by Julia Quinn
“You’re smiling,” Aunt Callie said.
Bea did not look over, but Aunt Callie was smiling, too. She could hear it in her voice.
“I declare I am brimming with excitement,” Aunt Callie said, pulling on her gloves. “A telescope! And here I thought I was done with new experiences.”
“What a silly thing to say,” Bea told her.
“I am in my seventh decade, my dear.” She made for the door. “Come, let’s await him outside. You’re far too keen to get to Oxford to waste time sitting prettily in the drawing room.”
“Quite right,” Bea said, hurrying out. Maybe her eagerness was unseemly, but Frederick would understand.
After all, it was why she’d fallen in love with him.
Oxford University
Later that afternoon
“Here we are,” Frederick said, motioning across the lawn toward the Radcliffe Observatory. He’d always liked this building, with its distinctive octagonal tower and soothing yellow stone. It was near the city center, but not quite in it, so they had been able to bring the carriage quite close. Bea’s aunt seemed of hearty constitution, but she had to be at least seventy, and there were stairs enough within the observatory without her having to fight the university crowds.
“I’m so excited,” Bea said, for what had to be the fortieth time.
He wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand.
“I can’t stop smiling.”
He looked over at her. If ever a smile came from the very bottom of a woman’s soul . . .
He wanted to spend the rest of his life making her that happy.
“I still think we’re a trifle early,” Miss Calpurnia said, frowning up at the sky. Frederick supposed she had a point. It wasn’t even properly dusk. It would be well over an hour before the stars found their twinkle.
“I can look at the clouds,” Bea said.
Her aunt rolled her eyes. “There are only three.”
“All the better for when night does fall. The constellations will be magnificent.”
Calpurnia nudged Frederick in the arm. “That one has always looked on the bright side of things.”
“A most becoming trait,” he murmured.
“I have always thought so,” she said, oblivious to the blush that was now creeping across Bea’s face. Or maybe she wasn’t oblivious. He had a feeling Miss Calpurnia Heywood was a great deal shrewder than she liked to let on.
“I know I should be proper and sedate,” Bea said, “and murmur things like ‘This will be so diverting,’ but I can’t.” She looked up at him with eyes aglow. “I couldn’t sleep last night for all my excitement.”
Frederick knew that the bulk of her excitement was for the collection of telescopes currently awaiting them at the top of the tower, but he thought that a sliver might be reserved for him. At least he hoped so, because he was fairly certain that he’d fallen quite desperately in love with her.
Who would have imagined it? When he’d purchased his small estate and taken up residence near Wallingford, it had been with the intention of removing himself from society. More than anything, he’d wanted to get away from the pity and the constant stares that were making it so difficult for him to move. He’d imagined a life more solitary.
Instead he’d found Beatrice Heywood.
She was not the sort of lady anyone would have anticipated for him. Of gentle birth, to be sure, but hardly likely to cross paths with the son of a marquess.
Not that he cared. Not that he cared at all. It was almost enough to make him glad for his injury.
If that stag had not jumped in front of his carriage . . . if the driver, God rest his soul, had not swerved . . .
If they hadn’t rolled, and if the wood hadn’t splintered . . .
If he hadn’t lost his eye.
He wouldn’t have met her.
He suddenly realized it wasn’t almost enough to make him glad for the accident, it was enough. He would always mourn his driver, and Frederick knew that nothing, not even his happiness, could make up for the loss of his life. But as for his eye . . .
It seemed a small thing indeed compared with a lifetime with Bea.
She was endlessly fascinating. Fiercely intelligent, but unlike so many of his academic peers, she also possessed a healthy dollop of common sense. And when she smiled . . .
His heart felt light.
He knew that others might consider hers to be a relatively ordinary face, and yet when he looked at her he saw—no, he felt—a radiance that warmed him to his toes.
Suddenly, the promise of a happy life was no longer quite so unreasonable.
He had not declared himself to her. That seemed premature, even if she had to know at least some of the extent of his feelings. He’d called upon her twice. In one week. She had to know what that meant.
He loved her.
Very well, she probably didn’t know that. But she had to know that he was very interested. He’d almost kissed her twice. There was that time in front of the bakery—he thought she’d looked as if she saw the desire in his face. In fact, there had been that heady moment . . . when she’d swayed just a fraction of an inch . . .
She had wanted him. She might not have realized it, but he’d seen it in her eyes.
The second time he’d almost kissed her had been just a few days earlier. He’d called upon her at Rose Cottage and stayed a staggering two hours, laughing and talking and every so often lapsing into a moonish silence.
One of those moments had occurred when they’d gone for a brief walk in the Heywoods’ garden. She’d been showing him the eponymous roses, and he’d been overcome with the most incredible urge to haul her into his arms. She had not realized; he was fairly certain of that. She’d been focused on the roses, explaining some new grafting technique she’d read about in a journal, and he’d actually forced himself to step away, so tenuous was his hold on his emotions.
But dear God he had wanted to kiss her. He’d wanted to do a great deal more, to be completely frank, and it was hardening his resolve to declare himself soon.
It was rash, and it was crazy, but if he asked her to marry him . . . surely she would say yes.
Wouldn’t she?
She didn’t seem to even notice his eye.
She made him feel whole.
“Here we are,” he said, motioning toward the observatory. “Your telescope awaits.”
“Oh, Frederick,” Bea sighed. “Thank you.”
If she’d wanted the world he would have given it to her, but this was Bea, and so he’d give her skies instead.
He must have been wearing his lovesick expression because Bea’s aunt said, “You look nearly as happy as she does.”
He coughed. “Merely delighted to be escorting two such beautiful ladies.”
“Merely?” Calpurnia said with a scoff. “There’s nothing mere about it, my boy.”
“Oh, Aunt, stop,” Bea said with a shake of her head.
“No, no,” Frederick said, feeling gallant and flirtatious and all sorts of things he’d thought he’d lost forever. “She is quite right.”
“I generally am,” the elderly lady said.
“You must stop encouraging her,” Bea said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her aunt told her. “Of course he must encourage me. It’s the surest way for him to encourage you.”
“Aunt Calpurnia!”
But Calpurnia only shrugged. “She loves me dearly,” she said to Frederick. “Indulging me can only endear you to her.”
Frederick tried not to laugh. He truly did.
“I’ll bet you treat your mother nicely, too,” Calpurnia said.
“Always,” he said solemnly.
“Oh look, we’re here,” Bea said loudly.
They weren’t, not quite. But Bea took the last few steps in record time, and soon they were entering the observatory.
“I must say, this is very grand,” Calpurnia said, looking about.
“Wait until you see the upstairs,” he told
her.
She looked over at the staircase with a frown. “That’s quite a lot of steps.”
Bea immediately moved to her side. “Will you be all right? The observatory is all the way up in the tower, so it will be quite a few more steps than those.”
“I will be fine,” Calpurnia said. “Slow and steady wins the race, I always say.”
“You’ve never said that,” Bea said.
“Well, I’m saying it now. I’m not missing my chance to see that telescope.”
“Telescopes,” Frederick murmured. “There are several.”
“Even more reason to attack those stairs. Onward!”
Bea looked over at him as her aunt marched forward. She smiled and shrugged before she followed, and together they made their way to the library, where Calpurnia sank gratefully into a leather reading chair.
“Go on without me,” she said to Bea, who was gazing at the next flight of stairs with a longing that was palpable. “I’ll be along shortly. I just need a moment or two to catch my breath.”
“Are you certain?” Bea asked, even as she edged toward the stairs.
“Beatrice Mary Heywood, for the love of all that’s holy, go see your telescope.”
“Scopes!” Bea called out, abandoning all pretense of decorum as she tore up the stairs.
Frederick grinned.
“You’d better follow,” Calpurnia said tartly. “I won’t be out of breath for long.”
Frederick’s grin fell right into openmouthed surprise, and then, no dummy he, he dashed up the stairs after Bea.
Chapter 5
“Oh my,” Bea breathed. If heaven existed—and after a lifetime of Sunday church services she had no reason to believe that it didn’t—surely it looked like this, with gleaming brass quadrants, a magnificent zenith sector, and a transit telescope pointed at the sky.
She walked slowly through the three rooms that made up the observatory, gazing at all of the magnificent instruments, barely able to bring herself to touch them, much less place her eye to a lens to look through.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been wandering the rooms before she remembered to look up at Frederick. He’d been following silently—or at least she thought he had. In truth, she’d been so lost in her joy that she’d quite forgotten she wasn’t alone.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sheepish smile.
“For what?”
“For ignoring you. I just . . . it’s all so . . .” She waved her hand toward the transit telescope at her side, as if such a meager gesture could possibly indicate the level of reverence she felt for it.
“I enjoy watching you,” he said softly.
Her heart caught mid-beat.
“Most people don’t find passion in their lives,” he said. “That you have, without even the benefit of a worthy education, is remarkable.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure what else to say. He was looking at her with such intensity she wasn’t sure if she could even find more words.
“May I show you something?” he asked. His voice was very quiet, almost grave.
“Of course.”
She thought he would lead her to some hidden gem, perhaps a tiny abacus tucked away in a corner, or an important document displayed on a desk. But instead his hands went to his face.
And he began to remove his eye patch.
Bea held her breath as he slid it up and over his forehead. The magnitude of his gesture was not lost on her. He was laying himself bare, trusting her with his deepest pain.
For several seconds she did nothing but study him. In some ways his damaged eye looked perfectly normal. It sat in its socket just like its partner, and although Frederick would always bear a jagged scar across his cheek, it somehow had not changed the shape of his eye.
But it looked darker than the other, much darker, and it took her a moment to realize it was because his pupil was permanently dilated.
He’d told her that his eye was quite obviously sightless, and she supposed he was right, but there was something beautiful about it, something almost innocent.
Almost holy.
She swallowed, her hand reaching forth before she remembered to ask, “May I?”
He nodded.
With light fingertips she touched his scar at its very edge, where it melted into normality near his ear. His good eye fixed upon her face as she traced the puckered skin. Most of the scar had faded to white, but there were still traces of angry red woven through like the tight fibers of a rope.
“It must have hurt terribly,” she whispered.
“It still does,” he said. “Sometimes. Not often.”
She moved closer to his eye, skimming across his cheekbone. “How long did it take?”
“To heal?”
She nodded.
“Months. It was . . .” He swallowed. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“That’s all right.”
“But someday . . . I will. To you.”
Her eyes flew to his, which seemed crazy, since all she’d been doing the last minute was staring at his face. But somehow, when he said that, she moved from his eyes to his soul.
“I love you,” he said.
Her lips parted.
“I know it’s been barely a week, and I know I will not ever deserve you, but I love you, and if you will only grant me the opportunity, I will spend the rest of my life devoted to your happiness.”
“Frederick,” she whispered.
“Will you be my wife?”
She nodded. There were so many words swimming within her, but she could not seem to piece them together. She could not seem to do anything but stare at his beloved, imperfect face and think how much she loved him.
“I don’t have a ring,” he said suddenly. “I hadn’t intended to do this now.”
She was so glad he had.
“I love you,” he said again.
She tipped her face toward his. “I love you, too.”
He touched her cheek, his gaze moving to her mouth.
Bea’s eyes widened, and then, in a moment so perfect it rivaled the stars, his lips touched hers.
It was exactly how a first kiss should be—reverent and chaste, with just a hint of—
“It’s not enough,” he growled, and before she knew it, he had pulled her into his arms, his mouth taking hers in a fiery kiss of possession.
No, she thought, glorying in the strength of his body against hers, this was how a first kiss should be.
This was how all kisses should be.
Long, deep, and with the promise of wicked intention.
“This will be,” Frederick said, his mouth trailing along the line of her jaw, “a very short engagement.”
Oh yes, Bea thought. Anne and Cordelia had dropped tantalizing little hints of married life, but it wasn’t until this moment, with Frederick’s hands and lips performing a naughty dance upon her skin, that she had even an inkling of what they’d meant.
And then, all too soon, he pulled back, his hands cradling her face. “Soon,” he promised. “Three weeks.”
“No special license?” she teased.
He groaned. “If I thought I could get it any faster . . .”
She smiled, then reached up again to touch his temple. “To survive such an injury,” she murmured. “I am so lucky.”
His eyes flared with love, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her again, but then they heard the startlingly heavy footfall of Aunt Calpurnia.
“Oh my goodness!” Bea yelped, jumping back. She tried to smooth her hair, but she had a feeling there was nothing she could do about the glow of bliss on her face.
“Good as new!” Aunt Callie called out. “Well, almost new. I don’t think there will ever be anything new about me again.”
“Aunt Callie, don’t be silly,” Bea said, bustling over to her side.
Her aunt looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You look . . . different.”
Bea choked on air.
“Lord Frederick!�
�� Aunt Callie called out. She turned and walked toward him, leaving Bea to her distress. “Show me one of these telescopes.”
“Your niece is far more knowledgeable about such things than I.”
“I’m sure she is, but she’s a bit too thunderstruck to impart her expertise.”
Frederick looked over at Bea with widened eyes.
“You took off your patch!” Aunt Callie exclaimed.
Frederick jerked straight, and his hand flew up to his face. It was rather endearing, Bea thought, his surprise at having forgotten it.
“Ehrm . . . it was a bit itchy.”
“Really?” Aunt Callie said. “I would have thought it might get in your way.”
“Well, that, too,” Frederick improvised.
Bea spent the next ninety minutes explaining the various instruments to her aunt—the magnificent twelve-foot zenith sector, used for measuring latitude, the gorgeous brass mural quadrants, and her favorite, the Bird transit telescope.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she gushed.
“Well,” Aunt Callie said. “It certainly is impressive.”
Bea just smiled. She knew that her aunts had never shared her passion for astronomy. But they loved that she loved it, and that had always been more than enough.
“Is there something you wish to tell me?” Aunt Callie murmured, as they bent their heads together near the rotating mechanism.
“Soon,” Bea said. She would tell her aunts when she returned home. For the next few hours she wanted to keep Frederick’s proposal close to her heart.
Aunt Callie gave her an assessing look. “I see,” she murmured.
Bea had a feeling that she did.
“Where do those stairs go to?” Aunt Callie asked, wandering over to the base of the twisting staircase that wound up to the dome.
“The upper gallery,” Frederick answered. “From there you can exit to the roof.”
“Goodness no,” Aunt Callie said. “I’ll just look from here.” She wandered over to a telescope. “Do you think it’s dark enough to see anything yet?”
“There is only one way to find out,” Frederick said, and he adjusted the dials until it was ready for her to look through.
“Oh my goodness!” Aunt Callie said, moving just far enough back from the eyepiece to twist her head toward Bea. “It’s beautiful. Spectacular.”
