Always Mine

by Cheryl Holt

  “You must cease your fretting, Beatrice. It will be a splendid party.”

  Beatrice was an obnoxious person and an awful hostess, but the servants would make certain their company was cosseted and content.

  “You have to talk to the boy,” Beatrice said.

  By boy, she was referring to Alex. She never called him by his name, and Rebecca couldn’t deduce why—when Beatrice had such harsh feelings about him—she’d brought him to Carter Crossing. Rebecca frequently speculated the same about her own circumstance. Beatrice loathed them both, so why had she inflicted them on herself?

  Beatrice liked to be viewed as doing her Christian duty—even though it annoyed her. A vicar had begged her to aid Alex after his mother was dead, and she likely hadn’t been keen to appear uncharitable in his eyes.

  When Rebecca’s parents had died, and Beatrice had agreed to assume custody of her, the demand had come from Rebecca’s lofty Blake relatives. Her grandfather had been an earl, and her father a viscount. A Blake aunt had insisted Beatrice take Rebecca to Carter Crossing, and Beatrice had complied without argument.

  For all her posturing and pretention, she wasn’t very tough when confronted by those she pictured as her betters.

  “I presume you mean Alex,” Rebecca said. “What is it you’d like me to tell him?”

  “He should stay out of sight and not admit his identity to anyone. If he’s asked about it, he should claim to be a stable hand. That’s what he is anyway.”

  “I’ve spoken to him,” Rebecca blithely said.

  Beatrice’s opinion about Alex was exhausting. Clayton wasn’t the first man in history to sire a bastard, and Alex wasn’t the only natural son living with his father’s kin. There was shame attached to the situation, but not much.

  Clayton was never home, and his friends were a bunch of rich, gambling-addicted wastrels. They’d probably all sired bastards and wouldn’t blink at learning that Clayton had too.

  “I ought not see him on the verandah again,” Beatrice warned.

  “You won’t.”

  “And he should avoid Clayton.”

  “Believe me, Cousin, he knows what you expect.”

  Beatrice flapped her napkin at Rebecca. “You’re excused.”

  “If you need anything else, just send a servant to find me.”

  Rebecca rushed out before Beatrice could think of another issue about which to complain. She went down the hall toward the foyer, but as she marched along, a burst of claustrophobia gripped her, and she couldn’t breathe. She headed for the rear of the house instead, to the kitchen where she kept an old coat on a hook by the door.

  She murmured to a footman that she was going for a walk, and he nodded as she continued outside.

  The servants were kind to her. They labored under difficult conditions, and they understood that Rebecca bore the brunt of Beatrice’s temper and spite. Rebecca was the bulwark that protected them from Beatrice’s worst impulses. If she raged at Rebecca, she didn’t have to rage at them.

  Usually, Rebecca didn’t mind her role as a human rampart, but every so often, like that very moment, she felt as if she was choking on her life.

  She dashed into the fresh air, and she peered around quite frantically, anxious to vanish. There wasn’t time to climb up to the promontory, so she hurried across the garden to the beach. The waves always soothed her, and she’d calm down fast. Shortly, she’d be good as new. She was sure of it.

  As she reached the trees at the end of the park, she was practically running. It seemed as if hounds or demons were chasing her. Anymore, her reflections were so tormented, her discontentment so vast, that she wondered if she wasn’t growing deranged.

  Beatrice claimed that her mother had been mad. Had she been? Had Rebecca inherited her tendencies as a lunatic?

  She lurched onto the rocky shore, eager to stagger over to her log and sit down for a few minutes, but to her consternation, Mr. Shawcross was seated there. He was gazing out at the ocean, looking very much as if he’d been waiting for her, as if he’d been positive she’d arrive.

  The sight of him set a dozen odd emotions swirling. She was delighted to stumble on him. She was irked that he’d taken over her favorite spot. She was thrilled to have the chance to chat with him again. She was irritated that he’d been flirting with her. She wished he’d stop. She also wished he’d never stop.

  Since he’d kissed her—three times!—she’d been in an absolute state. Every second after she’d flitted back to the manor, she’d been pondering him and why he’d done it. She recognized that it was fueling much of her current restlessness.

  Her world was so small and quiet. He simply stoked the fires of the injustices that consumed her, making her covet and chafe over how little she’d been given. It required such effort to accept her place, to accept her lot. Her father’s elevated blood—her Blake blood—coursed through her veins, constantly reminding her that she shouldn’t be living as she had been since she was three.

  She deserved so much more than she had, and she craved the life she should have led as a Blake daughter, which was insane.

  When her wayward thoughts raced off on their tangents, it was so hard to tamp them down. She valiantly worked on her attitude, to keep it at a sustainable level. If she considered her predicament overly much, she would begin to seethe with dissatisfaction, and it was pointless to mope and lament.

  The wind and waves should have covered the sound of her footsteps, but he’d heard her approaching. He glanced over his shoulder, standing when he saw her.

  His nose and cheeks were red from the cold, his hair unbound and the long strands flowing free. His blue eyes were intense, the stunning color enhanced by the sky and water. He resembled a Greek god who might have been painted in a mural on a church ceiling.

  She’d never met a man like him, one who was so dynamic and fascinating. She already suspected, when he departed for London, she’d be bereft for weeks.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What happened?”

  A thousand words flooded to her tongue. She never mentioned her problems. It was all bottled up inside, and for once, it was begging to spill out.

  She yearned to confide how lonely she was, how she struggled to be liked and appreciated by her cousins. She wanted to tell him how horrid her childhood had been, how Beatrice had convinced her—and she’d grown up believing—that she’d been unwanted and despised by her parents.

  She’d been twelve before an elderly servant had whispered that Beatrice’s taunts weren’t true. Rebecca’s father had loved her mother very much, but he hadn’t married her, and when they’d died in an accident, Rebecca had been orphaned.

  Her grandfather had refused to let her come to live at the family’s estate of Selby. He’d demanded her Carter relatives support her, and Beatrice had brought her home.

  With that dubious history dragging behind, how was she supposed to muddle forward in a rational manner? She’d first have to admit that she was utterly damaged, but she would never confess any of that.

  Instead, she blurted out, “I’m having the worst day.”

  “I see that.”

  “Sometimes, I can’t abide my life. I wish I had wings like a bird. I’d fly away to a better place.”

  “It’s why you stare out at the passing ships. You dream of where they might take you—if you could only escape where you are.”

  “Yes.”

  It was exhilarating to realize that he understood her. No one ever paid her much attention. No one ever asked how she was faring or what she was thinking. Alex was kind and sweet, but he was a child and could never fill the holes in her soul.

  She felt empty and used up, and she desperately needed to save herself or she might become invisible.

  He opened his arms, and she rushed over and fell into them. Then he was kissing her and kissing her. He held her as if she was precious and unique, as if she was his and he had a duty to protect her from the daily sl
ings and arrows that repeatedly impaled her.

  He sampled her mouth, as his curious hands roamed over her torso. He caressed her in a gentle way, in a soothing way, as if he sensed her distress and knew precisely how to dispel it.

  She couldn’t figure out what was driving her to participate, but she was anxious for someone to notice her, to fuss over her. He seemed to gaze at her and see what others had missed.

  It was a refreshing insight, and she was so pathetically morose that she would glom onto whatever crumb of interest he deigned to bestow. But why shouldn’t she?

  She’d had a fleeting romance when she was seventeen and that was it.

  A young carpenter from Frinton had been working at the manor, and they’d been sufficiently close that Rebecca had started to assume he’d propose, but Beatrice had scuttled her opportunity. She’d spoken about Rebecca to her beau’s father, and he’d never come to the estate again.

  She’d bumped into him at church, and she’d tried to talk to him, to find out what had occurred, but he’d been cool and detached, providing the distinct impression that he no longer cared for her. She had no idea what Beatrice had said about her or why she’d ruined Rebecca’s sole chance to be a bride.

  Rebecca would have predicted Beatrice would have been delighted to get rid of her, but it was entirely possible that Beatrice simply couldn’t bear to let Rebecca have a happy ending.

  Rebecca saw her prior flame occasionally. He’d wed a local girl, and they had six children already. His wife was chubby and surly, looking haggard and quite decrepit, being overwhelmed by parenting and motherhood.

  Rebecca didn’t exactly begrudge her former swain for his choice, but whenever she observed his wife, she suffered a sinful surge of pride that she was still thin, beautiful, and charming.

  In light of her grueling experience with him, she’d never pushed herself forward again. It had been too humiliating to be tossed over, but she was an adult now and not a seventeen-year-old girl. Why shouldn’t she pursue a brief amour?

  Mr. Shawcross would only be at Carter Crossing for a quick visit. Why not grab for all the amusement and joy he could supply? Beatrice would never know, and hopefully—after he departed—some of her restless hunger would have abated.

  She couldn’t guess how long they kept at it, but for once, she wasn’t concerned.

  Eventually, he slowed and drew away. He nestled her in the circle of his arms, her body crushed to his all the way down. She was warm and safe in his embrace, and she didn’t want him to ever release her.

  He smiled down at her and asked, “Are you calmed down? Have I cheered you a bit?”

  She smiled too. “I’m much better.”

  “What happened at the house? Why were you so upset?”

  “It was nothing out of the ordinary. Often, it seems as if I’m trapped.”

  She was surprised that she’d admitted it, but he was from London. After he left, she’d never see him again. If she confided some personal secrets, who would he tell them to?

  He smirked. “So when you previously insisted your life was all wine and roses, you might not have been completely truthful?”

  “Maybe not. It’s difficult to live with my cousins, but to never really be welcome.”

  “It’s the curse of every poor relative.”

  “I’m aware of that, so I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself.”

  “Was your mother a Carter? Isn’t that what you told me?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Do you know your father’s family? Could you live with them? Is that an option for you?”

  “No, I couldn’t go to them.”

  He was polite enough not to press for information about them, which was a huge relief. She never liked to confess that she was a bastard daughter, that her mother had been young and gullible and had fallen for a nobleman’s lies. It was the most dismal story ever, one that had ensnared unsuspecting females over and over throughout history. It was always tragic. It was always exasperating.

  “I’ll be here a few more days,” he said. “We should sneak off and misbehave whenever we can.”

  “You would think that.”

  “I guarantee, by the time I return to London, I’ll have totally vanquished your low mood.”

  “Yes, but if I constantly fraternize with you, I’ll start to like you, then I’ll be miserable after you leave. It’s probably best for me to not start liking you.”

  “That’s the gloomiest attitude I’ve ever encountered, and you can’t mean it. Are you claiming you don’t want to be happy now because you might be unhappy later? You’re being silly.”

  “Since you put it like that, yes, it’s silly.”

  “When can you get away from your chores?”

  Excitement rattled her. She envisioned tiptoeing off, sharing furtive kisses, reveling in the danger of discovery. Initially, she’d considered it, but it was madness in the extreme. Beatrice wielded a large cudgel that she held over Rebecca’s head. If she ever disgraced herself—as her mother had with Viscount Blake—Beatrice would kick her out the door.

  So even though the notion of an illicit fling was thrilling to imagine, she couldn’t proceed. She had too much to lose.

  She sighed with regret. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” He studied her, then said, “You’re afraid.”

  “Yes. If we were caught, I’d be in so much trouble. My Cousin Beatrice can be very cruel, and she wouldn’t tolerate immoral conduct. Especially not from me.”

  “I’m not scared of her,” he ridiculously stated.

  “Well, you don’t have to be, but I would never deliberately cause a quarrel with her.”

  He grinned. “I won’t stop tempting you.”

  “I’d like it if you’d keep on, but please don’t be aggravated if I can’t oblige you.”

  “Who says you won’t oblige me? I’m a master at seduction. I’ll wear you down until you can’t resist.”

  “Your comment makes me certain you’re a scoundrel, so I have no business standing out in the open—where anyone could stumble on us—and allowing you to kiss me senseless.”

  “Have I kissed you senseless? I like the sound of that.” His grin widened. “Tell me it was worth it.”

  She nodded. “It might have been.”

  “We’re going to do it again. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t realize it, and I have to get back. We have guests coming, and I’m sure everyone is searching for me.”

  “Let’s meet tonight,” he said. “After the men are playing cards and enjoying their liquor—and you decide you can head to bed—I want you to head out to the beach instead. I’ll be here at eleven. You have to join me.”

  “I won’t. I can’t.” Her pulse raced at the very idea. “You’re deranged. I’m certain of it.”

  “I’ve heard that a time or two.”

  “Don’t wait for me. It’s cold in the evenings, and I can’t bear to think you might take a chill because of me.”

  She yanked away and sprinted off, and she didn’t slow down until she was halfway across the park and worried people inside the manor might glance out and see her running like a lunatic.

  She calmed herself and smoothed her expression, and it dawned on her that she was feeling much improved, wasn’t jittery and anxious. Apparently, he’d fixed what was wrong, and she wondered if she shouldn’t sneak to the beach at eleven.

  Why not? What could it hurt? It might help her in innumerable ways. Why shouldn’t she?

  As she recognized the path her wicked thoughts were traveling, she groaned with dismay and continued on to the house, determined—once she entered—that not a hint of gladness would show on her face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “How was your trip from town?”

  “Fine.”

  Beatrice stared across the dining table at her son, Clayton. He’d staggered in late the prior evening, and he’d just crawl
ed out of bed. It was noon already, and he was in awful shape. His blue eyes were streaked red, his blond hair mussed as if he didn’t own a comb. His breath could knock over a bull.

  It was obvious he was hung over. He’d been drinking too much for ages, but she wasn’t allowed to comment on his bad habits. Over the years, they’d had their share of fights about it, and she’d lost each and every one.

  He was in full control of every facet of their lives. Her dead husband, Charles, had bequeathed everything to him: the house, the estate, the money, and the family company of Carter Imports. Charles’s sole request was that Clayton take care of Beatrice and Millicent. Beatrice had no authority to tell him anything.

  He ran with a fast crowd in London, all of whom had more income and assets than he did, but he was determined to belong to their dissipated, wealthy group. She couldn’t dissuade him to cease his overindulgence.

  He’d previously been slender and dapper, concerned about his wardrobe and his physique, but recently, he’d deteriorated. He had a definite paunch around his waist, and his shoulders drooped—as if he didn’t have the energy to stand up straight.

  Had he realized it? If not, she wasn’t about to mention it. He would be so upset to be apprised of how swiftly he was falling apart. Although they were about to celebrate his thirtieth birthday, he looked closer to fifty, debauchery and intemperance wearing him down.

  He appeared to have slept in his clothes, not bothering to change before coming down to demand breakfast. His laziness and sloth were galling.

  He hadn’t deigned to visit in months. In the city, he understood that image mattered. Why couldn’t he figure out that the same standard should be applied at home? With his slovenly condition so evident, how could he hope to generate respect from the servants?

  “The weather’s been good,” she said, anxious to fill the void. “It’s supposed to rain, so I was worried about the roads. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to get here.”

  “Mother!” he snapped. “My head is pounding! Will you blather on through my entire meal? Let me eat in peace.”

  She sniffed with offense. “I rarely see you, so we rarely confer. I deem this encounter to be a minor miracle. I’m not about to dawdle in silence.”