Beauty in Breeches

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Beauty in Breeches Page 5

by Helen Dickson


  ‘I am astonished. Since when did young ladies begin studying astronomy?’

  ‘I don’t know about the others, but this particular young lady began as soon as she learnt to read.’ He was smiling, a smile she found almost endearing. He did seem to have a way about him and she could not fault any woman for falling under his spell, for she found to her amazement that her heart was not so distantly detached as she might have imagined it to be. Even his deep mellow voice seemed like a warm caress over her senses. For all the animosity she felt for him, she could not deny what a fine specimen of a man he was.

  He took her hand to kiss it. He looked so relaxed that she found herself responding to him. Then a glint of mischief in his eyes reminded her of who he was. Shaking off the effects of his winning smile, she took herself mentally in hand and snatched her hand free. She tossed her head proudly, but Julius Chadwick was undaunted by her show of indignation. He touched her arm very gently and reached so close that she could smell the sharp scent of his cologne.

  ‘Please forgive me,’ he murmured, softly and with disconcerting sincerity. ‘I was boorish in my behaviour to you earlier when you accepted my wager. It was never my intention and now I heartily beg your pardon.’

  Beatrice was astonished. She stared into his deep amber eyes, looking for the mockery, the veiled contempt. She found neither. ‘No more than I was,’ she conceded.

  ‘You were angry and I understand the reason and you intend to punish me for it. Will you not tell me that I am forgiven?’

  Beatrice found herself weakening before his smile. Her own smile came slowly. ‘Very well. You are forgiven.’

  ‘Then I am once more a happy man and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’ He raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a light kiss on them. As he did so he surreptitiously pressed a small object into the palm of her hand. ‘I would like you to have this. It is just a small token of my respect and admiration,’ he said. ‘May it serve to remind you of happier times and of the value I place on your forgiveness.’

  Beatrice uttered her thanks and watched him turn and stride away. When he was out of sight she opened her hand and looked down at the small object he had placed there. Only then did her brief softening turn to humiliation. The colour drained from her face. Damn him, she thought. He had used subtle trickery and flattery on her and she had fallen for it and allowed herself to become as stupid and gullible as all those silly girls who simpered and followed him around like sheep.

  What he had given her was a gold signet ring she had last seen on her father’s finger. She had not given it a thought during all the years she had been without him, and now she knew that this, too, must have been among the things he had taken from her father. It did remind her of happier times, but it also reminded her of how those times had cruelly ended. With the death of her mother following so soon on her father’s suicide, the deep, dark void of hollowness and sorrow was complete.

  Wounded and angry, she could not even begin to imagine the desperation that had driven her father to part with his ring, but as she stared down at it she swore she would make Lord Chadwick pay most dearly for what he had done to her. She would not rest until she had retrieved everything her father had lost to Julius Chadwick. Nothing would stand in her way after she had come this far.

  The dew was still on the grass when Beatrice headed for the stables the next morning with her riding crop tucked underneath her arm. She arrived to a great fuss of excitement. She had done as her aunt had said and thought good and hard about the wager, but it had made no difference. Her mind was made up. Respect was everything to her aunt and what her niece was doing would have a damaging effect on her own standing in society, but in the end nothing was changed. Beatrice would not back out now.

  Everyone had heard about the race and had come to watch. Major had been brought out of his stable and tacked up. The stable lad was giving his powerful haunches and glossy neck one last polish. He was by the mounting block, arching his neck and pawing the ground, waiting for his mistress.

  The groom knew of her aversion to the side saddle and that she preferred the masculine way of riding astride, so Major had been tacked up appropriately. No one was surprised to see Beatrice wearing her breeches, for it was a familiar sight.

  As spry as a young athlete, she swung herself up on to Major’s back as George rode towards her.

  ‘Is it all arranged?’ she asked him as they rode together out of the stable yard, her horse so fresh and eager that she had to hold him in check.

  ‘I have planned the route to your satisfaction, I hope.’ Of an understanding nature, George glanced sideways at her, his brow creased with a worried frown. ‘I’m sorry Astrid cannot watch the race. I know how much she wanted to, but I’m afraid Mama is incensed by your acceptance of Lord Chadwick’s wager and has forbidden her to attend.’

  Unmoved, Beatrice looked straight ahead. With his shock of fair hair and bright blue eyes, many were the times when she had thanked God for her fun-loving, easy-mannered, handsome cousin. He had been her friend for as long as she could remember, and she really didn’t know how she would have coped without him. She would never forget the lack of welcome at Standish House from Aunt Moira, and things had not improved. She had soon learned that her aunt’s love was reserved solely for her own children and that there was none for her.

  ‘I am sorry that Astrid cannot watch the race, George—I know how much she wanted to. I am also sorry about the way Aunt Moira feels about me, but I cannot change that.’ At these words George glanced at her. How typical of him to be concerned for her, she thought. She smiled to reassure him and said, ‘Don’t worry, George, I’ve grown used to it. As for the wager, it is done and too much is at stake for me to pull out now. Besides, I would not give Lord Chadwick the satisfaction. How much do you know about him?’

  ‘Not much, as it happens. I only met him myself when he arrived back in London—from India, I believe. He is very rich, but there was a time when his family were destitute. Equipped with a clever mind, through his own endeavours and gambling everything on a series of investments, which paid off for him again and again, he brought his family out of penury.’

  ‘If he used the same gambling methods he used on my father, then I do not care for them. It does him no credit,’ Beatrice retorted bitterly, at the same time grudgingly impressed by his success. ‘I suppose if he’s as rich as all that, then there’s little wonder people court his favour.’

  ‘They do, but his success has come at a price. Some years ago tragedy hit his family—I’m not sure of the details. Because of it and to guard his privacy, he spends most of his time abroad.’

  ‘I see. Tell me about the circuit.’

  ‘It will start and end at the gate in the lower meadow. You will both do a full circuit of Larkhill, riding over the common and open ground past the village, up to the woods and through the park, where you will pick up the trail back to the meadow. It’s punishing and steep in places. The full circuit will take an hour or more, but it shouldn’t be difficult since you have ridden it almost every day. The hardest part will be the steep ride up the woods.’

  ‘Have you familiarised Lord Chadwick with the route?’

  ‘Yes. He rode it earlier and he’s up for it if you are.’

  ‘Of course. I can trust Major to handle it.’

  ‘Lord Chadwick is already at the starting point—along with a hundred others from the house party who have come to watch and to collect their winnings.’

  ‘No doubt everyone is expecting him to win.’

  ‘Absolutely—although there are several who have laid bets on you.’

  Beatrice looked sideways at her cousin. ‘Where is your bet placed, George? I trust you remember that I am family and that you owe your loyalty to me. Were you brave enough to risk your money on me?’

  Kicking his horse into a gallop, he went ahead. ‘That is for me to know and for you to find out,’ he shouted laughingly over his shoulder.

  The reception part
y was larger than Beatrice had anticipated. The entire meadow was filled with all types of people from house guests to grooms, footmen and stable hands and locals from the nearby village. The sun shone down on fashionable ladies beneath bobbing parasols, feathered hats and a colourful array of silk turbans. Curricles and chases were everywhere and those who wished to follow the race were on horseback. Everyone jockeyed for the best position, all animatedly discussing the forthcoming race.

  Atop her spirited mount, Beatrice looked radiant, undeniably beautiful, as only she could do when there was something she wanted badly enough and had set her mind to getting it. She slanted an admiring look at her opponent as he approached leading his mount. He wore a tanned riding coat, a pair of buckskin breeches and highly polished brown boots.

  Julius also wore a look of unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her perched atop a raw-boned gelding, a giant of a horse, a glossy chestnut, its coat gleaming almost red. She presented a slender figure and it seemed incomprehensible that she could control the great beast. She met his gaze squarely, her face bright with invitation and challenge.

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted politely. ‘It’s a good turnout. All it’s short of to make it a fair are the acrobats and tents. Are you still up for this, Miss Fanshaw—or perhaps you would prefer pistols at twenty paces?’ he teased as he leapt on to his mount with the physical prowess of an athlete.

  Beatrice lifted her head, intending to treat him with cool formality, but he looked so relaxed atop his powerful horse and his smile was so disarming that she almost smiled. Confident, her expression open and her green eyes direct, she said, ‘Of course I am up to it, Lord Chadwick—we can try pistols at twenty paces if I lose, which I have no intention of doing.’

  ‘Then if a duel to the death is to follow, you’d better win if you value your life.’

  She laughed lightly. ‘Not only am I a competent horsewoman, I am also a crack shot, so whichever method we use, you stand to lose.’

  His horse drew Beatrice’s eye. It was a beautiful dappled grey gelding, its coat as smooth as silk. With sharp features, bright, intelligent eyes and a perfectly arched neck, it really was a beautiful animal, with powerful legs and shoulders. Her opponent was watching her closely and he saw her eyes gleam with appreciation.

  ‘He is a splendid animal, is he not, Miss Fanshaw?’

  ‘He certainly is,’ she agreed longingly. ‘As I told you yesterday, had I not already decided on the forfeit, I would be more than happy to take that horse from you.’

  ‘Never. I will never part with him,’ he laughingly declared.

  They rode towards the open gate to the meadow where George was waiting to get the race under way. It was a bright day, but not too hot. The haymakers in the field next to the meadow leaned on their scythes and watched them pass side by side, doffing their caps as they saw the noble bearing of the Marquess, their hearts warming at the sight of their own Miss Fanshaw.

  Julius slanted her a look. ‘It’s still not too late to pull out.’

  Without looking at him, Beatrice beamed upon the crowd. ‘Of course I’m not going to pull out. Indeed, I couldn’t disappoint so many earnest cavaliers who have placed their bets on me.’

  ‘Don’t let that put you off. They’ll get their money back.’

  Now she did look at him. ‘That’s not the point. I am honour bound to take your wager. Besides I can think of nothing that would please me more than to beat you.’ She shot him a suspicious, mischievous glance. ‘Unless you have cold feet, my lord, and you would like to pull out?’

  Julius trapped her gaze in his. ‘Not a bit of it. I’m looking forward to it, though the course has many pitfalls.’

  Beatrice took in the hard planes of his face, the subtle aggression in the line of his jaw, and the clear intent that stared at her from the depths of his amber eyes. A slight trembling sensation skittered over her skin. Ignoring it, she smiled. ‘I dare say there will be many distractions along the way, but I am familiar with every one of them.’

  ‘Then the fight is on. I promise you a hard race,’ Julius called over his shoulder as he trotted ahead.

  Maybe so, Beatrice thought, eyeing his back through narrowed eyes. But with everything to play for, she would win.

  At the drop of George’s handkerchief and with the roar of the crowd, the two horses lunged forwards. The two riders were galloping at full speed, crouched low over the horses’ necks. Neck and neck they left the meadow and thundered across the common to open spaces and up the steep track towards the woods. One glance as they cleared a fence assured Julius that Beatrice Fanshaw was indeed a skilled horsewoman.

  Both horses held their paces well up the long, punishing slope, then raced across the rough ground at the edge of the woods, where the undergrowth was home to badgers and foxes. Her head down to avoid low branches that might sweep her out of the saddle, Beatrice kept a careful lookout for loose rocks, dangerous, treacherous roots and slippery puddles which the sun was unable to reach and dry out. Major fell behind Lord Chadwick’s horse. Both horses were blowing foam as they crested the hill. The track now lead down to circle Larkhill.

  Leaning forwards like a jockey to get every inch of speed from Major, urging him on harder and harder, Beatrice was after Lord Chadwick in a mad, downward dash. The hooves pounded, sending divots of earth up behind. She urged Major onwards, then there was a giant hedge before her, white with summer blossom. His body flowing easily with his horse’s stride, Lord Chadwick held the advantage and cleared it first. Beatrice felt Major’s hind quarters bunching up beneath her and with one giant leap she cleared it with an effortless, breezy unconcern and hit the ground on the other side. Lord Chadwick glanced around and waved his hand, laughing jubilantly on seeing her several lengths behind. With a laugh in her own throat, Beatrice recovered and was off again, pounding into her fastest gallop once more.

  Racing across the soft parkland grass, Lord Chadwick was just ahead of her, his attention fixed on winning the race. But Beatrice was gaining on him. She could feel the ripple of her hair as it loosed its pins and laughed recklessly to feel the wind in her face. Major’s ears were back to hear her laugh, then forward as they came to another hedge with a ditch before it. She checked only for a moment and then they soared over it as one. She could smell the scent of summer flowers and crushed woodbine as Major’s hooves clipped the top of the hedge and then they were moving on, even faster.

  With the meadow and the finishing post within sight, there were only two lengths between them now and with a surge of energy, knowing exactly what his mistress wanted, Major, confident, trusting and elated, sailed past Lord Chadwick’s beautiful grey, the crowd shouting, ‘Go on, Miss Beatrice!’ They flew past the winning post, at the point where they had started.

  The crowd erupted, everyone laughing and cheering. Julius pulled his sweating horse to a halt and took in Beatrice’s mud-spattered face and tumbling, tangled hair. Her golden skin was flushed with heat and excitement and her eyes—winner’s eyes—were a sparkling, brilliant green. Dragging in a deep breath, exhilaration coursing through their veins, their wide smiles were mirror images. Julius couldn’t help thinking that it was worth losing the race to see her laughing with such unfeigned delight. It was a warm, husky, rippling sound. His eyes locked on her lips, on the column of her slender throat. Instinctively his hands tightened on the reins.

  He dismounted and went to her, placing his hand on her horse’s foam-flecked neck. ‘It was a good race. Quite splendid. You win. You rode well,’ he conceded. ‘Congratulations.’

  She sprang from the saddle and stood close to him, her smile shamelessly triumphant. She was able to feel the heat of his body as he could feel hers. Fuelled by the breathless excitement of the race and her win, and the pleasure of standing so close to his strong manly body, she was aware that she was trembling.

  It was a long time since Julius had enjoyed a ride as much, or as fast and unrestrained, with company that could handle the going as
well as he. ‘George was right. You’re an intrepid horsewoman.’

  Tossing her head, she laughed happily. ‘I couldn’t let you have the advantage of me now, could I?’

  ‘I suppose not. So, Miss Fanshaw—the forfeit? What is it to be?’ He stood without moving, awaiting her pleasure.

  Unsmiling, she met his gaze and held it. He was looking at her with quiet patience—like a cat before a mousehole. Having puzzled on how to approach him, she chose directness, calming herself and saying, ‘By his own actions my father gambled away everything he owned to you, causing him to lose his self-respect and his sanity. Now you are the only person I can think of who can help me.’ She could sense he was wary, that his guard was up. There was a distance between her and this man which might never be closed. The startling amber eyes rested on her ironically.

  ‘Of what help could I possibly be to you? What is it that I can do? My curiosity is aroused as to why you should go to all this trouble to take me up on my wager. I detect a certain recklessness in you, and if I know anything of feminine vanity it will be something of value that you think only I can give you. Will you please put us all out of our misery and tell us what it is?’

  Beatrice drew a deep breath, then fired her salvo. ‘That you marry me.’

  Chapter Three

  Julius was deaf to the collective gasps that followed this statement. Suddenly his entire body tensed. His fists clenched on his riding crop and then convulsively tightened. His features, about to relax into lines of arrogant satisfaction, froze and his face became a hard, cynical mask.

  ‘Either you are carrying pity for me in losing the race to an unbelievable extreme, or else you’re not playing with a full deck.’

  ‘I am neither dim-witted nor crazy,’ Beatrice stated, ‘and pity has nothing to do with my reasons for wanting this marriage.’

  ‘Marriage? Come, Miss Fanshaw. Think about it,’ Lord Chadwick intoned in silken menace, as though his brooding eyes and smooth voice and his slight, dark smile could mesmerise any unsuspecting female. ‘Admit it. You were having a lark.’

 

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