by Liz Tyner
‘As if I’d let you marry her—’ Wilson exploded.
‘She’s old enough to decide for herself,’ Andrew said, his fists ready. ‘She’s on the shelf.’
‘She’s a widow,’ Wilson said.
Andrew lowered his hands and looked at her. Wilson had called her his sister. A widow. He’d heard of her. Thoughts pounded in his ears. This woman was not Tilly. ‘Beatrice the—?’
‘I would not continue that sentence,’ the woman on the bed told him, standing and smoothing down her skirt. Her mouth had a feral twist. ‘Else you will see what a beast I can truly be.’
* * *
The only sound since Andrew and Wilson entered the library had been the pouring and sloshing of liquid. The room couldn’t have been much wider than the length of two carriages, yet Andrew wagered his brother’s ducal town house lacked the same refinement. The filigree pattern of the gold had been subtly recreated in the weave of the curtains. Even the door panels had matching designs. Only the painting by the sconces jarred the room’s decor—an odd scene of a woodland frenzy with a growling bear, a badger-type animal and a dragon poised for combat.
The cabinet set back into the wall where the decanters rested wasn’t only to store things, but to display beautiful glass. Andrew stood at one edge of it, the architect at the other.
Andrew waited for Beatrice to join them. Wilson had insisted she change from what he’d referred to as her costume.
Beatrice the Beast. He’d nearly pounced on Beatrice the Beast. Not surprising, really. He’d let down his guard.
‘A marriage will be forthcoming,’ Andrew said. ‘I will not tarnish a gentlewoman’s reputation. It is unforgivable.’
‘I suppose she could do worse.’ Wilson broke the silence. ‘She has, in fact. Riverton. Thought an earl would do better by her than he did. Sad he died so. First, he waited too long after the wedding. When he did fall ill, he didn’t suffer enough. The bumble berry didn’t even appreciate good design when he saw it. If not for the generous marriage settlement on Beatrice and the provisions in his will... Still, I didn’t see how much of a scoundrel he’d become or I’d never have let him near Beatrice. Would have cracked him like a chestnut.’ He thumped his glass on to the wood and stared at Andrew. Wilson’s eyes reflected the sheen of brandy.
Andrew quirked his lips. ‘I certainly hope for Beatrice’s sake you could tackle something larger than a chestnut.’
‘I’m sure I could.’
Andrew moved, reaching for the decanter to pour more brandy into Wilson’s glass. He let his brandied breath reach the architect’s face. ‘If you need any help defending your sister, let me know. I will certainly be able to crack any chestnuts.’
Wilson’s brows acknowledged the statement. ‘Only reason I agreed to draw plans for you,’ Wilson said, ‘was because you appreciate a good design.’ His brows snapped together. ‘Look how you’ve repaid me. I created a masterpiece for you and you—’
‘I made an error, but I will correct it. I thought she was—someone else.’ He paused. ‘She is a fascinating woman.’ Andrew put the glass to his lips, let the brandy rest in his mouth, and then swallowed. ‘Even with the cap, she does burst into a person’s notice.’
‘You’re the first man I know of she’s shown any interest in since Riverton courted her, wed her and finally did the one decent thing of his life and died. Beatrice has such a sense of honour that she made me swear not to kill him.’ He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘My trusting sister. If I were capable of murdering Riverton, I could certainly lie about it.’
The architect lifted the decanter. He poured more liquid, then thumped the container against the table top. ‘And you must know of the nickname she’s gathered in the papers because of the unfortunate incident with the scissors. It didn’t help when not too long after she hit Riverton’s carriage with a parasol because the lightskirt he’d loaned it to made such a spectacle of showing up at the house. Beatrice’s home.’ He swallowed a drink. ‘My sister’s actions catch every eye.’
‘With the scissors, she near cut her husband’s—leg off.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘Exaggeration. He healed. And he deserved it. At the time I was disappointed in her for not doing more damage.’ The architect’s eyes focused on Andrew and his voice burned into the air. ‘I dare say Beatrice would have little reason to dismember you. You keep your cards well hidden.’
Andrew nodded. He preferred to live his own life and not let others live it vicariously through the scandal sheets. He’d seen enough suffering because of their sharp-edged ink.
The architect shrugged. ‘You can’t be as bad as Riverton, or whatever else she might pull out from under a dustbin. I admit, Riverton presented well and I thought he would make a better husband than he did.’
The door crashed back and Beatrice swayed in, perched on slippers which would topple a lesser woman.
She waved an arm, ‘I hope you two have settled your differences. I must get a letter written to Mother so when she reads of this, she’ll not feel the need to interfere.’
She had a dazzling smile, chin out, and just the whisper of what might have been tears at her eyes.
‘Your brother and I have discussed this, Lady Riverton, and I would like to talk with you alone.’
Andrew knew he’d lost control in the bedchamber and she would not suffer for it. He would not repeat his father’s mistakes. Although he harboured no animosity towards his father, he retained the rage of how innocents could be hurt because someone else traipsed through mud and sloshed it in all directions. He would not cause anyone pain or embarrassment because of his actions.
‘No need.’ She raised her hand, fingers splayed, and rotated her wrist. ‘The scandal sheets need to fill their papers. People must have something to talk about. Better me than their neighbours.’ She moved her head, then stilled a moment as if posing for a drawing. ‘And I do make for a good tale.’
Chapter Three
Andrew stared at Beatrice. Mob cap gone. No henna mishap. Her hair did slip out of her bun into curls around her face, which he rather liked. Blue eyes radiant without spectacles and a— He blinked. No loopy things or hanging things. He blinked again. This was not the time to be noticing her round parts. He needed to look at the sharp parts. Lady Riverton was not a wallflower by any stretch of the imagination.
Beatrice raised her arms higher, fingers outstretched, a performance. ‘This is what I get for doing a good turn.’
‘Even I do not believe that was your motivation, Beatrice.’ Her brother’s voice bit the air.
She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. He is a—’ She looked at Andrew. ‘He’s not especially hideous looking, I admit.’ Then she squinted and regarded him. ‘I do not really understand your predicament.’
‘Deuce take it, Beatrice...’ the architect huffed ‘...he’s male. You’re not. That’s all the reason he needs for trying what he did. The situation was not proper. I cannot have this behaviour under my roof. Nor can I countenance your total disregard for the family’s reputation. Think of it, Beatrice. You cannot like to be known as Beatrice the Beast. Now it will be Beatrice the Brazen Beast. By now the tale is halfway to India. I was too shocked to silence Tilly.’
‘I do not think you could have,’ Beatrice said. ‘She is not the cousin I thought she was.’
Andrew watched. Her eyes blinked more when she spoke a dramatic word, emphasising, putting a point to it. The room was her stage at the moment.
She groaned and her head fell back. ‘If only Mother had named me something else. Honour. Patience. Prudence.’
Wilson spoke. ‘We were lucky not to be named after plagues. Once Mother hears of tonight, she will say I cannot control you and she will insist on more influence in your life. Think of it.’ He whispered his last words. ‘Mother. On a righteous tear. You must find a way to convince her you are behaving properly, Bea. Lie all you must. Cover your tracks. Keep out of the papers.’
Beatrice shut her eyes, then op
ened them and looked at Andrew. ‘If you’d been as I imagined, none of this would have happened. But you stood there...’ She took in a breath as if smelling a delicate rose. ‘I simply cannot blame myself.’
Andrew saw her, down to the barest freckle she had just below her eye at the outside corner. ‘Marry me.’ His words held no inflection and he didn’t turn from her gaze. ‘Wilson can draft a note for the scandal sheets, hinting a betrothal is forthcoming. He and I can discuss the details of the marriage while you pen a letter informing your mother.’
Her mouth opened. Her arms fell to the side. ‘Lord Andrew?’ she gasped. ‘You have not even waltzed with me.’ She shivered and speared him in another way. ‘Absolutely not. No. Not now. Not ever. Not even— No.’
Andrew didn’t move, but watched the muscles in her face and they could not be still.
The architect strode to the door. ‘I’ll give you some privacy to come to a respectable conclusion, Beatrice, while I...pen a letter to Mother telling her how I have things well in hand. I’ll dispatch it tonight so she will see it when she wakes.’ He touched the door. ‘I will close this. Please do not do anything to disgrace yourselves.’ He put a hand to his cheek. ‘Oh, too late.’
The door closed decidedly.
‘Thank you for the delicate reply.’ He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. ‘Since all my limbs are unharmed, I will take it that you are considering it.’
‘Oh, most certainly,’ she said. ‘I so wish to return to one circle Dante forgot to mention—the unexplored tenth level of hell.’
He realised his first marriage proposal was taking the same turn as their earlier romantic encounter. But she had no scissors.
‘Perhaps you misunderstood the question I neglected to ask properly. Lady Riverton, will you marry me?’ He had no wish to be like Foxworthy, always in a race to abandon a woman so he could find another one to desert.
‘You could not have misunderstood my answer.’
‘I understood.’
‘The only reason you ask is because Tilly discovered us and spread the news.’ She shook her head. ‘My refusal meant that I am declining.’
He moved away from the wall and stood so close he could touch her. ‘But, Beatrice, a betrothal would certainly—’
‘It would nothing.’ She turned away from him. Her tapered fingers tapped her forehead. ‘Now I will have another mark against me. What is one more?’ She lowered her hand and looked at him. ‘Cousin Tilly will have the enjoyment of disparaging me over this. I am to be the Beast for ever and I find I am quite used to it.’ She laughed, but the sound had a hollow ring to his ears.
‘You do not have to wed me. We merely need to give the idea we are betrothed.’
‘No. I do not even want to be seen as considering marriage.’
‘You could be viewed as a changed woman. My name has not once appeared in print. I am the younger brother of a duke. My brother next in line has three sons. I’m not an heir to the title, so you will not be viewed as angling to be a duchess. Not even close. We are not a family to appear in the scandal sheets, except for my cousin Foxworthy, but we are connected through our mothers—so his actions don’t reflect on the family name. My reputation can certainly weather this little mention and you can change the way the world sees you. We could manage this.’
‘Andrew.’ She spoke slowly. ‘Do you even read those papers?’
‘I prefer not to.’ He moved forward and reached to take her hands in his. He looked down. ‘What do you have to lose?’
‘I’ve had a lie of a marriage. I see no reason for a lie of a betrothal. I made myself a promise never to wed again. The first time cured me of any notions in that regard. My husband—he didn’t improve with age, drink or distance. I was lucky he had a taste for poppies and managed to do himself in before too many years passed.’
‘I have heard that many wives do appreciate a husband who dies early on in the marriage.’
Her mouth turned up at one side, but her gaze speared him. ‘Saves on the cost of carriage repair.’
Then her shoulders drooped. ‘You tempt me, but it is only a momentary spasm and it passes.’ She sighed. ‘At the end of my time with Riverton—’ her voice lowered ‘—and we really should not call it a marriage—I only cared because Riverton couldn’t be discreet. The marriage itself was neither here nor there because I hadn’t spent time with him in several years. But I always had the feeling people knew more about him than I did and I didn’t like being... By then he wasn’t even someone I would have wanted to speak of at a soirée. So having him as a husband was rather unfortunate.’
‘I assure you, I would not disgrace my wife so.’
She gave a tilt of her head. ‘Oh, you say that now. But in five years? Ten?’
‘Lady Riverton. I do not make a habit of such.’
She shook her head with a wobble, making the movement sarcastic. She turned away, walked to a sconce and stared at it. ‘Yes. You are behind. But once you get started, what’s to stop you from making up for lost time?’
‘I would say it’s unlikely that I would be so inclined,’ he admitted. ‘At this point in my life, I realise I should take even more care than I have in the past. Tonight, for example. You can see how unrestrained behaviour led to both of us being in the wrong bedchamber at the wrong time.’ He spoke softly. ‘I do not regret holding you close. But I now see quite plainly that it is good for me to be working in the late hours of the night. In the past, when I have wished for a woman’s attentions, I have forced myself to work, either with pen in hand or hammer.’ He smiled. ‘You may note that I have quite the list of completed projects behind me—too numerous to mention. I have easily surpassed every person of my years in accomplishments.’
Without his celibacy, he would not have been able to increase his small inheritance. The town houses he had purchased and directed to be remodelled had taken vast efforts of economy to repair with so little capital. At the beginning, he’d feared he was going to lose everything with small rent coming in and so much being swallowed by delays and unexpected costs. He’d worked around the clock, planning and researching and overseeing every aspect he could. He’d hired Wilson to design more structures and, when those were completed, things changed quickly. He’d had funds to call upon and reinvest with each successive venture.
On several occasions recently he’d taken a pause from the work and had ridden by his properties, knowing they had been nothing until he imagined them. A contentment had filled him. Now they would be a part of the landscape for long after he’d left the world. How much better that was than the complications he’d found when desires raged within him and he attempted to appease them.
She examined him again. ‘You. No one has ever mentioned you with any talk but of...work. Wilson says you’re such a stick, I thought you quite, quite aged.’
He smoothed down the front of his coat. ‘I am extremely responsible. I have not had much time for soirées or frivolity in my life.’
She still smelled of baked goods, which disturbed him. He wondered if he would ever be able to eat a cake again without thinking of unrequited lust.
She looked at him. ‘I will never marry again. It doesn’t agree with my voice. Makes it rise to a shrill note. It seems to not do well for my husband, either. I do appreciate the offer of helping me. I am grateful for your consideration of my reputation.’ She ducked her chin, and smiled at him. ‘Very grateful.’
Truly, Andrew didn’t think his own reputation would be damaged to be associated with Beatrice for a short while.
A few days earlier, Andrew had overheard his valet and one of the maids muttering behind a door. He’d been described in exemplary terms, then he’d heard the last words, added almost as one might curse. ‘Dull as ditch water.’
He’d turned and left, not retrieving the drawings he’d left in the chamber—pleased. He’d worked hard to resist temptations of all sorts. He’d not let himself be idle for long periods, drink too much with Fox, or spend funds extr
avagantly.
He imagined they would hear of tonight’s indiscretion, but it would not be a concern. One small blot that hurt no one. He would make sure it did not tarnish Beatrice.
Helping Beatrice would be a pleasant diversion from the hours and hours of instruction he directed to his man of affairs and the restless moments which spurred him to complete his vision of his home. Whenever a room was finished, he had immediately noticed the shabbiness of another area and had begun a new renovation. The carriage house would soon be completed and his entire home and grounds would be as they should be.
Beatrice’s movements returned his thoughts to her and caused the warmth that had settled in his chest to strengthen.
Her nose crinkled and the challenge faded from her eyes. ‘I’m quite used to not being portrayed well. I am not fond of it. I don’t like it, but it’s...unpleasant only. I don’t lose any sleep over it. Tilly might not even mention...’ She waved her fingers. ‘No. I know she will mention it, but our encounter might not appear in print.’
‘I would not wager silver on that.’
She crossed her arms ‘I will survive with a smile on my face.’ Her nose wrinkled again. Sighing, she uncrossed her arms. ‘Once a beast, always a beast. Perception is everything. Perception is reality. What people believe to be the truth is their truth. I’m used to them getting the facts wrong and changing the details. Besides, Beatrice the Benevolent will not sell the papers.’
‘It could.’
Her tone lowered. Her lips turned up at one edge. ‘No.’ That snort again. ‘Read the print. I’m sure you could dig up a copy somewhere.’
‘What harm is there in trying? We can work together. One small act on your part will not change any perception of you, but if it is taken as part of a journey, the views of you can be changed. A house is not built with a single stone. Think how many years of your life you have left. Do you wish to be a beast when you truly wear the spectacles and cap?’
* * *
