A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

by Patterson, Stephanie

  Something soft and hidden snapped in Michael and for the first time in years, decades, he felt no guilt. He looked at the man in the bed. That’s right, man. Not boy, not youth, not cripple – a man. His brother had been acting like a petulant child for years and they’d all encouraged his behavior. Yes, Andrew had lost his father and his brother, but so had Michael. Andrew had been spurned by a woman with whom he fancied himself in love. So had many others. Yes, he was stuck in that bed, but damn it all he was alive when many others weren't.

  He reached down and grabbed Drew by the front of his night shirt, pulling him up from his pillow. “That’s enough! I inherited the title, the estate and all the burdens that came with it. Including you.” Drew recoiled from his brother's rage, but Michael refused to release him. “I stole nothing. I am not some interloper. I’m head of this family no matter what you and our Mother believe. Arabella Winston didn’t give a damn about you five years ago. Why she does now is beyond me, but clearly she does. My actions then, stupid and poorly thought out as they were, still came from the best of intentions – protecting you.” He released his grip and Drew dropped back onto the bed, his mouth open in shock at his brother’s outburst. “You will never lift your hand to anyone in my employ again, including Belle, do you understand? As of this moment she is as much under my protection as any of member of my staff.” Drew stared at him, his face pale. “I asked you a question, Andrew. Do you understand?” Drew nodded shakily. “Good, now I’m going to go find your nurse and after I apologize to her I'm bringing her back here so you can do the same.” Drew nodded again.

  “She won’t come,” Paddy stated as Michael headed for the door.

  “Oh, yes, she bloody well will,” Michael declared angrily, “even if I have to drag her here fighting me all the way. I’m not dealing with this mess without her.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Belle tied off the strip of linen she’d used to bandage the young woman’s wrist. “There,” she said with satisfaction, “that should help until the sprain heals. No lifting, mind, or it will only get worse.” The young woman nodded.

  “And the baby?” the man at her side asked anxiously, “You're certain the fall didn’t hurt the baby?” He placed a hand on his wife’s stomach.

  “I’m no doctor,” Belle answered, “but there are no signs of distress and the babe is very active.” Just then, the man gasped and pulled his hand back from his wife in surprise.

  “I’ll say he’s active,” the young woman laughed. “I told you we were fine, Thomas. It weren’t much of a fall.”

  “Mae’s wrist took the worst of it,” Belle agreed. “Lucky for both of them. You’d best stay quiet for the next day or so,” she advised the mother to be.

  “Oh, she’ll do that, all right.” Mae’s mother, the innkeeper’s wife, bustled over with a quilt and a stool. “You just sit here by the fire, lovey,” she cooed to her daughter as she tucked the quilt around her and propped her feet up. Belle smiled at the pair and envied their bond. She wished her own mother had been as strong as Mae’s, someone who rushed in and took care of you, making certain you were out of harm’s way. Perhaps if her own father hadn’t died.... Belle shook her head to clear away thoughts of what might have been, because in reality her wonderfully, strong and loving father had died and her poor, weak mother, whom Belle had loved with all her heart, had never recovered. One day, she promised herself, one day Seaton would pay for his crimes – pay for tricking her mother into marriage and terrorizing her for years until finally he killed her.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Miss,” the innkeeper said, breaking in on Belle’s thoughts. He smiled at her with relief and gratitude. “Let’s get you something to eat. No, no,” he added as Belle picked up her reticule to check her funds. “Your money’s no good here, Miss. It’s the least we can do after you saved our Mae.”

  Belle was about to tell him she’d hardly saved the girl, she’d simply been there when Thomas carried her in and offered assistance. Mae’s mother patted Belle’s arm. “I’ve got a nice meat pie and some roasted vegetables. You go into the private parlor and I’ll bring it to you. I’ve got some good cheese and an apple pudding too.” Belle’s stomach gurgled audibly. It had been a long time since last night’s dinner and she’d lost her appetite for her breakfast due to this morning’s events. The other woman laughed and Belle turned pink with embarrassment. “A nice tankard of pear cider too, I think.” Belle offered her thanks as she gathered up her bonnet and gloves and turned to follow her host to the parlor. A sweet-faced little girl of no more than three toddled up to her industriously sucking her thumb. Judging from her features and coloring, she was Mae and Thomas’ child. Belle smiled at her and knelt down to her level. “Hello there. What’s your name, little one?” she asked.

  She popped her thumb from her mouth. “Bess,” the child pronounced solemnly. “I have a fliver.”

  “A fliver?” Belle repeated. The child nodded, pointing to her round and rosy cheek with one small finger. Belle wasn’t sure what exactly a fliver was, but it appeared to need doctoring of some sort. She made a show on examining the child’s unmarked face.

  “Kiss it better,” the little girl commanded. Belle leaned in and dropped a kiss on her plump cheek. “You’re pretty,” Bess said with the assertive candor of a child.

  Belle laughed, “Why, thank you, Bess. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in quite some time.” Belle stood to find Michael Lassiter leaning against one side of the inn's archway that separated the tap room from the stairs and private dining rooms. His shirt lay open at his throat and he wore a shooting jacket instead of his usual well-tailored frock coat. His wind-blown hair lent to his disheveled appearance. He looked like a man who'd traveled swiftly and with some sense of urgency. He watched her with a strange, guarded look on his face. Belle frowned and walked briskly past him, taking care to keep her head high. She heard him mutter a curse and as expected, he turned and followed her into the private parlor.

  “That will be a meal for two,” he instructed the innkeeper. The other man beamed with pride. It was quite a feather in his cap to have the Earl of Stowebridge dining at his establishment. Belle realized with a sinking heart that should she need assistance, there would be none coming from either the landlord or his family no matter the extent of their gratitude. Indeed, no one in the village would take her part against the earl. Their livelihoods depended on his benevolence, as well as the benevolence of the Duke of Strathmore. To cross either man was to starve. A young man brought in a bottle of claret and the promised pear cider. When he left, closing the door behind him, Belle tossed her bonnet, reticule and gloves onto a chair and rounded on Michael.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. He grinned in answer. She hated it when he grinned like that, as if he knew something you didn’t and that you’d already lost a wager you hadn’t even known you’d placed.

  “You left without saying goodbye,” he said in a reasonable tone, tugging off his riding gloves and tossing them onto a side table one at a time.

  “You ordered me to leave, so I left.” Belle tried to keep from looking at his hands. They were large and strong, hands that were used to labor – not soft like the hands of most men in the peerage. She remembered Michael’s hands for other reasons too, reasons that made her heart skip a beat and made it difficult to breathe slowly. She silently admonished herself for her wayward thoughts.

  “You didn’t take your wages,” he continued, as he moved slowly around the table towards her. Belle found his actions much more menacing than if he’d out and out threatened her. She moved back towards the window.

  “I don’t want your money and goodbye,” she snapped. “There is nothing left to say, so I suggest you leave.” He reached into his breast pocket as if she hadn't spoken. “I said I don’t want any money from you.” She backed further away.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You earned it and I find that I have much left to say.” He withdrew a five pound note and held it towar
ds her.

  Belle glared at the money as if it were a poisonous spider just waiting for her to extend her hand before striking. She kept her hands clasped in front of her. Let him stand there all day looking a right fool for all she cared. His eyes met hers and she knew he would do just that if need be. “You've nothing to say that I care to hear and I won't take so much as a farthing from you,” she said coldly. “Five pounds is far too much money to pay me for three weeks of work and after the threats you made to me this morning, I’d have to be a lunatic to accept it. Send my wages directly to Dr. Gillian and he will sort it out.” Undoubtedly, the entire inn already speculated on why the Earl of Stowebridge had invited himself to lunch with a woman clearly of the servant class – in a private parlor, no less.

  He frowned at the banknote in his hand. “You're shaking,” he said quietly, as he tucked the offending object back into the breast pocket of his coat. He brought his gaze up to hers. “As much from fear as from anger, I suspect. I regret that.”

  Belle make a dismissive sound. “No you don't. That was precisely your intent. Congratulations. You may return home a happy man.” She hated the tremor in her voice.

  “I would never have had you arrested, Belle.” His tone and his expression spoke of concern and sincerity. For a moment Belle almost let herself believe her anxiety bothered him, but she'd learned five years ago never to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “You always follow through on your threats, Michael, remember? I should know.”

  He let out a tired sigh and rubbed his forehead. “I shouldn't have said that. Damn it, I’m making a botch of things, Belle. I came here to apologize to you, not to throw money at you and certainly not to frighten you or cause you harm.” He watched her steadily from clear gray eyes that held no coldness, no rage, just simple honesty. “I'm sorry about this morning. I suppose I should have said that straight away, but my damned pride balked at having to admit that you were right about Drew and that I've been nothing but a blind fool where he's concerned.”

  She blinked, taken aback by his directness. “Thank you for that, my lord. It's more than I would have expected from you given, well, past circumstances.” She understood why he felt tired. Today's events had opened old wounds for all of them. They'd all acted like blind fools once upon a time, truth be told. Her heart ached for each of them and the consequences they'd each suffered. Drew, who allowed blind adoration to break his heart and drive him headlong into a war; Michael, whose blind devotion to his brother had inspired an act of vengeance with consequences more far-reaching than he could possibly have imagined; for herself, for her own weakness of character and blind faith in the power of love to make everything happy in the end. She turned away from Michael. He still had the power to make her yearn for something more, damn him. Her heart, hardened and scarred as it was still foolishly resisted all her attempts to put this complex man behind her. “I will contact Dr. Gillian when I arrive in London,” she said quietly. “He will send my replacement to you immediately.”

  “I don't want a replacement for you,” Michael said flatly and that still foolish heart of hers skipped a beat. “You are the best nurse Drew could have. I know that now,” he continued softly.

  Damn that gray mist that swirled in the depths of his eyes. They showed her what different choices might have meant. They mocked her with their countless possibilities that would never come to fruition now. Belle knew she should be immune to their lure, but she wasn’t anymore now than she’d been five years ago, or that night in Drew’s room when Michael had needed her assurances.

  “I can't remain at Stowebridge,” she told him.

  “I can understand why you feel that way,” he allowed, “but please give me the opportunity to change your mind. Drew is a brat. I found out what he did to Gussie this morning, but by the time I learned the truth it was too late, you’d already gone. You should have told me.” His tone held a note of gentle rebuke.

  “I tried to,” she replied coolly, “but you wouldn’t listen to Annabelle Winslow anymore than you would to Arabella Winston. You were content to believe the worst, because then Drew would be safe from me.”

  Michael huffed out air in frustration. Apologies and contrition were no more a part of his true nature than they were hers. “You're right. Perhaps I will always look for the worst in you, but I still should have asked for your explanation.”

  “And?”

  “Yes, blast it. Drew wanted you out of there, at least for the time being, and I saw the opportunity to get rid of you.” Michael lowered his head and pretended to straighten a fork in one of the place settings on the table. He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye. It was a disarming gesture, sheepish, yet at the same time, devastatingly flirtatious.

  That expression must have worked well for him on countless occasions, Belle thought. It would even have worked on her once upon a time. “You’ve been given your greatest wish then,” she concluded.

  “It wasn’t very gallant of me, was it? It would have made my life a damn sight easier with you gone, you know.” He fiddled with a napkin as he continued to apply his charm.

  Belle folded her arms across her chest and arched one eyebrow. “I was there to look after Drew, who, believe it or not, is my friend. Duncan told me Drew needed me and I came. I stayed even when I learned it meant facing you and things I’d rather forget.” Belle turned to look out the window willing her heart not to race as memories took her to a fearful place. “If you found your life difficult, it was because you chose to make it so. I’ve made a point to keep out of your way,” she asserted. Michael joined her at the window.

  “You came between my brother and me five years ago,” he said suddenly.

  “And paid the price for it,” she snapped.

  “True enough. Why shouldn't I believe you'd work to come between us again? It would be even easier for you now – a word here, a tearful look there. You already hold the upper hand. Damn it, you told him about the Malberry’s ball, didn’t you?” he demanded bitterly.

  Belle continued looking out the window unable to face him. Her memory of that night was too strong to permit it. “Yes, I did. Drew is very astute and just as relentless as his brother when he wants answers. In the end I believed he deserved to have them. I left it up to him what to do with the information. He could have chosen use it and Miss Nightingale would have sent me away immediately.”

  “He's still in love with you,” Michael said, more as an accusation than as a statement of fact. She felt his eyes studying her, weighing her intentions towards brother. “Which makes me wonder, Belle,” he continued, “did you really come here to help Drew, or to help yourself?”

  Belle turned to him with a sigh. “That’s a very complex question, my lord. I’m not certain you’d understand the answer.”

  “Just give me the truth.” His voice hardened and Belle saw the ruthlessness return to his eyes. She knew better than to ignore that look. “Did you come here intending to lure my brother into marriage?” he demanded.

  Her face must have shown her shock, because Michael looked genuinely surprised. She gave a snort of laughter. “Me? Marry Drew? We’d kill each other inside of a week. Besides, he’s already asked me. Twice.”

  “Twice?” Michael's tone held alarm.

  “Don’t worry, I said no on both occasions.” Michael’s eyes burned into hers and she felt shame as she remembered her refusal of Drew’s first proposal. “I was much kinder on the second occasion,” she offered softly. “He didn't really wish to marry me by that time, anyway. Do you remember me once telling you that Drew only loved the idea of me? I think he'd reached the same conclusion, but Drew, being Drew,” she shrugged, “well, he wanted to rescue me out of some misplaced sense of chivalry.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned you since his...return.”

  Belle was thankful that Drew continued to keep her secrets. “He wouldn’t,” she replied. “You’re hardly a sympathetic audience as far as I'm concerned.” She casually tugged on one
of the cuffs of her gown pretending an indifference she didn't feel. “That scarcely matters now. I’m returning to London.”

  “No. I want you to return to the abbey with me.”

  How like him, Belle thought angrily, a perfunctory apology and a demand that she bend to his will. “I don’t care what you want. I’ve made my decision. I’m returning to London.”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll pay you triple your original salary.”

  “Boxing your ears would be so satisfying right now.” Belle paced back to the table. “This is not about money.”

  “Then you refuse because of me. This is your notion of revenge.” He glared at her, but in her own anger Belle forgot her fear.

  “You self-important...yes, I refuse because of you,” she hissed. “I can’t trust that you’d let me take care of my patient as I see fit and as Dr. Gillian expects me to do. I can’t trust that you won't accuse me of pilfering the silver, or trying to poison the household – committing some crime and tossing me out again, or having me arrested. As you said, Strathmore and his wife would love it.”

  “Can you blame them?”he demanded.

  Belle unleashed her temper. If he would condemn her, let it be for who she had been, not for who she'd become. She pivoted and stalked towards him. “No more, Michael, no more. You can revile that stupid, useless girl as much as you want. She deserves your condemnation, but by God, Annabelle Winslow does not. I was eighteen-years-old, my first Season and so puffed up on my own importance and power – more power than I’d ever had in my life before, or since.” She looked up into his face demanding he listen and understand. “I'd never known anything like it. People coveted my good opinion. If I made a clever sally at breakfast, it became the fashionable saying all over town by luncheon. I was the toast of London for two glorious Seasons and in my vanity and my desperation for a spectacular match, I thought the ends justified any means. Was I arrogant? Yes, we’ve established that. Did I devastate innocent people without sparing them a thought? Yes I did. I was not a nice person. I was vain, stupid and wretchedly weak. Could I have committed worse sins if I hadn’t been stopped? Probably, but I was stopped, wasn’t I?” Michael nodded, but remained silent.