An Infamous Betrayal

by Lynn Messina

Mindlessly, recklessly, she made the leap herself, swooping to the other side of the carriage and taking possession of his lips.

  Was he surprised?

  He had to be surprised.

  And yet there was no indication of it at all.

  How smoothly he joined the effort, his lips responding with a disorienting mix of impatience and care, at once eager and gentle. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to press his body against hers. Softly, he brushed his tongue against her lips, and excited for more, she opened her mouth. Feeling surged through her—incomprehensible passion, undeniable love—and, unmoored by its power, she clutched his shoulders, then moaned in pleasure as his own hands slid beneath her shirt to touch her skin.

  He murmured incoherently in response.

  Desperate to know the sensation for herself, she dug her hands under his shirt and felt the heat of his back. At the contact, he lurched forward, as if trying to draw her closer, and then pulled her onto his lap.

  “Yes, please, Bea, yes,” he said, his voice low, husky and breathless.

  She heard the pleading in his tone and felt the same insistence, the same driving need. Frantic, she reared up to somehow consume more of him, her lips nibbling on the edge of his mouth, and suddenly found herself chewing, then choking, on a furry, slithery object.

  The mustache!

  Horrified, she pulled away and threw herself onto the other bench, gagging on the mustache as it scratched the back of her throat. She tried dislodging it by spitting it out, but it was too thick and fulsome and she actually had to reach inside her mouth to remove it.

  With a disgusted yech, she threw it onto the floor, where it landed only an inch from Kesgrave’s shoes and lay like a drowned baby mouse.

  It was mortifying in every way possible—the start of the kiss, the end of the kiss, the desperate middle of the kiss where she would have absorbed his body into her own if it were only possible—and although Bea felt lower than a worm on the heel of a gentleman’s shoe, she could not help but appreciate the parodic perfection of the moment. It was fitting because her relationship with Kesgrave had been a farce from the very beginning. Their first exchange had been a gross misunderstanding conducted over the cooling corpse of an opium smuggler.

  It was always going to end like this.

  Certainly, the mustache imbroglio was unexpected and something she never would have predicted in a million years. But the humiliation itself, never mind the method—that had been foretold. There was no other way for a relationship between a smitten spinster and a sought-after duke to conclude.

  The embarrassment was crushing, of course, and she wished she could transform into that worm and slink away. But it also typified the essential reality of her existence and was merely the latest manifestation of the truth she’d divined while standing on the doorstep at 19 Portman Square as an orphan: The trajectory of her life was off course. Nothing would ever be right again.

  Across from her, the duke inhaled and Bea knew he was going to try to say something mitigating. Despite all his pedantry and superiority, he was a kind man and would attempt to shoulder as much responsibility as possible.

  Such evenhanded consideration would only make her mortification worse, and she held up her hand to forestall him. At that very moment, the carriage stopped at the corner of her street and she felt a profound sense of gratitude.

  Providence was not kind but neither was it cruel.

  Unwilling to wait for the driver, she opened the door and climbed out as Kesgrave called her name.

  Calmly, she took a deep breath and smiled with what she hoped was benign good humor. “Goodbye, your grace.”

  He did not like the finality of her tone—that much was clear from his pained expression—and she imagined he wanted a more decorous ending than two men in disheveled clothes and a soggy fake mustache on the floor. She didn’t blame him, for she wanted that too. Alas, it was not in her power to bestow it.

  She turned toward her home and began walking.

  Kesgrave called after her as he climbed out of the coach, “No, wait, Bea, you must listen.”

  Bea kept her gait steady and her eyes focused ahead. She was relying on the indecorousness of the situation to shield her from further contact. The Duke of Kesgrave did not want to be caught in the middle of Mayfair accosting a young man while wearing his steward’s clothes. If Jenkins had held the reins then he might have sent his groom to waylay her, but he could not embroil the driver of a public hack in his private affairs. It was an unexpected boon.

  The distance to her house was not very great, but with the duke’s eyes on her it felt interminable. With every step, she wanted to walk faster and faster, but the thought of the impression that might give him—spinsterish Beatrice Hyde-Clare scurrying away—kept her pace even.

  When she finally reached number nineteen, she disappeared down the stairwell leading to the servants’ entrance and peered through the window. Confirming that the area was unoccupied, she quietly slipped inside. At once she was greeted by the sound of female voices wafting down the hallway. She had little worry of anyone noticing her absence, as she’d coughed prolifically during breakfast that morning and assured her family it definitely was not the early stages of a cold, despite how under the weather she had been feeling. All of them, even Russell, who insisted on going out without a coat in the chilly late-winter weather, visibly winced and scooted their chairs a few inches away from her.

  Recalling the scene as she crept past the servants in the kitchen, she marveled at the ease with which she could have conducted a secret love affair with a law clerk named Theodore Davies if such a man existed. That she could find no humor in the irony she laid churlishly at the duke’s feet and was pleased to discover she was still capable of annoyance even if amusement eluded her.

  Cautiously, she climbed the stairs and emerged in the corridor just as Flora stepped out of the drawing room with her sewing. For several humming seconds, the two women stared at each other. Then Aunt Vera chastised her daughter for halting so suddenly on the threshold, grumbling that her needlepoint had been crushed.

  Horrified, Bea felt the color drain from her face.

  Calmly, Flora reached out her hand and knocked over a vase sitting on the hallway table. “Oh, no,” she said, affecting distress as the porcelain shattered. “I’m so desperately clumsy.”

  Sparing her cousin a grateful look, Bea dashed to the back staircase, darted up to the next floor as quickly as possible and ran to her room. There, she changed immediately into one of her drab morning gowns and, thoroughly exhausted from anxiety and excitement and desolation, she lay down on her bed.

  She knew it wasn’t over quite yet. Kesgrave would go home, change out of his steward’s clothes and pay a call. When he was refused on account of her cold, he would send a note. When the envelope was returned unopened, he would seek her out at the next social function they both attended. When he failed to get a moment alone with her, he would cease to pursue it. The Duke of Kesgrave was far too well-bred to harass a lady. In another week, two at most, it would truly be over.

  Grateful and devastated, relieved and desperate, she began to cry.

  A few minutes later, Flora knocked abruptly on her door and opened it without waiting for a reply. “Well, that was a close shave. I swear I thought my mother was about to—”

  She broke off when she saw her cousin curled up in a ball sobbing, and asking no questions at all, she rushed over and pulled an unresisting Bea into her arms. “It’s going to be all right, darling. Oh, my poor, poor darling, I promise you everything will be all right. You won’t miss him forever, I promise,” she said softly, naturally concluding that her cousin was still mourning her dead law clerk.

  Bea was grateful for the comfort and the gentleness and the warmth of her embrace, and she would never forget the kindness at the exact moment when she desperately needed it. But, no, everything would not be all right.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Despite Bea’s in
sistence that she had no desire to attend the Larkwells’ ball, Aunt Vera refused to take her preference into account.

  “For goodness’ sake, Beatrice,” she exclaimed crossly as she examined the contents of her niece’s wardrobe, “you still have Lady Abercrombie’s beautiful blue dress. I told you to return it immediately. Why did you not comply with my directive? Now she will think you intend to keep it. How mortifying for me! It’s a shame, really, for the shade of cerulean is so very fine and flatters even your wan complexion, which is somehow more pallid than usual after two weeks of fighting a dreadful cold. Could you possibly…” Abruptly, she shook her head, as if incapable of believing she had been so imprudent as to even consider it. “No, you will wear something else. Like this yellow gown. It doesn’t do you any favors, but no scrap of fabric can perform miracles. Now, do get dressed so that we may go to the ball and put to rest all this talk. Annie will be here in a moment.”

  Taken aback by her aunt’s sudden about-face, for the older woman had been quite content to let Bea leisurely nurse a cold, she narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Talk?”

  Aunt Vera, who was now inspecting the vanity for something bright and sparkly to perk up her niece’s appearance, looked at her in confusion. “Excuse me?”

  “You mentioned talk,” Bea reminded her. “What talk?”

  “Nothing,” she said, realizing she would have to lend Bea a string of garnets to wind nicely through her hair, as her collection of hairpins was plain and uninspired. “It’s just something Kesgrave said in passing.”

  At her words, Bea visibly started. It was not the mention of Kesgrave that caused the reaction, for his assiduous pursuit of an interview with her had ensured that his name came up frequently in conversation, but the realization that something underhanded was afoot.

  “What did he say?” Bea asked.

  “How people were beginning to notice your absence, as you had just emerged from the sickroom only to take refuge there again almost instantly,” Aunt Vera explained. “It seems some people are concerned that your uncle and I aren’t taking proper care of you. Obviously, it’s all a hum and I wouldn’t listen to a word they say, but there’s no reason why you cannot attend tonight’s event. As the duke said, it’s the easiest way to put the rumors to rest.”

  “I bet he did,” Bea muttered, annoyed that Kesgrave had finally figured out a way to maneuver her into a public space where he would be able to accost her with his remorse. That he still sought a consultation with her two weeks after the incident surprised her. It seemed the more she denied him the opportunity to be gracious, the more determined he was to foist his graciousness on her regardless of her clearly communicated preference. If she had realized refusal would make him more dogged, she would have remained in the carriage and heard him out.

  As unbearable as that experience would have been, it would at least have ensured that this episode in her life would be over.

  Instead, the duke insisted on visiting regularly, which convinced Flora more than ever that he had somehow developed feelings for Bea—feelings, she believed, her cousin returned. Alas, the guilt over betraying the memory of her first love tormented her, and Flora tried to assure her that Mr. Davies would not mind at all if she found happiness with a duke. Indeed, he would most likely be delighted that she had done so well for herself. After all, he’d had those darling children, had he not, and could not want her pining for him indefinitely.

  Her mother, hearing this nonsense, thought the idea of the duke proposing to Bea was the most outrageously amusing on-dit ever uttered in a drawing room.

  When pressed for an alternative explanation for Kesgrave’s repeated calls, Aunt Vera identified herself as the cause, insisting his grace admired her circumspection and restrained attitude toward life.

  “We have a very particular friendship,” she announced during dinner one night.

  Uncle Horace, somehow finding that claim to be credible, began to protest the propriety of the duke’s interest and sit in on the visits.

  The image of her uncle glaring at the Duke of Kesgrave in possessive jealously over weak tea was the only thing that had made her smile in two weeks.

  Annie entered the room and greeted her cheerfully.

  As Bea submitted to her maid’s ministrations, she affirmed her resolution to elude the duke at all costs. No doubt he thought he had been very clever, but getting her to the ball was not the same as getting her to listen. If necessary, she would recruit Lady Abercrombie, who would be happy to intercede on her behalf, for she remained as determined as ever to help her protégé recover from her infatuation and sent frequent messages updating her on changes to the list of suitors. With the memory of the kiss so fresh in her mind, Bea could not imagine following up on any of the names, but she appreciated the widow’s concern and thought often about paying her a visit to talk about the experience. Knowing nothing about love and unable to locate the relevant information in a book, Bea feared she would spend the rest of her life thinking about the kiss, a notion that horrified her. She felt confident a woman of Lady Abercrombie’s experience would be able to put her mind at ease on that point.

  But the thought of discussing a moment of such staggering intimacy with anyone sent the heat of embarrassment coursing through Bea’s body. She couldn’t possibly explain the rush of feeling the kiss had unleashed in her, the shock of desire so overwhelming she’d become almost like a wild thing, feral and driven by need.

  Who knew what would have happened if not for that fatuous mustache.

  As if inspired by the challenge, her mind instantly began to envision several possible outcomes, each one more audacious than the last.

  “You are looking better already,” Annie said approvingly as the blush bathed her charge’s cheeks.

  Bea’s color deepened as she realized she could feel desire for Kesgrave whilst in the presence of her maid. Appalled by the depravity, she focused on something unpleasant.

  The Otleys, she decided, recalling her visit two weeks ago when she had informed both ladies and Mr. Skeffington that Wilson’s awful death had been naught but a tragic mistake. Although the Incomparable and her fiancé were relieved to discover the guilty party did not number among the Otleys’ household or acquaintance, Mrs. Otley was not as sanguine and insisted Beatrice was wrong in her conclusions. She could not believe that the man she loved had been cruelly taken from her by accident. Surely, his life had more value than just as a warning shot for a man of more noble blood.

  “It is part of a dastardly plot to destroy what little happiness I have found in this life,” she’d insisted, falling onto the settee as if her legs were no longer able to support her.

  It was an unexpectedly passionate response from a woman who had coolly instructed the kitchen staff to remove a tray in the midst of her lover’s horrific suffering. But Bea, watching the display, believed the widow was truly dismayed to discover the truth. Unable to bear Mr. Wilson’s trivial place in the universe, Mrs. Otley seemed determined to make him vitally important to her own.

  Emily did not share Bea’s generous interpretation of her mother’s needlessly dramatic display, rolling her eyes at the histrionics, but she responded to her outlandish bid for attention by trying to soothe her pain. “There, there,” she said softly.

  Either sensing the insincerity or too distrustful of her daughter to give her the benefit of the doubt, Mrs. Otley rejected the proffered comfort on the grounds that Emily had never liked Mr. Wilson.

  “Well, no,” Emily had responded reasonably, “for he was an interloper in your marriage, an opium smuggler and a man of low origin.”

  At Mrs. Otley’s screaming reply, Mr. Skeffington offered to escort Bea to her carriage, and as soon as they were in the hallway, thanked her for resolving the matter so quickly. He showed no reaction at all when the sound of broken glass emanated from the room. Bea flinched and suggested he wed Emily as soon as possible rather than waiting for the full year to be up. Six months was respectful enough.


  Bea smiled now as she recalled the note she had received a week earlier announcing their marriage in a quiet ceremony at Lakeview Hall.

  Annie wove a string of garnets through Bea’s hair and stepped back to examine her handiwork. Her nose scrunched in dissatisfaction, and she adjusted the strand’s placement.

  “There,” she said with approval, “you’re perfect.”

  Bea very much doubted that, but she held her tongue then as she held her tongue later when, on the way to Larkwell House, Flora quietly urged her to hear Kesgrave out. She successfully depressed her cousin’s conversation, but the gleam of expectation in the other woman’s eye indicated that Bea had been unable to dampen her hopes.

  The ballroom was already crowded by the time they arrived, and she silently cursed the custom that required her name to be announced to the entire party. She immediately tensed, as if expecting Kesgrave to emerge from the shadows to accost her.

  Naturally, he did not.

  Lady Abercrombie, of course, quickly sought her out to chastise her for failing to call on her. “I must say, Miss Hyde-Clare, for someone with your seemingly sturdy disposition, you are awfully prone to ailments. First the bruises that kept you in seclusion for three weeks and now this bothersome cold that kept you inside for two. I find it very vexing. Do recall, we have business to discuss.”

  Bea rushed to assure the countess that although she had been too ill to pay social calls, she had read every update to the list of suitors and had no quibble with the candidates, all of whom seemed quite suitable. She did not add if they were suitable for her, and the countess did not ask.

  Her ladyship nodded in approval, as if she’d expected nothing else, and then said, “However, I am talking about our other business. You are meant to pay a call on me so that we may discuss my referral. It has been almost two weeks, and I trust the other matter is settled.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, yes,” Bea said, flustered because Lady Abercrombie’s investigation had completely slipped her mind. In the wake of the disastrous kiss, quite a few things had fallen to the wayside. “I will call on you this week.”