“Happy birthday, Lady Lanfordshire.” Mrs. Larson beamed, helping her to lift the gown over her head. “Ye’ll look bonny indeed in this. Lord Lanfordshire willna be able to keep his eyes off ye.”
Beatrice flushed, hoping that was the case. Over the past few weeks, Henry had immersed himself in the ledgers, uneasy about their profits from Aphrodite’s Unmentionables, but still trying to unravel years’ worth of financial problems. She hoped that he would put the books aside tonight, at least.
“Will Her Grace be joining ye and Lord Lanfordshire for supper tonight?” Mrs. Larson asked, as she finished buttoning up the new gown. “I could bake a cake, if it pleases my lady.”
“I’ve invited Victoria and His Grace,” Beatrice admitted. “I hope they will come, and yes, a cake would be lovely.” Though Victoria’s pregnancy was advancing rapidly, she was glad for her daughter’s company.
Mrs. Larson helped her fix her hair, and when it was done, Beatrice stared at the woman in the looking glass. The years had left their mark on her, and although she’d begun gaining back some of the weight she’d lost, she could no longer look at herself and see a young woman. There were lines around her eyes, and her neck showed the signs of aging. She gave a sigh and turned away. Some things couldn’t change.
When Henry came into their room, she forced a smile. “I haven’t seen you for most of the day.”
“I’ve been busy.” He hardly glanced at her, and she waited for him to say something about the gown. Instead, he went to the writing desk and opened several drawers in search of a pen.
Her earlier happiness deflated instantly. But then, he hadn’t really looked at her.
She crossed over to the desk and stood directly beside him, waiting. At last, he glanced up. His eyes passed over her updo, which Mrs. Larson had threaded with matching ribbon. Then he briefly saw the gown, but said nothing. “Was there something you wanted?”
Yes, she wanted to blurt out. I want you to notice me. I want you to see the wife you’ve been married to for over twenty years, and not just the mother of your daughters.
“Will you be joining us for supper tonight?” she asked. “Victoria and His Grace might come.”
He frowned a moment. “Shouldn’t she be at home, in her condition? Do you think it wise for her to travel?”
“We live a few miles from them,” Beatrice pointed out. “And it’s only supper.”
“Why would they come?” Henry asked. “And why are you all dressed up?”
“It’s my birthday today,” she pointed out. Clearly he’d forgotten. “And since this gown was a gift from our daughter, I thought it only polite to wear it.”
“Oh.” He found the pen he’d been searching for and closed the desk. “Then I suppose I ought to join you, then.”
“If it wouldn’t inconvenience you.” It took effort to keep the frost from her voice, as though nothing were wrong. She should have known he wouldn’t remember.
Henry nodded, and a moment later, a smile came over his face. “I do have a gift for you, Beatrice, as it turns out. I suppose since it’s your birthday, I might as well give it to you now. I sent for it from London.” He went to the chest of drawers on the far end of their bedroom and opened the bottom drawer.
Some of her resentment dissipated. Perhaps she’d been too quick to jump to conclusions. He had been gone to war for years, after all. With all that he’d been through, perhaps a birthday wasn’t something he thought about very much. Curiosity filled her when she saw the small brown-paper parcel.
When he gave it to her, the weight of the package surprised her. A sense of excitement filled her, as she wondered what gift he’d sent for, all the way from London. It couldn’t be the sapphire bracelet, for this was too heavy, and she’d sold that, years ago. Silver, perhaps?
She untied the strings and folded back the paper only to reveal a set of three brass doorknobs, complete with locks and metal keys. It took her a moment to realize that yes, he had indeed given her doorknobs for her birthday. Not silver. Not a token of affection.
Doorknobs.
A tightness took hold in her stomach, and she couldn’t find the words to say anything.
“After the fire, I thought we should protect ourselves with a set of new locks,” Henry explained. “I’ll have them put in, and then you’ll be safe from the danger.”
Beatrice set down the doorknobs, forcing the air in and out of her lungs. He truly thought it was a good gift. That was what rattled her the most. He didn’t know that anything was wrong.
With extreme effort, she kept herself from breaking into tears. “Take them, if you want,” she said quietly. “I wish to be alone for a while.”
“Don’t you… like them?” He rewrapped the doorknobs in the paper, staring at her as if he genuinely didn’t understand why she would be upset. “They’re made of solid brass, Beatrice.”
“I’m sure they will be fine. Please go.” Before she made a fool of herself and started weeping in front of him.
Only when the door closed behind her husband did she realize how utterly hopeless it was. She was wedded to a stranger who had been away to war so long, they didn’t know each other. She let the tears fall, gripping her handkerchief in one fist.
The door opened again, and he caught her crying. “Beatrice, what is it?”
“Nothing,” she sniffed, reaching for a handkerchief. She didn’t want to discuss it, especially now. Her own daughter had sent her a lovely gown, remembering her fondness for the color blue. And as for her husband—she knew he hadn’t remembered her birthday.
“You didn’t like them, did you?” he said.
A bitter laugh caught her. “What woman would want doorknobs for her birthday, Henry?”
At his bewildered look, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need anything. Just… try to remember to come to supper tonight at seven. Your daughter will want to see you.”
His expression grew shielded, but he nodded. “I’ll be there.”
She went to sit beside the window, resting her face against one hand. Henry wasn’t going to change. She’d grown old while he was gone and had become the wallpaper wife. One always there, hardly noticeable at all.
She’d simply never expected it to hurt so much.
Although they’d gone their own ways in the house, Paul could see that Juliette didn’t understand why he needed the distance. He’d been an utter fool when he’d thought he could marry her and be content with not making love to her.
It wasn’t as if she were walking around naked. No, she was dressed like a lady, she behaved like a lady, and he needed to stop thinking of her in that way.
But his mind would not let go of the sensation of having her bare skin against his own. She’d been so trusting, letting him have that moment. He’d wanted to spend all night exploring her body, watching her unravel before him. She was the girl he’d dreamed of marrying… and he wanted her to be happy.
He’d never expected that the night they’d shared together would cause such resentment in him. Not toward her, but toward the man who had hurt her.
Paul walked outside, hoping the physical exertion would give him the peace he craved. Jealousy was darkening his temper, and he needed to control it before he lashed out against the person he cared most about. Strathland had been inside her. He’d made her pregnant and given her a son she loved with all her heart. A son she’d had to give away.
Because of the violence, he couldn’t destroy those memories or eradicate Strathland’s presence. Every time Paul looked at his wife, he imagined her pain and fear. It broke him apart to know that he hadn’t been there for her. He hadn’t saved her.
And he still couldn’t save her, teaching her what it was to be with a man who loved her. She would never be mother to a son or daughter of his blood.
His gut twisted with anger and the need to kill Strathland. That would have to be his purpose now. Damned if poverty was enough for the earl. Paul wanted blood.
For nearly an hou
r, he walked across the land, unable to accept that it now belonged to him. It felt as if he’d stolen an inheritance from a more worthy man. He didn’t know the first thing about managing an estate or making sense of the ledgers.
But he knew someone who could make sense of them. He’d promised her the ledgers, after all.
With Juliette’s help, they both might make sense of his uncle’s holdings and work together to continue the profits. And when she was comfortable running the estate without him, he would turn to what mattered most.
Killing the man who had taken away everything.
There were days when being sixteen years old was a plague. Amelia knew she was lucky to even attend assemblies, but it bothered her that she was too young to speak to anyone under the age of forty.
She had her eye on Viscount Lisford. It didn’t matter that he was five-and-twenty. He was dashing and kind. His manners were exquisite, and he never once made a misstep when he danced.
She sent him the brightest smile she could muster, hoping that he would see her pining from across the room. Even if she was too young now, she could marry within two years.
Two. It sounded like eternity. She’d heard of a few young women who had married at seventeen, but when she’d asked about it, Mother had promptly informed her that the women had married because they had to. Whatever that meant.
“Don’t you think it’s time you went up to bed?” Margaret asked from behind her. “It’s after midnight.”
“You aren’t going to bed yet.”
“No, I’m not.” The serene look upon her older sister’s face was irritating.
“And how is your quest for a husband progressing?” Amelia tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but truly, it wasn’t fair that Margaret was old enough to do everything, while she had to remain pinned to Aunt Charlotte’s side.
To her surprise, Margaret blushed. “There might be someone. But I came to ask you about Juliette’s letter.”
“She asked me to send half a dozen of the you-know-whats to her.” Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in Margaret’s ear, “She wanted the most seductive we had.”
Margaret fanned herself furiously. “Well, I—I suppose Juliette has been married for nearly a fortnight now.”
“I took some of the extra garments that Victoria sent us and had them posted to Edinburgh instead. Madame Benedict doesn’t need to know about them.”
“I still don’t like the risk.” Margaret lowered her fan, frowning. “Though I have been glad about the money.”
“No one will know,” Amelia promised. “Our secret is entirely safe. In the meantime, we can continue to stand on the edges of the crowd like ninnies, hoping for a man to smile at us.”
Waiting around was not Amelia’s strong suit. She much preferred to make decisions and act upon them.
At that moment, the object of her adoration turned and began walking straight toward them. Amelia went breathless as the Viscount Lisford crossed the room. She half expected angels to begin singing when he smiled in her direction.
“Miss Andrews, I believe the next dance is mine?” he said.
Yes. A thousand times, yes.
But with horror, Amelia realized he was speaking to Margaret. Prim and proper Margaret. Not her.
The angels suddenly began screeching off-key in her brain. It’s a dance, she told herself. Only a dance.
But from the way her sister was returning Viscount Lisford’s smile, she knew what that meant. The “someone” Margaret had spoken of was escorting her to join in a country dance.
All the happiness within her dried up into a hollow shell. Margaret had known how much she wanted the viscount. She’d known it, but she’d gone and smiled at him anyway. Whatever happened to her complaints that Viscount Lisford gambled at White’s? And what about their Sisters’ Meeting, where Margaret had been more interested in the Earl of Castledon?
Whirling around, Amelia was prepared to march away when she crashed into a gentleman standing behind her. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Good Heavens. It was the Earl of Castledon—otherwise known to her as Sir Personality-of-a-Handkerchief. He was the very last person she wanted to encounter. A quick escape was what she needed.
“I should have watched where I was going,” she apologized. “I didn’t see you at all.”
“I was busy being a wallflower,” he remarked drily. “It doesn’t surprise me that you never noticed.”
She took a closer look and realized that he wasn’t entirely bad-looking. A little average, but he was exceptionally tall, and his blue eyes were nice.
“Men aren’t wallflowers,” she said. “The term is too delicate for a man. Stoic is a better word, I think. Or aloof.”
He eyed her in silent amusement. “Or I could be a wall-hedge instead of a flower. Shrubbery would be more masculine, don’t you think?” From the ironic look in his eyes, she suspected he was making fun of her.
Distracted, she answered, “Yes. That’s it exactly.” With a glance, she saw her aunt signaling her from across the room.
Right. She wasn’t supposed to be talking to men or to be seen in their presence. She hadn’t made her debut, and it was inappropriate to be anywhere near an unmarried man, even if he was harmless.
But as she apologized again and excused herself, she couldn’t help but cast another longing glance at the viscount of her dreams. Margaret wouldn’t try to steal Viscount Lisford, would she? Her sister truly ought to be with a man like Lord Castledon. A handkerchief who was kind, well-mannered, and likely would do whatever a woman told him to.
But from her sister’s blushing face, Amelia suspected that her worst fears might happen after all.
Chapter Fifteen
Juliette sat at the large mahogany desk, surrounded by ledgers. Her hands were stained with ink, and she’d spent hours deciphering Donald Fraser’s handwriting. Scraps of paper lay all over the desk, figures she’d tallied regarding the estate’s assets.
Her husband was not poor. Not tremendously wealthy, either, but his uncle had left him with several hundred acres of land. There was another estate, far to the north, which supposedly had sheep and acres for grazing, but it wasn’t clear if that house was suitable for a residence. Then there was another estate in the northwest region. Already she’d scribbled half a dozen ideas on how to increase their profits.
She set down her pen, still awed that Paul had given her command of the estate ledgers. It had been such a comfort to immerse herself in numbers, adding the columns and sorting everything into rents paid and bills that needed to be handled. It might have been an unusual gift for a new wife, but she was grateful to have a way of spending her hours. Especially since her husband had been avoiding her.
Despite her desire for a shared bedroom, he’d given her a room of her own, two doors down from his own.
Almost as if he didn’t trust himself not to open an adjoining door.
Their life had fallen into a pattern. Rising, eating meals together, and then he went to meet with the tenants, ensuring that they had everything they needed. At night, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then they went off to their own rooms.
It bothered her more than it should. Ever since the first night they’d shared together, she’d grown restless, realizing that she wanted more from this marriage. Her husband was keeping a respectful distance, and it irritated her. She wanted that closeness back, of being wedded to her best friend.
After she wrote to Victoria, her sister had sent a letter containing instructions that had made Juliette blush. But then, she’d wanted to know about ways of satisfying a husband. Her sister’s response had been eye-opening, to say the least. Even better, a package had arrived from Amelia that Juliette believed would help to make things right with Paul.
Footsteps approached the study, and she glanced up to see her husband standing in the doorway. “Did you find everything in order?” he asked. His hair was windblown from riding, and his coat was askew. She rose from her
chair and went to greet him.
“I did, yes.” She kissed him on the cheek, and added, “I think I’ve sorted it all out. If you’d like me to go over the figures with you—”
“I’ll leave it to your judgment,” he said. “Just tell me what you’re wanting to do, and you needn’t worry.” His demeanor was distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere. He was staring above her, outside the bay window.
“What is it?” she asked.
He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his coat. “I’ve received a letter from my mother, asking me to come back to Ballaloch.”
“Is something wrong?”
“That’s just it. Ne’er in my life has she written to me. It’s no’ her way.” He held out the letter, and Juliette took it. “I’ve no idea if she can even hold a pencil.”
“Obviously, she can, if she took the time to write to you.” Juliette smoothed out the paper, studying the note. Bridget informed her son that she needed him there to help with some of the crofters who were wounded. She urged him to come quickly.
“My mothers hasna asked for my help for as long as I can remember,” Paul said. “I don’t think she wrote this letter. Someone else did. Someone who wants me back at Ballaloch.”
And Juliette suspected she knew who that someone was—Brandon Carlisle, the Earl of Strathland. “How did he find us?”
“It’s no’ difficult. Not since I became the viscount.” He took back the letter and replaced it in his pocket. “The question is: What is he wanting?”
“Nothing good,” Juliette said. “He’s angry at us and at me for wedding you.”
“He canna change that.” Paul took her hands and drew her into his arms. She rested her cheek against his heart, and the scent of his skin made her want to cling even tighter. But he tensed the moment she did.
“You’ll stay here,” he told her. “I’ll go and find out what’s happening.”
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