Chapter 4
“Come down to the party,” the Dowager Duchess of Hunt urged. Her beautiful voice rippled through the light blue bedroom room like softest silk.
“No, thank you,” Beatrix replied, turning in her seat before her dressing table. She hated her terseness, but hated to be bothered even more.
The dowager duchess strode further into the room, reached out her beautiful beringed hand as if she were about to touch Beatrix, but the pulled back, aware it would be unwanted. “Dear girl, surely it’s time.”
Tears stung Beatrix’s eyes and she blinked rapidly. “Will it ever be?”
“I can’t make you, of course,” Hyacinth said softly, folding her hands before her. “But I worry about you spending so much time alone.”
I am alone, she wanted to retort. She didn’t. Hyacinth had been far too kind for that. She grasped her ivory-handled hairbrush as if about to begin her bedtime routine but it was far too early for that. Even for her.
“I’m not ready,” she said instead.
“If you insist,” Hyacinth said as she turned and swept towards the gold-framed doorway. But just before she left, she added gently, “If you need me, don’t hesitate.”
As the door slid closed with a quiet click, Beatrix’s throat closed. She could scarcely breathe. If she dared to suck in a breath, she would cry. Would she not? And she could not bear to cry.
Was this her life now? Shutting out the world?
It seemed so. But she couldn’t bear all those people looking at her. Feeling sorry for her. Their piteous looks were beyond abominable. Yet. . .
Nor could she stay in the four walls of her room. She’d go mad. She knew that. She’d paced and paced and paced before, and the desperation that soon accompanied that reminded her of what it must feel like to be trapped in a small room forever. Like an asylum mate, even if her self-imposed prison was bedecked with blue silk walls and pastoral paintings.
Taking her cane in hand, she hobbled out of the room, down the wide hall lined with golden candelabras, gold-framed mirrors, and paintings of far off lands, and finally towards the servants’ stair. Opening the narrow side panel, she took the steps carefully until, finally, she came out to the simpler hall which led to the back garden.
The summer night hummed and the din of the party drifted from the open windows. Immediately, the scent of roses drifted towards her and she could not help but admire it. Red, white, and pink country roses dancing in the night breeze, lined the immaculate paths created by some great gardener.
She didn’t bother to glance back. Not wanting to make a sound on the gravel paths, she headed across the grass, a book in her free hand. There was a good spot tucked behind several trees that she liked. No one would see her and the light of the late summer moon would be quite enough to read by.
As she brushed back the long trails of a weeping willow, its cool leaves caressing her hand, she stopped. Right there on her curved bench was the man from today. The American.
It wasn’t possible.
Was fate laughing at her?
She’d been so adamant about not wishing to meet him. So determined that she should not have to be confronted with a man who lived to the fullest, that this had to be a dream. Apparently, the gods thought it funny to give her everything she didn’t want. Or at least to taunt her with those things.
His sandy hair, which somehow managed to look as if it had been teased by a wicked wind, brushed his perfectly-tailored black coat. In fact, his hair was almost scandalous. For he had not even tied it back in a que, but allowed it to caress his shoulders like a wild lion’s mane.
Silver buttons winked along his cuffs. Under the moonlight, his massive shoulders, strong torso, and robust legs cast quite a figure.
He, too, seemed to be reading, his powerful hands holding the book with great ease. That seemed a shock. It was a struggle to imagine such a big man, so vital sitting still doing something as quiet as reading.
She prayed he had not heard her. For the very last thing she wished was discourse with him. Suddenly, it struck her then that her own breath had grown slightly ragged and monstrously loud to her own ears!
Good Lord, could he hear it? How very terrible. She licked her lips. She was desperate to make her withdrawal unnoticed.
Perhaps she could sneak away very slowly over the grass from whence she’d come. But before she could, he turned, his head angling and his sandy hair, glinting silver in the moonlight.
His lips curved in the most impossible smile and he said, “I don’t bite.” His voice rumbled.
Her heart nearly stopped at the sound of that voice and at the sight of that smile. Who the devil looked and sounded like that? Sin. That’s what sin sounded and looked like. Of that, she was certain. Still, she was not afraid for there was nothing aggressive or frightening about him as he sat, completely at home in someone else’s garden.
“I have heard odd reports of Americans,” she said before she could stop herself.
His brows rose and then his smile deepened, transforming his face into the most handsome and tempting of faces.
My God, that smile. It was wicked. So wicked, she felt the strangest sensation in her belly. In her whole body really. It traveled over her skin, as if the night breeze were teasing her with its caress. But it was not. Not now. It was merely the effect of his gaze and smile upon her.
“I promise, the reports are all true,” he drawled.
She doubted it very much. Still, she hesitated, wondering if she could hurry off without completely losing her dignity. After all, she could not hie off in a sense of pique any longer. Oh, no. Hobbling was her best bet. Something she did not fancy him witnessing. But then she stopped herself. Why should she go? It was her bench.
“I’m sure you’re wanted inside,” she said, with as much optimism as she could muster, glancing back at the house.
“Oh, certainly,” he agreed, closing his book. “Aren’t you?”
“No,” she replied quickly, wondering how the devil to extract herself from this conversation he seemed determined to have.
“Wanted?” he asked carefully.
She cringed. Drat. Drat and blast. Why couldn’t he be like Englishmen and avoid any uncomfortable topic with a quick change to the weather?
“Well, yes they want me,” she corrected.
He nodded, his hands holding his book as though it were china. “You don’t want them?”
Beatrix gasped at his accurate summary and, also, she found herself admiring the way he held that tome in his hands. She wondered if he held all such things he valued with such care. “That sounds terrible,” she said.
Shrugging those immense shoulders, he observed, “It’s either true or not. No terrible about it.”
What an odd man. If they had met over a year ago, she would not have let him go easily. But now? Now, she really did not wish to explain herself to him. Yet, here she was. “If you must know, I’m not fond of company.”
“Splendid,” he said brightly. “Neither am I.”
“I did not mean– I do not want—”
“My company either?” he supplied. “I see.”
“Good.” She waited. But he didn’t move. She cleared her throat and made a shooing motion to the house.
“I’m girding myself,” he said with a beleaguered sigh of martyrdom.
“For what?” she queried. He was good looking, from a well-to-do family, and he was connected to a duke. Why on earth did he need to gird himself? Was it because he was an American? She doubted he had such insecurities.
“If you must know, it’s your cousin, Lockhart,” he drawled. “He’s most tiring.”
“How do you know he’s my cousin,” she demanded more tartly than she’d planned.
He cocked his head to the side then glanced to her cane.
She scowled. “My reputation precedes me, I see.”
He nodded, his sandy hair brushing his sharp cheekbones. “It does.”
“Wonderful,” she gritted, her cheeks heating. Did everyone know? Did everyone associate her with her injury? If even Americans knew, there really was no hope. She sighed.
“I’ve heard all sorts of things about you,” he said, his brows waggling.
“Have you?” she demanded, her temper rising as she glared at him.
“Oh yes,” he enthused.
She pursed her lips. “That I’m the pity of the ton?”
His brows waggled again and he tsked. “That you loathe everyone.”
That gave her pause. Why wasn’t he pitying her and giving her his condolences? Why was he saying she hated everyone. . . Even if it was the truth? “Well, I—”
“You don’t,” he said at last, his head cocking the side. His gaze traveled over her slowly, a gaze which could not be avoided and felt as if he were stripping her down to her very soul as he assessed her.
“I beg your pardon?” she gasped. “You know nothing about me.”
“Forgive me,” he said, even as he kept that passionate and riveting gaze locked upon her. “I’m being terribly forward.”
“Indeed, you are,” she agreed, pounding her cane into the ground. “Now hie off. This is my spot.”
“Is it?” He glanced about as if he had not noticed it at all when he’d chosen it. “It’s quite lovely.”
“Thank you,” she gritted before she pointed up to the house with her cane. “Now, if you’d just be going.”
“I will.” His eyes alight, he leaned forward and said, “If you promise me a dance.”
The shock of his request burned through her and she longed to slap him. She couldn’t. He was too far away. “You, sir, are an arse.”
He tsked. “Such language from a lady.”
“I no longer have expectations so I do not expect myself to behave as a lady does,” she snapped. Beatrix was full of fury that he would dare to be so presumptuous and put her in such a terribly awkward position.
“Though I highly doubt your initial claim to be true, good for you on the latter. Life’s too short not to tell a fellow like me to sod off.”
She ground her teeth together, trying to cool her temper before demanding, “Are you going to?”
He blinked, innocent as a lamb. “What?”
“Sod off?” she gritted.
There it was again. That wicked, soul-seducing smile. “If you come have a dance with me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I can’t dance.”
“Don’t dance,” he corrected arrogantly.
“You’re really insufferable,” she rushed, shocked he would be so rude.
He grew still and serious. “You made it all the way out to these trees.”
“With effort,” she said slowly, as if he were a very stupid person.
“So, dancing will be an effort.” He shrugged then winked. “Surely, I’m worth it.”
“I ought to bash you over the head with my cane,” she declared, brandishing it. “It might actually improve you.”
“Never you fear,” he assured her brightly as though their whole conversation was perfectly normal. “I’ve already suffered several blows. No doubt, they’ve made me the man I am.”
“An arse,” she pronounced.
His sensual lips twitched and the blasted evening breeze swept in at the moment, sweeping his scandalous hair about his face, giving him a deuced mischievous air. “You’re repeating yourself.”
Once again, the scent of roses surrounded her on the night breeze. It was intoxicating and impossible to ignore as she readied herself to set him down. “Because you’re very rude and I fear your capacity for understanding is limited due to all those blows you claim you’ve obtained.”
Slowly, he stood, a shocking display of long, muscled limbs unfolding. “I will go.”
“Thank you,” she said, fighting a sigh of relief and also the desire to drink in the sight of him standing at what had to be at least six feet and four inches. The man was a giant.
As he walked, his leather evening shoes made no sound on the manicured grass, despite his size. He paused beside her, gazing down with the wickedest look she’d ever seen.
She had to crane her head back to match that gaze. Her chest rose and fell quite quickly for some inexplicable reason.
Then, he leaned down just enough that she could catch the barest hint of his scent, something of the sea. Something delicious. “I dare you,” he whispered.
She blinked, almost swaying towards him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I dare you to dance with me.”
“Am I child to be dared?” she challenged, taking hold of herself.
He merely shrugged then strode off into the growing darkness. His dark coat blended with the shadows until only his sandy hair blazed like a halo in the night.
“I dare you, indeed,” she huffed.
What the devil did he take her for? A fool? A child to be teased into doing something they did not want to do?
She was no infant. Walking was difficult. Dancing impossible. He clearly did not understand how very bad her circumstances were. She started to make her way to the bench, her hand clenching her cane.
But the way he’d said it. That low rumble. It had sounded like a promise. A promise of something impossibly good.
As she readied to sit and sweep him from her mind, she realized he’d left his book. On purpose. She had no doubt. A man like that, and the way he had held it, would never leave a book behind out of doors. She opened the book to the marked page and nearly gasped.
It was a poem by John Donne.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, thou shalt die. That phrase repeated again and again in her mind. Had he known it was she when he’d turned to her? Had he somehow chosen this powerful poem knowing she would see it? How absurd. Of course not. Then why was he reading it? Did he, too, know the agony of loss? Yet, the poem decried the power of death. In her experience, death was, indeed, the most powerful thing in all the world.
He had dared her to come in from the garden. To take up a moment and live. To defy death, so to speak. She shivered despite the warm summer air.
She glanced after him. Once, she would have taken any dare laid out before her.
Once. . .
No, she didn’t take dares now. So, she sat down on the small bench, put his tome aside, and opened her book. Ready to read. Ready to be swept away. Except, now, the music from the house floated towards her as did the sound of chatter and laughter, of people enjoying life to its fullest.
Was he waiting for her? No. He knew she wouldn’t come. No doubt, he was choosing from the hundreds of ladies who would be more than happy to be swept up in his powerful arms. They would all bat their lashes and display their bosoms, flattering him. A wave of intense anger at the very idea rushed through her.
It made no sense. Only, she hated the idea of him being fawned over. That was it. Arrogant fellow that he was.
What would it be like to shock that arrogant smirk off his face?
She slammed her book shut and grabbed her cane.
Dare? She’d show him dare.