A chance at love (The Winter Sisters Box Set) : Special Edition Regency Romance

by Regina Darcy

  Clearly theirs had not been a courtship based on flaming emotions and grand gestures. No flowery declaration by moonlight.

  Their affection had not been a naked flame. No, what was between them was even better, like a simmering fire that only needed to be fanned to burst into a red-hot blaze.

  Again she blushed. Lately she had been unable to think about Mr Percival without waxing into lyrics in her head. It had now become a decidedly annoying habit.

  She grimaced.

  Beneath her eyelashes she glanced towards the man in question. He looked deep in thought. She bit her lower lip.

  Despite the emotions he elicited from her, she still had instances when she thought him aloof and borderline indifferent to her.

  Surely even the simmering fire between the two of them would tempt him? So far she had noticed no nick in his armoured façade. In fact, his insisted on keeping a wide berth of distance between them, and staying cordial, and adhering to the strict rules of propriety. It was altogether maddening. She had actually had to convince him it would be appropriate for them to wander around their small estate without a chaperone.

  Beatrice was well aware of the consequences of improper behaviour, but found herself frustrated that he did not even try to take her hand. Mr Percival was the perfect gentleman, finding no excuses to steal a touch. Beatrice, on the other hand, felt as if she were about to go mad, the depth of her feelings filling her to the brim until she burned from the inferno the flames were creating.

  Being around him brought on all manner of sensations, at once overwhelming and delighting her with their potency. From the butterflies in the pit of her stomach to the warmth and giddiness that lingered long after Mr Percival took his leave.

  In spite of her caution, everything she must have felt for Percival had managed to seep in back into her. It filled her heart, and broke down her barriers until it was all she could do not to shout it at the top of her lungs.

  Undoubtedly, impossibly, and passionately, she was in love with him.

  Yet, were it not for his chivalry, and the attention he lavished upon her, it would not have been obvious to her. Mr Percival behaved less as a man in love, and more as a man who was comfortable and satisfied with amiable companionship.

  While she yearned for him, and longed to see him lose his self-control, if but for a brief fluttering moment, he remained unaffected, as cool, composed and civilized as ever. It was becoming most troublesome to be around him, and keep from demanding that he focus all his intensity on her.

  More than anything else, she wished he would allow her past his defences, to show her once and for all the man who hid behind the façade. Surely, it was not too much to ask for?

  ***

  The next day Beatrice went to the local village centre to purchase lace for her bonnets and new clothes for several day and night dresses. In the next couple of weeks she would be travelling to London with Mr Percival, her Papa and Caroline to prepare for the wedding. After all, it hadn’t actually been called off.

  As Beatrice walked out of the hat-shop, holding onto the various hatboxes, she bumped into someone. As she turned around to apologise, the man turned and smiled at her.

  “Miss Beatrice. What a delight it is to see you again!”

  Beatrice bit back a sigh then forced her lips into a smile. “Lord Barrington. How do you do?”

  “I am quite well, Miss Beatrice,” he replied, offering a deep bow. With a flourish, he righted himself, looking well put together and exuding confidence in his breeches, shirt and coat. Oh, there was no doubt in her mind that Lord Barrington was handsome, but he was also hiding something.

  Of this she had no doubt.

  “And how are you on this fine day?” he asked after a momentary pause during which he took out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “The weather is rather awful, is it not? The sun is quite persistent today.”

  Beatrice cleared her throat.

  “I am well, Lord Barrington. Thank you for inquiring. I do declare that I prefer sunny weather, my lord. It is rather lovely weather we’re having.”

  Lord Barrington frowned, annoyance flickering in the depths of his eyes. “Oh, I see. Well then, I pray the weather stays favourable for your sake, Miss Beatrice. Such a charming and delightful woman such as yourself deserves the very world at her feet.”

  Beatrice offered him a tight lipped smile.

  “Thank you, kindly, my lord.”

  “Oh, there is no need to call me my lord,” Lord Barrington insisted, shifting closer to her. Standing outside the hat store, in the middle of broad daylight, and with several members of society passing, Beatrice nonetheless felt more than a little uncomfortable.

  Lord Barrington took too many liberties, but he was still as charming as ever.

  Beatrice raised an eyebrow. Although she looked calmed and poised outwardly, inside she kept wondering where Caroline had disappeared to.

  Never around when you need a chaperone.

  She shifted on her heels at the uncharitable thought. Caroline had been missing her fiancée terribly ever since she had gotten stuck in the countryside with caring duties. The least Beatrice could do was not to berate her in her mind.

  She managed a tentative smile.

  “What then should I call you?”

  “Why, John of course,” Lord Barrington replied, his tone infused with excitement. “Surely, you remember how well acquainted we are, Miss Beatrice. Such formality is not necessary between us, my dear heiress.”

  “I am afraid I am not comfortable with such familiarity, my lord,” Beatrice insisted. “I would rather you addressed me as is proper.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Lord Barrington declared, with a little too much force. “I confess I believe any number of those hats would like spending atop your head, Miss Beatrice. Any number indeed. Such a lovely head.”

  Beatrice shifted from one foot to the other, clutched her reticule in her hand and stared at him. She couldn’t see the treacherous snake Mr Percival described, not in his flamboyant behaviour, or his insistence on getting close to her, but it did not mean Mr Percival was wrong.

  After all, he seemed to be a good judge of character.

  “My lord,” Beatrice said, finally. “You are too kind.”

  Lord Barrington reached for her hand and placed a delicate kiss there, letting his mouth linger a little longer than was necessary. “Miss Beatrice, I must insist you do not address me in such a formal manner. Barrington will do. I lack Mr Percival’s unfortunate obsession with decorum.”

  Beatrice took her hand back. “Mr Percival is not a haughty man.”

  “Oh, no, no, of course not. Forgive me, I did not mean to imply he was, but he has always been a bit stiff upper lip and secretive, has he not? I have heard several members of the ton whisper about how his coffers are empty.”

  Beatrice frowned.

  “You have?”

  Mr Percival had never come across as proud, or arrogant, not in the slightest. And up until now, she had been under the assumption that he was well to do. Yet, Barrington spoke as if he knew him, their acquaintance going past moving in the same social circles.

  Lord Barrington nodded, his expression turning serious.

  “I am sorry to say that I did, madam. It brings me no pleasure to convey such news to you in light of your predicament. Yet, I feel you must know the truth about your betrothed. Percival and I were good friends once, you know.”

  Beatrice blinked. “I did not know that.”

  Indeed, it seemed there was much she did not know of her betrothed, far less than she was accustomed to, in any case. Knowing that he was once good friends with Lord Barrington helped explain their relationship.

  Clearly, it had not ended on good terms.

  “I confess I believed he told you all about me, Miss Beatrice,” Lord Barrington admitted. “I am glad to see he has not attempted to taint your image of me.”

  Beatrice made a vague hand gesture, sweat collecting on the back of her
neck.

  Should she share Mr Percival’s sentiments?

  Her need to find out what Lord Barrington knew overrode everything else.

  “He has warned me about you, my lord. Yet, he would not tell me the specifics. Only that a certain lady, sister to one of your close acquaintances, was quite distressed at your behaviour towards her.”

  It had taken quite a bit of convincing on her part, but Beatrice had managed to drag the truth out of him a few days ago. Reluctantly, he had imparted the information, intent on making her see the truth, and nothing more. Since then, she had been turning the story over and over in her head, unable to believe that such a charming man could be capable of such wretched behaviour.

  Lord Barrington scowled, his expression darkening.

  “His behaviour towards me is unforgivable, Miss Beatrice. I pray you will listen to me now, and hear the truth.”

  “Truth?”

  “It was Mr Percival who loved the young lady, not I. Oh, he felt quite strongly about her, but the violence of his emotions was far too much. I do not understand why he persists in this lie.”

  Beatrice sucked in a harsh breath.

  “It was William Percival?”

  Lord Barrington nodded.

  No, she refused to believe it.

  Mr Percival would not have lied to her in such a way, not while he stood before her.

  Yet, Lord Barrington had no reason to expose him in such a way, not as far as she was concerned. In her mind, she pictured a younger Mr Percival, in the throes of passion, overcome with the depth of his emotion, and it left a bad taste in the back of her mouth.

  Why could he not love her in such a manner?

  EIGHT

  “How do you do, Miss Beatrice?” Percival greeted, his lips curving into a smile. “You are looking well today.”

  “As do you, Mr Percival,” Miss Beatrice responded, a flicker of uncertainty in her tone. “I have called for some tea. Please, sit.”

  She gestured to the couch in front of her, and he perched on the edge of it, placing his hat atop his lap as he did. Across from him, Beatrice sat illuminated in a halo of soft light.

  His heart gave a violent lurch in response.

  “Are you quite alright, Miss Beatrice?” Percival asked, peering at her. “You look troubled.”

  “I confess I am troubled,” Miss Beatrice replied, avoiding his gaze. “I do not know what to believe.”

  “Believe?” Percival repeated, eyebrows knitted together. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you.”

  Miss Beatrice lifted her eyes up to meet his. “Perhaps you can. I spoke with Lord Barrington today.”

  At the mention of his name, Percival sat up straighter, his stomach twisting into anxious knots. “I did not know you and Lord Barrington were acquainted and on friendly terms.”

  “We are not,” Miss Beatrice replied. “But we have spoken on a number of occasions. Most recently this morning while I was outside the hat shop.”

  Percival ran his fingers along the front of his hat. “I see. And what did Lord Barrington tell you?”

  “He has informed of something most distressing, regarding you and a young lady of your acquaintance—”

  “Miss Beatrice,” Percival interrupted. “I am uncertain as to the nature of Lord Barrington’s lie, but I assure you, I have never behaved in an untoward way towards a woman.”

  Barrington you coward, a voice roared inside his head. I’m going to wring your neck if I see you.

  “Lord Barrington informed that you were once good friends,” Miss Beatrice revealed, eyeing him carefully, the expression in her bright eyes indecipherable. “Is this true?”

  “I regret to say that it is,” Percival admitted. “A long time ago when we were in school.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” Miss Beatrice pressed, vexation seeping into her voice. “Did you not think me worthy of such knowledge?”

  Percival grimaced. “I did not think it important, Miss Beatrice Lord Barrington and I were once good friends, and that is all there is to it.”

  “So, there is no truth to the story? Of your being in love with your friend’s sister?”

  “There is no truth,” Percival replied, his voice cold and exact. “It is Barrington who wronged the young lady, not I.”

  “I see.” Miss Beatrice leaned back.

  “You do not believe me,” Percival stated, his voice hardening. He rose to his feet, and raked his fingers through his hair. “Surely, I have proven myself to you, Miss Beatrice. I have done nothing improper, have I? I have not done anything to fan the flames of scandal?” he asked, his voice velvet yet edged with steel.

  “You have not,” Miss Beatrice admitted, but her disbelief rang in the tone of her voice.

  “Then why do you continue to treat me with little regard?” Percival demanded, pushing back the rising tide of confusion and bitterness. Over and over, she had insisted on questioning his motives, and he had no idea how much more of her scrutiny he would indulge.

  His well-developed self-control was on the brink of breaking.

  “I do not mean to offend you, Mr Percival,” Miss Beatrice insisted, her hands clenching the hem of her dress. “I only wish to know the truth.”

  “The truth is that I am innocent, and it is Lord Barrington who means you harm,” Percival informed her, his tone flat. “Yet, you do not seem to believe me, and I cannot make you.”

  Miss Beatrice rose to her feet, her expression ashen.

  “Mr Percival, please. You must understand that is quite difficult for me. I am not at all certain how to proceed, and I do not wish to cause any harm.”

  “I believe, my good lady, that it is too late for that,” Percival whispered, his voice loaded with disappointment.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted them, and a young woman stepped in, dressed in a crisp uniform, her dark eyes alert and intelligent. “There is a visitor for you, ma’am.”

  “Who is it?” Miss Beatrice asked, confusion written all over her face.

  “Lord Barrington, ma’am,” the woman replied.

  “You may tell his lordship that I will be with him momentarily.”

  “There is no need. I will leave you to his company,” Percival replied, his voice cool as ice. He bent down, picked up his hat and strode past her, ignoring her stumbled apologies and protests.

  In the foyer, he came face to face with Barrington, his hands flexing then un-flexing, the urge to connect with solid flesh and hear the satisfying crack nearly overpowering him. Barrington smirked, and Percival saw red until he heard Beatrice’s voice behind him.

  Then, he gave a shake of his head and pushed past the blackguard.

  ***

  “Mr Percival,” Mathew greeted. “Is there anything you require?”

  Percival paused in front of the door, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “I do not wish to be disturbed, Mathew.”

  With that, he yanked the door open and slammed it shut, catching the startled look on Mathew’s face before the thud echoed back to him. He stalked over to the tray in the corner, poured himself a generous amount of whiskey and gulped it all down, the burning liquid doing nothing to soothe the anger in his heart.

  He had half a mind to call upon Barrington and have it all over and done with. Oh, he would like nothing more than to challenge him to a duel. The thought of bringing the scoundrel to his knees brought him a strange sense of satisfaction.

  The blackguard.

  How dare he?

  He should’ve known that leaving Barrington to his own devices was a terrible idea. The villain had managed to worm his way into Miss Beatrice’s good graces, and had even prevailed upon her to listen to a rather interesting tale. A fabrication of the worst kind.

  Percival pressed his lips together, and reached for another drink, this time brandy. Some of the liquid sloshed over, but he didn’t care as he shrugged and downed it, sighing as it burned a path down his throat.

  The knot in his stomach still refused t
o unfurl.

  Seeing Barrington standing close to Miss Beatrice with a wicked smirk upon his features had been difficult, and it had taken every inch of self-control he possessed to keep from calling him out. In fact, it was the thought of the disastrous aftermath that allowed him to push down the anger that bubbled close to the surface.

  Except now he had no idea what to do with it.

  Miss Beatrice had been right, there were many things he kept from her, but not out of caution, or spite. Rather, it was simply fear. He did not wish for her to see him in a different light, as a man incapable of comporting himself in a polite and civilised manner.

  Oh, he was well aware that most of society now thought of him as stiff and indifferent, an image he had worked hard to cultivate, but he far preferred it to the alternative. A few years ago, he had been painted in a completely different light, and he had no desire to be known as that man once more.

  He winced at the path of his thoughts.

  It had been many years since he allowed himself to think of the Dowager Marie. A vixen with golden curls, green catlike eyes, and a way that could drive any man to distraction. Once upon a time, he had believed himself to be in love with her, had argued with anyone who dared speak a word against her, including his own father.

  But he had soon realised what a fool he’d been.

  The Dowager had not favoured him, above a slew of others, as he had imagined. All those instances when she had singled him out, preferring his company to that of other more powerful men had revealed themselves to be nothing more than a ruse, and a powerful one at that.

  The day he discovered that the Dowager had been dallying with another man had been the worst day of his life. He recalled the ache and twist in his heart as he’d fallen backwards against his chair, and the scream of anger tinged with agony as he realised the truth. That night, black skies had rolled in, and thunder had cackled overhead, rain pouring down in pelts, but it had washed nothing away.

  Instead, it had only stoked the rage and grief inside of his heart, forcing him to confront her. With perfect clarity, he remembered her neutral expression as she had regarded his anguished face, the cruel twist of her lips as she had confirmed the truth.