“No…remember what your Tommy would say. No dwelling on the past. We should enjoy the present.” He rolled toward her, his mouth seeking hers, and his hand roving with purpose down her body. “I find that I want you again, Beatrice my angel, and it’s really rather urgent. Do you think you could find it in yourself to want me too?”
In their quiet moments of reflection, her body had calmed and cooled, but as he began to stroke her between her legs, she did indeed find that she wanted him. Wanted him urgently in the very place he was touching.
* * *
“A GENTLEMAN TO SEE YOU,” said Simon the new footman a few days later.
Beatrice’s heart leaped. Was it Ritchie? It must be Ritchie, back somewhat early from another of his trips to the North, to inspect a mine this time. What other gentleman would be visiting her, the infamous Siren of South Mulberry Street, a woman of dubious reputation to begin with, but now the avowed mistress of a rich and notorious man.
But then, why didn’t Simon say it was Mr. Ritchie? And why was he holding out a card on his little silver tray?
A shudder of disquiet rippled through her, and she tossed aside the latest novel she’d been attempting to read, with scant consideration for its binding. As it hit the upholstered chaise, she had a sudden, horrible premonition who the waiting gentleman might be—another certain someone who didn’t care to take no for an answer. Her worst fears were confirmed by the small rectangle of white card.
Eustace Lloyd Esq.
Her first overpowering instinct was to instruct Simon that she was not at home to Mr. Lloyd, and that she would never be at home to Mr. Lloyd. But that was the coward’s way out, and Eustace being Eustace, he might well keep on turning up at her door until she relented. Better to get this awkward and inevitable interview over now, and put the whole sorry business of her former, if unofficial, fiancé behind her.
Even if she and Ritchie went entirely separate ways once their month was over, she would never, ever in a thousand years take up with Eustace Lloyd again.
“Show him up, please, Simon,” she said, already mangling the carte de visite between her fingers.
Beatrice sprang to her feet, not quite sure how to receive her visitor. Her nerves were jangling, and not is the pleasant, delicious way they did in anticipation of seeing Ritchie. Instead, it was like the sensation of dragging fingernails along the baize of a billiard table, or the sort of small chalkboard a child might use for its letters. The little hairs at the back of her neck stood to attention, and she took up station by the window, hand on the sideboard that stood beside it, to steady herself. For once, she was glad of her corset to keep her back straight and true.
The door swung open, and Simon ushered in Eustace.
“Mr. Lloyd, miss.”
I know…unfortunately, I know.
“Thank you, Simon, that will be all.”
“No, you…bring some brandy, will you? And look sharp.”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up at Eustace’s order, but Beatrice nodded.
“What can I do for you, Eustace? Other than supply you with strong spirits at eleven o’clock in the morning?” she enquired far more tartly than she’d intended. She could have slapped herself for letting him irk her so soon.
Eustace gave her a slow, smug look that made the back of her neck prickle. He seemed to know something that she didn’t and he was a man who enjoyed having the upper hand. His slippery but vaguely menacing expression spoiled what otherwise were his considerable good looks.
While he kept her waiting—for no more than a few seconds but feeling like an age—she studied him, her own eyes narrow.
In the strictest of terms, brown-haired Eustace was handsomer than Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, and he was also somewhat younger. But his pretty looks were soft somehow, less burnished, lacking the character and gravitas that a few lines and laughter wrinkles imbued. He was also putting weight on, she saw, and his fashionable suit was snug in a way that wasn’t quite as becoming to him as he obviously thought it was.
Which was fact that gave Beatrice some satisfaction, and allowed her to smile at him pleasantly.
“Eustace?” she prompted, as he continued to stare at her.
“Well, my dear Bea, I’ve come to suggest that you reconsider your reply to my recent offer.” Flinging himself down in an armchair, he stuck out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “I think you and I could do pretty well together, despite the obvious disadvantages. If you were to live quietly and not be seen out too much in society, I don’t see that your tarnished reputation should be a difficulty.”
Beatrice’s jaw dropped. She didn’t know where to begin, or how to count the ways she was insulted and annoyed by him. Breathing steadily to remain calm, she sat down in a chair facing Eustace’s smilingly confident form. Marshalling her thoughts, she opened her mouth to answer him, but just then there was a knock and Simon entered with the brandy.
“Will there be anything further, miss?” he asked politely, on having set the decanter and glass at Eustace’s elbow. His eyes narrowed a little in her guest’s direction, as if indicating he was ready to eject him.
“No, that will be all, thank you, Simon.” When the thoughtful young man was gone, she turned to her erstwhile sweetheart, still unsure what she was about to say.
“Well, what do you think, Bea. You’ll not get another proposal now, will you?”
Beatrice leaped up and paced.
“Eustace,” she said at last, rounding on him, “I’m sure, or at least I hope, that you really don’t realize quite how you’ve insulted me with your offer. Always supposing I actually wanted to get married, I’m afraid that you’re probably the last man on earth that I would choose.” She paused, quelling her intense desire to growl, and ignoring the angry thud of her heart. “I’d hoped that we could be amicably parted, and agree not to refer to what is past, but your sheer effrontery forces me to impart a few home truths.”
She spun on her heel, snatched up a glass from the tray, and splashed a little brandy in it. She was already a fallen woman in his eyes, so what difference did it make being a toper too.
“If you recall,” she went on, brandy hot on her tongue, “you were the one who damaged my reputation in the first place. Admittedly I was foolish to pose for those photographs, but I thought we were sweethearts, and that I could trust you, and that I was helping you study classical composition. Little did I realize that before long my image would be for sale all up and down Holywell Street…and that you’d have thrown me over as your sweetheart for the very scandal you’d inflicted on me.”
She knew there was another reason, too. He’d thought she had money, and when he’d discovered she was impoverished, she wasn’t much use to him. In fact she’d presented a hindrance if he were to pursue young women more advantageously placed.
“But the plates were stolen,” Eustace protested, although with little assertion. “That wasn’t my fault…and I was prepared to overlook the disgrace. It was just Mother who couldn’t set it aside, and she’s so delicate that a scandal would make her ill.”
Mrs. Lloyd had the constitution of an ox, and many of that beast’s physical characteristics, but Beatrice held her tongue on the matter. The situation was unpleasant enough as it was, without her worsening it with childish insults.
She tossed down a mouthful of brandy, barely tasting it this time. “So why then has she all of a sudden decided that I’m acceptable?”
“She wants me to be happy and she accepts my fondness for you.” Eustace seemed calm but he poured himself more brandy.
Your mother doesn’t want anybody to be happy, Eustace. Least of all you.
In a flash of insight, Beatrice realized that his mother’s unloving nature probably had a lot to do with Eustace’s behavior and the course of his actions. A pang of sympathy for him
twined with her crossness. It wasn’t his fault his family were so horrible. She decided that conciliation was a better course than furious hostility.
“Dear Eustace, I am flattered by your…um…proposal. But we really aren’t suited. I sincerely feel that. And I’m certain that you’ll soon find someone with whom you’ll be far happier.” It sounded weak, but even if the business with the photographs had never occurred, she couldn’t accept this pale shadow of a man when she’d already basked in the sun. She opened her mouth, attempting to frame some tactful mention of another “friend,” when Eustace set his glass down with a clatter.
“That bastard Ritchie will never marry you, if that’s what you’re thinking! You won’t get anything more than a bit of cash, a few trinkets and the occasional seeing-to from him, you silly girl.”
Beatrice spun away from him, unable to bear the ugliness in his eyes. To think she’d once been fond of this man.
But it was his words that had rocked her. Despite the fact that she was now going to refute it utterly, every fiber of her being longed to be Ritchie’s. To be his wife, so they could spend the rest of their days together. She’d tried to deny the fact to herself, but now Eustace had compelled her to accept it. For which she found her anger blowing a storm with him.
“Mr. Ritchie is a friend and he’s been very kind to both me and Charlie. He’s helped us out of our temporary financial difficulties.”
“Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie is a whoremonger and a despicable vindictive cur.” Eustace’s lip curled nastily. “He might be taking his revenge on me now on your behalf, Bea. But that’s only because it amuses him. Mark my words, when he gets fed up of fucking you and he’s ready to move on, he’ll toss you aside like the lowest trollop in Whitechapel!”
Beatrice almost teetered on her heels, but managed to hide it. What had Ritchie been doing? How had he harmed Eustace? As she’d deduced, her lover obviously did know that Eustace was behind the photographs and, inevitably, he’d taken action somehow to “avenge” her.
“Don’t be absurd. Ritchie is friend. I can’t imagine why you think he’s harmed you in any way. He isn’t that kind of man.”
But that was a lie.
She’d seen the murderous look in Ritchie’s eyes when that man had looked at her salaciously outside Belanger’s. Her lover was fiery and territorial, and even if it were only a temporary arrangement, she was his possession, or as good as.
“You’ve no idea what kind of man he is, Bea dearest. He’s maneuvered me out of a dozen lucrative deals in the markets in this last week alone. Caused doors to be closed to me at certain clubs. Even rooked me out of a racehorse I had my eye on.”
Beatrice’s anger surged. And not solely in Eustace’s direction. What was Ritchie thinking of? Eustace was a pathetic creature, she saw that now. And just because he believed he was some kind of lord of the London society jungle, Ritchie still had no business crushing lesser beasts under his heel. Especially not on her behalf. If he had done what Eustace claimed, she’d have serious words with him next time she saw him. But for now, she had to deal with the lesser beast.
“Ritchie is a shrewd businessman. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that he’s pipped you to the post on certain deals. I can’t imagine in a million years that he’d try and do you down simply on account of…of his friendship with me. That’s just absurd.”
“Friendship? Don’t make me laugh…the man’s out to ruin me purely because I happened to see his mistress naked before he ever did. The man’s a blackguard.”
“No, he isn’t! He’s tender and considerate! And generous…”
And he was. Generous in goods and gifts, but more generous in spirit and emotion. Despite the fact he’d bought her, Ritchie had treated her like a queen, and barely asked for anything in return for his great bounty; certainly nothing that she wouldn’t have given to him gladly.
“Ha! So generous and tender and considerate that he’s got a wife he claims is insane locked up in a lunatic asylum, just because he grew tired of her!”
Eustace’s face twisted in an ugly sneer, but Beatrice barely saw it. Dark splashes formed before her eyes, and she felt she might swoon, but for a supreme effort of control she managed to exert.
“Yes,” her taunter went on, “that’s why he’ll never marry you, you silly bitch, even if he ever wanted to. He can’t marry any woman because he’s got a wife already!”
* * *
AFTERWARD, Beatrice could not have told anyone precisely how she concluded her interview with Eustace. But she must have managed it somehow, and completely without succumbing to a fit of the vapors. She found herself still upright when he’d gone, and no Polly or other servant hovering over her, trying to revive her.
She just felt cold. And a little numb. But also angry.
It wasn’t even a surprise to her, when she thought about it, to discover Ritchie was married. Some of Eustace’s tale was no doubt perfectly true, but she hoped in her heart that a larger portion of it was exaggerated.
Ritchie just wasn’t the kind of man to lock up a sane woman simply because she bored him. But then again, he was ruthless in the pursuit of what he wanted. The tales told at the Ladies’ Sewing Circle were only the tip of a vast iceberg of his single-mindedness and determination, and the way he’d snared her certainly bore witness to it. As did his apparent pursuit of retribution on her behalf.
Eustace was quite unprincipled, and she’d wished ill fortune on him herself on plenty of occasions, but she knew that if it came to it, she wouldn’t truly want anything terrible to befall him. Wanting his downfall wasn’t a Christian attitude and despite admitting she was a sinner in any number of ways—especially lately—she still tried to cling on to a belief in charity.
Oh Ritchie, why do you have to be so extreme in every possible way?
Extreme in passion. Extreme in revenge on her behalf. Extreme in the way he’d bewitched her and compelled her to love him.
It was a measure of how besotted she’d become with him that her reaction to Eustace’s visit had been so…so much less than extreme. She’d barely seen the man, except from a considerable distance at a public exhibition, since the afternoon of the photographs. She should really have been more flustered on seeing him again, or perhaps flown at him and attempted to box his ears. But in truth his presence barely seemed to have touched her.
It was Ritchie, with his evasions and omissions, his outrageous acts and, yes perhaps, even his matrimonial heartache that consumed her every thought. She had to have everything out with him. Bring into the open all the things he was concealing from her, and those that she was concealing from him.
Only then was there a chance they could satisfactorily continue their liaison.
And continue it to the very last moment of the very last hour of the very last day…because she couldn’t deny herself even a second of the time she had left with the man she loved.
* * *
BACK AT HIS LONDON ROOMS, Eustace Lloyd hurled a glass against the wall. The brandy he’d had in South Mulberry Street had barely affected him, and now, rejected and furious, he needed more.
“Bitch,” he growled, ignoring the splinters and the stain on the wallpaper and snatching up another tumbler which he filled, almost to the brim.
How could she still care for Ritchie, knowing what she now knew?
Eustace tossed more brandy down his throat, barely tasting it. Instead of thanking him and then warming to his overtures, Beatrice had rejected him. He’d seen the shock in her eyes, and a flare of anger, but instead of directing it at Ritchie, she’d turned it on the man she should be showering with gratitude.
It was intolerable. His innards burned in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
He hadn’t bargained for the effect Beatrice had wielded over him, facing her in the flesh again after a
little time apart.
She was more beautiful than ever. Glowing. Ripe. More erotic even in her expensive but sober gown than she’d been lying naked on a chaise longue while he’d photographed her.
Fucking. That was what had changed her. Transformed her from a beautiful but naive and trusting young woman into a goddess. Confident and sensual, she was radiant with experience and a knowledge of passion. And the fact that his own shortsightedness had denied him the pleasure of her seared him like vitriol.
Damn you, Beatrice. Damn you.
He had to have her now, more than ever, but if he couldn’t he’d spoil her pleasure with her lover and split the two of them.
It was time to put his plan into action. Time to remind Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie of his responsibilities…and introduce the lawfully wedded Mrs. Ritchie to her husband’s whore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Lion in his Den
EVEN THOUGH IT had been difficult until now to winkle information about Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie out of his faithful man, Jamie Brownlow, Beatrice supposed her ferocity had finally done the trick.
She’d marched into the study he was using, and found the man in question and her brother poring over the document-covered desk. Carefully setting aside the fact that the two of them were unsuitably close to each other, and that Jamie’s hand on Charlie’s shoulder looked suspiciously affectionate, Beatrice had demanded to know Ritchie’s whereabouts and an approximate time of return.
“I believe Mr. Ritchie will be home this afternoon, Miss Beatrice. He usually sends a telegram if his plans are likely to change, but as yet, I haven’t received one, so I assume all has proceeded as he anticipated.”
“Excellent, then I’ll visit him this afternoon. Could you oblige me with his address?”
The handsome Jamie looked troubled, then surprisingly, seemed to glance to Charlie for an opinion. Charlie shrugged and gave a little grin. “Better tell her, old chap. She’ll find out anyway, if she wants to. Bea has a way of wheedling out whatever information she requires.”
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