Beauty in Breeches

by Helen Dickson

  ‘That’s it. I’m curious. You told me you come from a long line of gamblers. Is that what you do when you want to replenish your coffers?’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘You really think I make my money at the gaming tables, don’t you?’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ He stepped closer, his gaze on her mouth.

  Beatrice frowned, trying to ignore the tug of his eyes and his voice. ‘Why is it that when you don’t wish to answer a question, you divert the conversation to something else and…’ Her words died as he placed his hands gently on both sides of her face, his fingers sliding into her hair, grateful she didn’t favour the fashion for silk flowers and silly ribbons so many other women seemed fond of.

  ‘Stop talking,’ he whispered, then lowered his head and kissed her.

  Her lips were soft and they parted slightly to receive his. Accepting her invitation, Julius deepened the kiss with ease. She was happy to submit, even though she had the feeling she was getting in over her head. She closed her eyes, exploring the sensations of delight that flooded through her. The beauty of the setting, the romantic sense of the evening and the intoxicating nearness of this man overpowered her judgement. His kiss was exquisite, transporting her to further delights.

  Lost in pure sensations of wanton yearnings, warm, strong and exciting, when his mouth left hers and trailed to her neck, she melted against him, her palms sliding up over his chest. He moved against her in the most intoxicating way that sent a shiver up her spine. Lifting his head from devouring her neck, Julius let his gaze settle on her lips. Beatrice considered him the most handsome man she had ever seen; when she thought how he had manoeuvred her into the kiss, with all his worldly elegance and experience that could instruct her in every pleasure that a woman could discover with a man, she accepted he was also a silver-tongued charmer.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ a man’s voice intruded. ‘If it isn’t the Marquess of Maitland.’

  At once Julius stiffened and released Beatrice, then turned to face an old acquaintance. It was Lord Percival Canning, a ponderous, mincing fop who was dressed like a peacock in yellow coat, red-satin waistcoat and yellow-satin breeches that swelled over his protruding midsection. Two of his friends hovered behind him.

  ‘I’m happy to see you back among us, Chadwick.’ Lord Canning’s eyes shifted to Beatrice. ‘By all accounts we have the lovely Miss Fanshaw to thank for bringing you out of isolation.’

  ‘Not really,’ Julius replied drily. ‘I’ve only recently returned from one of my trips abroad. It’s impossible to be in two places at once.’

  ‘So it is. Then you won’t have been down to Highfield. Pity.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lord Canning shrugged. ‘I hoped to discuss that little business matter with you I mentioned when you were last down there. Maybe we could meet up while you are in London.’

  Julius stared at him icily. ‘I don’t think so, Canning. The matter you speak of is not open for negotiation.’

  Anger briefly flashed into Canning’s eyes and Julius’s steely body tensed as the dandy drew close, striking an arrogant pose.

  ‘Think about it. I would give you a fair price.’ He turned his attention to Beatrice, his fleshy lips opening in a salacious, gargoyle-like grin from ear to ear as he ran his eyes over her in an insulting manner. ‘I regret that I did not see the race at Standish House. Everyone’s talking about it, Chadwick—of how the high and mighty Marquess of Maitland has been caught like a fish on a hook by a mere slip of a girl! How could you have let that happen—you of all people?’ he taunted. ‘I hear Miss Fanshaw beat you on a high-spirited brute of a horse. Why, I’d have put money on her myself had I been there.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Julius replied blandly. The men— Canning’s companions snickering foolishly behind him—would have been dumbfounded to know that as he languidly listened to Canning, he was seething inside.

  ‘Yes, indeed—and she’s a beauty all right. Ye Gods, had she challenged me I’d have willingly thrown the race for the pleasure of paying her forfeit.’

  Insulted and outraged to the core of her being by this obnoxious fop, Beatrice was furious, but, seeing the rigidity in Julius’s back and knowing how he was struggling to hold his temper, she did not retaliate. But she could not bear the way he was being mocked.

  ‘You’re being very stupid, Canning—and as immature as I remember,’ Julius said. ‘You should know better than to bait me.’

  Unperturbed and emboldened by the backup of his two friends, Canning laughed inanely and continued. ‘Get the bit between her teeth, tighten her rein a bit and she’ll be as docile as a lamb. I don’t think you’ve introduced us, Chadwick.’

  Julius’s brows lifted. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not very sociable.’

  Julius answered by slamming a fist in Canning’s face that knocked him to the ground. ‘I don’t feel like being sociable, Canning,’ he uttered icily, looking down at him with utter contempt, seeing the blood from his burst nose staining his yellow coat to match the colour of his waistcoat. His eyes sliced a warning to the stunned friends not to interfere. ‘That was for insulting my future wife. Insult her again at your peril, Canning. Excuse us.’ Taking Beatrice’s elbow, without looking back, he strode towards the house.

  Shocked by what had just happened and hoping that Canning wasn’t badly hurt—although she had to admit that he deserved the punch in the nose—Beatrice was almost running to keep up with Julius’s long strides. ‘Julius, please slow down. Who was that man?’

  ‘Lord Percival Canning, a neighbour of mine with an axe to grind to do with some lands he wants to buy off me. I’ve no intention of selling to him, but he never gives up. He never fails to take the opportunity to put my back up.’

  If Julius’s black scowl and rigid jaw was anything to go by, Lord Canning had succeeded admirably, Beatrice thought. But the meeting with the aforesaid gentleman made her realise for the first time what a laugh Julius’s friends must be having at his expense. In the eyes of everyone who’d followed the stories in the newspapers, she had manipulated him into marrying her. She was filled with guilt and remorse over what she was asking—no, demanding—of him.

  ‘Julius—I had no idea… I’m sorry,’ she said with quiet desperation.

  At those words Julius’s gaze jerked to her and he stopped dead. Beatrice almost cried out at the blistering contempt blazing in his eyes.

  ‘Julius, I—I can imagine what you must be thinking—’

  He interrupted sarcastically, ‘Oh, I don’t think you can. If you could, you’d be quite horrified at this moment.’

  ‘I—I didn’t think—’

  ‘What you think is not my primary concern at this moment,’ he bit back coldly.

  ‘But…I never realised people would react this way—truly. Your friends… They are laughing at you. I will call an end to it…’

  ‘What? And shame me more than you already have? Don’t even think of quitting now, lady,’ he hissed. ‘We play this damned charade out to the bitter end.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Shut up,’ he ground out, without relinquishing his hold on her elbow. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Not until they were in the coach and Julius had regained a modicum of self-control and his hard face was wiped clean of all expression did he speak.

  ‘So, Beatrice, what have you to say about your first London ball?’

  ‘Until our encounter with the obnoxious Lord Canning, it went better than I thought it would, although I confess I’m glad it’s over. It will be a relief to be back at the house.’

  Julius nodded and not by the flicker of an eye did he betray his admiration for way she had conducted herself in the face of so much condemnation. It was a pity his admiration did not extend to himself, he thought bitterly. He should have known better than to retaliate with his fists to Canning’s baiting.

  ‘Very soon you will be coming home with me.’
r />   Looking at him, Beatrice wondered at her sudden weakness in the garden. She really had intended backing out of their arrangement if that was what he wanted. But she could see that to walk away from him now would be tantamount to jilting him and would be a slight to him and to his rank, and she could not do such a thing to him.

  ‘When will you be taking me to Highfield?’ she asked. ‘Lady Merrick has told me how splendid it is.’

  ‘My ancestors would be pleased to hear it,’ he remarked drily, feeling no pride or any warm sensation in the palatial splendour that was Highfield Manor.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘I find it oppressive. I don’t often go down there—not since the demise of my parents—and, as you have just witnessed, the neighbours leave a lot to be desired.’

  ‘You must miss them—your parents.’

  ‘My mother, yes. As far as my father was concerned, no. We were not close.’

  He turned his head and looked out of the window, but the tension pulsating from him began to play on Beatrice’s nerves. She wished that he would open up to her and tell her more about his family and why he felt such antipathy for his father. She felt sure it went beyond his father’s weakness for gambling and drink. Julius was locked behind a barrier and she was on the other side. It troubled her that he seemed to know a great deal about her, then shut her out when she asked for answers in return.

  ‘Did your father hurt you?’ His expression turned glacial. She knew she should heed the warning in her head, but ploughed on regardless. ‘Why do you hate him?’

  ‘Hate? Yes, I hated him.’ That was his only response, but his eyes were full of secrets, as unyielding as cold, hard steel.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me what he did that makes you feel like this?’ Beatrice persisted. He gave her an impatient look, a warning look, and did not reply. She knew he was getting angry with her, but she was not ready to give up yet. ‘Why do you find it so painful to speak of him? It might relieve your feelings if you were to confide—’

  ‘Beatrice, do me a favour,’ he interrupted acidly. ‘Do not tell me how to deal with my feelings and I won’t tell you how to deal with yours. Agreed?’

  She flinched at his hard tone, but she detected a turbulent pain beneath his cold veneer.

  ‘You are such an innocent still, Beatrice, a naïve child in many ways.’

  ‘At least I’m not heartless,’ she retorted.

  For the rest of the journey back to Upper Brook Street nothing more was said. Julius had his gaze fixed out of the window, aware of Beatrice glowering at him in the light from the carriage lamps. When anyone tried to get too close or attempted to pry into his past life, resentment surfaced towards his father and the terrible crime he had committed towards Beatrice’s father. May God help her—and him—should she ever discover the truth.

  He shoved the painful memory away, reminding himself that his father was dead. What mattered now was getting on with his life and his future with Beatrice. And yet the old barbs stuck in his flesh and posed problems, threatened what happiness he hoped for.

  Beatrice wanted answers, but her questions awoke years of anger and hurt and deception and lies. To protect his father—a father unworthy of a son’s loyalty—and to prevent an almighty scandal, Julius had allowed himself to be unfairly maligned. He never realised he would meet a beautiful girl who, completely innocent about her own connection to the night that had ruined his own life, would probe into his mind in her curiosity to know him better.

  And now, whatever the cost, to protect his future with Beatrice and Beatrice herself, this terrible secret must remain hidden. He would carry it to the grave.

  But secrets had a way of slipping out.

  Chapter Six

  Despite her determination to get through it without a hitch, Beatrice’s wedding to Julius had a distinct aura of unreality and strain about it. At the outset, Julius had said he did not care to surround the ceremony with any pomp. This suited Beatrice perfectly, for she did not want to attract further attention to herself.

  She was numb to the world about her as she stepped through the high, main portal of St George’s Church in Hanover Square, Mayfair’s most fashionable church. The aisle was illuminated by candles and it seemed a long walk down on Lord Merrick’s arm. She had no bridesmaids, not even a matron of honour, the only guests being a handful of Julius’s close friends and Lord and Lady Merrick, for which Beatrice was thankful. Never had she felt so alone. This was supposed to be the most important and happiest day of her life, yet she had no family or friends to bear witness to her marriage.

  Two men rose to their feet as she approached the pews at the front of the church. One of them, his tall, powerful frame garmented regally in midnight-blue velvet and flawless white cravat, moved forwards and half-turned so that he might watch her progress. His face was stark and serious, almost harsh, and Beatrice was not to know that Julius Chadwick was fighting to control the strong rush of emotion that went through him at the sight of her in her heavy ivory-satin wedding gown.

  For a moment Beatrice was tempted to turn before the vows were spoken and fly from the insanity of what she was doing. But even as she argued with herself she took her place beside Julius, to join her life with his. The amber eyes of her husband-to-be held hers, narrowing, assessing, as though he were studying the woman who had manoeuvred him into marriage.

  The vision Julius saw walking towards him bathed in candlelight snatched his breath away and pride exploded throughout his entire body until he ached with it, for no bride had ever looked as lovely. He stretched out a strong, brown, well-manicured hand and offered it to her. She lifted her own and placed it in his much larger, much warmer one. Julius felt the trembling of her fingers and saw the anxiety in her large eyes. Immensely relieved that she hadn’t decided to pull out of marrying him, he gave her hand a little squeeze in an attempt to reassure her. He drew her the remainder of the way to the altar steps, where he would make her his for all eternity.

  Time stood still as they were swept into the marriage ceremony. Beatrice felt as if she existed in a glass bubble as she spoke the words. She could see all that went on in a kind of mist and what she said was loud enough to be heard, but the words indistinct.

  It seemed only a moment before Julius was sliding a gold band upon her finger and then it was over. Not about to forgo the custom of kissing his young bride, Julius placed his long fingers beneath the delicate bones of her jaw and tilted her face to his. His head lowered and his parted lips moved gently over hers. At last he slackened his grip and stepped back and, offering her his arm through which she slipped her hand, he led her back down the aisle.

  As Julius handed her up into his shiny black coach emblazoned with the Maitland coat of arms, Beatrice thought she was being handed up into the midst of paradise, for only then did she realise fully that she had succeeded in what she had set out to do. Leaving the church for Julius’s town house in Piccadilly ahead of the rest, she was conscious of the man seated across from her, watching her intently. Her heart started to beat a wild tattoo and her lips curved in a small triumphant smile. She could have floated, she felt so light.

  The future—a future that involved Larkhill—was as blue as the horizon. Having seen a different side to him as she got to know him a little better over the last few days, and unable to deny her growing attraction for him, she was surprised by how much she looked forward to her new life with Julius with more than a little excitement.

  Only one cloud darkened her happiness—she was deeply concerned that she might not be able to live up to his expectations and would be a disappointment to him. For days now she had been apprehensive as her wedding day approached—in particular the wedding night—and she told herself that if other women could endure what their husbands did to them, then so could she. She also told herself that perhaps the marital act wouldn’t be as painful as she imagined, and, since she had been the instigator of this marriage, she would bear the pain.

  But as the hour
when she must submit to her husband drew ever nearer, her philosophical attitude deserted her and her dread was steadily mounting. True, she had coerced Julius into marrying her, but when she’d done so, she’d been half-delirious with winning the race. Now, however, she saw with cold clarity what the results of her coercing would be.

  From beneath hooded lids, Julius watched her with brooding attentiveness. The sun shining in through the windows spread a halo around her and the diamond necklace he had given her as a wedding gift shone like droplets of dew against her flesh. At that moment he thought she was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen—and she belonged to him. This delectable, golden-haired girl was his wife, to preside at his table and bear his children. She would never bore him, this he knew.

  ‘How does it feel to be my wife—Lady Chadwick, the Marchioness of Maitland—Beatrice?’

  As Beatrice met his gaze, her lips curved in a little smile. ‘If you must know, I don’t feel anything at the moment. It’s difficult to take it all in. I feel no different to what I did before the ceremony.’ She arched her brows in question. ‘Should I?’

  ‘I can think of plenty of females who would.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, but I am not one of them. Titles are meaningless to me.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘That’s right. Titles don’t enter into your scheme of things, do they? Only a certain property.’

  ‘You knew that from the start. I made no secret of what I wanted.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. But now I think it’s about time you realised what it is that I want.’

  To Beatrice’s absolute disbelief, he leaned forwards and stretched his hand to her. Completely unnerved, she jerked back, not knowing what he intended. Annoyed because she didn’t fall into his lap, he yanked her off her seat before she knew what he was about, his long fingers curled around her wrist in a painful vice. She muffled a cry as she landed in a sprawling, uncomfortable heap on the seat beside him.