“Yes, I suppose that is accurate.” Vincent sighed. “It is bad luck to be the last of your line.”
Gareth
nodded
silently.
Bad
luck,
indeed.
Sometimes it seemed his family had been cursed. Events of his life certainly supported such a foolish notion. He had once had two brothers, “spares” who might have saved him from this duty he did not wish to uphold.
But they had died within a year of each other, from two accidents. His mother had quickly fol owed, from a disease that had wasted her to near nothing before the end. Within a few years of her passing, his father had fal en il of an apoplexy and gone to the grave beside her.
Before his twenty-first year, Gareth had seen his entire family decimated. And then there was his first wife, Laurel. She had been cold in the ground for two years, though he could not blame anyone but himself for that tragedy.
“Duty be damned, friend,” Vincent said with a shake of his head. “It seems foolish to do something you want so little.”
Gareth shrugged. “What I want makes no difference now.”
Vincent’s eyes went wide. “Then you are determined to reenter Society.”
It took every effort for Gareth to nod his head. “That is why we have come to London, isn’t it?” A great sinking feeling settled over him, a weight on his shoulders that bogged him down. He could only hope it would not drown him in the end.
“Your task won’t be easy,” Vincent muttered, almost more to himself than to Gareth.
“No, my friend.” Gareth paced to the window and looked out at the rainy afternoon. “I do not think it shal be. I may be the only rich, titled and reasonably handsome man that no one wil choose to fight over.”
Chapter Two
B eatrice straightened her spine and fought the urge to work her stiff jaw. Damn, but smiling al the time was painful. No wonder she had never bothered much with the mask.
But no, that was the wrong way to think. She could change her life this Season. She would change her life, no matter what the cost.
Across the room, she caught a gentleman watching her. Mr. Roger Westin, she thought his name was. He was only the third son of a marquis, and at one time she might have turned up her nose at him. But he had made a tidy fortune from some sort of business venture. He would do.
She made her forced smile wider and met his gaze
…only to have him turn away with a shudder she recognized even from so far away. Her heart sank, but she refused to surrender to the panic rising in her chest.
Scanning the room, she found another gentleman who was away from the ladies. The Baronet Harker was older, yes, but he stil had most of his teeth. And three smal children who apparently needed a mother, if the gossip was to be believed. She shivered at the thought, but desperate times cal ed for desperate measures. She met his gaze. But like Mr. Westin before him, Harker did not return her advances. In fact he backed away, as if she might come across the room and hit him with her shoe. Then he found the first person close to him and launched into a conversation so that he could politely ignore her.
The flush of embarrassment and terror began to fil Beatrice’s cheeks, but before she could find a way to graceful y exit the room, her mother reached her elbow.
“Beneath you, both of them,” she whispered, though her voice was anything but low, and several people close at hand tittered at the ridiculousness of her statement.
With cheeks burning hotter than ever, Beatrice clenched her fists tight at her sides. Beneath her. How many hundreds of times had her mother said that of perfectly decent men? Ones who might have been good matches for her? In the beginning, Beatrice had believed her mother, scorning those men.
Over time, the scorn had become a shield she held up. Now it was just second nature. The thought of losing that bitter exterior that protected her from anyone getting too close, from seeing any vulnerability, was quite frightening despite the fact that it damaged her at every turn, just as her mother’s lofty expectations had.
“I thought you said that having an old maid as a daughter was a humiliation,” Beatrice hissed, keeping her voice low so that no one heard. “Is that not what you confessed to Miranda when she offered to take Winifred away for the Season?”
She tried not to flinch as she thought of watching Winifred ride off in Miranda’s fine carriage that very morning. Her sister had looked so happy to be free of their mother’s prodding. Beatrice couldn’t help but think that if she had not been so difficult, she, too, could have been free of her mother years ago, either by marriage or through some similar arrangement with her sisters.
“Yes, dear,” her mother said, her blank stare meeting Beatrice’s. “But that doesn’t mean I wish for you to settle for just any man.”
“An old maid like me cannot expect a gentleman with a title or grand fortune or…” Beatrice hesitated.
“Teeth.”
“Dearest—”
But she could not listen anymore. God, how she wanted an escape. And possibly a drink. And to hide from the crowd and their contempt for her. Perhaps she deserved it, for it was only a mirror of the feeling she had showered over others for so many years.
“I would like to take some air,” Beatrice choked out.
“I shal return in a moment.”
Her mother opened her mouth to protest, but Beatrice did not wait. She fled across the room and through the open terrace doors into the damp, cool night. It was a temporary respite, of course. Escape from her mother was always temporary, but she had no choice but to take what she could get.
One way or another.
“Beatrice, is that you?”
Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut hard. She recognized the voice that had intruded on her moment of peace as the voice of her oldest…and virtual y only remaining friend, Amelia Kinley.
“Yes, Amelia,” she said with a sigh. “I am here.”
Her friend stepped onto the dim terrace with a shiver. “There is a chil to the air, isn’t there? What in the world are you doing out here?”
Beatrice shrugged. “It has not been a good night, I am afraid.”
Her friend pursed her lips. “Yes, I assume not. The w ho l e ton is abuzz about how Lord and Lady Rothschild have taken your sister under their wing this Season and swept her off to the exclusive gathering at the Duke and Duchess Kilgrath’s in the country. Winifred wil surely make a good match there.”
Nostrils flaring, Beatrice calmed her natural reaction, which would have been to rip her friend to shreds and leave her crying. That would do her no good, no matter how enticing the idea was.
Instead, she sighed and turned to sarcasm rather than wrath. “Thank you, Amelia. Your observation is very helpful to me. After al , I am seven Seasons into my own old maidenhood. I wonder how many more I shal have before I am firmly and irretrievably on the shelf?”
Amelia tilted her head, clearly oblivious to Beatrice’s true emotions. “Two more probably. Mama says no one can reach a decade of being out without becoming hopeless, no matter how pretty or rich or charming they are. And you are neither rich nor charming.”
Beatrice stared. With most people, words like her friend’s would be subtle knives intended to destroy, but Amelia was too empty for such sabotage and cruelty. In truth, her friend was so stupid that she didn’t even realize she was being cal ous. The only reason Beatrice endured her was…
Wel , in truth, there were few people left who al owed her presence. Beatrice had settled for Amelia, and now, staring at her vapid friend, she wondered if she would be forced to marry someone just like her. Perhaps her only remaining hope was a man too empty
and
stupid
to
recognize
Beatrice’s
shortcomings.
It was almost too depressing to consider.
“Wel , thank you, Amelia,” she managed to grind out past clenched teeth. “I have much to think about thank
s to your blunt words.”
She pivoted, ready to stalk back into the bal room and the waiting clutches of her mother, when Amelia grasped her arm and yanked her back.
“Oh, great God,” her friend breathed.
Beatrice stared at Amelia, unaccustomed to any kind of real emotion from her empty little shel of a friend. Now Amelia’s eyes were wide, her mouth made an “O” and she was actual y trembling as she stared past Beatrice into the bal room.
“What is it?” she asked.
Her friend shook her head. “Did you not see who just entered the bal room?”
Beatrice turned and almost took a step back herself. The man who had just entered was not one she was personal y familiar with, of course, but she knew him by reputation.
“Is that the Marquis of Highcroft?” she breathed. Amelia nodded. “Gareth Berenger.”
“Gareth,” Beatrice repeated, staring at the man. He remained across the room, so she could not discern individual features in any kind of depth, but she got a good sense of him nonetheless. He was tal , broad shouldered and very handsome. His dark hair was too long in front and curled around his forehead like he couldn’t be bothered to give a damn about it. He had a strong, wel -defined jaw that even from this distance appeared clenched and tense.
“Wel , he is certainly as beautiful a man as gossip has labeled him,” Beatrice said softly.
Her friend gasped beside her and let go of her arm suddenly. “Why should anyone care about that?”
“Everyone always cares about that,” Beatrice said with a snort of laughter. “Please, you can do almost anything and get away with it if you are attractive. Especial y men.”
“That may be true most of the time,” Amelia huffed.
“But not in this case. My mama says a man like that wil never be accepted back into good Society. Not after what he did. It doesn’t matter how much money or beauty he brings out for everyone to see.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes as she looked once more at the specimen of a man who was moving across the floor. She couldn’t help it. She moved toward the entrance to the room to see him better. Now she could tel that his eyes were as dark as the aura that surrounded him.
People stepped back as he moved among them, cutting a swath through the room as if he were a pariah. Of course, he was, wasn’t he?
“Do you real y think he would never find acceptance in Society?” she murmured. “Even with al the benefits he could bring to the lady he courted?”
“Never,” Amelia hissed. “After al , everyone knows he murdered his wife.”
The vein in Gareth’s head was throbbing in time to the beat of the current song played by the orchestra. One- two-three, one-two-three, it pounded, making his vision blur and his stomach turn. Would this horrible night never end?
He paced from the edge of the dance floor and three young women al but tripped over one another to escape him, as if he would mangle one if he got within reach of her. It had been like that al night. Not one person beyond Vincent had spoken to him. They only stared.
In short, it was a complete disaster. Certainly Gareth had not expected to find a match here in one night, but he had hoped for a better reaction. Perhaps a hint that he could overcome the gossip that surrounded him.
“This is terrible,” he murmured as Vincent returned from fetching drinks.
His friend pursed his lips. “I won’t lie and say that it is good. I think you might be able to make some inroads with the men at some point. A few seemed open to it in theory when I spoke to them throughout the night, but…”
“But the mamas and widows and chaperones are petrified,” Gareth finished when his friend trailed off.
“And the men might eventual y do business with me or share port, but they wouldn’t hand over their daughters. None of them wil ever look beyond what they believe they know.”
Vincent shrugged. “It wil take time.”
Gareth shut his eyes. If his friend was trying to be kind, it wasn’t working. He wasn’t daft. He could see that it would take more than time; it would take a miracle to overcome the rumors that he had kil ed his wife. And her family had only made those rumors worse. They blamed him publicly, and that only heightened the reaction of the mob.
“I need air,” he muttered, and turned toward the terrace. Before he walked away, though, he noticed a young woman standing beside the punch table. She was alone, which was rare enough at these gatherings, and she was staring at him.
Her expression was not the sidelong glance of those who were whispering about him. And it wasn’t one of the shuddering, sneaking looks of the debutantes who believed him to be a monster.
No, this young lady was casting him a look that was quite different. Interest, tempered by a little fear, yes. But mostly appraising.
“Who is that?” Gareth asked with a subtle motion of his hand in her direction. “The blonde lady who is watching me so careful y.”
To his surprise, it was his friend who shivered when he fol owed Gareth’s motion and looked upon the staring woman in question. “Beatrice Albright is her name. They cal her—”
“The shrew,” Gareth interrupted. “Yes, I recal her from the days before my marriage. She had quite the reputation for being a…” He stopped. Cursing in the middle of the bal would do him no good. “Wel , they say she is difficult.”
“There is another word for it, friend,” Vincent said as he downed his drink.
Gareth smiled and it felt good for the first time this long, horrible night. “And did she ever marry?” he asked, casting his attention to the young lady a second time.
“Good God, no!” his friend burst out. “Who would ever have her after al these years?”
Gareth tilted his head. Shrew or not, she was beautiful, there was no denying that. Her thick blond hair was bound up at the nape of her neck and interesting tendrils bounced down around her breasts from the pretty style. She was wearing a fine gown made from some kind of delicate blue silk that matched the cornflower paleness of her eyes. If one went by surface appearance alone, one would think her quite mal eable and pretty.
A deeper look, however, would correct that assumption. A haughty turn to her ful lips, a snap of stubbornness to her eyes, yes, it was clear that this was a woman who would never bend. Not unless broken properly. An unexpected thril coursed through him at the thought of doing just that. Turning her from shrew to mewling kitten.
Beatrice was stil staring and he caught her glance and held there, waiting for her to turn away. Instead she folded her arms and stared right back. He almost laughed out loud. She had no idea just how much she was taunting him. Just how dangerous she was making him feel.
Suddenly an older woman appeared at her elbow and Beatrice turned away to face her.
“Stil , she is beautiful,” Gareth muttered as he broke away from her siren’s spel and moved toward the terrace door.
“Trust me, friend,” Vincent said as he fol owed. “No one wants her.”
“Yes,” Gareth muttered. “Just as no one wants me.”
At a young age, Beatrice had learned to block out her mother’s never-ending chatter. Sometimes that ability was the only thing to keep her sane, especial y when her mother had turned al her attention on Beatrice and her drive to marry her to someone better than even her sisters had found.
Tonight, she silently cherished her ability to make her mother’s voice fade, as Dorthea Albright was wildly chattering about the bal they had just returned from at such a speed that it would have made Beatrice’s head spin if she actual y attended. Instead, she insulated herself in her own thoughts as she paced the floor of the parlor.
Tonight had been a disaster. Somehow, in her heart she had retained a little hope that, if she put some smal effort into her behavior, she could regain some of the interest of those around her. She had pictured, however vaguely, that the more stupid men of the ton, or the ones with few prospects, might forget her reputation if she simply forced a smile and batted her eyelashes.
It hadn’t worked and it was perfectly clear that bridges had not just been burned over the years, but obliterated by both her own behavior and her mother’s. No one would have her…and even if she found someone who would, wel , she shuddered at the kind of man he might be, to overlook the shortcomings that kept others away.
Shutting her eyes, Beatrice rested her forehead against the cold glass of the window before her. It eased the ache a fraction and she sighed as she relaxed a little. Her mind slowed and she found it conjuring other images from the evening’s gathering. Ones of the Marquis of Highcroft.
He might have been the only person at tonight’s bal to have a worse experience than she had. While people shunned her ever so subtly, with him it had been utter rejection—terror, even. It was rare that someone with wealth, position and such attractiveness could not have his sins overlooked, but it seemed the marquis had struck upon that odd combination that made al his advantages fade in comparison to the rumors that swirled around him.
In some ways, she and the marquis were the same. They were both utterly rejected, their hope of overcoming the past almost nonexistent.
Beatrice opened her eyes and stared out at the darkened street. Hadn’t she vowed she would pursue a man no one else wanted? Of course, she hadn’t been picturing a potential murderer when she made that vow to marry, and the consequences of her choice be damned.
She looked over her shoulder to find her mother stil speaking. Girding herself for what she was about to do, she faced her mother and interrupted.
“Mama, al the talk was of the Marquis of Highcroft this evening. I have not seen him out in company since his wife’s death.”
Her mother’s lips pursed. “Yes, dear, I was just speaking of the marquis. Were you not attending?”
Beatrice flinched. “Yes, of course, I only have a slight ache in my head, I was momentarily distracted.”
The lie appeased her mother, as al lies did, and Dorthea launched into another long string of sentences without drawing breath. “I was shocked Lady Wilkinshire invited him at al , what with his reputation, but I believe they may have had some kind of friendship in the past, so perhaps he traded on that connection. Scoundrel!”
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