Chapter 2
Lady Beatrix Westport hated everything. She hated the glorious, summer sunshine. She hated the towering oak trees that seemed to sprout up everywhere, even in the sprawling, metropolis of the town. She hated the country. She hated London. She hated coaches. And autumn. But most of all, she hated her cousins, the Eversleighs, the family of the Duke of Hunt.
She hated the way they larked about, laughing, teasing, loving each other, making every moment an antic. Most of all, she hated the way she could not hate them at all. For they also were the kindest, most supportive and determined group she’d ever had the good fortune to meet.
There was little doubt in her mind that, without them, she would not have had the fortitude to survive this last year. Indeed, if left to her own devices, she wouldn’t have been able to drink a cup of tea, let alone get dressed, or take to the library.
But day by day, they had helped her, taken care of her, and coaxed her from her room.
Slowly, she limped over the blue Axminster carpet to the tall Palladian windows overlooking the lush, green park. Her cousins had all run out to enjoy the beautiful, summer sun. Once, she would have been the first to fly from the house to play upon the many paths meant for the delight of those living in the West End.
Now? Now, she hated to venture out of doors or even downstairs. For she loathed the pitying looks which befell her at every turn when she stepped out onto the crowded pavements of London streets.
Still, she longed to scream that this was not supposed to be how her life was. Often, she balled her fists, her chest a ball of anger, her mind rioting and demanded to protest that all of this simply could not be true. Yet, it was. Every day, she awoke, expecting to hear her brother, or her parents. . . But she never did. Every day, she awoke to the sights of her very prettily-appointed room in the Eversleigh townhome.
Swallowing back tears, she turned away from the windows and glanced to the walls and walls of bound leather books embossed with gold lettering that had been her refuge in a year that many might describe as hell.
The polished pianoforte stood silently in the corner. She had sworn never to play its ivory keys again. It was bad enough when someone else sat to play upon the mahogany bench. Inevitably, thoughts of her family arose whenever melodious songs filled the air. They had all loved music. From Mozart to sea shanties, her family had reveled in song.
“Damn and blast,” she sighed, rubbing her fingers over her brow, wishing she could make the painful thoughts vanish.
“I concur.”
She whipped her gaze to the voice.
Her cousin, Lockhart, a name as odd as any, leaned against the doorway. His dark hair brushed his forehead boyishly. But his eyes, his eyes were that of a man who’d seen things. Like his brothers, Lockhart was exceptionally handsome. But he was a far more troubled soul than Jack or Charles. Still, he’d been nothing but kind to her.
She jumped slightly as she realized he’d been observing her then winced. Her wound upon her thigh which had made walking a struggle still ached. Even after all these months. “I thought you’d gone out.”
He shook his head and pushed away from the doorframe, his green coat perfectly moving with his body. “No such luck.”
“Have you come to read?” she asked skeptically, her eyes narrowing.
“No,” he countered, stepping into the room. Everything about him was perfect. From the cut of his bottle green coat, to his black cravat, right down to his buffed breeches which were tucked into boots so polished one could have seen their face in them. “I’ve come to fetch you for an airing.”
She frowned. Lockhart always strove for perfect. Whilst she admired it, she was no longer perfect. Not by any standard and she did hate to be reminded of it, like him though she did. “No, thank you.”
He wagged a black-gloved finger at her. “You’re turning green.”
“From envy?” she demanded.
“From mold,” he teased. “What with the damp in this dratted country, you’re going to soon be sprouting mushrooms.”
Despite herself, she laughed. “I am not that far gone.”
Lockhart lifted his dark brows.
“Oh, all right,” she sighed, her shoulders drooping as she realized that she couldn’t truly argue with the truth of his declaration. “I concede that I spend a good deal of time indoors.”
His brows arched further, causing his forehead to furrow.
She sniffed. “Fine then. All my time.”
“Exactly,” he proclaimed, gesturing to her face. “You’re white as a sheet. You get no sun at all.”
“I thought I was green,” she replied dryly.
“Semantics.”
At last, she bit her lip then defended herself with the simple statement, “I hate people.”
Lock rolled his eyes, but did not castigate her for what most people would have found to be an unacceptable thing to say. “Get in the very long line of those that share that sentiment. In truth, there are quite a few of us who hold little esteem for the human race. But you’re no coward. . . Are you?”
That rankled and her back straightened. “I am not.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Then you’re coming for a ride. I’ve a new curricle and it needs testing.”
She took an unintended step back, as if the library might protect her from his intentions. “I—”
“I won’t throw you over my shoulder,” he cut in gently. “Come keep me company. I hate Londoners myself. Only here for my family, you know.”
She nodded. She did know. Ever since Lock, as he was called by his intimates, had come home from the Army he’d made his disdain for most people known. It had earned him quite a reputation. While some might have thought it would alienate him, somehow, it had made him one of the most exclusive and admired men of the ton. Half of all the unmarried ladies stared after him like besotted sheep. And the married ones. . . Well, they were in a class altogether different and far more determined.
“Come on,” he urged, his lips curving into a smile. “We can have a good hate together. Say the wickedest things about the puffed birds.”
“I was one of those puffed birds,” she pointed out.
“Never say so,” he scoffed. “You were always a falcon. Sleek, sharp, with claws.”
She laughed at the fanciful nature of his words. “Don’t be absurd.”
“One has to be something. Please.”
It was the please that did it. She couldn’t say no. Not really. Not when he was being so bloody kind. She wasn’t a complete ingrate. So, she nodded. “Let me pick up my stick.”
“Good,” he said, clapping his hands together. “The groom is waiting.”
“You knew I’d say yes,” she accused.
“Don’t be silly. I was going whether you came or not.”
She smiled sheepishly. “It’s easy to assume everyone is just being kind.”
“I’m not kind,” he pointed out. “But I do know what it’s like. Having the world ripped out from under you.”
She stared at him then looked quickly away. She had no desire to think of such things. Not if she was about to leave the house. Facing the world with a puffy face was not possible. The truth was, thoughts of her family and the accident were always just a few moments away, and she couldn’t bear it. Not just now.
“Let us go then,” she said with as much forced cheer as she could manage.
“Would you like assistance?” he asked, extending his hand.
“I can do it myself,” she protested testily.
“Of course you can,” he replied jauntily, pulling back the offered appendage.
She grabbed her silver-headed cane from the chair by the fire and did her best to stride forward. It wasn’t easy. The muscles in her thigh still protested whenever she took large steps. Even so, the cane did help.
Lock continued to chatter as they headed down the stairs to the foyer. She nodded occasionally, but she didn’t hear him. The truth was the pain and concentration it took to travel down the steps made it impossible for her to listen. She could do it. She wasn’t incapable. But if it had been up to her, she would have stayed aloft the rest of her days.
With a sigh of relief, they reached the bottom. But once there, she frowned then groaned.
“I need my spencer.” Perhaps she wouldn’t have to go.
“Done,” he said efficiently, as he waved to a footman who’d just come down the secreted servants’ entrance.
She gave him a testy glance. “You did know I’d come.”
His eyes sparkled with triumph. “I had an inkling and chose to be prepared.”
With an ill-hidden grumble, she thanked the footman and grabbed the spencer. Wiggling into it, she eyed her cousin. “You’re fortunate that the effort to go back up the stairs would be most vexing.”
Ignoring her annoyance, he gestured to the wide, elegantly-carved oak doors. “Shall we then?”
She nodded then headed out into the summer air. The imposing stairs were another obstacle to surmount, but she did, taking them one by one down to the pavement.
The busy street was new and wide. Unlike the teeming parts of London that she only saw on visits to the opera or shops, the new streets of West London sprawled magnificently with great trees interspersed before the entrance to the park.
She was, in fact, relieved that so few people were about at this time. And those that were out happened to be ensconced in their curtained vehicles.
But then she rolled her eyes, annoyed with her own naiveté. How could she fool herself? She knew the ton. They were all gaping out their coaches and houses for any sign of gossip.
And she was most definitely gossip.
No doubt, no less that a score of eyes had caught sight of her the moment she stepped under the portico of the elegant townhouse.
So, with a belligerent air, she lifted her chin and, in a most unladylike fashion, she hauled herself up into the waiting curricle.
“In a mood are we?” Lock asked as he jumped up beside her and took the reins. With an efficient flick of the reins, he urged the pair on.
“I am always in a mood now,” she drawled. “Haven’t you noticed?”
He glanced at her askance. “I’m too much the gentleman to make note.”
“Ha!” She folded her hands before her, perching on the seat, feeling as if she were barely aloft in the air, the vehicle was so lightly made.
Even so, as they picked up the pace in the racing curricle, she felt a thrill as the breeze ruffled her hair and they sped off into the park.
Once, she had loved all things out of doors and a fast pace had been her favorite one.
Several gentlemen rode on horses along the lane and ladies promenaded, their feathers on display for all to see and admire.
Once, she was one of those very women, showing herself, being admired. She’d adored it. It had been great fun to revel in all that life had to offer.
She shifted uncomfortably.
Now, those ladies were glancing her way. Their eyes widening under their beribboned bonnets and lace-gloved hands coming up to their mouths.
Notorious. That was what she was now. It was quite vexing. Being notorious when one had done nothing to achieve such a state. No. It had happened to her. And there had been nothing enjoyable about her fall in esteem.
Just as she was about to ask to go back, a stallion and rider blazed past them.
The rider sat atop the steed as if one with the animal. A veritable centaur. His long coat flew behind him like wings. His long, wild, sandy hair flew in the wind, no hat to top his head.
He rode through the park as if in a storm, wild and free. In all her life, she’d never seen a man so free.
Her heart began to hammer in her chest, wondering how the devil he stayed astride. For even she, an excellent rider, never would have dared such a thing in town.
“Who is that?” she asked, stunned at the breathiness of her own voice.
“No one you need to know,” gritted Lock, gripping the reins tightly.
“Oh?” she asked, barely able to tear her gaze from the man. “That bad?”
“That bad,” Lock intoned, pulling his horses to a walk as if he wished to create a great distance between them and the object of their conversation.
“What’s he done?” Beatrix questioned, amazed at the vehemence in Lock’s tone. “A rotten rake?”
“Worse.”
“What could be worse?” she asked, mystified and suddenly exceptionally curious. In fact, she couldn’t recall being so curious in a very long time.
“An American,” he spat, the nationality sounding like the worst insult.
She leaned forward as if she could catch sight of the wild figure that had sped out of sight. “I’ve never seen an American,” she breathed.
Lock blew out a derisive breath. “Animals.”
“I’ve never known you to be officious regarding a person’s nation.”
“It’s not a nation,” he protested. “It’s a place of rebellious upstarts.”
Rebellious upstarts. “That sounds marvelous.”
Lock let out a sharp sound of irritation. “Now don’t you start.”
She let a peal of laugher ripple from her throat. “Isn’t your sister married to an American?”
Lock looked as if he could eat his own hat. “Yes, and she’s back from those shores.”
“Was that her husband?” she gasped.
“No.”
“Oh.” She felt a note of disappointment. For she liked to think of Gemma happy with a strapping rebel. It was the only thing that would truly suit her cousin.
Lock’s gaze narrowed. “It’s the bastard’s brother.”
That gave her pause and, instead of excitement, she felt dread. “So, I’ll meet him then.”
“You will not,” Lock said indignantly. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Why?” she asked, even as she felt a surprising dose of relief.
“He’s a bloody brigand. Forget him, Beatrix,” Lock all but ordered. “He’s a devil.”
A brigand and a devil. So, he was notorious, too. Suddenly, all the months of hellish pain came to the forefront. Once, she’d been free and half-wild. Loved and cherished and ready to face the world, whatever came. . . Except she hadn’t been. Had she? Not at all.
And as they trotted on, she tightened her fingers on the side of the curricle with what almost might be called a death grip. As she dug her fingers into the surface, she prayed she never had to meet a man so alive, so free. She’d hate him. Hate him for everything she once had and lost. For she would never be free again.