Even though she knew that he wanted to build a railway across her land. That he was beautiful, and society saw her as a beast. That there could be no happy ending for them.
I need to regain control—over myself and the situation. After supper, she would have a clear accounting with Wick…but first she would discover what her brother’s emissary wanted.
“Tell me, Mr. Knight,” she said with a resolute smile. “How do you know my brother?”
Knight waited until his soup bowl was cleared and replaced by a dish of poached mackerel garnished with fennel and mint.
“His Grace and I have had some business dealings, my lady,” he said. “I own silk factories in Spitalfields as well as other manufactories in London and beyond.”
That explained his finery. His blue waistcoat had the gleam of first-rate silk.
“Is that how you two gentlemen know one another as well?” She looked from Knight to Wick. “Through business?”
“We’ve had a few interests in common.” Wick’s tone was noncommittal. “What is the purpose of your visit here, Knight?”
Even though Bea wanted to know the same thing, she didn’t appreciate Wick taking the reins from her. This was her home and her guest. She’d made it quite clear that lovemaking changed nothing between them; why did he think he could speak for her?
Just one more reason to end things with him, she thought grimly.
“Whatever the reason,” she said, giving him a quelling look, “friends of my brother are always welcome.”
“That is kind of you, my lady. I do, indeed, have a particular purpose for this visit, and it is perhaps better explained by this.” Removing a note from his coat, Knight presented it to her. “A letter of introduction from His Grace.”
Beatrice ran her thumb over her brother’s seal, her chest tightening with trepidation...and a pang of nostalgia. Inhaling, she broke the wax and scanned the lines written in Benedict’s scrawl:
Beatrice,
I hope enough time has passed for both of us to forgive, if not forget, the words we exchanged at our last meeting. Whatever our differences, we remaining Wodehouses must stick together.
As a gesture of my good will, I send you a gift. Although I can think of few men who are worthy of you, Severin Knight has my full endorsement. Not only because of his wealth and influence, both of which are vast, but because he is a decent fellow, and each of you has something the other needs.
Hear him out, my dear sister. For the sake of your own happiness and the future of our line.
Your brother,
Benedict
Beatrice raised her eyes to Knight’s grey gaze.
“Benedict says I am to hear you out,” she said slowly. “What is this about?”
“Perhaps, after supper, I might have a word with you alone…”
“Over my dead body will you be alone with her,” Wick said flatly.
Knight raised his brows. A look that clearly said, That could be arranged.
“Whatever you have to say,” she said, “you may say it here.”
“As you wish.” Knight adjusted his cufflinks before speaking. “I have recently come into an inheritance. An unexpected one that comes with certain obligations. Obligations that I am not in a position to fulfill on my own. Thus, I am in search of a partner.”
Bea frowned. “What sort of a partner?”
“A wife—a duchess, to be precise.” Knight’s smile had a taut edge. “It turns out my inheritance included a collection of titles. The fifth Duke of Knighton, Marquess of Wroxley, Earl Wroxley, and so forth.”
In the time it took Bea to blink, Wick shoved back his chair, rising. Bea had never seen him look so foreboding, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes blazing.
“A word outside, Knight,” he said in clipped tones. “Now.”
12
Wick stalked into the moonlit garden. He didn’t bother to look behind him, knowing that Knight wouldn’t back down from a challenge. He and Knight had crossed paths plenty of times in the London underworld where they’d both made their fortunes. From past experience, he knew the other was a worthy competitor whether it came to business, women, or a game of cards.
Wick respected the bastard, sometimes even liked him.
This was not one of those times.
Knight appeared, Beatrice not far behind him.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing, Mr. Murray?” she said, her brow furrowed.
“Go back to supper,” he said evenly. “This is between Knight and me.”
Her lovely eyes flashed. “And this is my home. Mr. Knight is my guest.”
She wedged herself in between him and Knight, who remained impassive.
Wick knew the cunning nature behind that bland mask. Knight belonged to the elite group of men known as “dukes” of the underworld—and now it appeared the bastard was a bona fide duke as well. Knight’s moniker, the Duke of Silk, alluded to the fact that he controlled the territory of Spitalfields, a center of silk weaving and clothing manufactory.
There was another reason Knight had earned that name: the cull’s manner was smoother than the expensive fabric his weavers produced. He was well known for his exploits with the fair sex. Wick didn’t want him anywhere near Bea.
Much less proposing to her.
“Not for long,” Wick said grimly. “His Grace will be leaving.”
Knight arched a dark brow. “Will I?”
“Find yourself another duchess,” Wick bit out. “Beatrice is spoken for.”
“Since when?” Beatrice said.
“Since…”
Too late, Wick realized that while she was spoken for in his head, she hadn’t yet agreed in reality. But, devil take it, the writing was on the wall. He’d taken her virginity, and she was a genteel lady—the sister of a duke, apparently. They’d shared pleasure not once, but twice, their lovemaking teaching him, a seasoned rake, new things about desire.
Marriage wasn’t a possibility: it was a forgone conclusion.
He was aware of Knight watching on with an unreadable expression. As much as Wick wanted to spell out to the bastard precisely why Beatrice belonged to him, he could not. He would never dishonor her in that fashion.
“Precisely. No man has any claim on me,” Beatrice stated.
He couldn’t let that stand. “Perhaps our negotiations haven’t been completed, but I thought last night’s discussion was rather productive, wasn’t it?”
Three orgasms productive for her. And marking her lovely arse with his seed had been one of the most intensely erotic experiences of his life. Just the thought seared his groin with heat.
Her cheeks turned rosy, but she did not back down. “No promises were made. I refuse to be an obligation.”
Bloody hell, this again? “Why the devil do you persist—”
“Ahem.”
They both swung their glances to Knight, who’d cleared his throat rather pointedly.
“Perhaps I should leave the two of you to iron out certain details?”
“Leaving would be an excellent idea,” Wick growled.
“I shall take myself back to the inn.” Knight bowed. “May I look forward to the pleasure of a future audience, my lady?”
“I should like that,” Beatrice said determinedly. “In point of fact, as you are a friend of the family, you must stay at the manor.”
“Now wait just one minute—” Wick thundered.
“You’ll be far more comfortable here than at the Pig & Whistle,” Bea cut him off. “With Lady Tottenham in residence, everything will be quite circumspect.”
Circumspect my arse, Wick fumed. Her bloody chaperone had literally drunk herself under the table. He was certain Lady Tottie was still there, dozing peacefully on the Aubusson.
“Indeed.” Knight’s brows lifted. “Thank you for the invitation, my lady. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll bid you adieu for now and return tomorrow morning with my things.”
“Good night, Your Grace,” Bea said.
Knig
ht bowed, casting a smug look at Wick as he strode off.
Holding onto his temper by his fingernails, Wick bit out, “What the devil are you doing?”
She faced him. “Being hospitable to my brother’s friend.”
“Are you trying to make me jealous?” Because it’s bloody working.
“I’m not trying to make you anything,” she said flatly. “I was going to have this conversation with you later, but since we are here, we might as well have it now.”
If her tone wasn’t enough to penetrate his rage, then her expression would have been. Gone was the Beatrice of last night, whose face had glowed with the joy of feminine surrender. Gone was the Beatrice of this morning, who’d let him help her, who’d wiped ash off his jaw with what had felt like wifely tenderness. Gone even was the Beatrice who verbally sparred with him, their bantering exchanges full of promise and heat.
Masked in cold silver moonlight, the woman before him might have been a stranger. The recognition was enough to take the edge off his haze of anger. Anger, he realized now, that had prevented him from thinking clearly.
He was no longer a hot-headed rake. He was a businessman known for his ability to identify his opponent’s motivations and weaknesses, to adjust his strategy to attain winning results. Why, then, was he charging like a maddened bull at Beatrice when that only made her dig her heels in deeper? He’d already discovered better ways of negotiating with her.
In the past few days, he’d seen that she was a fair and practical woman. When he’d gone about things in a way that respected her terms, the results had been rewarding. She’d let him make love to her last night, seemed appreciative when he’d helped her to fight the fire. He could win her trust…but he had to go about it the right way.
With her, it was about give and take. Knowing when to push and when to pull back.
Not only was Wick up to the challenge, he craved it.
“Just because we made love does not give you the right to make decisions for me,” she continued in cold, remote tones. “Tonight just proves an affair is not possible between us. I will not give up my independence. I will not let another man control my future or my happiness ever again. Marriage is out of the question, and whatever we had…it ends now.”
Another man might have heard that Siberian speech and hightailed out of there for fear of catching frostbite. Yet now that Wick had tamed his jealousy, his brain was working in full force. What most people didn’t understand was that the key to negotiating wasn’t talking.
It was listening.
And what he heard from Beatrice…was pain.
“What other man?” he asked quietly.
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“You said you wouldn’t let another man control you again. Who did it before?”
Her throat worked. “I don’t…it’s none of your—”
“Last night, you were hotter than fire in my arms. Now you’re cold as ice. I didn’t take you for a woman who played games,” he said deliberately.
He knew his strategy to appeal to her sense of fairness succeeded when her shoulders stiffened in their frame of blue taffeta.
“I’m not playing games. It’s just that I’ve had a chance to think about us—”
“And you’re comparing me to some man in your past. Allow me the courtesy of knowing who my rival is.”
“He’s not your rival.” Her gaze darted; she had a hunted look.
Instinct told him not to back down. “Who is he?”
“If you must know, I was once engaged. After my accident,”—her voice wavered, but she kept her chin up—“the engagement ended.”
And Wick remembered last night when he’d asked her if she really believed a scar could change a man’s attraction to her. She did believe it…because of some bloody fool.
“Who ended it?” he asked.
“I did. But only after…” She bit her lip. “After I overheard him and my best friend at the time. The two of them were talking in the garden about how I’d become…Lady Beastly.”
* * *
Bea had told one person about the scene with Croydon and Arabella. Her brother’s reaction had guaranteed that she would never repeat that mistake. She hadn’t even confided in Fancy about what had happened: it was too humiliating.
But Wickham had a way of seeing through her masks. Of tearing them away.
Seeing the harsh set of his features in the moonlight, she felt the raw pain of a scab being ripped off. Did he finally see her as others did? Was he realizing that he, Prince Charming, had no business being with Lady Beastly?
She braced herself for his response.
“Are you in love with him?” he bit out.
It took her a moment to comprehend what he was asking. That was why he looked angry? Because he thought she might be carrying the torch for Croydon?
“No,” she blurted. “That is, I fancied myself in love with him at one time. But hearing what he and Ara—my friend said in the garden cured me of that foolishness.”
“Good,” Wick said gruffly. “The spineless cad doesn’t deserve your love. I would call him out—if you wanted me to.”
He would call Croydon out for me? More importantly, he would give me the choice?
Warmth flooded her chest, thawing the icy dread.
“But perhaps your papa already had his satisfaction?” he asked.
“No.” Seeing his scowl she said hastily, “I led Papa to believe that breaking off the engagement was my choice. I didn’t tell anyone at the time…it was too mortifying.”
She had told Benedict about it, but that had been years later. Too late to change anything, to do anything except stir up bitterness and anger. To cause the chasm that separated them to this day.
“You have naught to be embarrassed about. Your ex-fiancé and so-called friend are the ones who deserve to be shamed for their despicable behavior.” Wick curled a finger beneath her chin, making her look into his steady gaze. “I wish you hadn’t felt like you had to keep their ugly secret, but I am honored that you told me.”
Her throat thickened. No one had seen her so clearly before. No man had ever just listened, without trying to fix or change her. She didn’t know how to react to the novel feeling: of being exposed yet protected at the same time.
Then his hand moved from her chin to her right cheek. When his thumb brushed the top of her scar, she froze. A part of her wanted to pull away, to dissolve into the darkness of the garden. Another part of her waited, suspended in viscous longing.
“How did this happen?” he asked softly.
His thumb traced the path of her scar. His touch was so casual and gentle that heat pressed behind her eyes. And the past, long buried, surfaced.
“I was riding…in Hyde Park,” she said haltingly. “There was a man. He was beating a boy, a street urchin whom he said had stolen his purse. The boy ran, and the man went after him with a whip. I tried to stop him. But he frightened Star, my mare, and I was thrown. Star reared again, and her hoof came down…”
Her throat clenched, that moment swamping her, that moment she’d thought would be her last.
“The physician said I was lucky. I could have been trampled to death,” she finished hollowly.
In the months that followed, she’d questioned if she had been lucky. If the alternative wouldn’t have been better than the slow death of having her life, her family, and herself fall apart in small, brittle pieces.
“My brave angel, look at me.” He waited until her eyes returned to his. “You were lucky.”
“Lucky to be Lady Beastly?” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone.
“Lucky to be alive. To survive and become the woman you are today.” The warmth in his eyes was as mesmerizing as his touch, tracing upward now along her knitted flesh. “This scar is a part of you. Because of that, it is beautiful. Because beautiful, Lady Beatrice, is all you could ever be.”
Tears spilled. She could no longer hold them back. When he took out a handkerchief, blotting awa
y the dampness on her cheeks, hope broke free, its wings beating inside her heart.
“I acted like a troglodyte earlier,” he commented. “I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“Why not?” she asked with a sniffle.
“Because you ought to know the man who’s courting you.” He folded the square of linen, returning it to his pocket. “I’m a gentleman when it comes to most things, but I will not tolerate another man trying to poach what’s mine.”
His possessiveness ought to have annoyed her. She tried to summon up some sort of indignation but gave up when she realized the truth: what she truly felt was…wanted.
“You’re courting me?” she blurted.
“Since you won’t accept my offer of marriage, that seems like the next best option,” he said pragmatically. “Perhaps it is for the best. This way, we can get to know one another better, and you can reach the inevitable conclusion in your own time.”
She drew her brows together. “What inevitable conclusion?”
“That we, angel, are meant to be together.”
She couldn’t look away from the mesmerizing conviction in his eyes. When a man looked at a woman like that, it could turn her brain to mush. But she was made of sterner stuff.
“What about your railway and my land?”
“We’ll come to a compromise.”
“What if we can’t?”
“We will,” he said firmly. “With your permission, I’d like to send for my surveyor, Mr. Norton. He’ll evaluate your land and figure out a way to run the railway without disturbing the farms.”
“And if he cannot find a way?” she persisted.
“Then you’ll keep your land and I’ll figure out another plan.” He toyed with a ringlet at her temple, his tone earnest. “There are legal protections you can take to prevent your land from becoming mine when we marry. I’m willing to sign whatever you want. I will not take your estate from you, Beatrice. If you decide to participate in the railway venture, it will be your choice.”
He brushed his lips against hers, softly, sweetly. A kiss of tender persuasion.
The Duke Redemption Page 11
