Beatrix was dumbstruck, trying to imagine a life such as that. It had been bad enough during the few times her father had tried to send her off to school, a task he only undertook to provide an education for her. Even then, both had been so miserable that she insisted on coming home.
“I cannot understand it,” she finally said. “A child so young, taken from his mother? Growing up with only the care of strangers?”
“You make it sound as though my parents left me in a forest to be raised by wolves!” Callum said, laughing. “I never gave it a thought, it was quite typical.”
“You’re telling me you never once cried for your mother? I refuse to believe it,” Beatrix said crossly.
“I’m sure there were times, my birthday perhaps, or when I fell and broke my arm once,” he admitted. “But that is simply the life I had to live. It was my duty and obligation to live here where I was the Marquess, no matter how old I was.”
“The more time I spend with you,” she said, “the more thankful I become that I’ve been spared the life of a noblewoman.”
“Really? I’ve had quite the opposite sentiment myself!” Callum admitted. “The more I come to understand your life, the more grateful I am that I somehow avoided the same fate.”
They rode along in silence, each pondering the other’s view. Beatrix was horrified that any parent could be rid of her child so easily, titled or no. Callum, for his part, wondered what strange life the common man might live that he would upend his entire household over a child.
After a brief reunion with his former governess, Callum and Beatrix set out once again, the woman’s niece trailing happily some distance behind them. They rode through the glens surrounding the estate, enjoying the sunshine as much as the ride itself.
The conversation soon drifted to pleasant topics, ones that veered away from talk of unhappy memories or differences between them. Before long, it was time to bid their chaperone goodbye and return to the house.
As they approached the path to the stables once more, a rider came into view. His pace was hurried but not frantic, and both Callum and Beatrix stopped to see who it might be.
“Callum! My good friend! How is it you happen to be out at this time?” Peter asked, raising his hand in greeting and calling out.
“Out for a ride, same as you, I should think!” Callum answered. “Peter, this is my… friend, whom I mentioned to you the other evening.” Peter turned to stare at Beatrix, mouth suddenly agape and eyes wide, as Callum further explained to Beatrix, “This is my dearest friend, Peter Grain, Viscount of Dewham. We go back many years, all the way to our days in the cradle! Isn’t that right, Peter?”
Peter still stared, alternating between Callum and Beatrix and back again. Finally, he remembered himself well enough to stammer, “What? Yes! Yes, we’ve known one another for most of our lives!”
“What brings you ‘round this way, though?” Callum asked, nodding to Beatrix and clucking softly to his horse to start walking towards the house.
“You’ll never believe it,” Peter began after casting one more skeptical glance at Beatrix. “But I’m getting married!”
“Really?” Lord Bellton asked. “So your father has decided then?”
“Apparently. I don’t even know her name, the poor girl, and already she’s to be saddled with the likes of me,” Peter said, feigning misery.
“You’d best keep it that way,” Callum answered, pretending to be serious. “If the lady finds out to whom she’s betrothed, she’s likely to strike out for America in the dead of night and never look back! Your ugly face alone would be enough to convince a girl to remain a spinster!”
“I know it’s only the jealousy talking,” Peter replied, somewhat aloof. “You’ve been envious of my good looks and success at romance for years.”
“But in all seriousness, you don’t know who she is?” Callum finally said. “Knowing your father, though, I take it she’s well-monied and her family is well-titled?”
“So he says. I’m apparently to be the next duke, as her brother died,” Peter answered, waving his hand as though it was insignificant. “I don’t really know much about the family, other than—”
“If you’ll both excuse me,” Beatrix interrupted, straining to keep her anger to herself, “I’m not feeling much like conversation. I think I shall go on ahead to the house. A distinct pleasure meeting you, of course.”
Beatrix nudged her horse onward and broke into a full gallop, leaving the two men to stare after her. Callum could tell instantly that something had disturbed her, though he knew not what. Peter, for his part, remained oblivious.
“Well, she seems lovely,” he said, sounding only faintly snide. “You’ll have to explain how it is you’ve gone from keeping her locked in the basement to taking her out for a ride.”
“Shove it, Peter,” Callum answered with a low growl in his words.
Peter only laughed at Callum’s obvious irritation, then remembered something and asked, “But why was she wearing trousers?”
Chapter 17
After bidding Peter good day, Callum raced on to the stables himself, intent on finding Beatrix. As he’d suspected she would be, she was still in the stables tending to Snow. Her brush, though gentle on the animal’s flank, still moved with the purposeful intent of someone who was furious.
“What was that about?” Callum asked, dismounting his own horse and leading it into the hallway behind Snow.
“What was what about?” Beatrix asked, avoiding Callum’s gaze. She ducked under the ties that secured Snow’s halter and began brushing the other side, turning her back on Callum.
“You became angry and I don’t know why.”
“Why do you care whether I’m angry?” she asked, continuing the brushing and moving farther away from Callum.
“Well, I suppose in some way I shouldn’t care, but somehow I find that I do. And I wish to understand it,” he answered, following her around Snow’s back.
Beatrix whirled around to face Callum and flung down the brush she’d been holding. It skittered across the stone floor and came to rest down the row of stalls.
“I’m angry because nothing matters to you people! ‘Oh, la di da, I’m getting married… oh, to whom? I don’t know, it’s of no concern to me as long as she has money,’” she said in a high-pitched voice that dripped with disdain. Her eyes burned anew with fresh anger as she stormed, “Does anything matter to your kind? Or is everything one giant diversion in your comfortable little world?”
“You neither know him nor know anything about him,” Callum shot back, “but yet you’re furious with him for being required to get married! Did you stop to think that he has no choice in the matter, that he is just as much as prisoner as… as… well, you are?”
Beatrix stared blankly at Callum, her cheeks burning with shame. For his part, the look of horror on his face spoke volumes.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered, not meeting her gaze. “I spoke without thinking, and I beg your forgiveness.”
“Oh no,” she said quietly. “It’s all right. After all, that’s all I am. Your prisoner. You might dress me up and serve exquisite foods off delicate china, but at the end of the evening, I return to a room that is guarded by one of your servants.”
“Miss… Beatrix, please. I did not mean that,” he began, but he stopped when he saw her sneak a hand towards her eyes and wipe away a tear.
Callum came closer and took her hand in his, turning it over and spying how it glistened from her tears. She watched in silent awe as he brought it to his lips and kissed it, holding her hand so tenderly as though he thought it might break.
“What… what are you doing?” Beatrix whispered, ignoring the urge to pull her hand back from his and run away. The warmth of his hand wrapped around hers was too welcome to be real.
“I don’t even know,” he answered, looking up at her with eyes filled with remorse. “I only know that I’ve caused you great pain, and I know not how to repair it.”
&nbs
p; Beatrix watched in silence as he turned her hand over, tracing the lines of her palm with his fingertip like a man transfixed. Callum looked at her hands, brushing his fingers lightly against the calluses and old scrapes, battle scars she’d earned tending to her father and his men for these past many years.
“I forgive you,” she finally whispered, closing her fingers around his gently.
“Do you?” Callum asked, still looking at her hand and reaching to take her other one. “Because I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
When he finally looked up at her, his expression was nearly unreadable. Beatrix only saw his remorse, mixed with a sense of confusion about his feelings.
“And do you forgive me?” she asked softly. “I do not have your property, nor do I know where it is, but I still refused to help you find it. Am I forgiven for that?”
“Of course,” Callum replied. “It was wrong of me to ask it of you. Nearly as wrong as bringing you here against your will and treating you so wretchedly.”
“I think I’m glad you did,” Beatrix said slowly, looking at Callum’s face and stepping closer. “I cannot explain why, but it is true.”
Daring to risk offense, Callum held both of Beatrix’s hands in one of his, then pressed the palm of his hand to her cheek gently. When she didn’t flinch from his touch—nay, quite the opposite, or did he imagine she leaned against his hand longingly?—he bent forward and brushed his lips against hers gently, his senses on fire from the faint touch.
She pulled her hands from his and for a moment Callum feared she might run from him. Instead, she took the lapels of his jacket in her hands and clung to him. His arms wound round her in an instant, holding her tightly to him.
At the sound of a stable hand’s shout from outside, Callum released her quickly and stepped back, putting a safe distance between the two of them. There were no words, only silence for a few moments as they both mulled over what had just transpired.
“Beatrix…” Callum started to say, but she put up her hand to stop him, closing her eyes against the sight of his anguished face.
“Don’t. You spend all your time apologizing to me, do not spoil that by telling me that you’re sorry now,” she insisted, a hint of pleading in her voice.
“But I am, I had no right,” he said urgently. “It wasn’t right of me to take advantage like that, and I’m sorry!”
“I’m not,” she said firmly before turning and racing towards the house.
“Where have you been?” the Earl of Weavington hissed, grabbing Peter by the arm painfully when he came into the house.
“Father! What’s the matter? I only went to pay Callum a visit. What’s wrong?” Peter looked around, confused at not seeing the source of his father’s irritation.
“The Duke is sending his solicitors over to draft the marriage agreement and the order of succession! Go wash yourself at once—you stink of the stables—and put on something more suitable to greet these men!” The Earl released Peter’s arm with a rough sort of shove and stormed away, his footsteps echoing through the empty hall.
“Good to see you too, Father,” Peter muttered under his breath.
Still, he did as he was bid, and returned a short while later to find both of his parents sitting in the drawing room. It was almost comical how they attempted to look as though this was an ordinary day and they were not perched on the edges of their chairs. They, too, appeared freshly groomed and highly attired, and Peter noted an inordinate amount of jewelry adorning his mother at this early hour of the afternoon.
He stifled a laugh and managed to wear a serious expression when he asked, “Where should I stand? Here, by the window? Or should I look thoughtful and responsible by studying some documents at the desk? Perhaps I should be reading a map of the British empire!”
“Do shut up,” his father said sternly, looking over a financial report. “Sit anywhere, your only role in these proceedings is to manage to avoid sounding like an imbecile.”
Peter rolled his eyes and glanced over at his mother, who smiled sympathetically but said nothing. He noticed that she, too, was merely seated on the gold brocade chair and waiting, not holding so much as a needlepoint to occupy her attention.
“Mother, I had an interesting visit to Callum’s today,” he said, and she brightened somewhat.
“How is he faring after the loss of his dear mother?” she asked sweetly. “Jane was like a sister to me all those years; I should pay her son a call soon to see how he’s getting on.”
“He’s doing rather well I should think, considering the circumstances. But there’s a new guest at his home to occupy his attention, if you understand my meaning,” he said, the corners of his mouth rising slightly.
Lady Margaret looked at her son and her eyes went wide. She shook her head slightly as if questioning Peter’s assessment, but he only nodded.
“It’s true, Mother. I saw her myself. This same young woman whom Callum claims has stolen something of value has apparently been kept sequestered in one of the empty servants’ rooms since the day of the incident. He told me as much at Northam’s and he was in a very low state of mind over it. Only now, I saw her today out riding with him…” He glanced at his father briefly and lowered his voice to a whisper to add, “…without a chaperone!”
“What is he thinking?” Lady Margaret asked, clutching at her chest. “That is a certain road to ruin for a man of his position! Why, she could make any sort of claim against his reputation!”
“I don’t know, Mother. But surely there’s something else to their tale that I’m not understanding. You should have seen her, she was dressed rather strangely for riding.” Peter silently plucked at the legs of his trousers to indicate the woman’s attire, and his mother’s expression was one of sheer disgust. “All we can do is trust his judgment to keep his wits about him!”
“What are you two blathering on about?” the Earl demanded, looking up from his report. “You’re worse than two old hens playing at cards and talking about the ton!”
Peter straightened up and his mother looked out the window, neither of them taking the initiative to explain. Seeing his father’s look of consternation, Peter eventually said, “I was only telling Mother about the woman who’s been staying at Bellton’s house. The one I told you about.”
“What woman? You don’t mean… you mean the woman you mentioned the other day?” his father demanded, his face growing a dangerous shade of red.
“Yes, at least that’s what Callum said this morning,” Peter acknowledged. “But how did you know she is one and the same?”
“I don’t! But a thief is a thief. That woman was supposed to leave under arrest!” the Earl said angrily. “I called the officials in London myself and reported her for the crime of ambushing one of our friends and attempting theft!”
“Why would you do that?” Lady Margaret asked. “Surely young Callum has his priorities and his reasons. Besides, it’s not as if it’s any of our affair.”
“Well, it’s as I said. We have to look out for one another,” Weavington said suddenly. “Who’s going to look after that young man and his best interests if we don’t assist when needed?”
“I don’t know, perhaps his father could prove useful in these matters?” Peter asked dryly. The Earl glared at his son.
“Don’t get cheeky. You know how far his father’s estates are from here. I shall write to the officers again and demand they do something about a thief in our midst!”
The Earl stood to go to his desk but the butler opened the door to the drawing room, announcing the arrival of their long-expected guests. The Earl muttered something about remembering to do it later, then he affixed his most endearing smile to welcome his son’s future fortunes.
Throughout the proceedings, Peter sat nearly silent, watching the negotiations. There were signatures to be signed, seals to be placed, and documents to be rendered in triplicate, all to ensure that the marriage was both sound and fruitful. There were clauses as to what would happen if eithe
r party should seek to divorce, statements of settlement if the marriage failed to produce an heir, pages upon pages of what would happen to the joint wealth and titles should either Peter or his bride—whose name he couldn’t find anywhere on the documents—die an untimely death.
It was the most boring event he’d ever sat through, and yet, all of it was supposed to be thrilling. He was signing his life away for the love of a woman… any woman, apparently, so long as she had the proper connections.
“Earlier today,” Peter suddenly remembered, “that woman… she and Callum had looked at each other with something like camaraderie, friendship of the strangest sort. They’d even cast these odd glances at one another when they thought I hadn’t noticed. It was so odd…”
The Stolen Diadem of a Castaway Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 13
