Beauty in Breeches

by Helen Dickson

  ‘I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted by that remark, Lord Chadwick,’ Beatrice retorted, her cheeks flushed with indignation.

  ‘Take it either way. It is immaterial to me. So, it all boils down to the fact that you want to marry me for my money.’

  ‘Your wealth does make marriage to you more palatable.’

  ‘You don’t have to go to such lengths as to tie yourself to me for life to return to your former home. When I asked you if you would demand Larkhill as the forfeit I recall you saying it would be nothing as fine or as grand as that—which makes me feel decidedly inferior that you consider me less important than a house.’ He gave her a steady look. ‘Why settle for me?’

  ‘Because I need you—your money—to restore Larkhill to what it was. You have neglected the property sorely since you took it from my father.’

  Shrugging himself away from the wall and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he began to pace. ‘I understand your resentment. It can’t be a comfortable situation for a woman like you, a young woman robbed of her own family, yet with your whole life ahead of you. While ever you live with your aunt you are in Astrid’s shadow—you, who are the more beautiful of the two.’

  Beatrice was so humiliated by his reference to her plight that her heart clenched with the truth of it. It was such a bleak and accurate summary of her life that she almost choked at the future that opened up before her. ‘That’s how it is for a lot of women,’ she said, stung into honesty, ‘especially when a woman finds herself without a family of her own. It’s not what one would choose. I don’t like it and I decided long ago to find my own way out—hence the wager. Do you have family, Lord Chadwick?’

  He shook his head. Pain and desolation entered his eyes, but it quickly disappeared and his expression was suddenly guarded. ‘No, Miss Fanshaw, I do not. From the moment I saw you I realised that we might have something in common. Like me, you like to make your own choices. I owe no man a living and I owe no woman a duty. In short, I am my own man, free to do as I choose. That’s the way I like it and how I want it to remain.’

  ‘It’s different for a woman.’

  ‘I know. But if all you want is to return to Larkhill, you don’t have to marry me.’

  ‘No?’ She looked at him warily. ‘It seems to me, Lord Chadwick, that you are trying to wriggle out of your promise. You really are going to renege on your word, aren’t you?’ She took a deep breath, her eyes flashing daggers. ‘Very well. I can’t force you to marry me. Now, I think you’d better leave.’

  When she tried to sweep past him, his strong hand gripped her arm and spun her around. He hadn’t known her twenty-four hours and yet somehow she already showed a talent for clouding his cool calculation. He shouldn’t be angry with her—not when he was the one hiding too many dark and brooding secrets. It was himself he should be angry with.

  ‘Devil take it, woman, I don’t want to marry you! I’m not the marrying kind. I’m no good for you. Can’t you get that through that beautiful head of yours?’

  Suddenly he seemed enormous and very close to Beatrice. His powerful body emanated heat, matching the heat that was rising in her cheeks. ‘I don’t want to marry you, either. You are nothing but a—a barbarian. But I will not withdraw the forfeit. I will not make it easy for you. It is up to you to extricate yourself in whichever way you see fit.’

  His eyes blazed. ‘Barbarian? Lady,’ he warned, his voice hoarse with fury above her, ‘as yet I haven’t even begun to act the barbarian. If you insist on marrying me, then let me warn you in advance that I have learned from an expert how to make a wife’s life a living hell.’

  His hold on her arm tightened and he looked at her for a long moment. She was so lovely, cool, virginal and stunningly arousing—and the most hair-raising woman he had ever met. He could feel himself responding, a fact that only inflamed his anger. Slowly, with menacing deliberation, he backed her against the shadowy garden wall. His grip wasn’t painful, but the casual strength in his fingers was unyielding and made it impossible for her to escape his grip despite her struggle. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped to cover her growing alarm. Giving up her futile struggle, she glared murderously at the angry light glinting in his eyes. ‘How dare you call yourself a gentleman when you go around molesting women?’

  ‘Only those who stupidly believe they can get the better of me,’ he said between his teeth. ‘I’m merely trying to assure you that you don’t want to be my wife—to give you a taste of what you will be up against if you continue with this farce.’

  One hand rose to grasp her chin, but Beatrice turned her face away, eluding capture. When his hard fingers at last closed over her jaw, she gasped with fury. ‘Stop it. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare hurt me! Kindly take your hands off me!’

  Julius stared down at her. He hadn’t missed the flare of temper in her eyes, or the fright. ‘I’ve never hurt a woman in my life. But I mean to convince you to reconsider the forfeit you demand from me.’ His gaze dropped to her soft lips, then slid lower, following the line of her throat down to the tantalising mounds beneath the soft fabric of her shirt. With her head thrown back, they quivered and thrust forwards invitingly, emphasising the undeniable fact that she was an alluring woman.

  As he released her chin, his fingers unintentionally brushed her breast. He was instantly aware of the contact. So was she—he could tell by the furious blush that rose to her cheeks.

  Beatrice tried to ignore the effect of his touch.

  ‘Release me this instant,’ she demanded heatedly. ‘Kindly remove your hands.’

  It was a supremely proper response—prim, restrained, ladylike, just the kind he would expect from a woman of her social standing, who had been taught to hold the physical side of marriage in aversion. ‘Why? Don’t you want me to touch you?’ he murmured, deliberately running his fingers along the line of her jaw. She was so close that he could smell the fragrance of violets in her hair. ‘Don’t you know that as my wife I shall be able to touch you where I like and when I like, that you must accept my attentions no matter how repugnant you find them to be? Shall I give you a taste of what to expect when I exert my husbandly rights?’

  Drawing her rigid body closer, he pressed it against his, and the sensation of her soft body and her slender legs encased in breeches moulded to his own acted on him like a powerful aphrodisiac. Desire surged through him, heating his blood, sending it singing through his veins, and then his mouth crushed hers with a controlled expertise that left her gasping, shocking her with his arousing warmth.

  Julius finally raised his head. ‘Consider it, Miss Fanshaw. You will have to learn to enjoy my lovemaking,’ he warned, ‘to be available to me whenever I want you, so if you still insist on being my wife, perhaps you should start enjoying it now.’

  Still reeling from his devastating kiss, Beatrice stared up at him, two bright spots of colour highlighting her cheeks. His voice had suddenly grown husky with sensuality.

  Julius’s smouldering eyes stared back at her. She knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. If he was trying to destroy her resistance, he was succeeding. When he fitted his body to hers, she tensed with a mingling of dread and wanton longing. She hardly had time to catch her breath before his mouth descended on hers once more and his tongue plundered the inner softness in a fierce, brutal kiss that was meant to punish and humiliate her.

  Rigid with fury, she clawed and squirmed against him, trying to break his hold and to drag her mouth away from the fierce possession of his lips. Her struggle only seemed to encourage him on his course of persuasion and he deepened the kiss. His arm went around her, his hand cupping her buttocks to bring her hips even closer to his. Raising his head a fraction, he murmured, ‘I would take my pleasure of you any time, at my leisure, any time I choose. I would make you moan for me,’ he rasped against her lips, ‘moan with pleasure.’

  Beatrice shuddered, seeing something primitive and terrifying flare in his eyes as his arms tightened. She j
erked back, a protest rising in her throat, but his lips stifled her voice with a demanding insistence that stunned her into immobility. She had never even imagined what it would be like to be kissed—at least not in the way Julius Chadwick was kissing her, with his mouth moist and parted, warmly tasting hers, his tongue parting her lips to probe and explore with a hungry ardour and an inflaming expertise that rendered her weak.

  Mindlessly she slid her hands up his chest, trying to cling for support to the very object that was destroying her balance. Confused and lost in a haze of nameless yearnings, she raised herself up on her toes, responding to the forceful pressure of his arms.

  Julius groaned in response, deepening his kiss as she moulded her body against his. Her breath was so sweet, the feel of her so good he felt himself respond with that part of him that didn’t give a damn about his mind, which was telling him to tread with care. In his mind he knew that what he had intended wasn’t working. He was driving himself insane and losing the battle for control.

  Recollecting herself when a small lance of sanity entered her mind and made her wonder at her behaviour, Beatrice tore her mouth free. She was horrified by what was happening, what he was doing to her. She should have found his kiss repulsive, but in truth she found it wildly exciting and found it hard to keep her world together. It was as if she had drunk too much wine and was giddy from it. What was the matter with her? She was neither a tippler nor a woman of easy virtue. She was a virgin, for heaven’s sake. In her fury she pushed against him with all her strength. She must be out of her mind to think she could do this, could manage this charade—and him. Julius Chadwick was more than she’d bargained for.

  ‘You beast,’ she hissed. ‘You filthy beast.’ As she wiped the moisture from her mouth with the back of her hand, sparks of indignation flashed in her eyes. ‘How dare you lay your hands on me?’

  Julius stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. She was wide eyed and vulnerable and trembling. And lovely. Dear Lord, she was so damned lovely. He wanted her with a fierceness that took his breath away. His strategy to make her change her mind had backfired with a vengeance. He had begun by trying to frighten and threaten her and had ended up with his own resolutions threatened instead.

  ‘Come now, Miss Fanshaw,’ he managed to say mockingly, laughing lightly, though he himself was shaken by the moment. ‘You needn’t be so indignant or feel insulted.’ A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘It was only a kiss. You must have been kissed before. I told you, if you really do want to be my wife, that is something you will have to get used to. It’s as well you know that I’m an amorous man. I would not take kindly to having a cold and unwilling partner in my bed.’

  He still had his arms about her and he could feel contempt written in her straight back and imperious head. At that moment she was feeling insulted and degraded and her posture was implying that if he knew what was good for him he would go away and never come back. But no matter how much she wanted to utter the words, too much was at stake for her to utter them.

  Julius let her go so abruptly that she staggered back a step, then he drew a long, audible breath. She glared at him. ‘How dare you do that to me? No doubt you will say I was asking for such treatment.’

  His mobile mouth twisted into a grim smile and Beatrice had the fleeting impression that he was struggling for composure, as she was. Before this he had been a man unknown to her. She had not thought of him as anything but the man who had ruined her father and taken Larkhill and how she could use him to get it back. She’d had no reason to think of him in intimate terms. Now she saw him as a strong, attractive man who was unsettling her. For the first time in her life she felt unsure of herself.

  Julius studied her, grudgingly thinking how magnificent she was. Her mouth had been sweet, warm and moist, and he was impatient to repeat the kiss. In her madness she had fought him like a lioness, and yet there had been a moment in that frenzied kiss when she had leaned against him as though the strength had gone from her and he had felt her hands, instead of clawing at him, hesitate and then slide up his chest and cling to his shoulders as though to steady herself in the havoc that washed over them both. He felt slightly bewildered by her now, almost bewitched.

  ‘You made a grave mistake when you asked for my forfeit,’ he said finally. ‘However, after saying that, I don’t think either of us can deny that we are drawn to each other.’ Forcing himself to remain calm, he caught her glittering gaze and held it. ‘I think we both know what we want, don’t we?’

  Beatrice scrutinised his expression warily. Her feelings were nebulous, chaotic, yet one stood out clearly—frustrated desire. She hadn’t wanted him to stop kissing her. But she would not give him the satisfaction of letting him know that. Holding his gaze, she drew in a slow breath, then shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Liar,’ he uttered quietly. ‘Your eyes tell a different story.’ Turning from her, he took a moment to reflect on her strong will, a quality he admired. He could not escape the fact that Beatrice Fanshaw had intrigued him from the moment he had laid eyes on her. She had no artificial airs and graces and possessed a kind of courage about her that was unusual in a woman. She was also proud and independent, with bold, forthright ways, but he considered that in the matter of the forfeit she had acted foolishly. Looking at her now, Julius felt her breathtaking beauty quicken his very soul, stirring his mind with imaginings of what life married to her would be like. He was fiercely attracted to her, yet because of the secrets he was carrying he would have to try to fight the attraction.

  ‘There is another alternative to you becoming my wife. I have an offer to make to you.’ He saw her eyes cloud with wariness and distrust at the word ‘offer’. ‘It is a proposition of a different kind. Once you’ve considered it, I think you will agree that it would be a sensible arrangement for us both.’

  ‘What sort of proposition?’ she asked with clinical, cautious calm.

  ‘That you become my mistress.’

  Beatrice was so surprised that all she could do was stare at him. After several moments of digesting what being his mistress would involve, she fixed him with indignant, angry eyes. ‘You want me to become your mistress?’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ Julius took a deep breath, trying to keep his calm. ‘I don’t need a mistress any more than I need a wife. But I feel obliged to offer a solution to the dilemma you have so foolishly created for us both. Do you think I consider this lightly?’

  His contemplation was steady. He remained silent when she moved away from him, giving his proposal careful thought. She moved with the natural grace of one who led an active life and bore nothing of the affected daintiness and fragility so often displayed by beauties of the ton. There was a sureness in her stride that lent smooth, fluid grace to her every movement. Julius admired everything about her; he had already set a price in his mind and only waited the moment.

  At length she turned back to him and scowled. ‘So I was right. You are trying to wriggle out of it,’ she accused sharply.

  ‘I am merely suggesting another option, one in which neither of us has to commit ourselves. I am sure that despite our many differences we would be compatible sexually. You share my bed and in return for that you will have your own house and carriage and horses. You will have your own maid, a butler and servants, gowns and expensive baubles by the dozen. In short, I will be most generous. While you remain my mistress, you will have enough money to live like a queen—providing no other man gets to share what I am paying for.’

  ‘I don’t care for baubles,’ she said at length, ‘although a house of my own appeals to me. Kindly enlarge on that?’

  His eyes were intent. ‘I would give you your heart’s desire: Larkhill. Mistress or wife, you could live there—if that is what you want. What’s the difference?’

  Her smile was cynical. ‘You may have lost the wager, Lord Chadwick, but you still have a winning way with words. There is a vast difference. As your mistress you could kick me out on a whim. My answer is
no. You insult me. My aunt would be scandalised and would never allow it. And I could never accept being any man’s mistress.’

  He lifted his broad shoulders in a slight shrug and said in an indifferent voice, ‘That is your prerogative.’

  ‘Exactly. Lord Chadwick, are you or are you not going to honour your word given to me in the presence of others?’

  His eyes boldly roamed over her body from head to toe and back to her face. ‘I’m beginning to warm to the idea. Married to you, life would never be dull. When you are near me I feel there is but one thought on my mind.’

  In that moment her thoughts were far from Larkhill and how her aunt would react to what she was doing; instead, they centred on the turmoil within herself. A strong feeling of doubt blasted her confidence and she was suddenly unsure of her ability to deal with Julius Chadwick.

  Julius moved to stand close to her. ‘Do you mean to bait me? Do you seek to punish me and, in so doing, extract your revenge for my past sins? If that is your game, then lead on. I will welcome your attention and the challenge.’

  After a moment, Beatrice realised he was looking at her with a strange and tender smile on his lips. Her curiosity was piqued at his apparent ability to turn circumstances to his benefit.

  ‘There is one thing I would like to know. What forfeit would you have asked of me had you won?’

  ‘That was it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you become my mistress.’

  Beatrice was about to vent her indignation in his face, but suddenly his laughter rang out once more and brought quick death to her words. Strolling away from her, clasping his hands behind his back, he was as relaxed as if he were drinking with his friends in a gentleman’s club. Still chuckling derisively, he turned and strolled back to her.

  ‘I thought that might make you see the real price of your predicament. What would you have done? Would you have honoured your forfeit and become my mistress had you lost the race?’

  Beatrice was surprised and shocked and intensely relieved that she had escaped such a fate, but did not show it. Taking a deep breath she nodded. ‘Yes. I may be many things, Lord Chadwick, but I always abide by my word. I can only thank God and my own skill that I beat you.’