Beauty in Breeches (20 page)

Beatrice lowered her eyes and said no more about it, but his rejection of her love hurt more than she imagined possible. She accepted that she loved him, that he gave her great joy, and it broke her heart to think he might never reciprocate her love. Looking at him once more, she put her face close to his, studying it intently, looking to see if there were any more secrets. As though he suspected that she was trying to see into his mind, there was a darkening to his eyes which after a moment seemed to disappear like a cloud blown away by the wind. There was nothing to see, but she could not explain the tiny
frisson
of doubt that would not leave her.

‘Please don't lie to me or hold anything back, Julius. We must both agree to set a pattern of honesty and frankness for the future. You married me because I made it difficult for you to refuse—and I married you because I wanted to bring Larkhill back into my life.'

‘What are you saying?'

Raising her head, she met his gaze. ‘That things
change in the most peculiar way. Not for one moment did I think I would end up feeling like this when I challenged you to that race. When I first realised I had feelings for you I told myself I was deceiving myself and continued to do so. I do not know when those feelings began, but what I do know is that they are feelings so much stronger and deeper than anything I have ever felt before.'

‘You are right,' he murmured. ‘Things do have a way of changing. But I'm beginning to like the result of your scheming. I would like you to know that from the moment when I first laid eyes on you I wanted you—badly, my love.'

Beatrice jerked her head back and gave him an indignant look. ‘You did? You should have told me.'

Julius chuckled and rolled her on to her back. ‘What? And spoil the fun? Not in a million years,' he said, kissing the tip of her nose.

Beatrice laughed at his unprincipled determination to get what he wanted and his complete lack of contrition for it. ‘Shame on you, Julius Chadwick. Have you no principles at all?' she demanded.

He pulled her further down the bed and covered her body with his own. ‘None whatsoever,' he told her before taking her lips in a kiss that she was unable to resist, and their bodies joined once more in a dizzying union of delight.

 

After their loving, with a feeling of well-serviced bliss lingering in his body, Julius was enjoying looking at his wife seated at her dressing table. She had slipped
into her robe, which was nothing more than a wisp of satin and lace and ribbons in a delicate shade of peach. His eyes lingered on the thrust of her breasts as she raised her arms and attempted to bring her tousled hair into some kind of order. He admired the long graceful line of her back and the fall of her golden hair. As he watched her his throat went dry. Dear Lord, she had been beautiful before, but now she was glorious. Before they had married she had seemed wholesome and innocent, but now she seemed different, like a young woman who had come into her own. She glowed and bloomed and seemed softer somehow. In the mirror her eyes were drifting, dreaming, and she looked like a woman whose senses were fulfilled, physically and emotionally.

When she stood up and stretched languidly, like a cat beneath the sun's warmth, the slender, graceful length of her was outlined beneath her robe. The fabric strained over her breasts, rich and full. Her figure was taut and trim, yet he saw the slight roundness of her belly as her robe clung to her.

All at once Julius felt unbalanced by the strength of his emotions. Was it possible that his wife was with child? Doubting his suspicion, he cautiously looked again. No, the swelling was there, noticeably. He was perfectly still as though the slightest movement might disturb his thoughts. He wondered if she knew she was with child and, wondering if she did know, why she wasn't telling him of his impending fatherhood?

He did his best to calm himself. Should he tell her he knew her secret? Should he wait for her to tell him
of her own accord? The child would make a difference to their marriage, he realised that, and he and Beatrice must try to shape some solidity into their lives—for the child.
The child.
The mere thought of a child growing inside Beatrice warmed his cold heart until it glowed with something sweet and loving. He felt a thrill of anticipation race through him and his heart gave a leap of excitement. He wanted to reach out for her, to touch and caress that little mound, but his pounding heart told him to be cautious, not to rush things.

He glanced at her face. She seemed preoccupied, troubled, suddenly, and he wondered if she might be considering how best to tell him of her pregnancy.

‘Is there something you wish to tell me, Beatrice?' he prompted with peculiar gravity.

On a sigh she turned and looked at him. ‘Yes.'

His heart soared. He waited in hope and expectation for what she was to say.

‘It—it's Astrid, Julius. I am so concerned about her.'

Dumbfounded, Julius stared at her. ‘What? Astrid?' He sounded stupid. That wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. ‘What about Astrid?'

‘Aunt Moira is forcing her into marriage with a man almost old enough to be her grandfather. Oh, Julius, I have to help her.'

Julius swallowed down his immense disappointment. ‘You may speak freely. Please tell me the facts. What is the name of the prospective bridegroom?'

‘Lord Alden. I am sure you are acquainted with him.'

‘I am. And has Astrid asked for your help?'

‘No.'

‘Then do you think you should interfere?'

She stiffened. ‘Interfere? I would not call concern for a dear cousin interfering. I'm at my wits' end trying to work out what to do.'

‘Have you spoken to her?'

She shook her head. ‘No, I have not. Aunt Moira will not let her see me. I've seen George on occasion and he is powerless against his mother.'

‘Lady Moira cannot force Astrid to marry against her will.'

‘Yes, she can. Astrid is terrified of her. She is cowed by her mother. She will do what she is told to do. But George tells me that she is suffering greatly. She is making herself ill.' Moving towards the bed, she sat beside him, moving closer when his arm came round her, and in a small voice, she said, ‘Julius—could you, perhaps…?'

Annoyed that she should feel such concern for her cousin when he was riven with questions about her condition, he lifted his head and looked at her in that lofty manner so characteristic of him. ‘And what would you have me do? Leave it, Beatrice. Do not interfere in this.'

Beatrice held his gaze, stung by his words, but determined to stand her ground to the bitter end. She felt that she was fighting for Astrid's very life. ‘Do you doubt the seriousness of my cousin's plight?'

‘I think it might have been exaggerated. Married to Lord Alden, Astrid will be mistress of one of the finest houses in the country and she will find him a generous
husband. Beatrice, I will not become involved in this. I will not be used.'

‘And so Astrid will have to suffer a miserable marriage to a lascivious old man so that your good name might be preserved? Shame on you, Julius.'

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. Beatrice stared back at him, outwardly calm while her emotions became a turmoil of anger, fear, exasperation and compassion—and a deep, abiding love for her husband.

Julius scowled, knowing that what she said was right—Alden was a lecherous old man and he couldn't blame Beatrice for wanting to prevent her gentle cousin from marrying him. ‘All right, Beatrice,' he said more agreeably. ‘You win. I promise I will give the matter some thought.'

Gently pushing her away, he tossed back the covers. Swinging his long, muscular legs over the side of the bed, he stood up and proceeded to dress, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips when he saw his wife's face light up with joyous delight. Utterly defeated in this, laughing softly, he strode round the bed and caught her to him, kissing her lips before turning for the door.

‘But think on, my love. Do not strain the bonds of husbandly affection beyond this. Now I will leave you to dress and see you at dinner.'

On a sigh Beatrice sank on to the bed. ‘Julius,' she said softly. With his hand on the door handle he turned and glanced back at her, hearing the emotion that clogged her voice. ‘Thank you.'

He smiled. ‘For what?'

‘For everything.'

The smile faded from his face, replaced by an expression so intense, so profoundly proud that he could not speak.

 

Over the days that followed, instead of repairing to Highfield, Julius decided to stay in London for a few weeks to be close to the offices where he conducted his business and for Beatrice to enjoy the position of prestige in society she was entitled to. For the first time in his life he enjoyed the company of a woman—taking her places, showing her off and lavishing expensive gifts on her.

When the novelty of their unconventional marriage had run its course among the members of the
ton
, they became a favoured couple, much sought after for any social occasion. Invitations arrived at the house in large numbers. They went through them together, laughingly inventing excuses to decline some of the invitations so they could spend their time together in serenity and seduction.

Beatrice's days were filled with contentment. Her nights were spent in Julius's bed and the primitive, wild splendour of his lovemaking. He would linger over her with painstaking tenderness, making love to her slowly, prolonging her release, until she had to plead with him to end the wonderful sweet torment. Other times he would reach for her in hunger and take her quickly. She came to learn there was a baseness to him, too, when he would take no denial, when his kisses could be fierce and demanding, his passion all-consuming,
leaving her breathless but thoroughly content in the warm security of his embrace.

He taught her many things, one of them being to show him what she wanted. He also taught her the power she had over his body—and how to use it. Always an avid learner, Beatrice put her new-found knowledge into immediate and highly effective use; but, when not stirred to impassioned heights, she would simply nestle in her husband's arms, feeling the brush of his lips on her brow or a nuzzling kiss against her ear. He was the husband that women dream of having for their own and Beatrice was still stunned by the realisation that he was hers.

Among a society where it was considered unfashionable for husbands and wives to spend all their waking hours together, the Marquess and Marchioness of Maitland—who were rarely seen apart and were clearly very much enamoured of each other in a way that went beyond wedlock—made it fashionable. With collective sighs of envy, society had to admit that they made a striking couple, the marquess incredibly handsome, smiling that lazy approving smile at his beautiful young wife, who seemed to have the ability to make him laugh in a way no one had ever heard him laugh before. And the marquess clearly adored his wife and didn't care if the whole world knew it. Theirs was a most unusual marriage.

E
ver since Julius had noticed Beatrice was pregnant he had floundered in a sweet morass of unbelievable joy and hope that would not let him rest—hope that this child would give them an anchorage to settle down. It was so unbelievable. Some instinct warned him not to let her know he knew her secret—if she knew herself. If she did, he was waiting for her to tell him of her own accord.

It was on their wedding night when she had conceived—over four months, yet still she had not said a word. For the first time in his life he was completely bemused by what went on inside a woman's head. Why hadn't she told him? A woman must know when she was pregnant—surely? He had been waiting for two weeks, scarcely leaving her side—not that he wanted to—so he might be available when she finally revealed her condition, which couldn't be long.

The matter came to a head when her horse was brought from Larkhill and she came into the drawing room in her riding habit, her face lit up with excitement. She intended taking Major for some exercise in the park, despite the fact that rain-filled clouds covered London and already heavy splashes could be heard against the drawing-room windows. Julius came alert instantly. He could imagine his wife's idea of exercising her mount—more like a break-neck gallop clearing any obstacle that confronted her.

‘I don't think you should,' he said, putting his newspaper aside.

‘Why ever not?' Beatrice said, pulling on her gloves. ‘Major will be feeling so frustrated after the journey. A good blow out will do him the world of good. We both need the exercise. Come with us if you like. I'd love it if you would.'

‘No, Beatrice, not today. Besides, it's raining.' He spoke softly, patiently, while squaring his broad shoulders and preparing to do battle, knowing his refusal to allow her to ride would more than likely send her back into the stubbornness, the mutinous obstinacy she had shown at the beginning of their relationship.

‘Don't be ridiculous, Julius. Since when did a little rain put you off?' Picking up her crop, she walked to the door.

‘Beatrice,' he said, getting to his feet. ‘I said I would prefer it if you didn't ride today.'

Hearing a warning note in his voice, she turned and looked back at him, her dark scowl telling him not to start ordering her about—or trying to. ‘But I must ride.
I can't sit about all day, as you have had me do ever since I came back from Larkhill. I shall go out of my mind if I don't get out of the house. You can't deprive me of the pleasure I get from riding.'

‘I have no wish to, but what if your horse takes it into his head to bolt?'

‘He won't—and if he did I can deal with it. I do know my horse, Julius. You of all people know that.'

‘Nevertheless I would prefer it if you did not ride him,' he told her firmly, tempted to say that he didn't want her gallivanting about Hyde Park taking risks. This was his child and, by God, he was going to see it born. ‘I've told the grooms they are not to saddle him. When he needs exercise they will do it.'

‘Goodness me, aren't you the fierce one today,' she remarked crossly. ‘I might as well tell you now that I will not take orders from you or a groom, and if necessary I shall saddle my horse myself.'

‘I don't think so,' he said, going to stand in front of her, trying to put some warmth into his voice so as not to antagonise her. ‘What if you were to take a tumble?'

‘I won't.'

No, he thought, she wouldn't. She was the best horsewoman he knew, but his judgement was tempered not with admiration, but with fear.

Perplexed by his refusal to let her ride and his strange mood, Beatrice frowned up at him. ‘Julius, what on earth is the matter with you? There's nothing unusual in my riding out—and I promise to take one of the grooms with me if that's what's worrying you.'

‘No, it isn't that,' he replied sharply. ‘You can hardly
expect to get up on that horse and go galloping in the park when you are in a delicate condition. Have you not the sense to safeguard your child—our child?'

She stared up at him in disbelief, then laughed, thinking he was being ridiculous. ‘Forgive me, but I'm not sure I take your meaning. Child? What are you talking about?'

‘That I know you are pregnant, Beatrice.'

‘I am? How do you know?'

‘Your own body provided me with the announcement of my impending fatherhood.'

‘A baby? But—I can't be. I mean—I feel so well. In fact, I've never felt better in my life. When you're having a baby you're… Oh dear! I think I may have put on a little weight but—a baby?'

Slowly shaking her head, feeling as if her legs were about to buckle under her, she sank into a chair, trying to get her head round what Julius had said. Could it be true and, if so, how could she possibly not have known? Her monthly fluxes had always been irregular—although now she came to think of it she'd seen nothing for—how long?—three months. Her breasts were tender, but she had thought that was just blooming womanhood. Her stomach was still taut, yet her clothes had seemed a little tight of late.

‘Dear me, if I am with child then—then I must be four months,' she whispered. ‘It must have happened on our wedding night.' She placed her hands to her scarlet cheeks. ‘I cannot believe I didn't know.' Her eyes flew to Julius, who was gazing down at her with
all the love and tenderness he felt for her there in his eyes. ‘But I might not be. It's not certain.'

‘We'll get the doctor to confirm it,' he murmured, squatting down beside her and taking her hand. ‘But I do think you are, my darling. You really didn't know?'

Smiling while close to tears, she shook her head. ‘No—but you did. How stupid is that?'

Getting to his feet, Julius laughed softly, pulling her up and gathering her to him. ‘Not stupid, my love. Just a little—naïve, I think. But think about it—how wonderful it will be,' he murmured into her sweet-scented hair, the mere thought warming his heart.

‘How long have you known?' Beatrice asked, her cheek against his hard chest, still unable to believe it and yet at the same time feeling a thrill of anticipation race through her. Her heart gave a leap of excitement in her chest, for Julius was acknowledging it and, even more wonderful, was saying he did not mind.

‘Since the night you came back from Larkhill. I wanted to ask you, but I felt you might want to choose your own time to tell me. You would have told me, wouldn't you—had you realised it yourself?' He smiled wryly when she turned her face up to his in dreaming contemplation.

She returned his smile tremulously. ‘I could hardly not, could I?'

‘And you are not unhappy about it?' he said, as he traced his finger along the elegant curve of her cheek.

‘Deliriously happy,' she murmured, her eyes aglow
with love. ‘And you were right to tell me not to ride. I would not wish to harm the baby.'

‘You won't—if you ride at a gentle pace. I'll accompany you tomorrow. Hopefully the sun will be shining by then.'

‘It already is,' she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to hers. ‘For us.'

‘I have something to give you.' Disentangling her arms, he went to a table. Picking up a flat packet which looked as if it might contain papers, he brought it to her.

Beatrice took it, looking at it and then at him in bemusement. ‘What is it?'

‘My belated wedding present to you.'

Tentatively she opened it and pulled out some papers, yellow with age. She was hardly able to believe what she saw. ‘But—these look like the deeds for Larkhill. But I—I don't understand.'

‘They
are
the deeds, Beatrice. I told you I had no intention of keeping the estate. I have made the property over to the person to whom it rightly belongs. You.'

When Beatrice realised what he had done, she was overwhelmed with gratitude and love. Reaching her arms around his powerful shoulders and burying her face in his neck, she murmured, ‘Thank you so much. I can't find the words to tell you how much this means to me. I really don't deserve you.'

The naked anguish in her voice brought a constriction to his throat. Threading his fingers through her hair, he framed her face between his hands and gazed
at her. ‘
I
don't deserve you, my love,' he whispered hoarsely. ‘Dear God, I don't.'

 

Some days later, Julius had business to attend to at his offices, so Beatrice was alone when an unexpected and unwelcome visitor arrived. It was mid-morning, too early in the day for visitors, so Beatrice was surprised to see her Aunt Moira. Beatrice felt a chill steal across her heart when her aunt breezed into the room. She gave no greeting, save a slight inclination of her head.

Beatrice received her with the utmost politeness. ‘Aunt Moira, this is an unexpected surprise. I hope you are well. I had no idea you were in London.'

‘Why should you?' Lady Standish began in her authoritarian, yet ladylike way. Without being invited to do so she sat, stiff backed, her hand resting on her brass-knobbed walking cane. ‘This is not a social call, Beatrice. I am here out of necessity, not because I choose to be. You will understand the reason why I am here.'

Sitting stiffly opposite, Beatrice looked at her aunt with unaffected astonishment. ‘Forgive me, Aunt, but I don't.'

‘I have come to fetch my daughter home. I assume this is where she is hiding out.'

Beatrice stared at her in disbelief. ‘Astrid? But—she is not here.'

‘No?'

It was clear her aunt did not believe her, but if Astrid was not at Standish House and she had not come to
Beatrice, then where was she? ‘No, Aunt Moira, she is not. When did she leave home?'

‘Three days ago. She left the house to visit a neighbour for a musical afternoon and did not come back.'

‘Then—is it possible that she might have met with an accident?'

‘No. Enquiries were made. Some of her clothes are missing, which tells me she has run off.'

‘But—this is alarming. Where is George? Did she not confide in him?'

‘George has been in Brighton for the past two weeks. He is due back tomorrow. As yet I have not informed him that Astrid is missing.'

‘Then I think he should be told. But—why would you assume she has come here?'

‘Where else would she go?' Lady Standish said in an angry tone. ‘Don't pretend to be ignorant of it,' she accused scathingly. ‘She is here, isn't she? You are hiding her. I know it.'

‘Indeed you are mistaken, Aunt Moira,' Beatrice answered. ‘When I left Standish House you forbade me to see Astrid and I swear I have not.'

‘Do not trifle with me, Beatrice,' Lady Standish said. ‘You may have married a marquess, but you are still a nobody.' Her eyes had taken on a wildness as she looked around at the luxurious green-and-gold room. ‘Just look at this place—look at you. Your scheming has paid off admirably.'

Beatrice bristled with indignation at the affront. ‘My father was a gentleman as well you know, Aunt Moira. I do not consider myself beneath Julius. In our
marriage we are equal. Astrid is my cousin and I am worried about her.'

‘Astrid is not your concern. Untrustworthy, that's what you are. You are together in this. I know you have been down to Larkhill. I am also aware that George visited you there. You are all in it together—scheming against me—all part of the same wicked conspiracy.'

‘There is no conspiracy.'

Lady Standish banged her cane with impatient outrage, her voice rising. ‘Do not contradict me. If you know anything at all, then I demand that you tell me. I am entitled to know where my daughter is.'

‘Clearly Astrid doesn't think so, otherwise she would have told you. If you do not believe me when I say she is not here, then please feel free to search the house. May I remind you that this house also happens to be my home and should Astrid come here for whatever reason, I would not turn her away.'

Lady Standish looked as though she had been poleaxed. Both hands gripped her cane fiercely, the knuckles white, her eyes staring icily at her niece.

‘Perhaps if you had not insisted that she wed Lord Alden,' Beatrice went on, ‘she would not have run away.'

‘But they are engaged. It is an excellent match and it is my wish that they wed.'

‘Clearly Astrid has an aversion to the match—as great an aversion as she had when you aspired that she marry Julius,' Beatrice told her tightly, struggling to keep her anger under control. ‘Julius has spoken to
Lord Alden on my behalf—since George told me what you intended I have been exceedingly worried about Astrid. Julius has explained to Lord Alden Astrid's fondness for another man. From what Julius has told me, he is reconsidering the marriage.'

Lady Standish's face was chalk white, and when she next spoke her voice shook with fury. ‘And you denied there was any conspiracy. Lord Chadwick had no business, no business at all, to interfere in a matter that does not concern him, and neither have you. How dare either of you disregard the arrangements I have made for my own daughter? This is too much.'

‘I did so because I happen to care for Astrid. I was deeply concerned when George told me you were forcing her to marry a man she does not care for. Where have you looked for her? Have you seen Squire Talbot? That is the obvious place. Is Henry at home? If he is absent and his father ignorant as to his whereabouts, then I would say that is a clear indication they have run away together.'

Her aunt's body was visibly shaking with anger. ‘If that should prove to be the case, then believe me when I say that her ambition will never be gratified.'

‘Astrid's ambition has always been to marry Henry.'

‘And I forbid it,' she replied, her voice brittle. ‘Any alliance between Astrid and Henry Talbot will be seen as a disgrace. She will be censured and slighted by everyone connected to us. I will not have it. You do know her intentions, don't you?'