandwiches from its silver stand and put it on the pie-crust mahogany table beside her chair. “And you will never be slender enough to catch even Freddy Beaumont if you keep stuffing yourself with bread and butter.”
Sophia tossed her head. “I do not care about being slender, Mama. Any more than I care to marry Freddy Beaumont, Viscount or no. I have known him all my life and he’s—”
“Leila Harrington will snare him if you don’t get a move-along.”
“Leila Harrington! She’s a stick insect!”
“Many would find her physique elegant.”
Eyeing her straight-backed parent, Sophia steeled herself against a twinge of sympathy. She knew her mother had held high hopes Sophia would have received an offer by the end of her first season. Now, here she was, more than three seasons on, still a daughter-of-the-house in the drawing room of falling-down Foxwood Manor with their resources dwindling by the day.
She had to admit her mother’s designs were not remarkable. After all, in 1816 it was expected that a young woman should marry, preferably to a wealthy, titled husband. If one of those failed to present himself, society followed the inexorable ruling that any husband was preferable to none.
But that was not how she felt! She had long held her own high hopes and they did not revolve around accepting the first offer that came her way. She might not have voiced her aspirations often, aware of the disapproval they engendered, but she had been working fiercely towards them, remaining in the conservatory she’d commandeered as her atelier from daylight until dark these past months. So absorbed had she become in her painting, she was often surprised when faced with life’s unhappy realities, particularly the looming necessity for her to marry. She could not suppress a pang of resentment, for the union was not even for her own sake.
As the mother of a viscountess whose husband was the only son of Jonathan Beaumont, fifth Earl of Enderby and a clutch of other titles, Mama would be able to hold her head up again in a society that had largely spurned her since her husband’s demise. And then there was Annabelle to consider.
Sophia glanced towards her sister, currently prostrate on the nearby chaise. Annabelle was recovering from her most recent spate of breathlessness, brought on by Sophia unthinkingly producing the mouse skeleton she’d found in the kitchen garden, captivated by its delicate bone structure.
Sophia bit her lip, caught by the usual self-reproach that assailed her whenever Annabelle’s shortness of breath overcame her and she must immediately assume a reclining position on the nearest available piece of furniture. Sophia could never forget the responsibility for her sister’s uncertain health lay at her door alone.
But there was nothing amiss with Annabelle’s hearing. She removed the lavender-scented cloth she had placed over her eyes and sat up, her gold ringlets curling about her heart-shaped face, periwinkle-blue eyes sparking with alarm.
“Of course you must marry Freddy, Sophia! What will become of Mama and I, if you refuse him? How can I be brought out if we do not have the wherewithal to pay for my debut?”
“You mercenary child,” retorted Sophia, studying her younger sister with a mixture of affection and expasperation. But there lay the crux of the matter. If she did not accept Freddy’s offer, mumbled awkwardly to her that very morning, her mother and sister could be reduced to living in pitiable circumstances, and Annabelle’s own chances of securing a suitable match would be bleak indeed.
“It will be debtor’s prison for us!” cried Annabelle, sitting forward and twisting the cloth in her fingers.
“Do not be absurd, Annabelle!” snapped Lady Cranston, although Sophia detected the undercurrent of concern running beneath her mother’s words.
Feeling cornered with her mother on one side, Annabelle on the other and duns exerting pressure all around, Sophia gazed out of the tall windows where a squalling gale had appeared from nowhere, flinging debris about the gardens as if to echo the turmoil inside her.
It was not that she did not long for love! But where was the man she could love? A man who would understand that expressing herself through her art was at the cornerstone of her being. The need to sketch and paint her world and the people in it sprang from some wellspring deep inside her. If this source were dammed, she feared life would hold no meaning for her at all.
Her gaze travelled o
ut beyond the gardens, towards the parklands almost hidden by the driving rain, as if willing a figure to emerge, for she could not dismiss the institution of marriage altogether. Perhaps given time, she could meet a man she could truly love, a man more interested in her than he was in his dogs and horses and gaming at the tables.
But she knew they were at crisis point and it was up to her to restore her family’s fortunes. “Wishes are for fishes,” her mother had said.
But even fish have the ability to swim against the current, Sophia thought mutinously, remembering the red-and-silver trout muscling their way up Huggleton Brook in spawning season.
There was something deeply stirring in the way the bucks gathered around while the females swished their shapely tails and hollowed out their nests in the gravelly bottoms. She shuddered. The very thought of Freddy’s undoubtedly grey and gelatinous flanks made her feel ill.
Unable to bear her mother and sister’s fretful scrutiny for a moment longer, she sprang out of her chair, snatched up the old coat she wore for painting, and strode across the room.
“Sophia! Where are you going?” cried her mother.
“To the bridge over Huggleton Brook.”
“But there is a storm outside!”
“You know I have never been afraid of the weather,” Sophia returned. She flicked a glance towards the window to avoid Annabelle’s wounded gaze. “Besides, if you look, the squall is already blowing itself out.”
While the other two women turned their attention to the beaten gardens and the parklands beyond, she shrugged herself into the rust-colored coat. “I shall be back well before dark.”
Lady Cranston gripped the arms of her chair and sat forward. “If you are not, I shall send Mallard after you.” As if dispatching their elderly butler to martial Sophia home could possibly influence her.
“Leave Mallard to his own devices, Mama. He is too old to brave these conditions.” Sophia knew the glance she flashed at her mother was stern and unloving, but she hardened her heart, pausing only to remove her slippers and thrust her feet into a pair of boots before hurrying into the wind-whipped afternoon, letting the door slam heavily behind her.
Chapter Two
By the time she’d clambered over the stile and onto the short-cut that straggled its way to Huggleton Brook, the wind had driven the rain away towards the Malvern Hills. Striding along the rough path under the lightening sky she barely noticed the mud clogging her skirts or the signs of spring that normally lifted her spirits.
After the long dark nights and short days of winter she always rejoiced in the yellow celandine and snowdrops glowing at the woodland edge, but today she was too preoccupied. Hurrying along the familiar path, her mind worked at pace to find a way out of the union with Frederick William Beaumont, Viscount Enderby.
When she reached the arched bridge over the brook she turned to lean her forearms onto the rough stone wall. Staring downwards, her thoughts tumbled over themselves like the frothing water below. A shaft of sunlight glanced through the clouds and she lifted her face instinctively towards the feeble warmth.
“Careful. You’ll get freckles,” came a deep voice from behind her.
Startled, she spun around to see a wide-shouldered long-legged gentleman with a thick crop of peat-colored hair roughed-up by the same breeze that played with her own. His high-bridged nose bisected a pair of bold, alert eyes and she was struck by an odd sense of familiarity, yet at the same time she knew she’d never met this man before. She would not have forgotten that dark, flashing glance.
A thrill flickered inside her. Despite the blustery draught, the air around her shimmered. She brought a hand to her throat and drew in a quick breath but did not look away, imbued with an unexpected recklessness.
“I rather like freckles,” she returned, lifting her chin, aware of the wind loosening the length of colored cloth she’d tied about her head earlier in the day to keep her hair away from her face.
He smiled. His teeth were very white, their color echoed in the thin, gleaming scar that tracked across the lean plane of his right cheek. Perhaps it was this injury, tugging at the muscles beneath his bronzed skin that resulted in an indent near the corner of his long upper lip and softened the hard line of his mouth.
“I do too,” he said, eyeing her in a way that brought warmth to her face. His rich baritone was dangerously attractive, and his drawling enunciation told Sophia he was not a native-born Englishman.
Conversing with a gentleman when she was unchaperoned and to whom she had not been introduced breached all the rules of etiquette, but she did not care. For she held an unhappy awareness that this could be her last chance to venture beyond the bounds of behavior society, and she herself, would demand of her should she be compelled to marry Freddy.
She found herself returning his smile. “I do not know you sir,” she said. “And I have been cautioned throughout my life against the perils of speaking to strangers.”
His mouth quirked. “I am not particularly strange,” he said. “But that’s certainly a valid warning for a young lady. It’s one I’d issue myself.”
She dimpled, unable to resist provoking further conversation. “Then perhaps I should bid you goodbye.” But she made no move to step away, intrigued by this new turn of events and excited by the presence of a man unlike any she had encountered before.
Despite the weather his dress was faultless; his white cravat perfectly tied, his caped surtout tailored to emphasize his wide shoulders and narrow waist. Perhaps he had unbuttoned it when the rain stopped for it lay open, displaying a cream-on-cream waistcoat beneath a charcoal jacket. Tight-fitting buckskins encased long, muscled legs and his hessian boots gleamed where they were not splashed with mud. He carried himself with an easy, masculine grace and wore his garments without pretention.
Beyond him and to the right, a bay mare cropped at the grass beside the brook. Sophia was surprised her unhappy thoughts had so engrossed her that both horse and rider had been able to approach without her knowing.
After a moment or two he angled his face and said: “What were you searching for?”
Sophia tilted her head questioningly.
“When I first saw you, you were gazing so intently into the water. I wondered what held your interest.”
Sophia caught her lower lip between her teeth. What could she say? She was watching for mating trout? She turned her face into the cooling breeze.
“Fish,” she said truthfully though with less eloquence than she would have liked.
He nodded interestedly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “To… fish for… or to eat?”
Sophia shook her head. “To watch. They are quite beautiful.” She found herself staring at the corner of his mouth, waiting for that captivating indent to appear. When it did, her heart gave a little lurch.
His eyes flashed with humor. “I don’t recall ever encountering a woman who considered fish beautiful.”
“Oh, but they are! Only last week I saw a buck directly under this bridge with the most astonishing coloring, flashes of dark red dappled with gold.” She was aware of her expression dimming. “But I should not like to catch one, for when they are out of their own environment their colors fade to dullness.” Like hers would, once she was married to Freddy, she thought unhappily.
“Do you eat them?”
“I’m sorry to say I do, but if I was to rely on myself to hook them, I do not think I could bear it.”
Bruno was captivated, and glad of the opportunity for diversion. He’d faced and overcome many challenges in his life, but he still felt edgy about fulfilling the mission he’d embarked upon some weeks before.
He’d dismounted by this freshet of the Wye River to gather himself before his audience with Jonathan Digby Beaumont, fifth Earl of Enderby and numerous other titles too intricate to unravel. Although he’d come well prepared and was eager to make the connection, he couldn’t help but feel some unease as to how he would be received.
Female entanglements had r
epelled him in recent months, but stumbling upon this extraordinary creature with her clear gray eyes and generous mouth stirred him intensely. Along with a vivid scarf tying back her hair, she wore what looked like a working man’s coat, its color akin to the hide of a sorrel horse, its skirts caked with muck. But the garment clung to her waist and flared out over her hips and Bruno felt a jolt of arousal at his root. Her shining gaze, wind-tossed hair and eccentric dress lent her an unaffected sensuality that was somehow out of kilter with her otherwise genteel bearing. He cleared his throat and brought his hat to cover the fork of his thighs.
“I understand etiquette demands that in England a lady initiates an introduction,” he said, “but on this occasion, I believe it behooves me to introduce myself.”
She lowered a sweep of sooty lashes and inclined her head. One end of her turban swirled loose and her hair danced in the wind. She lifted a hand to tuck the vagrant fabric back into place and Bruno smelled the sweet, elusive scent of almond blossom and another scent he couldn’t quite identify; an earthy, almost workmanlike smell that puzzled him. The mixture of sweet and wild and who-knows-where-it-might-lead was deeply erotic.
“I’m called Bruno Cavanaugh,” he said and waited a beat but instead of furnishing her own name, she raised her eyes beneath winged eyebrows and asked: “What brings you to Northbridge, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
Bruno hesitated. “I’m visiting an old friend,” he said after a moment, not willing yet to reveal his true purpose, even to this bewitching stranger. “You may be acquainted with the Duke of Northbridge and his wife?”
The Beaumont Betrothal: Northbridge Bride Series Book 2 Page 1