Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4)

by Rebecca J. Greenwood

  “Order it grown out, more like,” Lady Judith said. “It rankles the gardeners.”

  “Quite right, cousin.” He gave an amused half-smile. “They do balk. And in the winter cut it back down again. It’s a struggle every year.”

  “If you dislike it so much, why do you not replace it?” Beauty asked.

  “Ah, but the history. My mother likes it. Childhood nostalgia, I’m sure.”

  Beautiful statuary graced the formal garden, Greek and baroque in style. They passed a bench.

  “I’m going to sit,” Lady Judith said. “Wander the paths but stay in sight,” she ordered them with a wave.

  The duke gave Beauty an amused glance and continued walking beside her. Beauty kept her hands clasped before her.

  The sky was in full red glory, the light of the setting sun warming the duke’s skin, softening his scars.

  “She takes her position as chaperone seriously.” The duke commented.

  Beauty blinked in confusion and irritation. She appreciated the chaperone—she felt safer with Judith despite her prickliness—but that she even needed one. . .

  “If I was in the kitchens, I would not need a chaperone.” She said it quietly.

  He grew still. “No. Though you would be under the cook and Mrs. Haskins, and they are sharp-eyed chaperones of their own sort.”

  They walked along side by side in silence, her hands clasped before her, his clasped behind him.

  “I’m sorry my father stole your special rose.” She dragged the words out of a tense throat, keeping her voice low, her eyes on a tall pointed topiary.

  He let out a long breath. “And I apologize for reacting so badly.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

  He met her gaze, an apologetic look on his face. “Yes, I acknowledge I did not act as a gentleman should, and that my anger was out of proportion to the offense. But I—“ He stopped. “No, I will not excuse myself. I will instead apologize again.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I am glad, Miss Reynolds, that you are here. And I do not wish it otherwise.”

  “Oh.” She turned, mind overwhelmed by this new turn. She walked ahead of him, not wanting him to see the emotions she could no longer repress. A fierce frown overtook her face, and tears pricked.

  “Miss Reynolds.” He stayed behind her, for which she thanked heaven.

  “And the debt?” She forced the words from a tight throat.

  “It is owed still.”

  “Of course it is owed.” She spoke it softly, a mutter she hoped he did not hear. “I see,” she said loudly, then she picked up her steps and moved away from him.

  She reached the end of the formal garden. The gravel path continued into wilder grounds of grass, shrubbery, and trees, a folly and the lake visible in the distance. The sun was gone now, the sky a vision of pinks and oranges still, but fading into purple twilight.

  The color much like his oh-so-precious Blue Blood rose.

  She wished she could pick up her skirts and run far, far away.

  She heard the duke’s halting steps behind her on the gravel. “Miss Reynolds?”

  Tears threatened. Panic rose up in her. Her emotions rioted. She would cry. She did not want to show such weakness in front of the duke. She had to get away from him.

  She picked up her skirts and ran.

  Chapter 11

  William stared at Beauty’s retreating form in the fading light. She ran flat out on the gravel path. As it curved, she continued straight into the wet grass and was soon shielded by bush and tree.

  As if desperate to get away from him.

  A realization hit his heart with a stab of pain. If he asked his all-important question—if he allowed himself the self-indulgence of asking for her hand—Beauty would accept. Yes, she would.

  And she would hate him for it.

  He swallowed against the pain and stood in stunned hurt and self-recrimination.

  “Well, that’s a fine muddle.” Cousin Judith arrived at his side, looking out over the grounds where Beauty had disappeared. “Are you going to go after her? Or should I fetch the gardeners to start a search?”

  “She should be safe enough if she does not leave the grounds.”

  She made a scoffing noise. “Need I remind you, Your Grace, of the old ha-ha? And how night is upon us? She is running blind.”

  Alarm shot through him, overcoming any hurt and reluctance. The ha-ha! It was an unusually deep one, a sharp drop-off, eight feet to the trench below, intentionally hidden from the view of anyone approaching from the castle.

  He stumbled forward, his stiff knee protesting. He ignored it and moved faster.

  “Miss Reynolds!” He pushed into the shrubbery she had entered. Where had she gone? “Miss Reynolds! Ware the ha-ha!” He kept pushing forward, through open grass, trees, and shrubbery.

  The wildness of the grounds had been his deliberate choice. He liked it better than plain sweeping lawns. But it made finding Beauty difficult, and it would hide the sunken wall of the ha-ha. “Isabelle! Isabelle! There is a hidden drop!”

  Where was she? He huffed from exertion, crashing through brush and overgrowth, alarm pumping in his veins. He must get to her! The ha-ha trench was deep, and an unwary fall could injure a person.

  She might be blinded by tears. He was blinded by the gray half-light of dusk and his own cursed half-sight. “Beauty! Please! Where are you?”

  He forced himself to stop and listen. There, the breaking of winter-dead twigs. He ran in that direction.

  He recognized that pile of stones, that tree. He was quite close to the ha-ha. He ran toward it. If she dodged away from him, at least she would be safe from the steep, sudden drop off.

  He reached the edge and looked closely around him in the gloom, the lowering darkness making it hard to see anything. Curse his blind eye!

  He panted and walked along the grassy edge, striving for silence, to hear her if she was coming this way. But little sound reached past the pounding of his blood in his ears.

  A rustling caused him to look to his left.

  A pale figure emerged, holding up her skirts. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes. Was she looking where she was going at all? Her gaze, what he could see of it, seemed to be on the space right before her feet. She went around a bush, getting perilously near the ha-ha edge.

  “Beauty!” He broke out into a run towards her.

  She looked up, and he saw the whites of her eyes flash in a pale face. She dodged. Towards the man-made cliff edge.

  “No!”

  One of her feet hit the edge where grass ended and the supporting masonry wall of the ha-ha began, and slid off, losing all purchase. She let out a cry. He lunged toward her, caught a flailing arm, grabbed it fast, and dug his feet against the sudden full weight of her body pulling him towards the drop off. His feet slid in the wet grass, and his weak knee protested. He gritted his teeth and pulled, his muscles straining, until her body flew towards him, away from the treacherous edge, and into his arms.

  He stumbled back a few steps, away from the ha-ha, and he held her tight, her small frame pressed against him, her shuddering, panicked breaths loud against his ear.

  “Shh,” he soothed. “I’ve got you.” He held her until his heart started to slow, the sweet scent of her hair filling his nose, and adding to the sensations overwhelming him. He wished to kiss her head but retained enough self-possession to refrain.

  Her breaths calmed. She pushed away, and he let her go.

  They stared at each other in the dark, the only illumination the cloud-studded deepness of the sky above that still held some light.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What—what is that?”

  “The ha-ha. To keep the deer from the gardens.”

  “Would—would a fence not work just as well?”

  “Yes, it would. It’s pure vanity.” He cursed his ancestors for scorning a fence that would block their
view of the lake from the house.

  “I almost—I almost fell. You caught me.”

  “It’s not so deep that you would have been killed, we hope, but broken bones are a possibility. Are you injured? I’m sure you have bruises from my hands . . .”

  “I ache, but nothing is broken.”

  “Good. Can you walk?”

  “Can you?” Her voice held irritation at his question.

  He let out a bark of a laugh. “I assume so.” His left knee ached, but that was not unusual. “May I escort you back to the house?”

  He held out his gloved hand to Beauty. It hung in the air empty for several seconds. Then, he felt her small hand enter his.

  “Yes.”

  He took her arm in his, held it close to him, as they stumbled over unseen roots and branches in the dark, heading back towards the castle.

  As he limped back with her on his arm, he wanted to say so many things: I’m sorry. I’m sorry I am so horrible you felt like you must run from me. I’m sorry I behaved so awfully that you can’t stand to be near me.

  He bit back all of them with a grimace.

  Bobbing lights of lanterns ahead of them gave them something to focus on in the gloom, a direction to move towards. Calling voices reached them.

  She was shivering. He stopped, reluctantly let go of her, peeled off his coat, and draped it over her shoulders.

  They reached the lantern lights. Gardeners and grooms who had been dispatched to search for them gave them wide-eyed looks. He was mud-spattered, but Beauty was bedraggled under his coat, her skirts wet, with a large mud-splotch on one knee. March winds tugged at them. A chill passed over his body. Beauty clutched his coat tight around her.

  “Please inform the duchess, and Monsieur Andre, that dinner will be delayed,” he said.

  ***

  That night Beauty dreamed the ground crumbled beneath her feet, and she fell.

  She woke with a start, her heart pounding and her breathing quick.

  No strong arms caught her. No large, warm body held her close in the chill emptiness of her bedroom.

  For the first time in her life, she longed for strong arms to hold her in the dark.

  She shuddered at that longing.

  If Will had been Will indeed . . .

  But Will was the Duke of Rosden.

  She shook her head. Never. That could never, would never, happen.

  She drew the curtains closed around the bed. Her body ached from the jolt of her almost-fall, and the scrape on her leg hurt. She huddled under the covers and forced herself back to sleep.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning she slept in and took her breakfast tray in bed, feeling a hypocrite.

  Last night she had eaten dinner in her room as well, as one of the still-room maids came up and dressed her wounds with ointment. The ha-ha wall had left her stocking shredded and a bloody scrape up the inside of her leg.

  “That’s gonna smart in the morning, miss, and that’s for sure!”

  When Beauty could not stand to stay abed a moment longer, she rang for Lucy, dressed in one of the duchess’s handed-down gowns, and set out to practice the pianoforte.

  She had been a poor companion to the duchess so far, but if she could perform that evening, some of her failings could be made up for.

  Practicing her scales brought out the ache in her arm from where the duke had grasped her. The shapes of his fingers were visible in the bruising.

  She had foolishly run from him in the dark into an area she did not know and almost pitched over a ha-ha, of all the ridiculous things.

  Though she mourned the loss of the Will Grant she had known, the poor itinerant worker with large hands and gentle manner, she could not deny that it was the duke, the strange, mercurial duke, who had saved her last night. Whose arms had held her against him.

  She shook off these impossible musings.

  She would be courteous to him. She would be the best companion to his mother she could be. She would work off the debt and not be beholden to him anymore.

  And that was all.

  The notes that were a struggle yesterday came easier today. She ran through the piece slowly, then rapidly, then at the correct tempo twice, with only two stumbles with the notes.

  Again, then. Near perfect.

  Again. Much better. She might not disgrace herself this evening.

  “Bravo.”

  She looked up. The duke was there, looking as if he had been standing there for a while.

  Red heat flushed her cheeks. She looked down at her hands on the keys.

  “That was excellent. The duchess will be very pleased tonight.”

  “I will endeavor to play it well in company.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Your Grace. Thank you for yesterday, for saving me. And forgive me for being so foolish.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You were . . .”

  “I was overwrought.”

  “And I apologize for causing such unhappiness.”

  She had no way to answer that. For she had been so unhappy, and he was the reason.

  He, and her father, and all the horrid circumstance.

  “I do not think your tour of the castle has yet been completed. I would love to show the rest of it to you. Would you join me?”

  “I— ” Oh, what could she say? She was not comfortable.

  And after last night, when she had come stumbling from the dark, wet and muddy, with the duke’s coat wrapped around her . . . She really should be careful. The servants were surely making assumptions, and then so would the townspeople, and . . .

  She pinched her lips shut.

  “Ah,” he paused. “Cousin Judith would join us, I am sure.”

  She let out a breath of relief. “That would be very kind, I thank you.”

  ***

  She followed the duke as he showed her the east wing with the ballroom, the conservatory with exotic birds and plants, and then . . .

  “This is the library.”

  She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. It was magnificent.

  “You like it?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  He smiled, gave a look of pride to the large room full of bookcases. “There is much that is of ancient mode. My great-grandfather was the first and most avid collector of volumes, and he favored the religious, philosophical, and scientific. And languages other than the King’s English. But subsequent generations have added to it. My mother favors the novel, as you know.”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful.”

  “You may read as you desire between your duties. Which I hope will not be too arduous.”

  “Not arduous, no, there is much pleasure in your mother’s charming company.”

  “I’m glad. You are welcome to read any and all you’d like, Miss Reynolds. The duchess may insist you read them aloud, however.”

  “That would be my pleasure.” She could not keep the smile off her face. “I have missed having access to books. Most all our books had to be sold. And the subscription to the lending library ended.”

  “I hope they will make your time here happier, then.”

  ”Thank you, Your Grace.”

  ***

  William tried to not be obvious as he watched Beauty while they sat at luncheon. This morning’s tour of the castle had left them at a place that felt almost amicable. Her smile at him after he told her she could have free access to the library had stolen his breath.

  He needed more things he could do for her to bring that smile focused on him again.

  The post arrived with multiple letters from his usual correspondents: his man of business, his solicitor, and his stewards. Letters arrived for the duchess and Lady Judith as well.

  He caught a singular expression on Beauty’s face as she watched the letters being delivered on their silver trays. Hungry eyes, he would call them. She soon turned back to her plate, disappointment evi
dent in her downcast look.

  She missed her family, wanted to hear from them. He knew that money was scarce with them, and letters weren’t likely.

  Disquiet tightened his muscles. If she was to correspond with her family, with her father, what would she say to them? What would they say to her?

  He didn’t want to allow it. He wanted her completely here, away from them, under his influence alone. He wanted to keep her from them entirely.

  It was a base and dishonorable impulse. He pushed it down.

  “Miss Reynolds, if you desire to write to your family, you will find stationary in the desk in the library. If you leave the addressed letters on the table on the front hall, I will frank them, and they’ll be added to the post.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace.”

  “And I will pay for any letters delivered to you. Your family need not cross their lines.” He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

  “That is most generous.” She turned to him a smile of such brightness and gratitude that his body lightened, his chest lifted. There, he had done it again, something that made her happy. He could do it. And if he did enough of such things, would she one day turn to him with love in those eyes?

  ***

  The whole of the afternoon was spent reading Rob Roy to the duchess, and when it was completed, beginning Frankenstein. The horrific scenes in the novel caused her to shiver even in the bright light of day, and she was disappointed that they had to stop reading when her voice started giving out.

  In the evening, Beauty performed on the pianoforte for the company, and she did not stumble.

  “Most excellent. I expect two more pieces tomorrow, including a vocal,” the duchess commanded.

  “If you tire her voice with reading, she will have little to sing with,” the duke said.

  “Oh, very well, no singing yet. But start building up your repertoire, Beauty, so you can be called on to accompany others.”

  Beauty pushed down all nerves. She felt more equal to the request this evening after a successful performance and several hours of morning practice. “Yes, Your Grace.” She curtsied.