Love in the Afternoon

by Lisa Kleypas

  Christopher wasn’t deceived. “You know far too much about the entire enterprise for me to believe that. You’ve worked long and hard on this place.”

  “Yes. But I keep hoping if I feign ignorance, they’ll stop asking me to do things.”

  Christopher smiled and focused on the ground before them as they walked, their booted feet crossing into the long shadows cast by the sun behind them. “I won’t have to feign ignorance,” he said, sobering. “I know next to nothing about timber. My brother prepared for it his entire life. It never occurred to me—or anyone—that I would have to fill his shoes.” He paused and wished he had kept that last comment to himself. It sounded as if he were asking for sympathy.

  Leo, however, replied in a friendly and matter-of-fact manner. “I know that feeling. But Merripen will help you. He’s a fount of information, and he’s never so happy as when he’s telling people what to do. A fortnight in his company, and you’ll be a bloody expert on timber. Has Beatrix yet told you that Merripen and Win will return from Ireland in time for the wedding?”

  Christopher shook his head. The wedding would be held in a month, at the church on the village green. “I’m glad for Beatrix’s sake. She wants the entire family to be there.” A brief laugh escaped him. “I only hope we won’t have a parade of animals marching through the church along with her.”

  “Count yourself fortunate that we got rid of the elephant,” Leo said. “She might have turned it into a bridesmaid.”

  “Elephant?” Christopher glanced at him sharply. “She had an elephant?”

  “Only for a short time. She found a new home for him.”

  “No.” Christopher was shaking his head. “Knowing Beatrix, I could almost believe it. But no.”

  “She had an elephant,” Leo insisted. “God’s own truth.”

  Christopher still wasn’t convinced. “I suppose it showed up at the doorstep one day and someone made the mistake of feeding it?”

  “Ask Beatrix, and she’ll tell you—”

  But Leo broke off as they neared the paddock, where some kind of commotion was taking place. The squeal of an angry horse rent the air. A chestnut Thoroughbred was rearing and bucking with someone on its back.

  “Damn it,” Leo said, quickening his pace. “I told them not to buy that ill-tempered nag—he was ruined from bad handling, and not even Beatrix can fix him.”

  “Is that Beatrix?” Christopher asked, alarm jolting through him.

  “Either Beatrix or Rohan—no one else is foolhardy enough to mount him.”

  Christopher broke into a run. It wasn’t Beatrix. It couldn’t be. She had promised him that she wouldn’t put herself at physical risk anymore. But as he reached the paddock, he saw her hat fly off and her dark hair come loose, while the infuriated horse bucked with increasing force. Beatrix clung to the animal with astonishing ease, murmuring and trying to soothe him. The horse seemed to subside, responding to Beatrix’s efforts. But in a quicksilver instant he reared impossibly high, his massive bulk balanced on two slender hind legs.

  And then the horse twisted and began to fall.

  Time itself slowed, while the huge crushing mass toppled, with Beatrix’s fragile form landing beneath.

  As so often had happened in battle, Christopher’s instincts took over completely, prompting action at a speed faster than thought. He heard nothing, but he felt his throat vibrate with a hoarse cry, while his body vaulted over the paddock fence.

  Beatrix reacted from instinct as well. As the horse began to fall, she yanked her booted feet from the stirrups and pushed away from him in midair. She hit the ground and rolled twice, thrice, while the horse’s body crashed beside her . . . missing her by a matter of inches.

  As Beatrix lay still and dazed, the maddened horse struggled to its feet, its hooves pounding the ground beside her with skull-splitting force. Christopher snatched her up and carried her to the side of the paddock, while Leo approached the enraged horse and somehow managed to grab the reins.

  Lowering Beatrix to the ground, Christopher searched her for injuries, running his hands over her limbs, feeling her skull. She was panting and wheezing, the breath having been knocked out of her.

  She blinked up at him in confusion. “What happened?”

  “The horse reared and fell.” Christopher’s voice came out in a rasp. “Tell me your name.”

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Your name,” he insisted.

  “Beatrix Heloise Hathaway.” She looked at him with round blue eyes. “Now that we know who I am . . . who are you?”

  Chapter Twenty

  At Christopher’s expression, Beatrix snickered and wrinkled her nose impishly. “I’m teasing. Really. I know who you are. I’m perfectly all right.”

  Over Christopher’s shoulder, Beatrix caught sight of Leo shaking his head in warning, drawing a finger across his throat.

  She realized too late that it probably hadn’t been an appropriate moment for teasing. What to a Hathaway would have been a good chuckle was positively infuriating to Christopher.

  He glared at her with incredulous wrath. It was only then that she realized he was shaking in the aftermath of his terror for her.

  Definitely not the time for humor.

  “I’m sorry—” she began contritely.

  “I asked you not to train that horse,” Christopher snapped, “and you agreed.”

  Beatrix felt instantly defensive. She was accustomed to doing as she pleased. This was certainly not the first time she’d ever fallen from a horse, nor the last.

  “You didn’t ask that specifically,” she said reasonably, “you asked me not to do anything dangerous. And in my opinion, it wasn’t.”

  Instead of calming Christopher, that seemed to enrage him even further. “In light of the fact that you were nearly flattened like a pikelet just now, I’d say you were wrong.”

  Beatrix was intent on winning the argument. “Well, it doesn’t matter in any case, because the promise I made was for after we married. And we’re not married yet.”

  Leo covered his eyes with his hand, shook his head, and retreated from her vision.

  Christopher gave her an incinerating glare, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Without another word, he lifted himself away from her and went to the stable in a long, ground-eating stride.

  Sitting up, Beatrix stared after him in perplexed annoyance. “He’s leaving.”

  “It would appear so.” Leo came to her, extended a hand down, and pulled her up.

  “Why did he leave right in the middle of a quarrel?” Beatrix demanded, dusting off her breeches with short, aggravated whacks. “One can’t just leave, one has to finish it.”

  “If he had stayed, sweetheart,” Leo said, “there’s every chance I would have had to pry his hands from around your neck.”

  Their conversation paused as they saw Christopher riding from the stables, his form straight as a blade as he spurred his horse into a swift graceful canter.

  Beatrix sighed. “I was trying to score points rather than consider how he was feeling,” she admitted. “He was probably frightened for me, seeing the horse topple over like that.”

  “Probably?” Leo repeated. “He looked like he had just seen Death. I believe it may have touched off one of his bad spells, or whatever it is you call them.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “Not dressed like that.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Leo, just this one time—”

  “No exceptions, darling. I know my sisters. Give any one of you an inch, and you’ll take a mile.” He reached out and pushed back her tumbling hair. “Also . . . don’t go without a chaperone.”

  “I don’t want a chaperone. That’s never any fun.”

  “Yes, Beatrix, that’s the purpose of a chaperone.”

  “Well, in our family, anyone who chaperoned me would probably need a chaperone more than I do.”

  Leo opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

  Rare
was the occasion when her brother was unable to argue a point.

  Repressing a grin, Beatrix strode toward the house.

  Christopher had forgiven Beatrix before he had even reached Phelan House. He was well aware that Beatrix was accustomed to nearly unqualified freedom, and she had no wish to be reined in any more than that devil of a horse had. It would take time for her to adjust to restrictions. He had already known that.

  But he had been too rattled to think clearly. She meant too much to him—she was his life. The thought of her being hurt was more than his soul could bear. The shock of seeing Beatrix nearly killed, the overwhelming mixture of terror and fury, had exploded through him and left him in chaos. No, not chaos, something far worse. Gloom. A gray, heavy fog had enclosed him, suffocating all sound and feeling. He felt as if his soul were barely anchored in his body.

  This same numb detachment had happened from time to time during the war, and in the hospital. There was no cure for it, except to wait it out.

  Telling the housekeeper that he didn’t want to be disturbed, Christopher headed to the dark, quiet sanctuary of the library. After searching through the sideboard, he found a bottle of Armagnac, and poured a glass.

  The liquor was harsh and peppery, searing the inside of his throat. Exactly what he wanted. Hoping it would burn through the chill in his soul, he tossed it back and poured a second.

  Hearing a scratch at the door, he went to open it. Albert crossed the threshold, wagging and snorting happily. “Useless mongrel,” Christopher said, bending to pet him. “You smell like the floor of an East End tavern.” The dog pushed back against his palm demandingly. Christopher lowered to his haunches and regarded him ruefully. “What would you say if you could talk?” he asked. “I suppose it’s better that you don’t. That’s the point of having a dog. No conversation. Just admiring gazes and endless panting.”

  Someone spoke from the threshold behind him, startling him. “I hope that’s not what you’ll expect . . .”

  Reacting with explosive instinct, Christopher turned and fastened his hand around a soft throat.

  “. . . from a wife,” Beatrix finished unsteadily.

  Christopher froze. Trying to think above the frenzy, he took a shivering breath, and blinked hard.

  What in God’s name was he doing?

  He had shoved Beatrix against the doorjamb, pinning her by the throat, his other hand drawn back in a lethal fist. He was a hairsbreadth away from delivering a blow that would shatter delicate bones in her face.

  It terrified him, how much effort it took to unclench his fist and relax his arm. With the hand that was still at her throat, he felt the fragile throb of her pulse beneath his thumb, and the delicate ripple of a swallow.

  Staring into her rich blue eyes, he felt the welter of violence washed away in a flood of despair.

  With a muffled curse, he snatched his hand from her and went to get his drink.

  “Mrs. Clocker said you’d asked not to be disturbed,” Beatrix said. “And of course the first thing I did was disturb you.”

  “Don’t come up behind me,” Christopher said roughly. “Ever.”

  “I of all people should have known that. I won’t do it again.”

  Christopher took a fiery swallow of the liquor. “What do you mean, you of all people?”

  “I’m used to wild creatures who don’t like to be approached from behind.”

  He shot her a baleful glance. “How fortunate that your experience with animals has turned out to be such good preparation for marriage to me.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . well, my point was that I should have been more considerate of your nerves.”

  “I don’t have nerves,” he snapped.

  “I’m sorry. We’ll call them something else.” Her voice was so soothing and gentle that it would have caused an assortment of cobras, tigers, wolverines, and badgers to all snuggle together and take a group nap.

  Christopher gritted his teeth and maintained a stony silence.

  Pulling what looked like a biscuit from the pocket of her dress, Beatrix offered it to Albert, who bounded over to her and took the treat eagerly. Leading the dog to the door, she gestured for him to cross the threshold. “Go on to the kitchen,” she said in an encouraging tone. “Mrs. Clocker is going to feed you.” Albert was gone in a flash.

  Closing and locking the door, Beatrix approached Christopher. She looked fresh and feminine in a lavender dress, her hair neatly swept up with combs. One could not fathom a different picture from the outlandish girl in breeches.

  “I could have killed you,” he said savagely.

  “You didn’t.”

  “I could have hurt you.”

  “You didn’t do that, either.”

  “God, Beatrix.” Christopher went to sit heavily at a hearthside chair, glass in hand.

  She followed him in a rustle of lavender silk. “I’m not Beatrix, actually. I’m her much nicer twin. She said you could have me from now on.” Her gaze flickered to the Armagnac. “You promised not to drink spirits.”

  “We’re not married yet.” Christopher knew he should have been ashamed of the sneering echo of her own earlier words, but the temptation was too much to resist.

  Beatrix didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry about that. It’s no fun, caring about my welfare. I’m reckless. I overestimate my abilities.” She lowered to the floor at his feet, resting her arms on his knees. Her earnest blue eyes, starred with heavy dark lashes, stared contritely into his. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did earlier. For my family, arguing is a sport—we forget that some people tend to take it personally.” One of her fingertips drew an intricate little pattern on his thigh. “But I have redeeming qualities,” she continued. “I never mind dog hair, for example. And I can pick up small objects with my toes, which is a surprisingly useful talent.”

  Christopher’s numbness started melting like spring ice. And it had nothing to do with the Armagnac. It was all Beatrix.

  God, he adored her.

  But the more he thawed, the more volatile he felt. Need surged beneath the thin veneer of self-control. Too much need.

  Setting the unfinished liquor on the carpeted floor, Christopher drew Beatrix between his knees. He bent forward to press his lips to her forehead. He could smell the tantalizing sweetness of her skin. Settling back in the chair, he studied her. She looked angelic and guileless, as if sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Little rogue, he thought with tender amusement. He stroked one of her slender hands, which was resting on his thigh. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly.

  “So your middle name is Heloise,” he said.

  “Yes, after the medieval French nun. My father loved her writings. In fact, it occurs to me . . . Héloïse was renowned for the love letters she exchanged with Abélard.” Beatrix’s expression brightened. “I’ve rather lived up to my namesake, haven’t I?”

  “Since Abélard was eventually castrated by Héloïse’s family, I’m not especially fond of the comparison.”

  Beatrix grinned. “You have nothing to worry about.” As she stared at him, her smile faded. “Am I forgiven?” she asked.

  “For endangering yourself? . . . Never. You’re too precious to me.” Christopher took up her hand and kissed it. “Beatrix, you are beautiful in that dress, and I love your company more than anything in the world. But I have to take you home.”

  Beatrix didn’t move. “Not until this is resolved.”

  “It is.”

  “No, there’s still a wall between us. I can feel it.”

  Christopher shook his head. “I’m just . . . distracted.” He reached for her elbows. “Let me help you up.”

  She resisted. “Something’s not right. You’re so far away.”

  “I’m right here.”

  There were no words to describe this infernal sense of detachment. He didn’t know why it appeared or what would make it go away. He only knew that if he waited long enough, it would disappear of its own accord. At least, it had before. Pe
rhaps one day it would appear and never leave him. Christ.

  Staring at him, Beatrix clamped her hands lightly on his thighs. Instead of standing, she hitched her body higher against him.

  Her mouth came to his, gently inquiring. He felt a little shock, a sudden pitch of his heart as if it had remembered to start beating again. Beatrix’s lips were soft and hot, teasing in the way he had taught her. He felt lust come raging up, dangerously fast. Her weight was on him, her breasts, the mass of her skirts compressed between his thighs. He surrendered for a moment, fusing his mouth to hers and kissing her the way he wanted to take her, deep and hard. Beatrix immediately went pliant, submissive, in a way that drove him mad, and she knew it.

  He wanted everything of her, wanted to subject her to every craving and impulse, and she was too innocent for any of it. Tearing his mouth from hers, Christopher held her at arms’ length.

  Her eyes were wide and wondering.

  To his relief, she levered away from him and stood.

  And then she began to unfasten her bodice.

  “What are you doing?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Don’t worry, the door is locked.”

  “That isn’t what I—Beatrix—” By the time he had lurched to his feet, her bodice had listed open. A thick, primitive drumbeat started in his ears. “Beatrix, I’m not in the mood for virginal experimentation.”

  She gave him a purely ingenuous look. “Neither am I.”

  “You’re not safe with me.” He reached for the neckline of her bodice and yanked it together. While he fumbled to fasten it, Beatrix hiked up the side of her dress. A tug and a wriggle, and her petticoat dropped to the floor.

  “I can undress faster than you can dress me,” she informed him.

  Christopher clenched his teeth as he saw her push her dress below her hips. “Damn you, I can’t do this. Not now.” He was perspiring, every muscle hard. His voice shook with the force of suppressed need. “I’m going to lose control.” He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from hurting her. For their first time, he would have to approach her with absolute restraint, give himself release beforehand to take the edge from his lust . . . but at the moment, he would fall on her like a ravening animal.