by Isobel Carr
The tide was rolling in, dark, white-capped waves crashing on the beach, slowly working their way closer and closer to the base of the cliff. Down along the shore, she could make out the village of Kingstown. Tiny gray houses with dark roofs and the occasional curl of smoke. Utterly different from the thatched cottages scattered about her father’s estate.
The wind whipped her hair into her eyes and pulled at her skirts as though they were sails. Beau braced her feet and took a deep breath of the salty air. A deep, loud bark caught her attention. Down on the shore, a huge black-and-white dog was running along the narrow strip of beach. A man on horseback spun about, cantering back toward the village. The dog stopped, shook, and lay down, apparently content to have the beach to itself once more.
Beau turned back toward the house. From this angle, it really did look like a galleon. Like the storm that had wrecked the Spanish Armada had swept one of the boats up, deposited it atop the cliff, and someone planted a garden all around it. Clip the yews to look like dolphins, and the image would be complete.
Beau pushed her hair out of her eyes and let the wind push her back up toward the house. She found Gareth still poring over the household ledger, a look of disgruntled annoyance on his face.
“It can’t be that bad,” she said, leaning in to look over his shoulder. Gareth sat back with a sigh. Beau perched on the edge of the desk. She cupped his face, smoothing her thumbs over his brows, the thrill of having a right to do so still strong. “It’s nothing money can’t fix.”
“Your money,” he said, the frown returning in full force.
“Legally, it’s your money now,” she replied.
“Said with the perfect nonchalance of someone who’s never fretted over an account or bill in her life.”
Beau jerked her hands back, anger flushing through her. “It’s unfair to behave as though you wished me to have been a penniless bride.”
Gareth raised one hand and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, brat. That’s not what I meant at all. It’s just these damn columns of numbers are making my head ache.”
Beau bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping back at him. She’d sworn to make him happy. Fighting over money, especially a surplus of it, was ridiculous. “Leave them alone then and come back to them tomorrow,” she said, forcing a light tone.
The only reason that he was trapped here slaving over that ledger in a house he clearly hated was that he’d married her. And she’d done everything in her power to leave him no choice. She’d got what she wanted, but she wasn’t entirely sure that Gareth could say the same. The memory of his hand on Lady Cook’s ankle skittered through her brain. He’d given up a lot of things to save her.
“Have the horses arrived yet?” he asked, his tone conciliatory.
Beau shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
“I was thinking we could go for a ride. Maybe tour the village. Introduce ourselves to the vicar.”
Beau forced a smile. His comment still stung, but he was trying. “I would like to know who our neighbors are. Whom to call upon.”
“So, a frontal attack? Before Mrs. Peebles brands us as heathens and we have to turn Methodist?”
“Yes,” she said, accepting what she knew to be an olive branch. “We should begin as we mean to go on. And I’ve no intention of hiding.”
“Newlyweds,” Mr. Tillyard said, his tone somehow implying that there was something suspicious about such a state. “And taking up residence at Morton Hall.”
The statement hung in the air as though it were a question. Gareth found himself nodding, afraid to reply verbally to the ancient vicar, lest he say the wrong thing. Beau was frozen beside him, her eyes a little too large, as though she too were barely able to restrain herself.
“Yes,” Gareth said. “My father gave it over to me upon my wedding to Lady Boudicea.”
The old man nodded, the side curls of his wig bobbing in time with his head shakes. “Lot of work, setting a house like that to rights. Been vacant as long as I’ve held the living here.”
“Yes,” Gareth said and nodded back. He was beginning to sound like some kind of parrot. Only able to reply with a single word. And the vicar was right. It was going to be a great deal of work. Not to mention expense.
The estate might have a decent income—thank God that the hop fields hadn’t been left to go to rack and ruin like the house—but they wouldn’t see any of it for nearly a year. The harvest had taken place only a few months previous, and his father had sold the crop before bestowing the estate. He was going to have to broach the principal of Beau’s dowry to restore the house and grounds to a livable state in the meantime. He didn’t have any choice.
The thought made him slightly sick. Fortune hunter. Like it or not, that’s what he’d been reduced to. He’d gone from philanderer to this. At moments like these, he was almost certain that his father had chosen this particular property as some kind of punishment. Step out of line, boy, and you’ll see what happens.
And step out of line he had. He was never supposed to have married. Never supposed to have caused his family any unexpected expense. And now that he had, he was being forced to pour his wife’s dowry into an estate that might never be truly habitable if the state of their bedroom was any indication.
Between the hole in the sheets that he’d caught his toe in, the smoking fireplace, and the abysmal damp, they might as well be living in a crofter’s cottage on his father’s estate. No, all the crofter’s cottages there had good, thatch roofs. There were leaks aplenty at Morton Hall.
The rattle of his cup on its saucer snapped his attention away from the horrors of his monetary predicament and back to his present surroundings. Beau took the cup from him without a word and set it aside. The amusement dancing in her eyes warned him that he was moments away from her foisting another cup of the vicar’s awful tea on him. There wasn’t enough sugar in the world to mask the moldering flavor of whatever it was the vicar had served them.
“What sport is there to be had locally?” Beau asked, smoothly moving the conversation on just like the duke’s daughter that she was. She might have preferred to rub elbows with the squirearchy and Corinthians, but she’d still been trained to be a proper hostess. It was easy to forget that fact when she was cursing like a jack tar and throwing her horse over fences that most gentlemen preferred to avoid.
Mr. Tillyard gave them both the fishy eye. “Neither of you from Kent?”
“No,” Gareth said, not sure if they were further damning themselves. “Neither of us has ever lived so far south.”
The vicar harrumphed noncommittally. “Good shooting. Pheasant, mostly. Some grouse.” He rubbed his chin. “Rather poor hunting, but good beagling. Morton Hall had a fine pack of beagles at one point, or so they say. And there’re the annual races at Ashford. Nothing like the Oaks or the Derby, of course, but a good day all the same.”
“I’ve never been beagling,” Beau said.
“I would hope not, my lady,” the vicar replied, bristling with outrage.
Gareth watched as his wife took a deep breath and held it, batting her lashes in a way that he knew spelled trouble. She was practically shaking as she held herself back. Clearly, whatever reply she wanted to make was only going to further scandalize the old man.
“Is that your dog I always see running on the beach?” Beau finally said, her color still high.
The vicar made a face, as though discovering mice nesting amongst his stockings. “The great black-and-white beast?”
Beau nodded. “I saw him in your garden and thought—”
“Not mine, my lady. Not anybody’s really. Only survivor of a shipwreck some years back. Swam ashore with the first mate clinging to his neck, but the man died a few days later. Just roams about the village now and harasses the fishermen.”
“Oh.” Beau glanced over at him, her expression forlorn, clearly at the end of her rope when it came to making nice.
“We should be going, sir,” Gare
th said, rising from his chair. “I’m sure you have things to do.”
“Yes, yes,” the vicar said. “Get you home while it’s still light. We’ll see you again on Sunday. I’ll have them reserve a spot for you in the first pew.”
Once they were outside, Beau fastened her hat down securely and slipped her arm through his. “Still enamored with the Hall?” Gareth said.
“Yes,” Beau replied, “though turning Methodist is looking more and more appealing.”
“I don’t think they’d smile upon your going beagling any more than Mr. Tillyard.”
Beau narrowed her eyes and glared. The wind pulled at her curls, swiping them across her eyes, and she blinked them away. “I’m going to start my own pack just to annoy him.”
“We could get you a pack of duc de Noaille’s spaniels. Nothing like foreign dogs to set off a good Englishman.”
“Since that’s clearly my intent.” Beau squeezed his arm and sighed. “I do try to behave myself, but it’s very hard sometimes.”
CHAPTER 25
It makes me nervous when you’re this quiet for the entire day,” Gareth said as he entered the small chamber that Beau had claimed as her sitting room. Beau looked up, momentarily startled. As she took in his countenance, a smile pulled at her lips.
Mud-spattered and windblown, in a buff-leather shooting coat that had seen better days, there was not a bit of the elegant London gentleman about him. And she loved him this way. Preferred it, even. This Gareth was hers, and hers alone.
“I’ve been finishing the last few invitations for our party.” She set her quill aside and flexed her cramping fingers. She licked her thumb and rubbed at an ink spot on her finger. When the stubborn stain remained, she held up her hand for inspection. “I hope you don’t mind being married to a woman with hands like a clerk.”
Gareth bent with a flourish and kissed her hand. He retained it in his own, thumb circling in her palm. “Not at all. But if you prove yourself good at sums, I shall force you to manage the household accounts. They’re a nightmare. I’ve been trying to get them to balance for days now.”
Beau laughed and shook her head. “Mathematics was never my strong point. I always seem to flip the numbers around, and my tallies never come out right. Father was always wondering how I could be so stupid in that one subject.”
“I suppose I’ll persevere then,” he said with a dramatic sigh. He squeezed her hand and let it go, moving deeper into the room.
“You carry on with the household accounts, and I’ll carry on with the invitations.” She picked her quill up again and caught the feathered tip between her lips. Gareth wandered to stand beside the fire. He pushed the log with his foot and bent to add another, causing a small whirlwind of sparks.
“I’ve already sent invitations to both our families,” Beau said.
He turned to look at her, one brow raised mockingly. He pushed a loose lock of hair behind his ear. “You don’t actually expect any of them to come, do you, love?”
“No.” She shook her head, worrying the tip of the quill with her teeth again. “Even if we were all on speaking terms, it’s a week’s journey for any of our parents to reach us, and that’s with the roads dry and easily passable. There’s a reason everyone stays home and makes do with their neighbors for Christmas and Boxing Day.”
“Or goes for a long visit,” he said.
“Yes, or that. I don’t expect we’ll have above ten families though. Less if the weather turns foul.”
“Are we being high in the instep?”
Beau burst into laughter. “Not at all, I’ve invited the curate, the doctor, even the local solicitor. Our little corner of the world is simply very sparsely populated. Oh, and the Miss Ackeroyds. They’re very genteel.”
“Even if their mother isn’t,” Gareth said, rolling his eyes heavenward.
“Even if their mother isn’t,” Beau echoed back, giving him a reproving stare. “If any of your friends come—Mr. Devere, for example—they’ll be happy we’ve some pretty girls for them to dance with.”
“There’s to be dancing, now?”
Beau felt a hint of a blush burn her cheeks. She raised her chin. There was no reason to be embarrassed simply because she wanted their first party to be a success.
“Only informally. I’m not attempting to bring in musicians or anything grand. Did you find us our Yule log?” she said, switching the subject.
Gareth grinned, face lighting up in a way that made her suddenly lightheaded. “I did. The men are arranging it in the fireplace as we speak. I’ll lay you a pony it burns for a week. I’ve a surprise for you too.”
Beau bit back an answering grin and stared at him skeptically. “A good surprise?”
“You’ll have to come and see.” He held out his hand.
Beau put the cap on the ink and set her quill aside. Gareth led her through the house and into the grand hall. Two footmen and three of their tenants were in the final stages of wrestling a massive log into the ancient fireplace. Piles of greenery were spread across the long table in the center of the room, where Mrs. Peebles was directing the maids as they tied it into swags. Peebles himself was busy tucking bits of mistletoe into a large straw ball. The heavy berries nodded and shook as he worked.
“All the proper frills and furbelows,” Gareth said with a perfectly serious expression that nearly set Beau off laughing. “Just like at Lochmaben.”
Beau sniffled, blinking away tears. It was just like Christmas at home. Or as like as it could be. “I’ve something for you too,” she said, glad that her surprise had arrived that morning after he’d ridden out. “Come down to the home farm.”
Gareth tilted his head like a distrustful horse. “The home farm?”
“Yes, the farm.” She emphasized the last word menacingly. “Your present arrived while you were gone.”
Gareth followed her into the entry hall and helped her with her redingote. “You didn’t actually get me a pig, did you?”
Beau grinned at him. He made it sound as though a pig were some kind of royal death warrant. “You’ll have to come and see.”
She headed out, not bothering to check that he was following. He was insatiably curious by nature. She knew he would follow. He couldn’t help himself.
When she reached the home farm, she stopped and leaned against the railing of the newly erected sty. Gareth’s piglet grunted and climbed up, begging for attention. Beau leaned over and scratched him on his fuzzy black-and-white-spotted head.
“It looks like a rotund carriage dog.” Gareth eyed the piglet with trepidation, much as he had the house upon their arrival.
Beau smiled and continued to scratch the little pig, who was grunting and ugging with delight, its enormous ears flipped back to show their pink lining. “Mr. Moreland breeds them. He says it’s a Gloucestershire Spotted Pig. The most English of pigs. I couldn’t resist when I saw them.”
Gareth reached out and scratched behind its ear, just as he would a dog.
“There are apples in the bucket,” Beau said, repressing a smile. “Carrots too.”
Gareth fished out an apple. The piglet took a noisy bite, dribbling drool all over Gareth’s hand. Gareth’s face crumpled into something between disgust and amusement.
“What shall you name him?” Beau said.
Gareth looked at her as if she were mad. “Does one name pigs?” He held out the apple so it could take another bite. His queue fell forward over his shoulder, and Beau swept it back for him before the piglet got hold of it.
“All pets should be named.”
“That”—he gestured with the dripping remains of the apple to the piglet—“is a pet?”
“Of course it’s a pet. If I’d wanted to give you a ham, I would have.”
Gareth laughed and tossed the last of the apple to the loudly chewing animal. “He does put me strongly in mind of Lord North,” Gareth said with a wicked, ingratiating grin. “I shall call him Frederick. And we shall eat his children.”
Bea
u clapped her hand over her mouth. The piglet’s tiny eyes and fat cheeks were more than a little reminiscent of the former prime minster, unkind as it was to say.
Gareth leaned his hip against the sty and crossed his ankles. “Please tell me I’m not to be condemned to gaiters too.”
Beau caught her lips between her teeth to keep from grinning. She’d already put a pair in his clothes press, much to his valet’s horror.
CHAPTER 26
Gareth waited for Beau to curtsey to Roland Devere as their set concluded before stepping in and claiming her. “Go and flirt with someone else,” he said, waving his friend away.
Devere wrinkled his nose at him, bowed to Beau, and then wandered away to turn the pages at the pianoforte for the youngest of the Ackeroyd girls. The stripling that he displaced glowered with displeasure before stalking off. Miss Alice, all of twelve, glowed with pleasure.
“Do you know,” Beau said, smiling up at him, “I don’t think you’ve ever asked me to dance. Not once. We must have been at dozens of balls together every year, and you never came near me.”
“I was purposefully avoiding you, brat,” Gareth responded with perfect truth.
“Really? I always thought you just didn’t like me.”
“Ha!” Gareth steered her in a circuitous path through their tiny throng of guests. “You never in your life thought for a moment that any man alive didn’t like you.”
“Is that really what you think?” Her forehead wrinkled, and her eyes looked almost hurt. “Because I assure you, plenty of gentlemen have disliked me over the years. And even more have disapproved of me.”
Another set began and the majority of their guests circled to the middle of the Great Hall. Even the vicar and the doctor were dancing. Gareth stopped beside the roaring Yule log, under the giant ball of mistletoe.
“But did you ever think you couldn’t bring them to heel if you truly set your mind to it?” He’d seen her twisting men around her little finger since she was a girl. It was an innate talent.
