The Greatest Lover Ever

by Christina Brooke

He glanced at her, not seeming to know how to go on.

  “Is the story too delicate for my ears?” she asked, slightly amused at his reticence.

  “No, it’s not that. Well, it is a shocking story, but my hesitation wasn’t for that reason. I…” He broke off, eyeing her, rubbing his chin with the back of his thumb. “You seem to be taking this news well.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know what the news is, so how can I—?”

  “I mean, about Pearce. He targeted you to strike against me.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said on a spurt of anger. “You thought my vanity would be bruised if I discovered he wasn’t enamored of me? Good God, Beckenham, why should I care the reason Pearce pursued me? If he’d truly loved me, he wouldn’t have coerced me into writing that letter.”

  When Pearce had transferred his attentions to Violet, that hadn’t injured her vanity, either. She’d been too fearful for her sister to consider herself slighted. All she felt for Pearce was loathing and—yes, she admitted it—fear. No matter how strong and clever Beckenham might be, he simply could not comprehend the depths to which someone like Pearce might stoop. She was afraid for him, that his innate goodness would be his undoing.

  There was an odd expression on Beckenham’s face. After a long hesitation, he shrugged. “Men do strange things in the name of love.”

  “Men of honor do not do that kind of thing.”

  “I don’t know, Georgie.” Beckenham stared out across the gardens to the lake. “I used to believe a man’s honor mattered more than anything else. Now, I think that sometimes, honor is a luxury a man can ill afford.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Did he mean to defend Pearce’s actions? The mind boggled. If that was Beckenham’s intention, they were unlikely to find any common ground there.

  She turned the conversation back to the matter at hand. “What connection can Pearce possibly have to your grandfather?”

  Beckenham cleared his throat. “Well, besides his madness and violence, my grandfather was also very, er, promiscuous.”

  Randy old goat was a phrase Georgie had often heard to describe the old earl.

  “No different from many of his peers, I should suppose,” she said with a grimace.

  “One difference,” said Beckenham. “One significant difference. My grandfather was Pearce’s father.”

  “No!” Georgie said. Then she frowned. “How can that be? Pearce is the firstborn son. He inherited the title.”

  It was common for ladies of the first rank to bear children who did not belong to their husbands. But to introduce a bastard into the marriage before one had borne a true heir simply wasn’t done.

  Beckenham looked grave. “Lady Pearce might not have been a willing participant in the act of consummation.”

  Georgie felt the blood drain from her face. “He … he forced her?”

  “That’s what Pearce believes. Knowing my grandfather, I do not doubt it. No one else outside the family and me knows of it. The elder Lord Pearce acknowledged him as his own son. He didn’t discover the truth until later.”

  “One can only imagine how furious he must have been.”

  Beckenham nodded. “That is why Pearce needs this inheritance. Old Lord Pearce left every unentailed asset elsewhere. Once he’d acknowledged the cuckoo in their nest as his son and heir, he couldn’t change the effect of the entail or keep the title from Pearce. But he could make the boy’s life a misery and deprive him of all the privileges due to a son of the true blood. He deliberately let the entailed property go to wrack and ruin.”

  Astonished, Georgie took a moment to assimilate what he’d told her. “If this is not generally known, how do you—?”

  “That night. The night Pearce came to me with the lock of your hair, the story came spewing out of him. It explained why he has always hated me.”

  “But you didn’t do anything! His hatred of you is wholly unjust,” she said.

  “But none the less potent for that. After all, my grandfather, his parents, all the players in the drama are gone. I’m the only one left to blame.”

  “I suppose,” she said slowly, “that explains why he brought the lock of hair to you, doesn’t it? He wanted to force a reckoning between you. Our argument and the broken betrothal were an unexpected boon.”

  “He chose you in the end, though,” said Beckenham grimly. “Believe me, I have not forgotten he missed the duel to run away with you.”

  She gripped both his hands tightly in hers. “Promise me you will be careful.”

  He promised, but she knew it was a promise he might be forced to break.

  As she waved him off some time later, Georgie thought about Beckenham’s words. Why had Pearce thrown over the duel for her? Had he imagined himself in love with her? Had he wanted Cloverleigh? Or had he merely decided that stealing her away would cause greater pain to Beckenham than a bullet wound could ever do?

  Oh, her mind buzzed with speculation and worry. She was too restless to sit inside and mind her stitches. The day was a fine one, so she went to see if Violet would accompany her on a ride.

  She found Violet taking tea with Lady Arden and two young gentlemen, who rose upon her arrival in the drawing room.

  “Oh!” said Georgie. “I didn’t realize we had callers. How do you do?”

  Good Gracious, Lady Arden wasn’t letting the grass grow when it came to securing a husband for Violet. Georgie recognized Mr. Wootton and Lord Palmer as two of the most eligible young bachelors in the county.

  When Lady Arden had made the introductions and the courtesies had been exchanged, Violet said, “Did you come to collect me for our ride, Georgie? I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  This was said with a meaningful expression, but Georgie simply smiled back at her as she poured herself some tea. “There is no need to rush off.”

  Setting her cup and saucer aside, Lady Arden said, “Perhaps you gentlemen would care for a canter yourselves? I am sure I should be most obliged to you if you’d keep my dear girls safe. They will insist on slipping away from their groom.”

  The gentlemen eagerly assented, failing to observe Violet’s lowering expression.

  “By Jove!” said Wootton, rubbing his hands together. “We shall make a merry party, shall we not? Have no fear, Lady Arden. We shall deliver the young ladies safely home.”

  “You speak as if we were parcels,” said Violet, giving a false little trill of laughter that set Georgie’s teeth on edge.

  Lord Palmer raised his quizzing glass to his eye in a rakish way that sat so ill with his open, youthful face, Georgie stifled a laugh. “And most charming parcels at that.”

  Being a well-mannered girl, Violet made no further attempt to escape the inevitable. With a covert roll of her eyes at Georgie, she excused herself to change with an air of weary resignation.

  Georgie’s opinion of their callers did not change, either during the ensuing conversation or when the four of them rode out. The gentlemen, true to their words, kept up such a dawdling pace, Georgie might have screamed with frustration if it weren’t so entertaining to watch Violet deal with her admirers.

  The gentlemen were so relentlessly patronizing, Georgie couldn’t blame Violet for her response. She ran rings around the poor dim-witted fellows, confounding them with insults that were cleverly couched as compliments, appearing to agree with their pompous pronouncements while saying the exact opposite.

  Upon their return to the house, Violet smiled and spoke softly and said everything that was polite and correct. As soon as the door closed behind them, however, she gave a primordial cry of repressed fury, ripped off her hat, and stormed up to her bedchamber, muttering all the while.

  Georgie lifted the skirts of her habit and followed.

  She reached the bedchamber in time to see her sister fling her hat into a chair and fall back onto the bed with a huff that stirred the puffs of blond hair framing her face. “I cannot bear it. I cannot do the season. Not if they’re all like that.”

  “Yo
u are being a little overdramatic, aren’t you?” said Georgie.

  “Dramatic?” said Violet. “Do you know what that fool of a Wootton said to me?”

  “The part about ladies being delicate like little kittens or the part about our brains being smaller and thus less able to reason than men’s? I heard every lamentable word,” said Georgie. “But they are not all like that, Violet. I promise you.”

  “I’ll wager some of them are worse.” She raised her head and let it fall against the bed again with a dull thump.

  Georgie picked up her sister’s hat and dusted its crown with her hand. “Those boys are raw and silly but essentially harmless. It’s the men like Lord Pearce you need to keep at a distance.”

  Violet raised her head and banged it again. “Ouch.” She put her hands up to her hair and yanked out a pin. “I cannot believe you would put me through an afternoon such as we’ve spent for an entire season,” she complained.

  “Oh, have some sense, Violet!” said Georgie, suddenly exasperated. “You are not some simple country maid. You are the heiress to an estate with many dependents. You have an obligation to marry the sort of man whose interests dovetail with yours. Someone who will be a good steward of your land.”

  Violet bit her lip. “I wish to Heaven Papa had left Cloverleigh to you.”

  “Do you know something, Violet?” Georgie snapped. “So do I! But he didn’t, and we must both make the best our lot.” She threw up her hands. “Good gracious, just listen to me. Anyone would think you’d been saddled with a millstone around your neck instead of vast wealth, not to mention beauty and brains. Although sometimes, my girl, I question the last part.”

  Not at all helpful, but Georgie was too angry to temper her words. She swept from the room, feeling for the first time that her sister was a very spoiled young woman, indeed.

  Dinner that night was stilted and uncomfortable. Lady Arden’s stream of chatter did not make up for the tension between Violet and Georgie. For once, the older lady forbore to interfere, however, perhaps judging it best to leave them to sort out their own differences.

  Georgie was too tense even to contemplate making amends with Violet. The knowledge that Beckenham might be carrying out his plans for Pearce at this very moment almost obliterated all else from her thoughts. She made an excuse to retire early, but that was a mistake. She couldn’t sleep for worrying.

  She woke late the following morning, having only managed to fall into a restless slumber shortly before dawn. In a bid to clear her head, she went for a solitary ride, ignoring Beckenham’s demands that she take someone with her. She hated dragging a busy groom hither and yon at her whim.

  She roamed the verdant countryside of Winford, feeling the fresh air and the sights and sounds of the fields and lanes calm her spirit. Upon crossing into Cloverleigh land, she stopped now and then to speak with one of the tenants.

  They seemed surprised and pleased to be remembered, and she realized she’d been away from here for far too long. As she asked after their children, wives, husbands, and farms, Georgie wondered if Violet would ever be at ease here with these people. She didn’t know how she might bring about a transfer of loyalty to her sister. Perhaps it would be for Violet to prove herself first.

  The tenant farmers were a circumspect lot, but upon direct questioning, there were a few disparaging remarks about the bailiff Violet’s uncle had installed at Cloverleigh. Everyone would be happy once Violet was married to a decent man and the reins were out of her uncle’s hands.

  “I’ll make my sister aware of your concerns, Mr. Hedge,” said Georgie. “She will take the matter up with her trustees and we’ll see what may be done.”

  “Aye, but we’d rather have you, Miss Georgie, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” Mr. Hedge, who had always treated her in a fatherly fashion, shook his woolly head and regarded her beneath beetling brows. “A vast pity you and his lordship—” He stopped abruptly, coughing, halted by an elbow in the ribs from his wife.

  Georgie laughed and leaned down toward the couple. In a conspiratorial murmur, she said, “As to that, dear Mr. Hedge, you may be the first in the district to wish us happy. For the second time, mark you!”

  There was much jubilation at this news. Accepting an offer of hospitality from the delighted farmer and his wife, she found herself sitting down to a meal with them and their family. They dined at noon, unlike the Ton who took their main meal in the evening, and when Georgie eventually took her leave, she nearly groaned with happy repletion.

  As she rode along the ridge that overlooked the redbrick mansion that had been her childhood home, she saw a curricle bowling up the drive, a man in fashionable dress driving it.

  The new tenant, she assumed. The one who hadn’t spent a lot of time at Cloverleigh since he’d hired the house on a short-term lease.

  Upon returning to the house, she stripped off her gloves and stopped at the terrace to greet Lady Arden.

  “Where have you been, child?”

  “Oh, all about,” said Georgie cheerfully. “I visited some of our tenants and dined with the Hedges.”

  “Did you not think to take Violet?” said Lady Arden. “She must be introduced about the place. I know your stepmother loathes the country, but she’s been derelict in her duty keeping Violet away all these years.”

  Guilt made a flush creep up Georgie’s throat. She had done nothing to persuade her stepmother to return.

  A little ashamed now that she had slipped out that morning without requesting Violet’s company, Georgie said, “Did Violet eat breakfast?”

  “No, she didn’t. I believe she claimed she had a headache and hasn’t come down all day.” Lady Arden watched Georgie closely. “Did something happen between you two yesterday? You were like a pair of icebergs at dinner last night.”

  “Oh, we had a silly argument. Nothing to be concerned about,” said Georgie.

  She hoped she spoke the truth. She wanted to make it up with Violet, but she wouldn’t retreat from anything she’d said. More than ever, she believed Violet’s duty was to the Cloverleigh estate.

  “I’ll go up and see her, shall I?” she said, rising. “She might come down for tea.”

  It wasn’t at all like Violet to sulk, so Georgie was rather surprised that no one had seen hide nor hair of her sister all day. By the time Georgie scratched on Violet’s door, it was past three in the afternoon.

  When no answer came, Georgie called softly, “Violet?”

  But there was no response from within. On a sudden rush of presentiment, Georgie turned the handle and pushed open the door.

  The bedchamber was empty, the bed made.

  A note lay on the coverlet, addressed to her.

  * * *

  “What are you doing here?” said Beckenham as Lydgate strode into the private parlor Beckenham had hired for his use at the York Hotel in Bath.

  Without waiting for an answer, Beckenham lifted a finger to the waiter who had been laying out his breakfast at the table in the window embrasure. “Set another cover for his lordship, will you?”

  Lydgate waited until the servant had withdrawn, then sent Beckenham a stern look. “Don’t cozen me, Becks. I came to find you of my own accord. Been hearing things. Terrible things.”

  He all but shuddered, making Beckenham debate silently with himself whether to punch Lydgate’s lights out now or wait until he’d stated his purpose. He decided on the latter.

  “Sit down, why don’t you?” He indicated the chair opposite him.

  Mud splashed Lydgate’s boots, and the disarray of his hair seemed to be the product of actual wind, rather than the fashionable style known as the windswept.

  Beckenham raised his brows. “Am I to take it you rode here ventre à terre to stop my marriage? Did Montford order you to intervene?”

  “She’s not here, is she?” He glanced about him as if he expected Georgie to be hiding under the sofa.

  “She is not.”

  “Well, that’s something.” Lydgate tossed his
hat and gloves onto an occasional table and sat down. He nodded toward the jar of ale in Beckenham’s hand. “Pour me some of that, will you? I need it.”

  Beckenham complied, leaning over to fill Lydgate’s tankard.

  “Much obliged.” Lydgate drank deeply. “No, of course I’m not here to stop your marriage. Why should I want to? I happen to think you’re cracked, but it’s not my affair when all is said and done.”

  “That has never stopped you interfering before,” murmured Beckenham.

  Lydgate held up his hands, palm out. “No. I shan’t dance at your wedding. But if you’re determined, far be it from me to try to dissuade you.”

  “I love her,” said Beckenham shortly. The last thing he usually shared with his cousins was this kind of mawkish sentiment, but for some reason, he wanted them all to know. Lydgate would spread the word.

  Lydgate observed him intently. Then a smile slowly spread across his face. “By Jove,” he said softly. “Don’t that beat the Dutch?”

  Beckenham cleared his throat and gestured with his knife toward Lydgate’s plate. “The bacon’s very good.”

  Seeming to snap out of his reverie, Lydgate obligingly addressed himself to the bacon. “I take it you’re here to ask the uncle’s permission to marry?”

  Beckenham frowned. “Who? Oh, you mean the stepmother’s brother. I forgot he lived here. No, I hadn’t considered asking anyone’s permission.”

  Which departure from correct behavior made Lydgate lift his brows. He didn’t comment, however, but said, “What, then?”

  Beckenham set down his fork. “I have business with Pearce that must be conducted before the aunt’s demise.”

  He stated it coldly, aware of how brutal he sounded. Even Lydgate blinked.

  But he couldn’t let some misplaced sense of delicacy stop him carrying out his plan. The stakes were too high to allow himself the luxury of scruples this time.

  He needed to get that letter from Pearce. Using Pearce’s Achilles’ heel as well as the imminent death of a relative to achieve his ends stuck in Beckenham’s throat. But if that’s what he had to do to rule a line beneath that episode with Pearce once and for all, he would do it. He would die for her. Breaking his own moral code ought to be nothing to it.