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

by Regina Darcy

  Confused she took her leave and practically ran out of the room.

  ***

  Later, she found herself lost in the labyrinth of hallways upstairs while she floated around, acquainting herself with the large and splendid estate. On her way down, she stumbled across her Papa atop the staircase, his legs spread out before him. Carefully, she took a seat next to him and sighed.

  “Beatrice,” Lord Lockley exclaimed, looking sheepish. “Why are you upstairs? Shouldn’t you be enjoying the party?”

  “I needed to get away for a bit,” Beatrice explained, her gaze raked over him before they stopped at his eyes, and she raised an eyebrow. “What were you up to?”

  Lord Lockley coughed then ran his hands over his face. “I must look like a wretched sight, but I fell asleep while perusing Mr Percival’s books. He really does have a magnificent library.”

  “And he allowed you to see it?” Beatrice asked.

  Lord Lockley nodded. “I hope that does not upset you.”

  “Why would it upset me?”

  Lord Lockley exhaled, leaned against the railing, and stretched his stocking-clad feet ahead of him. He peered at her through unfocused eyes, and the smell of whiskey lingering on his coat made her nose wrinkle.

  “I know you have not been having an easy time,” Lord Lockley began. “And there is not much I can do but hope you see what a good and honest man Mr Percival is.”

  “I know he is,” Beatrice replied, clasping her fingers in front of her and staring down the stairs. “I just do not know if he is a good match for me, Papa. I cannot tell if he feels anything for me beyond respect.”

  “I am certain you will be able to tell,” Lord Lockley protested, flailing his arms as he did. Downstairs, the ball continued, with several whispered giggles and chuckles traveling up the stairs to them.

  “How?” Beatrice asked, in a quiet voice. “If I cannot remember Mr Percival then I cannot recall if I had made my peace with his indifference. What if actions are not enough, Papa? Mr Percival has been a most perfect gentleman, but I fear he is not swayed by sentiment as I am, and I cannot tell if I can overlook that.”

  Lord Lockley slapped his hand against his thigh and chuckled. “My dear, men are not the same. Few of us are swayed by sentiment as women are, and that is not a bad thing, but I think I understand your meaning.”

  “I think Mr Percival thinks of me as a sister,” Beatrice admitted. “Not as a wife.”

  “What makes you think he does not?” Lord Lockley asked, tilting his head to look at her. “Is it because he is not a man who expresses himself well?”

  Beatrice turned to face her father and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why do you not look at his actions then?” Lord Lockley suggested, after a lengthy pause. “Or are they confusing as well?”

  “I think I am the one confused,” Beatrice admitted. “It all feels very one sided, Papa, and I know it is foolish, and fanciful of me, but I wish to marry for love.”

  “That is not foolish nor fanciful. Your mother, may she rest in peace, and I had thirty good years together. I pray you will have the same.”

  Beatrice frowned. “Is it not more prudent for me to make a marriage of convenience?”

  Lord Lockley waved her comment away, a hiccough passing through his lips. “What poppycock. Of course not. Ideally you should marry well and for love, as I and your mother did. I say follow your heart. After all, your sisters have already been fortunate enough to snare men of fortunes. Luckily, love is also present in these matches. You have the luxury to make your own choice, without worrying about the others. ”

  “Yes,” Beatrice commented. “It was very fortunate indeed, Theodora and Caroline both seem awfully happy. I do miss Ann, Papa. Is she happy?”

  “She will be,” Lord Lockley assured her, leaning across to pat her hand. “Although I will admit that I find this whole business with the Marquees to be an unpleasant one. I am certain it shall all work out for the best in the end. She has Theodora, after all, and the Duke of Sotheby is a fine fellow. They will both ensure that your sister does not come to any harm.”

  “What if she loves him, Papa?”

  “There has to be more than love, my dear,” Lord Lockley added. “There has to be respect, and a desire to see one do well.”

  “Of course,” Beatrice agreed. She turned her eyes away from her father and looked ahead, her thoughts churning once more. “I pray she will find happiness as Caroline and Theodora have.”

  “She will,” Lord Lockley expressed. “As will you, my darling. I know you are afraid, but all will be well in time.”

  “Your memory will return, my dear,” Lord Lockley added, as if sensing her dismay. “You must simply learn to be patient, and I have faith that when you do, you will realise the true value of Mr Percival.”

  “And if I do not?” Beatrice questioned, her voice dropping an octave, sweeping over her father’s ears intently, and noticing the bright look in his eyes. Lord Lockley scratched his chin and shrugged.

  “Well, my dear, then no one can make you,” Lord Lockley replied. “Mr Percival is a fine fellow, and I cannot deny that I am fond of the lad, but if you do not wish to marry him, there are plenty of others. Just do your Papa a favour, and do not consider Lord Barrington as a suitor.”

  Beatrice gave an un-lady like snort. “Definitely not.”

  “I am relieved to hear you do not find him to be interesting. I have heard several stories regarding the true nature of his person, nothing I can repeat in the presence of such delicate company. Suffice to say, he is not a gentleman.”

  Beatrice squeezed his hand. “Do not worry, Papa.”

  Lord Barrington was certainly the last man she would consider as an alternative. Not only did he pale in comparison to Mr Percival, but after learning the true nature of his transgressions, she found she could not bear the thought of him, much less stomach his company.

  In any case, it was likely for the best considering his past.

  No, it was not Lord Barrington she thought of as she leaned her head against her father’s shoulder, finding comfort in the faint remnants of his favourite tobacco. Lord Lockley hummed under his breath and tapped his feet against the stairs, a small smile playing on his features.

  It was Mr Percival who resided in her heart, firmly and completely. She had no desire to uproot him, but she knew that if she could not make her peace, she would have to. After all, it would not do for her to be miserably tied to him, and he to her.

  Indeed, both of them deserved a far better fate, and a chance at something more.

  Oh, good Lord, I pray to you for guidance.

  TWELVE

  “I am going back to the ball,” Lord Lockley decided, leaping to his feet. He stopped, patted Beatrice on the shoulder, took a few staggering steps then righted himself and made it all the way down without falling flat on his face. She watched him for a few minutes until he disappeared. Then she stood up, carrying her shoes in her hand, and wandered around the dimly lit hallways, casting long shadows across the wall.

  She imagined it was easy to get lost in a manor of this size, and it was a wonder Mr Percival did not give them a tour downstairs in order to ensure none of his guests got lost in the labyrinth. Amused by the idea, Beatrice ventured further into the house, taking a series of twists and turns as she studied the portraits on the wall, in no real hurry to return to the party.

  She knew Caroline would make excuses for her should the need arise, but she could not help the guilt that blossomed in the pit of her stomach, especially as she noticed the amount of effort Mr Percival had gone through.

  A ball of this magnitude had, doubtless, taken a lot of effort, energy, and money to put together. But while she was flattered, she could not help but feel conflicted still, the depth of her emotion scaring her as somewhere down below, amidst the throngs of people, her betrothed stood, with a drink in his hand, surrounded by well-wishers.

  What is the matter with you, Beatrice? He is a good and honest
man. Everyone agrees, and even if you can see it now that you are not busy judging him. Why not give him a chance?

  Truthfully, she was afraid of getting her heart broken. She was terrified of handing Mr Percival the key to her heart and a map to her soul, only for him to peruse it idly before he tucked it away, with no interest in exploring further.

  No, she could bear many things in life, even spinsterhood. But she could not stomach the idea of being another ornament in this grand house, a grand prize Mr Percival only paid attention to when guests were around.

  Better to be alone than to live in such a manner.

  She wriggled her toes, stared at the lush carpet beneath her, and nearly walked right into a wall, righting herself at the last second and admonishing herself for her carelessness. Startled, she found herself face to face with a portrait of the master of the house himself, his bright eyes full of intelligence, and his lips curved into a half smile, full of secrets and promises.

  Decked out in the finest of clothes, he looked every inch a handsome gentleman, and Beatrice took her time studying the portrait before her. She pressed her fingers to it, lightly traced his outline, then drew back, embarrassed at the boldness of her gesture.

  “Miss Beatrice.”

  Beatrice froze and wheeled around, searching the hallway, but finding no on there. She frowned, rubbed her eyes and sighed.

  “Miss Beatrice,” Lord Barrington called again, louder this time. “Where have you gone?”

  Beatrice paled, the thought of being stuck alone with Lord Barrington making her stomach twist in on itself, filling her with a sense of dread. She knew she could not give him a chance to ruin her, and without a chaperone, she would have to make do.

  With that in mind, she tried the knobs on several doors to her right then left before she finally found one that gave away. She ducked inside, her heart hammering against her chest, and a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.

  “Was the ball not to your liking, Miss Beatrice?”

  She gasped, hand flying to her chest as she spun around, back pressed to the wall, and her fingers clutching her shoes above her head as weapons if the need arose. But it was only Mr Percival standing in the far corner of the room, firelight dancing and cackling behind him, and his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned and muscular arms. She blushed and averted her gaze, lowering her shoes as she did.

  “Forgive me, Mr Percival. I did not mean to intrude,” Beatrice spoke. Her eyes danced across the room, taking in the half finished carved wood and the woodsy smell that lingered in the chamber.

  “It is quite alright,” Mr Percival assured her. “Not many people have been in here aside from my housekeeper, and a few of the cleaning ladies.”

  Beatrice pushed herself off the wall, and stared. Her heart thudded quietly against her ribcage as she took two steps forward and openly looked around the room, realising with startling clarity that Mr Percival was nothing at all like she imagined.

  Indeed, her fiancé was not a banker, ruled by logic, numbers, and columns. To her surprise, she realised that he was an artist, a man who liked to work with his hands, and possessed the knack for it, too. She had apparently walked in on him wielding his tools and hard at work. William Percival was a wood artist at heart!

  “Why are you not downstairs?” she asked, not able to think of anything else to say.

  “If you remember, Miss Beatrice, I do find balls interesting, but do not care for them much,” he replied. “I wished only for you to enjoy this one as it is in your honour.”

  “But you are here,” Beatrice smiled.

  “Sometimes I need to get away, even from a ball in my own house.” He looked at his unfinished work, and she let the beauty of it wash over her. “Sometimes I need to think and work through certain emotions, and it is here that I do it.”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Beatrice whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I had no idea you were capable of making such things.”

  “Their beauty is nothing compared to yours, Miss Beatrice,” Mr Percival told her, quietly. She wheeled around to face him, her breath catching in her throat as she recognised the look in his eyes, the yearning and warmth.

  He took a few steps forward, unrolled his sleeves and stopped an inch away from her. “I always meant to tell you about this place. Before, when we were engaged, you used tease me about my lack of interests, but I did not know if you would approve.”

  Beatrice blinked. “Why would I not approve?”

  “Most fine ladies do not wish for their husband to do any kind of work with their hands,” Percival replied, caution creeping into his tone. “And I was uncertain if you were the same, but I should have realised you were not.”

  “There is much we still have to learn about each other,” Beatrice murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from him. The love she felt for him rose within her, overwhelming her, a declaration on the tip of her tongue.

  Her heart sounded out his name, and his alone.

  “There is,” Percival agreed. “I am sorry you have been having a difficult time, Miss Beatrice. It is not my intention to make it more difficult. On the contrary, I offered to hold the ball here in the hopes that I would be able to win you back, but I fear I have failed.”

  “What makes you think you have failed?” Beatrice asked.

  Mr Percival gestured around him. “You are hiding in my workshop instead of enjoying the music, the company, and the food downstairs.”

  “I found the ball to be a bit tiresome,” Beatrice admitted.

  Mr Percival’s face turned expressionless.

  “Without the right company,” she added. “I have been foolish, Mr Percival, and allowed my fear and others to dictate my actions. I will no longer do so.”

  “Dare I hope that your affections do not lay elsewhere?” Mr Percival mouthed, his eyes suddenly blazing with an unknown emotion. “Dare I hope that I may be at the forefront of your regards, Miss Beatrice?”

  “You may,” Beatrice mouthed, stepping away from him and looking around the room, the butterflies in her stomach multiplying, a thick lump rising in the back of her throat. She stopped near the fireplace, held her hands there then turned to look at Mr Percival. He remained rooted to the spot, his expression indecipherable. Boldly, she stepped closer to the piece he was working on, crouched and peered at it, a gasp of surprise falling from her lips.

  “Is this a baby crib?” Beatrice wondered. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It was meant to be a wedding gift,” Mr Percival told her, his smile almost wistful. He moved closer, touched the wood, and cleared his throat. “I know I have not been forthcoming with my affections, Miss Beatrice, but is it not because I do not feel them. It is only because I feel so much, it is difficult to put into words.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  “Sometimes, I find it difficult to speak around you,” Mr Percival explained. “So I hoped the crib would be a token of my affection, and a symbol of the family we both hope to have one day.”

  A labour of love, sculpted to perfection.

  Beatrice could not imagine the amount of time it had taken him to create such a piece, nor the hours he had invested toiling away, sweat pouring down his back, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  And here she believed he was incapable of great feeling. Suddenly, she had no idea how the idea came about to begin with. Had she looked hard enough, she would’ve seen it plain as day.

  In that moment, realising how difficult it must’ve been for him to hold back and to hope his actions were enough, the feelings she felt for him grew tenfold.

  “Will you do me the honour of a dance, Miss Beatrice?” Mr Percival asked, taking a step back and holding his hand out.

  Beatrice gave a start. “Here?”

  “We have not been able to do so in the ballroom,” Percival pointed out. “I believe we will have better luck here.”

  Beatrice nodded and slipped her hand in his, allowing him to pull her as close
as was permissible. His hand rested on her waist, forming a circle between them as he began to lead, humming a melody under his breath.

  Slowly, they moved around the room, weaving in and out of pieces he had carved and sculpted, some finished and gleaming in the firelight while others still required his attention. Through it all, her eyes remained on his, swimming in their depths, a swell of feeling blossoming within her heart.

  “Are you an accomplished singer as well, Mr Percival?” Beatrice teased, feeling lightheaded from all the spinning and being around him. “You do have a soothing voice.”

  “I do believe my mother would be delighted to hear that,” Mr Percival replied, his face lighting up. “She used to sing to me when I was younger, but my father was of the opinion that a man should take up other hobbies.”

  “I see. And what do you believe?”

  “I am very much enjoying dancing with you,” Mr Percival told her, voice laced with emotion. “And we can return to the ball if that is your wish.”

  Beatrice knew what she should say, caught between propriety and feeling. But she gave a slight shake of her head, knowing she was safe and in good hands with Mr Percival who was observing all manner of decorum and etiquette.

  “I am enjoying myself, too,” Beatrice admitted, a flush stealing across her cheeks. “And I must apologise once more for my poor behaviour, Mr Percival. Surely, you deserve better.”

  “I understand that you only wished to be sure of my affections,” Mr Percival revealed. “I would expect nothing less. It is no different than the first time I courted you and you saw something in me.”

  “What did I see?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, Miss Beatrice,” Mr Percival admitted. “I fear I am not at all certain. But I am glad you did, and I pray you will see it once more.” He smiled at her. “After all, there is little I can offer other than my heart.”

  She opened her mouth, everything she had been holding back yearning to burst forth, to fill up the space between them. Yet, before she could declare her feelings for him, something happened, a small niggling in the back of her head.