by Regina Darcy
“Nor can I,” Mr Percival admitted. “I shall be sure to pass along your gratitude, Miss Beatrice.”
“I must apologise, Mr Percival. I have misjudged you,” Beatrice admitted, softly. “I pray you can accept my sincerest apology.”
“It is quite alright, Miss Beatrice,” Mr Percival assured her. He patted her hand and continued to lead her around the estate, his steps sure and long, his face giving nothing away. Out of the corner of her eye, she continued to study him, growing more and more vexed by the minute.
Even after she had called his honour into question, he still would not show one inch of emotion, nor even relief at the fortuitous turn of events. She drew her hand away from his, and let them fall by her side, unable to help the budding frustration that now took root of her heart.
Mr Percival was not to be swayed, not by her, nor anyone else, it seemed.
“Did you enjoy the ball yesterday, Miss Beatrice?” Mr Percival inquired, his tone polite. “I find balls to be quite interesting.”
“Oh? Why is that, Mr Percival?” Beatrice asked, feigning interest in the topic. It appeared that, for the time being, and for future reference, Mr Percival was far more interested in making small talk than he was in anything else. “You were quite social.”
“I met many people I knew,” Mr Percival corrected, embarrassment creeping into his tone. “I must confess that while I do enjoy a good ball, the dancing can be quite tedious. It is the conversation I find stimulating.”
“Conversation?” Beatrice repeated, eyebrows knitted together. “Is not the point of a ball to engage in dancing? To converse while on the dance floor?”
“Sometimes,” Percival acknowledged. “But I find direct conversation to be far better.”
“I see.” Beatrice stopped in front of the fountain. Cool and clear liquid bubbled forth. The sculpture in the centre was of a young woman, her eyes cast upward, fingers clasped together. There was an unbearable sadness about her that always drew Beatrice in. She had wondered over the years as to the fate of the Italian sculptor who agreed to design it for her father.
“That is quite the sculpture,” Mr Percival commented. “I can tell the man who made it is talented.”
Beatrice reached forward and pressed her fingers to the cool marble. “He was. I confess I find the statue moving. The sadness in her eyes, the purse of her lips. I believe he has captured it all quite well, do you not?”
“Quite.”
She craned her neck over her shoulder to look at him, drawing her hand back as he did. He had his hands clasped behind his back, an intent expression on his features, but little else to reveal himself. Indeed, were it not for his gaze, she would have assumed he was entirely bored with the conversation.
“I am sorry if I am boring you with my talk of sentiment, Mr Percival,” Beatrice offered, moving so she was next to him. “I am quite prone to these bouts, you know.”
“I know. There is nothing wrong with sentiment,” Percival declared. “I find it can be quite useful.”
“Useful?” Beatrice repeated.
“Oh, yes. I suppose it helps people discover many a thing about others,” Mr Percival guessed, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead. “Shall we continue our walk? It is quite hot, isn’t it?”
“I’m enjoying the sun,” Beatrice replied, eyes narrowed slightly. “Was it hard, Mr Percival?”
“Hard?” Mr Percival echoed, eyebrows knitted together. “I’m afraid I do not take your meaning, Miss Beatrice.”
“To realise that your school friend had turned into such a man,” Beatrice added, quickly falling into step beside him, their pace slow and leisurely. “It must’ve been incredibly difficult for you. I imagine it was hard not being able to help your friend.”
“It was harder for Lord Graves,” Mr Percival pointed out. “And his poor sister. Lady Sarah is a fine woman, and she did not deserve to be a part of Barrington’s schemes.”
“Of course not,” Beatrice responded. “Surely you wished to avenge her?”
“Avenge her?” Mr Percival tilted his head to look at her. “What strange notions you have, Miss Beatrice. It was not my place to avenge her. Had I chosen to do so, it might have been misconstrued entirely. I am quite fond of Lady Sarah, but she is like my sister, and nothing else.”
“Naturally, but would you not have felt the need had it been your actual sister?” Beatrice asked, frustration colouring her tone. “Surely then you would have been overcome with emotion, and would’ve demanded retribution.”
Mr Percival frowned. “Miss Beatrice, I do not know what you take me for, but I am an honourable and fair man. I would not have taken such a matter lightly, but I find that reacting in such a strong and violent manner will achieve nothing.”
“Not even if it was your own sister?” Beatrice pressed, a rising sense of panic in her voice. “Surely you would’ve felt differently, or if it were your wife he had offended.”
Mr Percival exhaled. “No, I do not believe I would’ve allowed myself to engage in such behaviour. It is most unbecoming of a gentleman. Nay, it is far better to be a gentleman, to adhere to a certain standard of behaviour, and to conduct myself with the utmost civility at all times.”
Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fingers to her temples. “You are not an emotional man, Mr Percival.”
“I certainly do my best not to be,” Mr Percival confirmed. “It is far better to be in control, Miss Beatrice.”
“Quite,” Beatrice murmured, the growing pressure mounting in the back of her head making it difficult to breathe.
Mr Percival, alarmed at the paleness of her features, took her hand and led her to the nearest bench.
“Shall I fetch a doctor?”
“No.”
“Perhaps I should find your sister.”
Beatrice gave a slight shake of her had.
“Your father then?”
“No,” Beatrice insisted, sharper than she intended. Her eyes flew open, and she offered Mr Percival a small smile. “I am sorry, Mr Percival. I do believe the sun is quite hot today. You were right. I had better rest. I will be quite alright in a few minutes. You need not fear.”
Mr Percival shifted from one foot to the other, gave her a long look, eyes flickering with uncertainty then nodded. Over the course of the next few minutes, he stood there, his hands pressed behind his back, spine erect as he regarded her.
“Shall we head back, Miss Beatrice?” Mr Percival suggested, gently. “I believe there are some matters I must attend to.”
An hour later, after a small amount of conversation, they made their way back to the main house. Each step Beatrice took felt heavier than the last. Finally, they stood at the foot of the door, with Caroline and her Papa lingering nearby.
“I understand the Duke wishes to throw a ball in your honour. I have already insisted that it be held at my estate.”
“You are too kind, Mr Percival,” Beatrice replied, in shock.
“It is my pleasure, Miss Beatrice.”
“You cannot imagine the depth of my regret, Mr Percival,” Beatrice began, tilting her head back to look at his defined and handsome features, with the sun right behind him, giving him a soft and warm glow. “I do so hope we can put it behind us.”
Mr Percival nodded. “It is already forgotten.”
“I cannot bear for you to think ill of me, Mr Percival,” Beatrice added, searching his face for something, a brief flicker of emotion, but he remained impassive, if a little uncomfortable. “Please say it is not so.”
“Not at all.”
Beatrice felt the lump in the back of her throat, tears stinging her eyes. “I pray you are right.”
Mr Percival swallowed, his arms reaching up before he gave a slight shake of his head and pushed them back down. In an instant, he was upright once more, a polite expression on his features as he took his leave.
ELEVEN
“Why are you hiding in the corner?”
Beatrice pressed he
r mouth to her lips and glanced over Caroline’s shoulder, drawing her into a more secluded corner, behind a large group of men and women conversing rather loudly.
The ball at Mr Percival’s estate had started amicably enough, with guests dressed in all assortments of fashion and colours. Beatrice had been more intrigued with the estate itself, the large manor equalling that of any lord, the massive gardens putting any she had seen before to shame. If there was any proof that Mr Percival did not need money, it was this.
She had been enjoying her time immensely until she had caught sight of Lord Barrington. Why he would even be here, she could not understand. However, knowing Mr Percival and how he wished to be perceived by the ton, he would not have allowed his differences with Lord Barrington result in gossip. He would rise above this.
That did not mean Beatrice had to be happy about it.
“I don’t want Lord Barrington to see me,” Beatrice whispered, eyeing him from across the room as he tossed his head back and roared, his eyes sweeping all over the young ladies. There was something disconcerting and lecherous about his gaze.
“What a well-behaved snake he is,” Caroline noted, glancing over her shoulder before she used her hands to fan herself. “Personally, I do believe he should tie himself to a vain heiress, and then he can understand how insufferable he is.”
Beatrice glowered. “He is, and he thinks the world of himself. Yet, it is unlikely that bad fortune will find him.”
Caroline stood next to her. “How about Mr Percival? I did not see you dance with him. Has he not approached you?”
At the mention of his name, a swarm of butterflies erupted in her stomach, and Beatrice sighed, spotting the tall man in the corner talking with an older looking couple.
He had only approached her to give a perfunctory greeting. The simmering fire she had glimpsed once in his eyes seemed extinguished.
Beatrice bit her lip. She had really made a mess of things.
Whenever he danced with another debutante, it was as if he stabbed a knife in her heart.
“I’m afraid I have turned him away from me,” she admitted miserably to her sister. “Oh Caro, I am lost. I was afraid of how he made me feel,” Beatrice murmured, the tips of her ears turning red with shame. She downed the glass in her hand, set it down on a tray and snatched another one. The sparkling drink danced on the tip of her tongue, rich in the flavour of apples and an underlying citrus taste.
Beatrice unfolded her fan and used it to cool herself. “I cannot think what to do. I am still ashamed of my earlier behaviour.”
Admittedly, that was not her only problem.
Mr Percival seemed now even more indifferent and reserved. She had no idea why she had assumed matters would be different now that she knew the truth, but nothing had changed, save for her opinion of him.
Increasingly, she was starting to wonder if perhaps the passionate gentleman she had but glimpsed was a figment of her imagination. But her love for him was such that she didn’t care. Whatever he could give of himself to her would be enough. Surely a few small smiles and loving glances sent her way could sustain a marriage.
It was not unheard of.
After all, plenty of marriages had been founded on less, and she felt certain Mr Percival would treat her well and with honour. At the very least, there would be respect and care between them.
She clenched her fists.
She couldn’t deny to herself that she wanted more.
Perhaps it was foolish and naïve of her, but she wanted him to feel the way she did, as if her heart were about to burst out of her chest, out the balcony and into the night air, disappearing onto the grounds.
She knew all too well that she could not make Mr Percival love her in the way she desired, not through force. And now he was vexed by her lack of trust. Could they find their way back to where they had been the week before, if not last year?
“Quick. He’s coming this way. Hide behind the curtain,” Caroline instructed, shoving her sister. She artfully placed herself in a way that concealed Beatrice altogether while she stood pressed against the cool glass and trying to quiet the sound of her breathing.
“Miss Caroline,” Lord Barrington said, his voice ringing against Beatrice’s ear. “You look lovely tonight. Have you seen your sister?”
“I have not,” Caroline responded, her tone clipped and measured. “I do believe you could do with some fresh air, my lord.”
“Fresh air?” Lord Barrington repeated. “Nonsense. I feel fine.”
“I shall inform my sister that you are looking for her if I should happen upon her.”
“Please do.”
Seconds later, Beatrice pushed the curtain back, sucked in a deep breath and leaned against Caroline.
“Perhaps you had better get some fresh air, Bea.”
Beatrice drew herself up to her full height and gave a slight shake of her head, a few wayward strands of hair escaping her up-do and framing her face.
“No, I am well. Go and dance with your betrothed. I am sure Lord Stanway is wondering as to your whereabouts.”
Caroline gave her one last look before she left. Beatrice clung to the shadows, moving slowly until she exited the ballroom and stood in the centre of a large foyer, and the grand staircase. Slowly, she drifted up the stairs in search of a powder room, and found herself wandering down the carpeted halls, quietly taking in the splendour of such a magnificent place.
Her feet ached, making it difficult for her to take one more step, so she glanced around, slipped off her shoes and settled on top of the stairs. Her dress fluttered around her before she managed to adjust it. She caught snippets of music and conversation floating in from downstairs.
After a good twenty minutes of blissful freedom, she made her way back to the ballroom and floated towards a corner and stood, watching the elegant assembly unfold before her.
“There you are,” Caroline exclaimed, pushing her way past the people. “This ball is in your honour, Beatrice. The guest of honour cannot simply disappear.”
“Yes, but it is at Pembroke estate,” Beatrice reminded her. “I know the duke means well, but why did he agree to host a ball in my honour at Mr Percival’s estate?”
“Because Mr Percival offered,” Caroline muttered. “He is still your betrothed, and it is not unheard of.”
“Yes, but the entire ordeal is awkward now,” Beatrice replied. “How can I face him after I have treated him?”
“You have already apologised, dearest,” Caroline told her, in a low voice. “Now there is nothing more to do but try and move past it. You must put the entire situation out of your mind and avoid Lord Barrington.”
At the mention of his name, Beatrice scowled and shot him a long look from where she stood. He had long since moved his attention to other young ladies, having sensed her reluctance and the distaste in her manners.
Scoundrel.
She could scarcely believe she once found him attractive, or even the least bit charming. Looking at him now, she could see him for what he truly was, and it made her sick to her stomach. She didn’t have the faintest clue how either Lord Graves or Mr Percival could bear the sight of him, or how Lady Sarah managed to face him down in polite society, but she was in awe of all of them. And she was appreciative of the truth. It could not have been easy for Mr Percival to persuade Lord Graves to tell her, having long since moved past it, but it had been the only way to save their relationship.
Lord Graves was a good man, and a true friend. Mr Percival was awfully lucky to have him.
Then, Mr Percival was by her side, his face a mask of politeness.
“Are you not enjoying yourself, Miss Beatrice?”
“Oh, I am,” Beatrice assured him.
“But you are not dancing?”
“Oh, I wished to observe the people for a while,” Beatrice replied. Mr Percival raised an eyebrow, looked over his shoulder then took a step forward.
“May I be so bold as to join you?”
Beatrice raised
herself up to full height to gain courage. “It would not be displeasing, Mr Percival, quite the contrary. Of course you may do as you please.”
“Not if it displeases you,” Mr Percival replied a glint in his eyes. “I should like to not quarrel with you, Miss Winters. Come, let us be friends. Would you mind if I join you?”
Beatrice shook her head. “I do not wish to quarrel either, sir. I shall be glad of the company, Mr Percival.”
In response, Beatrice’s stomach did an odd little lurch, but she shoved the feeling back down.
Quietly, Mr Percival stood next to her, conversing with a few people who came their way, but largely leaving her to her own devices. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the dignity and pride with which he conducted himself, and the warmth in his eyes as he made everyone at ease.
Oh, if only she could discern her true feelings for this enigmatic gentleman.
Even now as she stood next to him, both awkward and excited, it did not make sense to her. Everyone, including her own family, believed him to be incapable of any deep feeling, and she did not believe it was something she could disregard.
A life without passion…not even a drop. Surely she could not settle for this? Not for the whole world, and not for the man she was betrothed to.
“Would you not care to dance, Miss Beatrice?” Mr Percival inquired, tilting his neck in her direction.
“I’m afraid I’m quite tired, sir,” Beatrice told him, shyly. “I do not wish to offend you.”
“Oh, not at all,” Mr Percival assured her, angling his body so he was facing her. “Are you certain the ball is to your liking?”
“You have outdone yourself, Mr Percival,” Beatrice assured him, admiration and sincerity creeping into her tone. “Truly you have. You should not have gone to so much trouble. I would have been perfectly happy with a simple affair.”
“Nothing is too much trouble for you,” Mr Percival replied, his eyes locking with hers. Suddenly Beatrice felt unable to breath, the intensity of his gaze blazing a trail through her treacherous heart.