by Julia Quinn
It must be awful.
For Lord Frederick Grey-Osborne to suffer such an injury and endure . . . He must be a remarkable man indeed.
“Do you want to put it on your account?” Mrs. Finchley asked.
“N—” Bea’s hand froze on its way to the reticule. “Yes,” she said firmly. She didn’t have time to make change. “Please.”
And then she hurried out the door.
“Scone?”
Frederick blinked himself out of his sulky reverie. Miss Heywood had exited the bakery and was now standing before him, a currant-flecked scone in her outstretched hand.
“I know it’s terribly uncouth to eat and walk at the same time,” she said, “but I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the pastry. He didn’t eat it, though. For some reason he didn’t want to. He waited for her to say something about his distempered behavior, but she did not, instead looking up at him with bright eyes and, if not a smile, at least something that was not a frown.
“I’m sorry for that,” she said.
He tilted his head in question.
“She means well,” she said, motioning toward the bakery. “I don’t think she intended to be rude.”
“She wasn’t rude,” Frederick said, but he had a feeling his brusque tone undercut his words.
“No,” Miss Heywood said, “I suppose she wasn’t.”
Frederick’s eyes narrowed. He had not expected her to agree. Perhaps more oddly, he had not wanted her to.
“But, I don’t know . . . I shouldn’t like to bear that sort of reaction,” she went on.
He snorted. “Revulsion?”
She looked at him with surprise. “I was going to say pity.”
“It’s human nature,” he said with a little shrug.
“I suppose it is,” she agreed. She nibbled at her scone, her tongue flicking out to catch a currant before it detached itself and fell to the ground. Frederick was mesmerized, and a little flicker of heat snapped in his chest.
He went still. He hadn’t felt such a thing in over a year. If his breath hadn’t caught, if his heart hadn’t sped up at same time, he might not have recognized it.
Desire.
Or maybe it was more of a yearning, a reawakened sense of wonder and fascination. What would she do if he kissed her? Not here, of course. All of Wallingford was bustling around them, noisy and brisk and decidedly unromantic. But what if the world slipped away?
What if there was nothing left but two people and the air and sky?
Miss Heywood brushed away a crumb and looked back up. “But surely not everyone reacts so,” she said, her brow furrowing into a thoughtful frown. “With pity, I mean. I didn’t.”
He gave her a look.
“I didn’t!”
She had, as a matter of fact. He remembered it vividly. And it still bothered him.
“No, tell me,” she protested, even though he had not said a word. “You think I reacted rudely when I met you?”
But he didn’t have a chance to reply before she punched in with: “If I did, it was because your behavior was abominable.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said icily. That was insupportable. If he’d been rude, it was because she’d acted like he was some sort of hideous beast.
She sniffed, her chin rising with disdain. “If I behaved badly—”
“You stared at me as if I were a monster.”
“I most certainly did not.”
Again, he just looked at her.
“I didn’t! If I looked at you oddly—” Her words slammed into an abrupt halt.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Eat your scone.”
He threw it off to the side. “Tell me.” He felt ridiculous. For the love of God, he didn’t even know this girl’s given name, and yet he had to know. What had she been about to say?
She let out a little puff of air, her chin rising as she said, “If you must know, I was looking at your good eye.”
That halted him in his tracks. “My . . . good eye?”
Her lips pressed together, and she looked slightly embarrassed when she finally said, “It’s the color of the sky.”
He glanced up.
“Not today. Oh for goodness’ sake,” she muttered.
“Not today?” he echoed stupidly.
She shifted her weight from right foot to left. “It was cloudier,” she mumbled.
He had a feeling he’d lost the talent for intelligible speech, because once again all he could do was repeat her. “Cloudier?”
She flicked a glance up at the uninterrupted cerulean sky currently gracing the English countryside with its benevolence. “Your eye,” she said. “It’s blue, but it’s not completely blue.”
“I have always thought they were gray,” he heard himself say.
“Oh no. Certainly not. There is quite clearly a bit of blue.” She leaned in, her hand motioning toward his eye as if he could possibly make out the spot she was trying to indicate. “Right there at the edge of the iris. It’s a little . . .”
Her words trailed off, and her lips parted with surprise, as if she’d only just realized how odd and irregular the conversation had become. “Excuse me,” she said in a halting voice.
She looked a little stunned.
He felt a little stunned. And he wasn’t exactly sure why. One thing was clear, however:
“I must apologize,” he said.
She looked up at him with gorgeous, questioning eyes.
He was not used to making such amends, but the words came forth with remarkable, heartfelt ease. “I clearly misinterpreted your expression when we first met. I do beg your pardon.”
Her lips parted with surprise, and once again, her tongue flicked out, sending a spark to the very tips of his fingers.
“I’m sure it’s understandable,” she said. “If you’re used to people behaving such . . .”
“Nevertheless, I should not have jumped to conclusions. And at the very least, after a long enough acquaintance to sketch your character, I should have revised my initial assumption.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
And then, to his great surprise, he blurted out, “I don’t know your name.”
Now she looked vaguely aghast. Or maybe just startled. He was beginning to wonder if one needed two eyes to properly read a woman’s expression.
“Your given name,” he clarified, despite his embarrassment. “I do not know it.”
There was no reason he should; they were both well aware of that. He had no intention of bucking propriety by calling her anything other than the properly proper Miss Heywood, but there was something rather irritating about not knowing if she was a Mary or an Elizabeth, or maybe a—
“Beatrice.”
Beatrice. He liked that. It fit her.
“Most people call me Bea.”
He nodded. There was nothing in her voice to indicate that she was inviting him to do so, but in his mind, in his dreams . . .
In his dreams?
And there went that spark of desire again, this time threatening to explode into flames.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him?
“My lord?”
He started, suddenly realizing that he’d let an awkward amount of time pass since she’d spoken. “I beg your pardon, Miss Heywood,” he said. “I fear I was lost in my thoughts.”
Again, she regarded him with that wide, open gaze, as if she thought he might say more. Maybe even that she hoped he might say more.
“Is it an occupational hazard?” she asked.
“Getting lost in one’s thoughts?”
She nodded. “Theoretical physics. It’s all in one’s head, is it not?”
“Not really,” he told her, “but one does spend a staggering amount of time staring off into space.”
“I’d offer you a sixpence . . .” she said with a teasing smile.
“I would never take your
lucky sixpence.”
“Well, I didn’t say I’d give you that one,” she bantered, “although you probably deserve it. Thank you, again, for intervening on my behalf.”
“I hate bullies,” he said with a shrug. What he didn’t say was that it had felt bloody wonderful to use his fists against that cretin.
She smiled, and once again, it was as if the sun shone a little brighter, just on them two.
“I do, too,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “but I lack your right hook.”
“Left,” he said with a grin, giving his hand a little flex for fun. “I write right, but I throw left.”
“How intriguing.”
Frederick thought of all the times he’d heard those words . . . standing at the edge of a ballroom, sipping a brandy at his club . . .
How intriguing . . .
How delightful . . .
How diverting . . .
No one ever meant it.
Except . . . He rather thought that she did. Miss Beatrice Heywood. The remarkable Miss Beatrice Heywood.
He wasn’t ready to say good-bye.
He cleared his throat. “May I escort you home?”
“Oh, it’s not far,” she said in a rush.
“If you’d rather I didn’t—”
“No, it’s not that. Just that it isn’t necessary.”
“I never thought it was necessary,” he told her quite seriously, and as he looked at her, at her wide hazel eyes and the freckles that danced across her upturned nose, it suddenly occurred to him that he could fall in love with her, and maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t care that he was no longer whole.
Or maybe that was why he thought he could fall in love with her. Because she had looked at him and seen not an injury but a fascinating scientific question. What happened when the light hit his retina? Did it make a difference if a one-eyed man used a telescope?
In that moment, it became somehow imperative that she allow him to see her home. It was as if his entire world hung in her balance, and he could see it, two lifelong paths stretching before him, his journey to be decided by her simple yes or no.
And he knew—he knew—that he would never be able to live with himself if he did not try to tip the scales.
He held out his hand and said, “Please.”
Chapter 4
The following week
The drawing room of Rose Cottage
Home to the three Miss Heywoods
Bea had never considered herself prone to giddiness, but as she waited for Lord Frederick to arrive to escort her into Oxford, she was practically bouncing from foot to foot. Which would have been bad enough, but she’d put the sixpence back in her slipper, and it kept sliding around beneath her stocking, refusing to settle down into anonymity.
She felt the veriest fool. Here she was, a woman of science, preparing herself for a scientific outing with a man of science. And she was putting a sixpence in her slipper because some nursery rhyme had declared that it would find her a husband.
And while she still could not bring herself to believe that a coin might contain magic, she had accepted the fact that if she were by some chance to find a husband . . .
Bea wanted it to be Lord Frederick Grey-Osborne.
She was in love. She had never expected it, never even thought she desired it. But something had happened that day he walked her home. He had held out his hand, and she’d taken it, and the most astonishing thought had burst into her mind—that she wished they were not wearing gloves, that she wanted to feel his warm skin against hers.
She’d tipped her face toward his, and for one shining moment she thought he might kiss her.
But of course he didn’t. They were standing in the middle of town, for heaven’s sake. She could not help but wonder, though—what if they had been somewhere else? What if the world had blurred around them, and it was just they two, alone under a sky sunny and blue?
Would he have kissed her?
Would she have kissed him?
Lord Frederick had called upon her at Rose Cottage twice since then, once to inform her that he had made the necessary arrangements for their outing to the Radcliffe Observatory, and once—rather thrillingly—for no particular reason at all.
He was not due for another ten minutes, but he liked to be early. She knew this, not from experience, but because he had told her so during their two-hour-long conversation the time he’d come to see her without giving a reason. She also knew (also not from experience, but please, this much was common knowledge) that gentlemen did not ordinarily stay for two hours when they paid a lady a call.
Despite advice from females more experienced than she that a lady should not appear too eager, Bea was waiting in the drawing room with her gloves on, her hat at the ready. For heaven’s sake, he knew how excited she was to visit the observatory; it was ludicrous to think that she might somehow make herself more desirable by pretending she wasn’t ready when he arrived.
But of course they could not travel to Oxford together without a chaperone, no matter how academic and high-minded their outing. So Aunt Callie was also waiting in the drawing room, pretending to knit as she watched Bea watching the window.
Eventually she gave up the pretense altogether. “Are we waiting for a glimpse of a carriage?” she asked, coming over to stand by Bea’s side.
Bea didn’t even bother to pretend she didn’t know what her aunt was talking about. “We are.”
Aunt Callie nodded. “He likes you.”
Again, Bea did not dissemble. “I like him, too.”
Aunt Callie held her tongue just long enough for Bea to settle into her own thoughts, and then—
“You should marry him.”
Bea’s head swung around. “Aunt Callie!”
Calpurnia Heywood—always the more forthright of the Heywood sisters—gave a blunt shrug. “You should.”
“I might point out that he has not asked.”
“He will.” Aunt Callie’s eyes met Bea’s in a rather knowing expression. “If you give him a little encouragement.”
“Encouragement?” Bea echoed.
“Indeed.”
“I cannot believe you’re saying this.”
Aunt Callie’s brows rose.
“Very well, I can believe it,” Bea said. Her aunt had never been known for circumspect speech.
“Mind that it’s the right kind of encouragement,” Aunt Callie added.
“I’m terrified to ask,” Bea said.
“It’s not what your other aunt would think is the right kind, that much I’ll say.”
This did not clarify the matter in the least, but Bea judged this not to be a question that desired further discussion.
“Regardless,” Aunt Callie declared, “I am glad you’ve finally got yourself a suitor.”
“I—”
“And don’t say he’s not your suitor because we both know that he is.”
Bea had, as a matter of fact, been about to say that Lord Frederick was not her suitor. She thought he was interested. She thought he knew she was interested. But he had not declared himself in any sort of formal manner, and she did not want to jinx herself by making assumptions. It did not seem right to give him a label he had not claimed.
“Furthermore,” Aunt Callie continued, oblivious to Bea’s inner turmoil, “given that you do finally have a suitor . . .”
“You make it sound as if there is something wrong with me,” Bea said, taking advantage of Aunt Callie’s habit of inserting dramatic lulls in her sentences.
“Not at all. I am well aware that you have declined to pursue normal matrimonial goals so that you might remain with Hennie and me.” She turned to look at her niece, and her eyes softened. “You would be married with a family of your own by now if not for us.”
“Oh,” Bea said, suddenly humbled. She had no idea that her aunts understood the sacrifice she had made. It seemed like it must be obvious, but they had never spoken of it.
And as for Bea . . . she herself h
ad not realized the extent of her own sacrifice. She’d told herself she hadn’t cared if she never married. She’d even believed it. But with all her friends happily paired off, and then meeting Frederick . . .
“We do appreciate you,” Aunt Callie said softly.
Bea reached out and squeezed her hand. “And I you.”
Her aunt allowed herself one sentimental smile before resuming her brisk lecture. “As I was saying,” she announced, releasing Bea’s hand so that she might assume a more authoritative pose, “given that you do finally have a suitor, I am most gratified that it is Lord Frederick. I don’t give two figs that his father is a marquess . . .” She paused, frowned. “Well, maybe one fig. One cannot discount the perks of such a position, even if he is unlikely to gain the title.”
Bea bit back a smile.
“He seems like such a sensibly-minded young man,” Aunt Callie concluded. “I reckon that accident was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m sure he will never see it that way, but adversity is often the making of a man, especially a man who has never had to work for his supper.”
Bea was so shocked she practically had to force herself to close her mouth. “Aunt Callie, he lost an eye.”
Her aunt frowned. “I thought you said he still has it.”
“He lost the use of it. It’s much the same thing.”
“I’m not sure that it is, but no matter, that’s not my point.”
She wasn’t going to ask. Bea swore to herself she wasn’t going to ask. And yet—
“What is your point?” she asked.
Aunt Callie shrugged. “I think you will find that his handicap forces him to view the world differently. Because the world now sees him differently. And I suspect this cuts to the bone.”
It was at times such as these that Bea could not reconcile this wise elder with the woman who spent half her time herding ducks.
“Ah, here he comes now,” the duck-herding wise elder said.
Bea looked up, and sure enough, Frederick’s carriage was coming down the drive. A shiver of anticipation fizzed through her.
