Love and Marriage

by Alexandra Ivy

  The mere thought was enough to make the vicar’s stomach roll in an alarming fashion.

  “Dear heavens. She must be very desperate to turn her attentions to a poor, aging vicar.”

  Beatrice flashed him a charming smile. “Nonsense. I would say she possesses excellent taste. What woman would not desire a gentleman who is so kind and gentle?”

  Humbly firmly put the woman from his mind. Mrs. Quarry and her hunt for a husband thankfully had nothing to do with his visit to Derbyshire.

  “And is that what you searched for in a husband, my dear?” he inquired in deliberately light tones.

  Her steps momentarily faltered before Beatrice grasped the wooden railing and continued down the stairs.

  “That was my hope, certainly.”

  “But Lord Faulconer is not kind or gentle? Does he abuse you, Beatrice?”

  She flashed him a satisfyingly shocked glance. “Of course not.”

  “But he is not what you had hoped him to be?”

  Her lips twisted. “You are very perceptive.”

  “It does not take much perception to realize you are not happy, my dear.”

  “I suppose not.” She grimaced ruefully. “I have never been good at hiding my feelings.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and Humbly placed a hand on Beatrice’s arm to bring her to a halt. His heart ached to see the barely hidden wounds in her beautiful eyes.

  “What is it, Beatrice?”

  She hesitated, no doubt considering whether he would be satisfied with a flippant response. But his expression of gentle determination must have warned her that he was not to be swayed, as she heaved a resigned sigh.

  “When I first met Lord Faulconer I thought him different from the other gentlemen of the ton, ”she at last said in tones so low they were barely audible. “He did not attempt to turn my head with absurd claims of beauty I obviously do not possess, nor seek to lure me into a compromising situation as so many fortune hunters had attempted before. Instead, he truly appeared interested in my odd fancies and not at all put off by my lack of female talents.”

  “He seems to be a very wise gentleman,” Humbly complimented with a smile.

  She wrapped her arms about her waist in an unwittingly protective manner.

  “Wise enough to realize that I would not be fooled by the sort of flirtations most women prefer. Instead, he won my trust by pretending to be my friend.”

  Having seen the painful longing in Lord Faulconer’s eyes, Humbly gave a slow shake of his head.

  “Pretending? Are you certain, Beatrice?”

  She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Look about you, Mr. Humbly. Falcon Park was on the threshold of tumbling into obscurity. Lord Faulconer’s only hope in saving the estate was to wed for money. A great deal of money.”

  “Well, many of the ton choose their spouses for reasons other than love,” Humbly pointed out in reasonable tones. “That does not mean he is not your friend.”

  A flare of pain hardened her features. It was obvious she felt betrayed by the man who had won her trust.

  “If he had been my friend, he would have told me from the beginning he was seeking an heiress. The fact that he deliberately allowed me to believe he was well situated proves that he had no concern for my feelings.”

  Humbly could easily sympathize with the poor girl.

  He did not doubt she had been wounded, not only by Lord Faulconer’s treachery, but even more so by the realization that she had been betrayed by her own heart.

  Had Lord Faulconer forced her into marriage through blackmail or compromise she would have been furious. But to have stolen her heart . . . well, it was a sin that would not easily be forgiven.

  Still, Humbly could not find it in his mind to wholly condemn Lord Faulconer. He had been wrong to mislead Beatrice. Especially when he must have sensed her heart was involved. But the burdens he had been so unexpectedly forced to shoulder could not have been easy to bear. And deep within him Humbly believed that he did care for Beatrice. Perhaps far more than either realized.

  “And if he told you the truth from the beginning?” he asked softly.

  She gave a restless shrug. “I do not know.”

  “Beatrice.” He moved his hand to grasp her cold fingers. “If you are so unhappy here, why do you not return to Surrey? Your parents would be pleased to have you home.”

  She was giving a firm shake of her head before he even finished.

  “No one forced me to wed Lord Faulconer. It was a mistake I made on my own. I will not have my family fretting over me.”

  There was a sharp edge in her voice that made Humbly study her with a hint of curiosity.

  “Are you sure that is the only reason?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Humbly chose his words with care. He sensed that beneath her bitter anger still lurked a great deal of feeling for her husband, but he also realized she would be horrified if he were to suggest such a notion.

  He would have to somehow nudge her into accepting her love in her own fashion.

  “It seems that you have been deeply hurt by your husband. But it also occurs to me that you have not entirely given up hope on this marriage. You would not be so determined to punish Lord Faulconer if you did not intend to forgive him eventually.”

  Four

  Beatrice regarded the vicar with undisguised shock.

  Obviously Mr. Humbly was becoming daft in his old age, she told herself as she shifted in unease. Or the long journey had addled his wits.

  “That is absurd.”

  “Is it?” Humbly demanded in mild tones.

  “Yes, I have no desire to punish Lord Faulconer.”

  The gray brows lifted with evident disbelief at her fierce words.

  “Then you must be a remarkable young woman. Few ladies would be so sensible. It is human nature to wish to strike back at those who have wounded us. Even the kindest dog will snap when it has been hurt.”

  She widened her eyes. “So you believe I am a dog snapping at my captor?”

  He gently patted her hand. “I think you a woman who is feeling betrayed and wishing to ease your pain in the only manner that is offered. I do not judge you, Beatrice. In truth, I would do precisely the same thing in your position.”

  Unnerved by his determined accusations, Beatrice turned to pace across the small foyer. He made her sound like a petulant child. Or, worse, a vindictive harpy who cared only for hurting others.

  Could he not understand the pain she was enduring? That she was still attempting to reconcile herself to the knowledge her hopes and dreams for a marriage based on love were forever destroyed?

  “It is not a matter of punishment,” she at last retorted, nearly tugging the ribbon from the neckline of her gown. “I am merely furious at having been so easily duped.”

  She could hear him move to stand behind her stiff form. “And hoping to make Lord Faulconer regret his deceit?”

  She felt a thrust of annoyance. Gads, he was as tenacious as Aunt Sarah.

  “Yes, I suppose,” she reluctantly conceded.

  The vicar placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder. “I believe he does sincerely regret hurting you, Beatrice.”

  She briefly closed her eyes as the pain shuddered through her. Saints above. She had thought Humbly her friend. How could he sympathize with Gabriel?

  “He regrets the fact that I discovered the truth of this marriage and have failed to be the adoring, dutiful wife that he expected.”

  There was a startled silence, then without warning Mr. Humbly’s laughter rang through the air.

  “Oh, Beatrice.”

  Thoroughly offended at his obvious lack of concern for her delicate sensibilities, she turned to regard him with a frown.

  “It is hardly amusing, Vicar.”

  “The thought of you ever being an adoring, dutiful wife is certainly amusing, my dear,” he retorted without the faintest hint of apology. “You are far too intelligent and strong-willed to ever be the
sort of biddable wife that you seem to think Lord Faulconer would prefer.”

  Her flare of annoyance faded as her own sense of humor was restored. It was true she had never pretended to be a milk and toast debutant. Her temperament was not suited to constantly giving sway to another.

  “You make me sound a shrew,” she forced herself to protest.

  “No, no.” He gave a shake of his head. “Just a very strong woman who knows her own mind.”

  Her lips twitched. “Perhaps.”

  “So had Lord Falconer desired a meek wife, why did he not chose one? I daresay you were not the only heiress in all of England.”

  Beatrice abruptly recalled her conversation with Gabriel only moments before. She was still uncertain as to why she had suddenly pressed for his confession. She had refused to discuss their marriage from the moment she had discovered the truth of why he had wed her. But somehow it had seemed important to hear the words from his own lips.

  Perhaps to bolster her faltering anger, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of her mind.

  It was a voice she swiftly stifled.

  No.

  It was just as she had said. It was time for honesty between them.

  “He chose me because I prefer the country and because I had no other suitors he needed to battle for my attention.”

  Humbly gave a click of his tongue. “Perhaps those were the initial reasons he sought you out, but I believe he chose you for yourself.”

  She gave a rueful shake of her head. “That is only because you are good and kind and can never see anything but good in others.”

  “I am not so naive that I do not see a gentleman who regards his wife with longing.”

  Beatrice froze.

  Longing?

  No gentleman had ever gazed at her with longing.

  Least of all her husband.

  “You are mistaken, Mr. Humbly,” she said in flat tones. “Lord Faulconer might desire a wife who is comfortable and willing to provide him with heirs, but he does not long for me.”

  As if sensing he had struck where she was most vulnerable, Humbly offered a rather sad smile. “If you insist. Tell me, Beatrice, do you intend to remain angry forever?”

  A cold chill inched down her spine. She rarely allowed herself to think of the future.

  “You think that I should simply put aside the fact that I was gulled by a fortune hunter?” she demanded.

  He smiled gently. “I think that you should consider the notion that you have a goodly number of years to live with Lord Faulconer. How you choose to spend those days is in your hands.”

  She flinched at his direct hit. When she had thought Gabriel her friend their days together did not seem nearly long enough. She had imagined them side by side as they built a life together. Each day filled with love and laughter as they created a family that would surround them with happiness.

  It had all been so simple.

  Now Mr. Humbly was forcing her to consider the future as it was, not as she had dreamed it would be.

  She gave a sharp shake of her head, not yet prepared to consider his challenging words.

  Not yet.

  “We must go,” she stated in firm tones.

  Humbly reached out to pat her hand. “Beatrice, at least think upon what I have said. I believe you could be happy at Falcon Park if you chose to.”

  Beatrice merely moved to the door and stepped onto the back terrace. Mr. Humbly simply did not understand, she thought with an inner sigh.

  Attempting to thrust aside the disturbing conversation, Beatrice briskly crossed the terrace and headed toward the stable yard, where she generally viewed the inventions.

  She had enough to occupy herself without brooding upon the vague future, she assured herself.

  As if to prove her point, she spotted her thin, stoically efficient secretary whom she had hired when she had first arrived at Falcon Park. Beatrice allowed a smile to curve her lips. This was her favorite part of her day, and for once the elusive spring sunlight had struggled from the clouds to provide a welcome warmth. More often than not she was chilled and thoroughly drenched before she had concluded her business.

  “Mr. Eaton, what do you have for me today?”

  A rare smile touched the narrow countenance. “A most fascinating machine, Lady Falconer,” he said as he led her toward a bulky gentleman who was building a fire beneath a large barrel that had been drilled with holes and set upon two poles so that it could be rotated. “I think you will be intrigued.”

  Beatrice moved to study the large man who was busily lifting a lid he had cut into the barrel and stuffing a number of wet rags into the opening. He then closed the lid and reached for a handle that had been attached to the barrel and began turning it at a brisk pace.

  For nearly twenty minutes she watched in silence as he continued to turn the barrel over the flames, until at last the man halted and pulled out the rags. He handed them to Beatrice with a triumphant smile.

  With delight Beatrice discovered the material completely dry. No small feat for rags that had been dripping with water.

  Circling the barrel, she asked several questions of the eager inventor, as much to determine his character and ambition as to discover more of his machine. Then, requesting Mr. Eaton to take his name and address, she motioned to Mr. Humbly that she was prepared to return to the house.

  He readily joined her, his sherry eyes glowing with excitement.

  “Truly fascinating,” he breathed as they angled toward the terrace. “A most remarkable machine, do you not think, my dear?”

  Beatrice gave a slow nod of her head, her swift mind already sorting through the various flaws of the invention.

  “I see possibilities. There are several problems with the design, however.”

  Humbly sent her a surprised glance. “Really? What problems?”

  Beatrice wrinkled her brow in thought. “Well, to begin with, I do not suppose many servants would prefer to stand over a hot fire, turning the barrel, when they can hang up the clothes and allow nature to take its course.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is true enough,” Humbly slowly agreed.

  “And, of course, there is the problem of protecting the drying clothes from the smell of smoke.” She gave a faint grimace at the acrid scent that clung to her own gown. “It is not an aroma that anyone would enjoy.”

  “Oh.” Humbly’s expression dimmed, rather like a small child who discovered his new toy was not as shiny as he had thought. “I had not considered the smoke.”

  Beatrice smiled indulgently. It was a pleasure to have someone with her who became as intrigued by inventions as herself.

  “Still, there is much to consider,” she assured him. “The notion of drying clothes within an hour or less rather than taking an entire day has much to recommend it. Yes, I shall definitely give it some thought.”

  They traveled some distance before Beatrice turned her head to discover the vicar regarding her in a speculative manner.

  “My dear, you amaze me,” he at last said with a smile.

  She gave a startled blink. “Why?”

  He lifted his pudgy hands. “Within moments you have been able to precisely determine the strengths and weaknesses of that machine. Just as your grandfather was able to do.”

  Beatrice could not prevent the warm flood of pleasure at his words. There were few things that pleased her more than being compared to the grandfather she had adored.

  “That is hardly amazing,” she forced herself to retort modestly. “It is simply a matter of being practical.”

  “No. It is a gift,” he argued in firm tones. “You should be quite proud.”

  She smiled at his gentle kindness, then a movement in the distant garden caught her eye. She came to an abrupt halt.

  “Oh.”

  Stopping beside her, Mr. Humbly gave a lift of his brows. “What is it?”

  “I believe I glimpsed Aunt Sarah just beyond the hedge,” she warned.

  Humbly shuddered. “Eg
ads.”

  She flashed him a knowing glance. “If you wish to return to your chambers, you can slip through the side door.”

  He heaved a relieved sigh. “‘Yes, indeed. Thank you, my dear.”

  “I must meet with the architect, but I should be free in an hour or so. Shall we meet in the library?”

  “A lovely notion.” He offered her a hasty bow. “Until then.”

  Before continuing her path to the terrace, Beatrice watched Humbly scurry away.

  Poor man, she silently sympathized. Having been pursued for years by desperate gentlemen, she knew precisely how he felt. There was nothing pleasant about being a fox among hounds.

  She supposed that she should at least be thankful to Gabriel for relieving her of such unpleasantness, she wryly conceded.

  She need never worry about fortune hunters again.

  * * *

  Carefully comparing the crimson-figured damask she had ordered from London with the faded fabric taken from the dining room chairs, Beatrice gave a decisive nod of her head.

  “I believe this will do very well,” she announced.

  “Yes, my lady. The craftsmen have done an excellent job in matching the pattern,” the large, rather somber architect retorted.

  “When will the paneling be returned?”

  “Later in the week, although I will travel to London myself to collect the carpets and tapestries. I do not trust the artisans to restore them properly without supervision.”

  Beatrice hid a smile. Although she could be exacting in her demands, she knew this gentleman was next to impossible to please. The poor artist restoring the medieval joust scene painted above the door had come to her on several occasions claiming he could not work beneath such critical demands.

  “Very good. That will be all for today.”

  “Yes, Lady Faulconer.”

  With a bow the architect smoothly withdrew from the formal dining room and Beatrice wandered toward the Breccia marble chimneypiece. At the moment the room appeared starkly empty. Only the fan-vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows had escaped the ruthless demolition that had been necessary to repair the years of damage.