by Isobel Carr
There was her sister-in-law, but what if Viola told Leo? Her brother was already furious and more than ready to murder Gareth given even the flimsiest of excuses. The last thing that was needed was more fuel for that fire.
Beau gazed out at the ocean, feeling suddenly very small and very alone. They might as well be living on a desert island. There was no help anywhere.
CHAPTER 31
Riotous laugher spilled down the corridor, followed quickly by a giggling, muddy child running full-tilt, cockhorse between his knees. Jamie didn’t even pause as he passed Gareth, and Gareth made no attempt to catch hold of him. He’d learned quickly enough that while the boy adored Beau, he was very much still under suspicion.
Their nursery maid, Peg, came rushing after him, hair straggling down around her face, mud smeared liberally across her apron. Gareth pressed himself to the paneling as the girl attempted a curtsey without stopping.
Beau appeared last of all, face rosy with mirth. She lurched to stop when she saw him, and the laughter went out of her eyes. Gareth did his best not to frown. Jamie had only been with them a week, and in that time, he’d found himself becoming a glowering beast. Everyone, including his wife, had taken to avoiding him, which didn’t make him any more inclined to look upon the boy favorably.
“He slipped out of the house and went to visit Frederick,” Beau said, wiping at the mud on her own skirts. “And he seems to have got into the sty itself this time.”
“Likes pigs, does he?”
“Not as much as dogs or horses. Gulliver won’t let me touch him, but he allows Jamie to hang upon him, pull his ears and tail. He’s even started to follow the boy about. Yesterday, Jamie climbed on top of the poor thing and tried to ride him, which is rather what I think he might have done to Frederick today.”
“Sounds like poor Frederick to me,” Gareth said with feeling.
Beau tilted her head, studying him as though she were about to ask for something. Gareth’s pulse repeated upon itself unevenly. He wanted back into her good graces, back into her bed, but he hadn’t been able to work out how to effect such a turn.
“The boy needs a pony,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.
Squeals erupted from the nursery, followed by a long wail and a clearly audible protest about being forced to bathe. Beau’s smile flared back to life. Gareth felt a sudden stab of envy. How had he been displaced so thoroughly? She should have been smiling for him, at him. He missed being the cynosure of her world. Once a man had experienced that, had been that, how could he be happy with anything less?
“Isn’t he too young for a pony?” If the boy got hurt, it would be him that she would blame. And all boys got hurt when they got their first pony.
“I was put into the saddle at about his age.”
“Put there?” Gareth said with a snort of disbelief. “Or you climbed up and refused to give your brother’s pony back?”
She grinned, and he felt it all the way to his toes. He hadn’t seen her smile at him like that since the boy’s arrival. “It’s not fair that you know my brother well enough to be privy to all my childhood escapades.”
Gareth shrugged. “Horse theft is a serious offense. Even when the horse in question is a pony the owner has outgrown. And as I remember it, you were riding that very pony the first time we met.”
Beau bit her lip, white teeth sinking into the rosy flesh in a way that made his hands itch to touch her. She looked chagrined, but a wicked twinkle lurked in her eyes.
“A boy’s not ready for a pony until he’s breeched,” Gareth said, staving her off.
“Those are just the clothes he came with. Jamie’s out of diapers. We’re going to have to replace them soon enough anyway, and there’s no reason for him to continue being dressed as a baby.”
She took a step toward him, breasts swelling above her bodice as she leaned against him. The scent of her made him dizzy. The electric shock of her touch had his cock flaring to attention.
“Find him a pony, Gareth. Teaching him to ride is something a boy’s father should do. Every boy deserves that.”
Gareth’s delight in the moment drained away, and Beau must have sensed the change in him, for she stepped back, hands moving to fidget with the closure of her bodice. Another wail of protest sent her scurrying toward the nursery without so much as a glance in his direction.
Gareth leaned back against the wall, cursing under his breath. Teaching a boy to ride was something his father should do, but he wasn’t Jamie’s father. And nothing so far had made the pretense that he was one jot more real.
CHAPTER 32
Granby put his collar up to ward off the damp of the coming storm. Far above, at the top of the cliff, Lady Boudicea stood staring off toward France. As beautiful as ever. And she should have been his. Her and her fortune.
He swallowed down the bitter taste that flooded his mouth. He’d been sure she’d loved him. Sure she’d see the romance in their flight. Instead, she’d ruined his life.
He stared up at her, watching her skirts flap like sails in the wind. He’d traveled all the way from the Scottish border, the thirst for justice as strong now as it ever had been. How to achieve restitution and satisfaction had been the question. It wasn’t cheap, financing an abduction. If Nowlin and his friends hadn’t practically thrown their fortunes at him in the gaming hells of Dublin, he’d have had no chance at his revenge.
His options had dwindled. Killing her wasn’t enough. It was too easy. He might enjoy the headiness of the moment, but it would be over too quickly.
Lady Boudicea deserved to suffer for what she’d done to him. Being made an early widow wasn’t nearly punishment enough. Especially when widowhood came with the security of fortune. At her age, she’d recover from the loss.
He wanted her alone. Ruined. Hopeless. He wanted her to understand exactly how he’d felt when she betrayed him.
“Who’s the child?” Granby asked, narrowing his eyes to better see the tiny figure in Lady Boudicea’s arms.
“Village gossip says it’s her husband’s bastard,” Nowlin said.
“Really?” Granby replied, an idea flaring to life. “I’d say it was just as likely—based on her behavior, both previously and now—that we are looking at the true parent.”
Nowlin stared at him stupidly.
“A fast, sporting girl, known to flirt and stray beyond acceptable behavior. A girl like that is capable of anything. Even foisting her bastard upon a husband who was bought and paid for. Don’t you think?”
Nowlin mumbled something, and Granby snapped, “What? Speak up.”
“I said I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Well, I rather imagine the world will think so too. Or at least enough of them to scandalize both their families and set them all to fighting.”
“Why?”
Granby shook his head. “Because a united front is impenetrable. That was our mistake. We need them all at each others’ throats. Full of hatred and distrust. We need them fighting, not talking. And we need to find out more about the origins of that child.”
“How? Where do we look? The mother could be anywhere.”
“You said his brother brought it here?”
Nowlin nodded. “That’s the story the maid told anyway when I bought her a pint last market day.”
“Very well, we start there. Somewhere there’s a witness. A story. Perhaps even a scandal. Don’t look surprised. Fathers make arrangements for bastards all the time. Foster them out with a tenant family. Dump them in a charity school. What they don’t do is take them into their homes. Not without a compelling reason, and certainly not hot upon the heels of their marriage.”
CHAPTER 33
The pane of glass was cold against his forehead. Gareth leaned harder against the window, trying to keep his wife in sight as long as possible. She was taking advantage of a break in the dismal weather that they’d been having to consult with a few of the older tenants about what the gardens had looked like in their prime.
The ancient advisors were slowly meandering about, hands sculpting visions in the air. Beau was busy taking notes, pausing occasionally to sketch. Whatever her feelings about him—and at this point, he wasn’t entirely sure what they were—she clearly wasn’t planning on running home to her parents.
That fact should have been a relief, but he couldn’t seem to take comfort in it. Beau was making Morton Hall hers. Laying claim to it. Building a life for herself here that didn’t necessarily include him. His face seemed to always be pressed to a window of one sort or another, the demarcation of his world and hers becoming more and more concrete.
Beau had set up her own little fiefdom in the nursery wing. She ate her meals there. Spent her days there. Never seemed to go anywhere without Jamie clinging to her skirts like a barnacle.
He’d never seen anything like it. Most mothers were more than content to leave their children in the care of their nursery maid or governess. His own certainly had. They’d been lucky to see her a few times a week. And even then only for a few minutes. A kiss, a scold, very occasionally a slice of plum cake. That is what his mother had been. A magnificent visitation.
There was no reason at all for Beau to expend so much time and energy on a child who wasn’t even hers. No reason other than the fact that it gave her an excuse to avoid seeing him. And whenever he crossed their path, the resentment in her eyes was enough to stop him from joining them.
They had barely spoken in days. Not a word since she’d asked him to get the boy a pony. Something had shifted in that moment, hardening within her. It was as if she’d realized that her vision for their life wasn’t a shared one, and she’d decided to forge ahead with her own regardless.
Beau continued to sleep in her own chamber, and he simply didn’t want to know—couldn’t bring himself to find out—if she was barring her door against him. It was better not to know. Better to live in ignorance, imagining himself free to join her, even if it wasn’t true.
Beau and her guests rounded the corner of the house, and Gareth pulled himself away from the window, returning to the open ledger on his desk. Mathematics had been a strong point at Harrow, but he’d never had to keep track of so many disparate streams of revenue and so many petty outlays. It was no wonder his father employed stewards, land agents, and a secretary. One estate was a great deal of work. Multiple estates, most much larger than this one, must have been the devil to keep track of.
He was struggling to get the household accounts to balance—there was something seriously wrong with the receipts for candles; they couldn’t possibly use so many at such a pace—when the door opened and Beau wandered in. She had her nose planted in her sketchbook, and Jamie was blissfully absent. She bumped into one of the chairs near the fireplace and stopped with a thoroughly unladylike curse.
Gareth chuckled, and her head snapped around. She blinked and looked about confusedly, like a sleepwalker unceremoniously awakened.
“Lost?” he said, drinking in the sight of her. Her hair was tumbled from the wind, dark curls falling in a riot all around her face, making the green of her eyes almost glow.
“Turned about, certainly,” she replied, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. “I could have sworn I was headed toward the kitchen block.”
“Took the wrong door out of the drawing room. I’ve done the same on multiple occasions. The house is a damned labyrinth.”
Beau nodded, arm locked tight over the sketchbook as though she didn’t want him to see it. “I wanted to ask Mrs. Peebles about the kitchen garden. See if there was anything needed there.”
“Show me what you’ve been working on.” Could he keep her talking? Keep her with him for even a quarter of an hour? Make her remember that he wasn’t a villain and didn’t deserve to be treated like one?
She hesitated, one cheek sucked in as she weighed her answer. Gareth raised his brows questioningly, hopefully. Her shoulders sagged slightly, and one corner of her mouth twitched as though she were fighting a smile.
“I’ve no idea what it will cost,” she said, stepping toward the desk and laying her sketchbook down atop the ledger. She flipped it open, revealing a diagram of the beds, all the sections clearly labeled with letters that corresponded to lists on the opposite page.
She traced her fingers over the sketch, smudging it slightly. The poesy ring on her finger glinted in the sunlight. A bolt of pure possessiveness lanced through him. His wife. His. He was making a muddle of it, but that fact remained unchanged.
Gareth put a hand on her hip and leaned forward to study the plan. “Do you really want to keep it so formal?”
She pressed a little closer as she bent over her sketch. The soft tuberose scent she wore addled his brain. It worked its way through his bloodstream, coiling painfully in his groin.
“We’ve enough real wilderness all around us,” she said. “It seems silly to create a false one. And such a garden wouldn’t suit the house.”
“There is that.” Gareth nodded his head in agreement. Beneath his fingertips, he could just make out the wales of her stays through the fine linen of her gown. He spread his hand wide over her ribs. Beau’s small intake of breath set his pulse drumming loudly in his ears.
She started to pull away. Gareth held tight, swinging her about so she was facing him, trapped between him and the desk. He put his knees on either side of hers, hemming her in.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, holding her perched on the edge of the desk.
Beau just looked at him. Her gaze dropped to his lap, where the tented fall of his breeches left no doubt of his desire.
“I’ve been giving you time to think,” she said, voice tinged with repressed excitement.
Gareth smiled slyly up at her and slid his hands up and under her skirts. When she didn’t pull away, he maneuvered his knees between hers and pushed them apart, hands riding up the soft skin along the inside of her thighs.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking,” he replied.
Beau’s breath hitched, and her hands locked on his shoulders. Gareth continued his slow path north until his fingers slipped into the already slick folds at the apex of her thighs.
Her grip tightened. “Clearly,” she said, the word breathy, as though she’d been running.
Gareth smiled. There she was. His little libertine. She just needed reminding of what was waiting for her in his bed, reminding that she missed him, wanted him, needed him.
Gareth freed himself from his breeches and stood, taking her back onto the desk. He fit himself to her and thrust in, filling her with one hard stroke. Beau cried out, wrapped her legs around him, and threw back her head, hair tangling in the inkwell and quills.
“Don’t thrash about,” Gareth whispered against her ear. “You’re in danger of making a mess.”
Beau strained beneath him, pushing back, matching the rhythm that he established. Gareth let all thought go, a series of frantic thrusts taking him irrevocably to his release. Beau pulsed and throbbed, close but not yet done.
Gareth stilled, concentrating on the delicious feeling of being inside her. Beau made a small sound of protest and rocked against him. Gareth had a sudden wicked thought. What was his opera dancer’s advice for controlling a lover? Always leave them wanting more?
He propped himself up on his elbows and began disentangling her hair. Beau’s legs gripped his hips, and she ground against him. Gareth kissed the side of her neck as he freed the inkwell from one last curl.
“Gareth.” The note of protest, of entreaty, was clear.
“You want your turn?” Gareth’s grin turned into a chuckle at the sight of her indignant expression. “Good.”
He stood and buttoned up his breeches. Beau just lay there, staring at him. He traced one finger along the inside of her exposed knee, playing idly with her garter.
“You’ve got two choices, Beau.” He tugged down her skirts and pulled her to her feet. “You can go upstairs, put your hand between your thighs and think of me, or you can come to me tonight and let me
finish what I started.”
Beau snatched up her sketchbook, threw her husband one last aggrieved look, and marched out of his study. Her hands were shaking with anger, but her knees were wobbly for an entirely different reason.
Her thighs were wet and sticky. The ache of frustrated passion redoubled with every step. She could throttle him! She would throttle him. He deserved nothing less for such a trick.
She reached her room, where her maid was busy reattaching a flounce to one of Beau’s gowns. Lucy looked up, needle paused in the air like a moth.
“Lucy,” Beau said, doing her best to appear calm. “Please fetch me a basin of hot water.”
The maid wove the needle into the fabric and set her sewing aside. “Yes, my lady. Would you like me to send tea up as well?”
“Yes, but have it fetched to the nursery. I’ll be going there as soon as I’ve washed the dirt from my hands.”
Lucy nodded, sketched the kind of half-hearted curtsey only a servant of long employ could ever hope to get away with, and departed. Beau dropped into the chair that her maid had just vacated. She could almost feel Gareth’s hands on her skin, almost still feel him inside her. Her body pulsed weakly, and she let out her breath with a shuddering sigh.
Damn him. No matter what she did for the rest of the day, she’d be thinking about him. Thinking about going to him, about how much she wanted him, how she craved his touch…
Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.
CHAPTER 34
Granby caught the eye of the innkeeper and raised two fingers, calling for more ale for himself and the man sprawled across from him in the inglenook. Drunk, loquacious, and full of gossip. Exactly what he’d been hoping to find when he’d traced the child’s path back to the Earl of Roxwell’s estate in Yorkshire.
