Four
Beatrice regarded the vicar with undisguised shock.
Obviously Mr. Humbly was becoming daft in his old age, she told herself as she shifted in unease. Or the long journey had addled his wits.
“That is absurd.”
“Is it?” Humbly demanded in mild tones.
“Yes, I have no desire to punish Lord Faulconer.”
The gray brows lifted with evident disbelief at her fierce words.
“Then you must be a remarkable young woman. Few ladies would be so sensible. It is human nature to wish to strike back at those who have wounded us. Even the kindest dog will snap when it has been hurt.”
She widened her eyes. “So you believe I am a dog snapping at my captor?”
He gently patted her hand. “I think you a woman who is feeling betrayed and wishing to ease your pain in the only manner that is offered. I do not judge you, Beatrice. In truth, I would do precisely the same thing in your position.”
Unnerved by his determined accusations, Beatrice turned to pace across the small foyer. He made her sound like a petulant child. Or, worse, a vindictive harpy who cared only for hurting others.
Could he not understand the pain she was enduring? That she was still attempting to reconcile herself to the knowledge her hopes and dreams for a marriage based on love were forever destroyed?
“It is not a matter of punishment,” she at last retorted, nearly tugging the ribbon from the neckline of her gown. “I am merely furious at having been so easily duped.”
She could hear him move to stand behind her stiff form. “And hoping to make Lord Faulconer regret his deceit?”
She felt a thrust of annoyance. Gads, he was as tenacious as Aunt Sarah.
“Yes, I suppose,” she reluctantly conceded.
The vicar placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder. “I believe he does sincerely regret hurting you, Beatrice.”
She briefly closed her eyes as the pain shuddered through her. Saints above. She had thought Humbly her friend. How could he sympathize with Gabriel?
“He regrets the fact that I discovered the truth of this marriage and have failed to be the adoring, dutiful wife that he expected.”
There was a startled silence, then without warning Mr. Humbly’s laughter rang through the air.
“Oh, Beatrice.”
Thoroughly offended at his obvious lack of concern for her delicate sensibilities, she turned to regard him with a frown.
“It is hardly amusing, Vicar.”
“The thought of you ever being an adoring, dutiful wife is certainly amusing, my dear,” he retorted without the faintest hint of apology. “You are far too intelligent and strong-willed to ever be the sort of biddable wife that you seem to think Lord Faulconer would prefer.”
Her flare of annoyance faded as her own sense of humor was restored. It was true she had never pretended to be a milk and toast debutant. Her temperament was not suited to constantly giving sway to another.
“You make me sound a shrew,” she forced herself to protest.
“No, no.” He gave a shake of his head. “Just a very strong woman who knows her own mind.”
Her lips twitched. “Perhaps.”
“So had Lord Falconer desired a meek wife, why did he not chose one? I daresay you were not the only heiress in all of England.”
Beatrice abruptly recalled her conversation with Gabriel only moments before. She was still uncertain as to why she had suddenly pressed for his confession. She had refused to discuss their marriage from the moment she had discovered the truth of why he had wed her. But somehow it had seemed important to hear the words from his own lips.
Perhaps to bolster her faltering anger, a treacherous voice whispered in the back of her mind.
It was a voice she swiftly stifled.
No.
It was just as she had said. It was time for honesty between them.
“He chose me because I prefer the country and because I had no other suitors he needed to battle for my attention.”
Humbly gave a click of his tongue. “Perhaps those were the initial reasons he sought you out, but I believe he chose you for yourself.”
She gave a rueful shake of her head. “That is only because you are good and kind and can never see anything but good in others.”
“I am not so naive that I do not see a gentleman who regards his wife with longing.”
Beatrice froze.
Longing?
No gentleman had ever gazed at her with longing.
Least of all her husband.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Humbly,” she said in flat tones. “Lord Faulconer might desire a wife who is comfortable and willing to provide him with heirs, but he does not long for me.”
As if sensing he had struck where she was most vulnerable, Humbly offered a rather sad smile. “If you insist. Tell me, Beatrice, do you intend to remain angry forever?”
A cold chill inched down her spine. She rarely allowed herself to think of the future.
“You think that I should simply put aside the fact that I was gulled by a fortune hunter?” she demanded.
He smiled gently. “I think that you should consider the notion that you have a goodly number of years to live with Lord Faulconer. How you choose to spend those days is in your hands.”
She flinched at his direct hit. When she had thought Gabriel her friend their days together did not seem nearly long enough. She had imagined them side by side as they built a life together. Each day filled with love and laughter as they created a family that would surround them with happiness.
It had all been so simple.
Now Mr. Humbly was forcing her to consider the future as it was, not as she had dreamed it would be.
She gave a sharp shake of her head, not yet prepared to consider his challenging words.
Not yet.
“We must go,” she stated in firm tones.
Humbly reached out to pat her hand. “Beatrice, at least think upon what I have said. I believe you could be happy at Falcon Park if you chose to.”
Beatrice merely moved to the door and stepped onto the back terrace. Mr. Humbly simply did not understand, she thought with an inner sigh.
Attempting to thrust aside the disturbing conversation, Beatrice briskly crossed the terrace and headed toward the stable yard, where she generally viewed the inventions.
She had enough to occupy herself without brooding upon the vague future, she assured herself.
As if to prove her point, she spotted her thin, stoically efficient secretary whom she had hired when she had first arrived at Falcon Park. Beatrice allowed a smile to curve her lips. This was her favorite part of her day, and for once the elusive spring sunlight had struggled from the clouds to provide a welcome warmth. More often than not she was chilled and thoroughly drenched before she had concluded her business.
“Mr. Eaton, what do you have for me today?”
A rare smile touched the narrow countenance. “A most fascinating machine, Lady Falconer,” he said as he led her toward a bulky gentleman who was building a fire beneath a large barrel that had been drilled with holes and set upon two poles so that it could be rotated. “I think you will be intrigued.”
Beatrice moved to study the large man who was busily lifting a lid he had cut into the barrel and stuffing a number of wet rags into the opening. He then closed the lid and reached for a handle that had been attached to the barrel and began turning it at a brisk pace.
For nearly twenty minutes she watched in silence as he continued to turn the barrel over the flames, until at last the man halted and pulled out the rags. He handed them to Beatrice with a triumphant smile.
With delight Beatrice discovered the material completely dry. No small feat for rags that had been dripping with water.
Circling the barrel, she asked several questions of the eager inventor, as much to determine his character and ambition as to discover more of his machine. Then, requesting Mr. Eaton to take his name and address, she motioned to Mr. Humbly that she was prepared to return to the house.
He readily joined her, his sherry eyes glowing with excitement.
“Truly fascinating,” he breathed as they angled toward the terrace. “A most remarkable machine, do you not think, my dear?”
Beatrice gave a slow nod of her head, her swift mind already sorting through the various flaws of the invention.
“I see possibilities. There are several problems with the design, however.”
Humbly sent her a surprised glance. “Really? What problems?”
Beatrice wrinkled her brow in thought. “Well, to begin with, I do not suppose many servants would prefer to stand over a hot fire, turning the barrel, when they can hang up the clothes and allow nature to take its course.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true enough,” Humbly slowly agreed.
“And, of course, there is the problem of protecting the drying clothes from the smell of smoke.” She gave a faint grimace at the acrid scent that clung to her own gown. “It is not an aroma that anyone would enjoy.”
“Oh.” Humbly’s expression dimmed, rather like a small child who discovered his new toy was not as shiny as he had thought. “I had not considered the smoke.”
Beatrice smiled indulgently. It was a pleasure to have someone with her who became as intrigued by inventions as herself.
“Still, there is much to consider,” she assured him. “The notion of drying clothes within an hour or less rather than taking an entire day has much to recommend it. Yes, I shall definitely give it some thought.”
They traveled some distance before Beatrice turned her head to discover the vicar regarding her in a speculative manner.
“My dear, you amaze me,” he at last said with a smile.
She gave a startled blink. “Why?”
He lifted his pudgy hands. “Within moments you have been able to precisely determine the strengths and weaknesses of that machine. Just as your grandfather was able to do.”
Beatrice could not prevent the warm flood of pleasure at his words. There were few things that pleased her more than being compared to the grandfather she had adored.
“That is hardly amazing,” she forced herself to retort modestly. “It is simply a matter of being practical.”
“No. It is a gift,” he argued in firm tones. “You should be quite proud.”
She smiled at his gentle kindness, then a movement in the distant garden caught her eye. She came to an abrupt halt.
“Oh.”
Stopping beside her, Mr. Humbly gave a lift of his brows. “What is it?”
“I believe I glimpsed Aunt Sarah just beyond the hedge,” she warned.
Humbly shuddered. “Egads.”
She flashed him a knowing glance. “If you wish to return to your chambers, you can slip through the side door.”
He heaved a relieved sigh. “‘Yes, indeed. Thank you, my dear.”
“I must meet with the architect, but I should be free in an hour or so. Shall we meet in the library?”
“A lovely notion.” He offered her a hasty bow. “Until then.”
Before continuing her path to the terrace, Beatrice watched Humbly scurry away.
Poor man, she silently sympathized. Having been pursued for years by desperate gentlemen, she knew precisely how he felt. There was nothing pleasant about being a fox among hounds.
She supposed that she should at least be thankful to Gabriel for relieving her of such unpleasantness, she wryly conceded.
She need never worry about fortune hunters again.
* * *
Carefully comparing the crimson-figured damask she had ordered from London with the faded fabric taken from the dining room chairs, Beatrice gave a decisive nod of her head.
“I believe this will do very well,” she announced.
“Yes, my lady. The craftsmen have done an excellent job in matching the pattern,” the large, rather somber architect retorted.
“When will the paneling be returned?”
“Later in the week, although I will travel to London myself to collect the carpets and tapestries. I do not trust the artisans to restore them properly without supervision.”
Beatrice hid a smile. Although she could be exacting in her demands, she knew this gentleman was next to impossible to please. The poor artist restoring the medieval joust scene painted above the door had come to her on several occasions claiming he could not work beneath such critical demands.
“Very good. That will be all for today.”
“Yes, Lady Faulconer.”
With a bow the architect smoothly withdrew from the formal dining room and Beatrice wandered toward the Breccia marble chimneypiece. At the moment the room appeared starkly empty. Only the fan-vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows had escaped the ruthless demolition that had been necessary to repair the years of damage.
In her mind’s eye, however, she could envision the grandeur of the room once it was complete.
She knew precisely where each chair, each candelabrum, and each tapestry would be placed. She had even sent the ancient clock and silver tea service to London to be repaired. It would soon be returned precisely as it had been before the decline of the Faulconer fortune.
Without the drafts and leaking casements, she acknowledged wryly.
Knowing she should return to her chambers and change the gown now streaked with soot and dust, Beatrice turned about only to catch her breath at the sight of Gabriel leaning against the door frame, regarding her with a brooding gaze.
As she stiffened in surprise, he slowly pushed himself away from the door and strolled to the center of the room.
“Quite a change,” he said with a faint smile.
Beatrice clasped her hands together, experiencing that wary unease she always felt when her husband was near.
“I fear that it was necessary to strip the room bare before it could be restored.”
“I am not complaining,” he retorted in mild tones, his gaze traveling over the bare walls and clutter of ladders and tools. “The last occasion I was in this room my father was hosting a drunken party and I was nearly strung from the chandelier when I refused to allow one of the guests to pile the chairs onto the fire when they ran out of firewood.”
Beatrice felt a stab of surprise at his wry words. Gabriel rarely discussed his childhood, although she had already surmised that it had been less than idyllic. To have watched his father and brother deliberately destroying their inheritance must have been painfully frustrating.
“It could not have been very comfortable for you to stay here.”
He glanced at her in surprise, as if caught off guard by her hint of compassion.
“It was damnable,” he agreed slowly, the hazel eyes somber. “Unlike my father and brother, I took no enjoyment from endless pursuits of pleasure and their coarse friends. I found it inconceivable that they would squander their income upon cards and drink while the roof threatened to crumble down upon their heads.”
Beatrice could not halt a reluctant tug of understanding. She knew precisely what it felt like to be among those who were so utterly dissimilar that they might be from two separate lands.
“Very frustrating, no doubt,” she murmured.
“Yes.” He gave a wry grimace. “Although to be fair, I was equally frustrating to my father. He often mourned that he must have been cuckolded, since no son of his could prefer books to the hunt or show such an utter lack of interest in pursuing every maid who passed through the door.”
Beatrice paused, knowing she should leave the room. There was something suddenly very vulnerable about Gabriel as he revealed his unhappy childhood. A vulnerability that threatened to melt the ice encasing her heart.
Her feet did not move, however, and instead she discovered herself probing even deeper.
“That is why you bought a commission?”
He gave an elegant lift of one shoulder. “One of the reasons. More than anything, it was impossible to watch as the tenants and servants began to suffer beneath my father’s neglect. Crumbling roofs were despicable enough. Allowing those who depend upon you to starve was more than I could bear.”
“So you chose to fight Napoleon instead,” she said, wondering what her life might have been had she possessed the means of leaving her home without stepping into marriage.
He gave a short laugh. “It seemed safer than remaining and throttling my family. It is a choice I deeply regret, however.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Why?”
“Had I remained, I might have been able to put at least some restraint upon my father. Or at least have hidden a few of the more valuable jewels so that I could help those who had nothing,” he explained, unable to hide his self-disgust. “Instead, I walked away and washed my hands of Falcon Park. It was by far the easier path.”
Without thinking, she lifted her hands to indicate the barren room. It had taken more than a handful of years to reduce Falcon Park to its current state of neglect.
“Do you truly believe that had you been here you could have prevented this?”
“I would at least have the satisfaction of knowing I tried,” he said, more to himself than her. Then he forced a smile to his lips. “Forgive me, Beatrice. I did not come here to pour out my troubles.”
The sharp stab of disappointment at his sudden retreat made Beatrice sternly chastise her foolishness. She did not want to feel pity for Gabriel’s difficult past. Or to consider the notion he had clearly been in desperate straits to save Falcon Park. And certainly she did not want to feel that odd bond that had drawn her to him in the first place.
With an effort she feigned a hint of indifference. He must not realize just how easily he could slip beneath her defenses.
“Is there something you need?”
An indefinable emotion briefly darkened the hazel eyes before he was giving a shrug.
“As much as I dislike adding to your burdens, I fear that I should warn you that a battle appears to be brewing in the garden between the workmen and Chalfrey. Something about a tree that was seemingly planted by the first Lady Faulconer in honor of the King.”
“Not again.” Beatrice sighed in exasperation. The cantankerous Chalfrey was truly going to drive her batty. “I thought by returning the family gardener to his position he would be eager to help restore the grounds. Instead, he adamantly insists that every rock and tree is somehow sacred to the Faulconer family.”
“Do you wish me to speak with him?” Gabriel offered. “Chalfrey can be a stubborn, ill-tempered old brute.”
Beatrice gave a shake of her head. The staff was now her responsibility as well as Gabriel’s, and she knew it was important to establish her authority. Even if it meant a brangle with the aggravating gardener.
“No, I will deal with him. I wish to make it very clear that the work I have ordered will proceed with or without his approval.”
“Even if it means cutting down trees planted in honor of kings?” he lightly teased.
She stilled, eyeing him in a wary fashion. “Do you disapprove?”
“Of course not,” he swiftly reassured her, moving to stand far too close for her peace of mind. “Over the past centuries the gardens have been altered on several occasions. I doubt any of the original trees still stand. Besides, if Prinny has not yet come to admire his family’s tree, I doubt if he will do so in the near future.”
Beatrice barely heard his soothing words. Instead, she was nearly consumed by the prickling awareness that swept through her body. How many nights had she dreamed of being held in his strong arms? Of having his lips pressed to her own as he seduced a wicked excitement deep with in her?
A shiver shook her form as a rash of goose bumps feathered over her skin.
“I should speak with Chalfrey,” she blurted out, moving hastily to put some much-needed distance between them. Her haste, however, was her undoing, and even as she attempted to step past him, her foot caught in the hem of her gown and she was lunging forward. “Oh.”
“Careful.” With annoying ease, he managed to catch her and sweep her closer to the disturbing heat of his body. “Are you all right?”
A dark flush stained her cheeks. As much for the betraying pleasure at being held so close to him as for embarrassment at her clumsiness.
“Yes, so stupid of me,” she muttered, glaring down at her torn hem in exasperation. “I do not know how I manage to destroy every gown I put on.”
Without warning, his hand moved to grasp her chin and tilted her face up to meet his stern gaze.
“Do not.”
She gave a startled blink. “What?”
“I have always admired the fact that you do not twitter over your appearance.”
“It would do little good if I did,” she said dryly.
His fingers moved to trace a searing path over her cheek. “Beatrice, your beauty has always come from within you. Your habit of tossing yourself wholeheartedly into whatever you are doing. Your ability to make life better for those about you, and your kindness to those in need. Such qualities are far more important than fripperies.”
Her heart came to a full, painful stop at his soft words. She had sworn she would not be swayed by this man again. He had effectively proven he was not to be trusted. But even as she sought to pull away she found herself lost in the dark hazel gaze.
“Gabriel?”
His lips tilted at her bewildered tone. “Yes, Beatrice?”
“I should go.”
“Must you?” he demanded.
Keeping their gazes locked, he slowly lowered his head. There was no mistaking the fact he was about to kiss her, but while a warning voice insisted that she pull away, Beatrice was unable to move. It was as if a spell had been cast over her, making it impossible to move so much as a muscle. And then his mouth was claiming her own in a soft, achingly tender kiss. All thought of protest fled as the cascade of sensations shimmered through her. Saints above, it had been so long. So very long since he had made her tremble with desire.
“Oh, Beatrice, I’ve missed holding you in my arms,” he murmured as he stroked his lips over her cheek. “You taste sweet, so sweet.”
For a crazed moment Beatrice leaned against the hard heat of his body, reveling in the desire stirring to life between them. It had always been like this for her. Gabriel had only to touch her to make her heart falter and her blood race. It was a dizzying, magical feeling.
The seeking lips found the curve of her neck and began to nibble their way downward. His hands splayed across her back, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric of her gown.
She wanted the moment to last forever.
To be held and caressed as if he truly loved her . . .
The thought passed through her foggy mind at the same moment she was abruptly wrenching from his grasp.
No.
He did not love her.
He had never loved her.
Horrified at the ease in which she had allowed herself to be bewitched, Beatrice gave a choked cry, then, pressing a hand to her aching lips, she fled from the room.
Dear heavens.
She had just exposed what she had sworn never to reveal, she acknowledged as tears stung her eyes.
She had just allowed him to realize he could crash through her defenses with a single touch.