A Scandalous Bargain

by Burke, Darcy

  Beatrix took the hat with one hand and clasped his hand with the other. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It isn’t nothing.”

  “Come on, let’s get you home. You’re on Queen Anne Street?”

  “Yes. For now.”

  He looked at her in question. “You’re moving?”

  “To Cavendish Square. Tomorrow, actually. The owner, the Marchioness of Ripley, is leasing the house to Harry. This way, he and Selina will have a larger house. Both ours and his are rather small. I’ll show you where. We can walk by on our way to Queen Anne Street.”

  With a nod, he turned in the direction of Cavendish Square. She joined him, and they continued along Oxford Street at a brisk pace before turning left toward Cavendish Square.

  His silence made her anxious. She hoped he wasn’t angry anymore. She also wanted to make sure he understood that she did not want to be managed.

  “I’m not sure I can promise not to venture out after dark,” she said gently. “How else can I visit you?”

  “Send a note, and I’ll come meet you.”

  “Truly?” Anticipation tripped up her spine. Though, she’d have to determine how to send a note. But wait! They would have at least one footman at Cavendish Square, perhaps even two! She and her mother had employed a footman in Bath. Rather, Ramsgate had. He’d spared no expense when it came to Beatrix’s mother. Except then someone in the household would know her secret—that she was at least sending messages to Rockbourne. This would take some planning.

  “Yes, truly.” Rockbourne sounded calmer.

  They turned into Cavendish Square. “The house is just there on the right.” She pointed to the house that had most recently been occupied by her friend Jane Pemberton. “Lady Colton has already moved out. She and Lord Colton were wed, rather by surprise, a week ago. It was incredibly romantic.”

  “In what way?”

  “He arrived at her house with a special license, a vicar, and her sister as well as their best friends.” They paused in front of the house.

  “Lady Colton had no idea?” Tom asked.

  Beatrix shook her head. “None. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “So long as she said yes.” He chuckled, and she was so glad to hear the sound. “That could have ended badly.”

  “I suppose it could have. Lord Colton probably knew how she felt, don’t you think?”

  “I think knowing and understanding others’ feelings is extremely complicated. I’m glad things worked out for them. I hope they’ll be very happy.” He said the last with a mix of wistfulness and darkness, as if he expected his hope to be dashed.

  “So the house is empty?” he asked.

  “Well, the servants are there. Harry is retaining all of them.” She turned to look up at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason. There are just…opportunities with an unoccupied house.”

  Desire fluttered in her belly—and lower. All night, she’d been aware of an undercurrent of attraction. There had been a few times in his sitting room when she thought he might kiss her. She’d been shocked to realize she wanted him to. Rather desperately, in fact.

  Now he was telling her about opportunities with an unoccupied house. Her imagination took flight and winged its way directly into a fervent longing.

  Before she could ask about specific opportunities, he skimmed his hand against her lower back, and they continued along the square. He didn’t keep touching her as they moved, much to her disappointment.

  “You didn’t answer why you have a pistol,” he said.

  “I don’t recall you asking.” She was sure he hadn’t.

  He didn’t look at her as they walked. “Why do you have a pistol?”

  “Because I’m, as you put it, wandering around London in the middle of the night.”

  His exasperated breath permeated the damp night air. “Where did you get that pistol?”

  That wasn’t a story she felt comfortable sharing. He was already wondering about what kind of woman she must be since she’d held her own against a footpad. What would he think if she told him she’d stolen it? “It was given to me by a…friend.”

  “How do you know how to use it? You said you did.”

  “My sister and I thought it wise to learn how to shoot. Her former husband taught us.” She hated making up things that were blatantly untrue. Long ago, Selina had cautioned her against doing so because if you forgot what you’d said, you risked being caught in the lie. It was better to rely on half-truths or, better still, to avoid answering troublesome questions altogether. That was becoming harder and harder with Rockbourne. He already knew far more about her than anyone except Selina.

  Why had she let her guard down with him?

  Beatrix cast him a sidelong glance as they reached Portland Street. Perhaps she should sever this relationship entirely. What was the point of it anyway? She’d helped him, he’d helped her—she was certain he was behind the voucher to Almack’s. Everything else was now just…what? What was it?

  Temptation.

  He was a father in mourning, and she was the bastard daughter of a duke who was hoping to secure her future. There really wasn’t any need for them to continue meeting, much as she wanted to. How sad that made her.

  She opened her mouth to say so, but he spoke first.

  “Tonight was the most fun I’ve had in a very, very long time.” He paused a beat. “Except for the footpads.” He said the last with a humor-filled warmth that made her smile. Not that she needed much prodding after he’d said tonight was the most fun he’d had in a long time.

  A very, very long time.

  “The footpad incident wasn’t all bad.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Now he looked at her, and she felt the heat in his gaze everywhere. “I liked it when you called me Tom.”

  “I didn’t want to call you by your title. Not then.”

  “Don’t feel as though you ever need to use that again. Tom is fine. Tom is lovely, in fact.”

  Yes, he was.

  Against her better judgment, Beatrix reached for his hand and twined her fingers with his. She wished with every fiber of her being that she wasn’t wearing gloves.

  “We’re nearly to Queen Anne Street,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She realized their gait had slowed. He seemed as reluctant as she was for the night to end. Maybe they should have stolen into the house in Cavendish Square. But again, to what end?

  Beatrix didn’t care. She didn’t want to think past the next few moments.

  “Will you let me know if Bow Street contacts you again?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  “What would you do?”

  “I don’t know. I’d just like to be aware.” She was worried about him. Losing a spouse, the parent of one’s child, had to be difficult even in the worst of situations, which it seemed their marriage was. He seemed all right for the most part, but his flash of anger—and the way he pummeled the footpad—gave her pause.

  “It’s a moot issue since they won’t be contacting me. You can put the entire affair from your mind.”

  “Have you?” she asked softly.

  “I’m trying to.” His voice was tight, and she was almost sorry she’d asked.

  “I’m here if you ever need to talk about it.”

  “I won’t, but I appreciate that.”

  They reached the corner of Queen Anne Street. Beatrix stopped but didn’t let go of his hand. “Thank you for seeing me home. I’m glad you were with me. I would not have wanted to face two footpads alone.”

  “You might be dead.” He squeezed her hand. “Promise me you won’t endanger yourself like that again. I couldn’t bear it.”

  The insistence and desperation in his voice pulled at her heart. She moved closer to him. “I won’t.” The fact was that he wasn’t wrong. She would have been in a great deal of trouble. She could have shot one of them, but th
en what of the other?

  Shoving the dark thoughts away, she summoned a smile. “Good night, then.”

  “You’ll send me a note when you want to visit again?”

  She nodded, but she wouldn’t. Because there wasn’t going to be an again.

  They stared at each other, the night dark and cool around them. She shivered. He bent his head. She parted her lips, certain that he would kiss her now. Finally.

  But all he did was tip her hat back and brush his lips against her forehead. Replacing the hat, he let go of her hand and stepped back. “I’m going to watch until you’re inside. Good night, Beatrix.”

  “Good night, Tom.” Her body thrummed with unsatisfied need. Nevertheless, she turned and went to the house, where she slipped down the stairs to the basement entrance.

  She hurried upstairs and held back the curtain to see if he was still there. He stood on the other side of the narrow street, a tall, shadowy figure.

  They watched each other for several minutes before he finally turned and walked back toward Portland Street. When he disappeared from sight, she stepped back and let the curtain fall.

  Sadness wrapped around her and snaked down her throat, making it feel scratchy and raw. She wouldn’t cry. This wasn’t an ending, but a beginning. Tomorrow, she and Selina would move to Cavendish Square, to security. And the following night, she would finally meet her father. Her future was assured.

  But was it the future she still wanted?

  * * *

  Regan had bounded into Thomas’s room at an exceptionally early hour. He’d been asleep only a short while since returning from walking Beatrix home. And that was after he’d tossed in his bed for some time before finally dozing off, his mind and body rife with the excitement of his evening with Beatrix.

  Evening? It had been the middle of the damn night.

  And every moment of it had been positively sublime. Well, not every moment. Thinking of the footpad attack still made his heart race as well as sparked his rage. When he’d seen that man grab Beatrix, Thomas had wanted to pound him into oblivion.

  He might have too, if not for her intervention. There’d been a note of fear in her voice. Had she seen into the rot inside him? He prayed not. Yet, there had been a finality to their parting last night that made him wonder.

  No, that couldn’t be the end of their association, even if it should be.

  The invitation to the masquerade ball her brother was hosting tomorrow night sat in the middle of Thomas’s desk. He’d already responded. Last night was not the last time he would see her.

  He sat back in his chair and tried, for the dozenth time at least, to reconcile her reaction to the attack. She’d fended off the other assailant quite handily. Thomas had been too focused on beating the man who’d gone after her to see what she’d done to make him run. Or how she’d obtained his pistol.

  Thomas thought of the weapon he’d locked in a case in his chamber. Then he thought of Beatrix’s pistol. She’d had a gun! And apparently knew how to use it. He was simultaneously shocked and impressed by her capability. He was also not entirely certain he understood her explanation.

  That she was allowed to move about freely after dark, armed with a pistol or not, was concerning. He had a half mind to talk with her sister. But that would almost certainly ensure they wouldn’t meet anymore.

  He blew out a frustrated breath. Yet, that’s what should happen. He was putting her reputation at risk meeting with her like that. Yes, she’d already risked it herself by coming here to spy on her father, but Thomas was now compounding matters. Furthermore, he’d asked her to notify him of further meetings so he could coordinate them. He was rather formally contributing to her potential ruin.

  Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the desk, then put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

  “My lord?” Baines said softly.

  Thomas lifted his head and blinked at the butler. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Holcomb has arrived.”

  “Thank you, Baines.”

  “How are your hands?” the butler asked tentatively.

  Thomas splayed his hands and held them in front of his face. The abrasions on his knuckles were red and raw. The wounds stung, but less now than when he’d arrived home. “Cook had a poultice that Mrs. Henley insisted I use.” His valet had applied it twice already. To a person, no one had asked how he’d sustained the injury. Baines, however, had asked if he was all right.

  “You’re certain you’ve no other injuries?” Baines asked.

  “Thank you for your concern.” Thomas gave him a weak smile. And then, because he would have to tell his aunt a story, he said, “It’s been a trying time. I’m afraid I took out my agitation on the tree in the garden.”

  Baines stared at him a moment. “I see. Did that…help?”

  Thomas shrugged. “In the moment, yes. But now I have sore hands to contend with.” The smile he generated now was more genuine. Or he hoped it was, anyway.

  Baines nodded. “Mrs. Holcomb is in the drawing room. She has a gift for Miss Devereaux.”

  That would be the third gift Aunt Charity had brought for Regan this week. She wanted to make sure Regan didn’t miss her mother, which wasn’t really necessary.

  “Thank you, Baines.” Thomas stood and left the study to make his way upstairs.

  Situated at the front of the first floor with a pretty view of Grosvenor Square, the drawing room was where they gathered as a family. Aunt Charity sat in the central seating area, a box tied with a bow on the settee beside her.

  “Good afternoon, Aunt.” Thomas walked toward the seating area. “Thank you for bringing Regan another gift, but it’s not necessary. She is almost entirely unaffected by…what happened.”

  “You’re lucky she’s so young. And that her mother was a poor excuse for a parent.”

  Thomas acknowledged things could be much more difficult, and for that, he was grateful. Not for his sake, but for Regan’s. He didn’t want her to be sad. Yet sadness and disappointment were part of life. He’d learned that at a very young age. Which was precisely why he didn't want his daughter to experience it. She had plenty of time to feel hurt and despair and loss. His chest stung—how he wished he could protect her from such things forever.

  Aunt Charity stood and came toward where he stood near a chaise. “Goodness, what on earth did you do to your hands?” She took them in hers and frowned down at the wounds.

  “I expended my energy on a tree. It relieved some tension.”

  She let go of him and gave him a wry stare. “You can’t just drink excessively or gamble or take a mistress like other men?”

  “I’m doing my best with the drinking.”

  “Pffft.” She waved her hand. “I don’t believe you. And I know you don’t gamble much, and you certainly haven’t taken a mistress. God knows you should have.”

  So many people had encouraged him to do that. His valet. Friends. And now his aunt. At what point would he take the advice?

  He knew who he wanted in his bed, but she wasn’t someone he could take as a mistress.

  Aunt Charity returned to the settee, and he took the armchair with a high back that reached his shoulders. She studied him intently. “You’re sure it was a tree?”

  Thomas shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Why would you think otherwise?” He regretted the question as soon as it passed his lips.

  “It just seems an odd thing to do. But if it made you feel better, you must do as you need.”

  Regan skipped into the room, her nurse following more sedately. “Papa! Aunt Charity!” She was on her way to Thomas, but he could see the exact moment her attention caught the wrapped package next to Aunt Charity. She veered to the left and bounded onto the settee. “Is this for me?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Charity said, smiling. “It’s the last one, however. Your papa thinks I’m spoiling you.”

  This mattered not a whit to Regan as she didn’t so much as look at Thomas. He chuckled.

  “I never used th
e word spoiled,” he said.

  Regan tugged at the ribbon and then removed the lid. She squealed and reached inside. Her small hands clutched a book larger than her lap.

  “This has all sorts of animals in it,” Aunt Charity said. “I know how much you like animals.”

  “Especially cats! Papa says I can have one since Mama is gone,” Regan said excitedly. “She wouldn’t let me have one.”

  Aunt Charity looked over at him with a smile. “What a lovely idea.”

  “Soon,” Thomas said. He needed to find one.

  Regan opened the book and studied the pictures with grave interest.

  “I think she likes it,” Thomas said softly. “Thank you.”

  “Papa, can your friend read it to me?”

  Thomas furrowed his brow in confusion. “What friend?”

  “That nice lady. With the hair like mine.”

  Aunt Charity’s eyes widened slightly as she turned her gaze to Thomas. “What friend is this?”

  Bloody hell. Regan meant Beatrix. So much for her not telling anyone. “I’m not sure,” Thomas lied.

  “She comes here sometimes at night,” Regan said without looking up from the book.

  Aunt Charity’s still dark brows nearly leapt from the top of her forehead. “It sounds as if you have taken a—” She pressed her lips together. “Never mind.”

  “A what, Aunt Charity?” Regan asked, proving that children heard everything.

  “Nothing, dear.” Aunt Charity moved the box to the floor and scooted closer to her great-niece to peruse the book over her head. But only for a moment. She returned her attention to Thomas with a thoroughly curious stare.

  Thomas knew his aunt would interrogate him later and decided it was best to get it over with now. He turned to Regan’s nurse and asked if she could take her upstairs with the book.

  “Of course, my lord,” the nurse said.

  Regan closed the book and handed it to the nurse. Turning, she threw her arms around Aunt Charity. “Thank you, Aunt Charity!”

  Thomas’s aunt hugged her tightly, her mouth curving into a warm smile. “You are so welcome, my darling girl.”