Beauty in Breeches (6 page)

As spry as a young athlete, she swung herself up on to Major's back as George rode towards her.

‘Is it all arranged?' she asked him as they rode together out of the stable yard, her horse so fresh and eager that she had to hold him in check.

‘I have planned the route to your satisfaction, I hope.' Of an understanding nature, George glanced sideways at her, his brow creased with a worried frown. ‘I'm sorry Astrid cannot watch the race. I know how much she wanted to, but I'm afraid Mama is incensed by your acceptance of Lord Chadwick's wager and has forbidden her to attend.'

Unmoved, Beatrice looked straight ahead. With his shock of fair hair and bright blue eyes, many were the
times when she had thanked God for her fun-loving, easy-mannered, handsome cousin. He had been her friend for as long as she could remember, and she really didn't know how she would have coped without him. She would never forget the lack of welcome at Standish House from Aunt Moira, and things had not improved. She had soon learned that her aunt's love was reserved solely for her own children and that there was none for her.

‘I am sorry that Astrid cannot watch the race, George—I know how much she wanted to. I am also sorry about the way Aunt Moira feels about me, but I cannot change that.' At these words George glanced at her. How typical of him to be concerned for her, she thought. She smiled to reassure him and said, ‘Don't worry, George, I've grown used to it. As for the wager, it is done and too much is at stake for me to pull out now. Besides, I would not give Lord Chadwick the satisfaction. How much do you know about him?'

‘Not much, as it happens. I only met him myself when he arrived back in London—from India, I believe. He is very rich, but there was a time when his family were destitute. Equipped with a clever mind, through his own endeavours and gambling everything on a series of investments, which paid off for him again and again, he brought his family out of penury.'

‘If he used the same gambling methods he used on my father, then I do not care for them. It does him no credit,' Beatrice retorted bitterly, at the same time grudgingly impressed by his success. ‘I suppose if he's
as rich as all that, then there's little wonder people court his favour.'

‘They do, but his success has come at a price. Some years ago tragedy hit his family—I'm not sure of the details. Because of it and to guard his privacy, he spends most of his time abroad.'

‘I see. Tell me about the circuit.'

‘It will start and end at the gate in the lower meadow. You will both do a full circuit of Larkhill, riding over the common and open ground past the village, up to the woods and through the park, where you will pick up the trail back to the meadow. It's punishing and steep in places. The full circuit will take an hour or more, but it shouldn't be difficult since you have ridden it almost every day. The hardest part will be the steep ride up the woods.'

‘Have you familiarised Lord Chadwick with the route?'

‘Yes. He rode it earlier and he's up for it if you are.'

‘Of course. I can trust Major to handle it.'

‘Lord Chadwick is already at the starting point—along with a hundred others from the house party who have come to watch and to collect their winnings.'

‘No doubt everyone is expecting him to win.'

‘Absolutely—although there are several who have laid bets on you.'

Beatrice looked sideways at her cousin. ‘Where is your bet placed, George? I trust you remember that I am family and that you owe your loyalty to me. Were you brave enough to risk your money on me?'

Kicking his horse into a gallop, he went ahead. ‘That
is for me to know and for you to find out,' he shouted laughingly over his shoulder.

 

The reception party was larger than Beatrice had anticipated. The entire meadow was filled with all types of people from house guests to grooms, footmen and stable hands and locals from the nearby village. The sun shone down on fashionable ladies beneath bobbing parasols, feathered hats and a colourful array of silk turbans. Curricles and chases were everywhere and those who wished to follow the race were on horseback. Everyone jockeyed for the best position, all animatedly discussing the forthcoming race.

Atop her spirited mount, Beatrice looked radiant, undeniably beautiful, as only she could do when there was something she wanted badly enough and had set her mind to getting it. She slanted an admiring look at her opponent as he approached leading his mount. He wore a tanned riding coat, a pair of buckskin breeches and highly polished brown boots.

Julius also wore a look of unconcealed appreciation on his handsome face as he surveyed her perched atop a raw-boned gelding, a giant of a horse, a glossy chestnut, its coat gleaming almost red. She presented a slender figure and it seemed incomprehensible that she could control the great beast. She met his gaze squarely, her face bright with invitation and challenge.

‘Good morning,' he greeted politely. ‘It's a good turnout. All it's short of to make it a fair are the acrobats and tents. Are you still up for this, Miss Fanshaw—or perhaps you would prefer pistols at twenty
paces?' he teased as he leapt on to his mount with the physical prowess of an athlete.

Beatrice lifted her head, intending to treat him with cool formality, but he looked so relaxed atop his powerful horse and his smile was so disarming that she almost smiled. Confident, her expression open and her green eyes direct, she said, ‘Of course I am up to it, Lord Chadwick—we can try pistols at twenty paces if I lose, which I have no intention of doing.'

‘Then if a duel to the death is to follow, you'd better win if you value your life.'

She laughed lightly. ‘Not only am I a competent horsewoman, I am also a crack shot, so whichever method we use, you stand to lose.'

His horse drew Beatrice's eye. It was a beautiful dappled grey gelding, its coat as smooth as silk. With sharp features, bright, intelligent eyes and a perfectly arched neck, it really was a beautiful animal, with powerful legs and shoulders. Her opponent was watching her closely and he saw her eyes gleam with appreciation.

‘He is a splendid animal, is he not, Miss Fanshaw?'

‘He certainly is,' she agreed longingly. ‘As I told you yesterday, had I not already decided on the forfeit, I would be more than happy to take that horse from you.'

‘Never. I will never part with him,' he laughingly declared.

They rode towards the open gate to the meadow where George was waiting to get the race under way. It was a bright day, but not too hot. The haymakers in
the field next to the meadow leaned on their scythes and watched them pass side by side, doffing their caps as they saw the noble bearing of the Marquess, their hearts warming at the sight of their own Miss Fanshaw.

Julius slanted her a look. ‘It's still not too late to pull out.'

Without looking at him, Beatrice beamed upon the crowd. ‘Of course I'm not going to pull out. Indeed, I couldn't disappoint so many earnest cavaliers who have placed their bets on me.'

‘Don't let that put you off. They'll get their money back.'

Now she did look at him. ‘That's not the point. I am honour bound to take your wager. Besides I can think of nothing that would please me more than to beat you.' She shot him a suspicious, mischievous glance. ‘Unless you have cold feet, my lord, and
you
would like to pull out?'

Julius trapped her gaze in his. ‘Not a bit of it. I'm looking forward to it, though the course has many pitfalls.'

Beatrice took in the hard planes of his face, the subtle aggression in the line of his jaw, and the clear intent that stared at her from the depths of his amber eyes. A slight trembling sensation skittered over her skin. Ignoring it, she smiled. ‘I dare say there will be many distractions along the way, but I am familiar with every one of them.'

‘Then the fight is on. I promise you a hard race,' Julius called over his shoulder as he trotted ahead.

Maybe so, Beatrice thought, eyeing his back through
narrowed eyes. But with everything to play for, she would win.

At the drop of George's handkerchief and with the roar of the crowd, the two horses lunged forwards. The two riders were galloping at full speed, crouched low over the horses' necks. Neck and neck they left the meadow and thundered across the common to open spaces and up the steep track towards the woods. One glance as they cleared a fence assured Julius that Beatrice Fanshaw was indeed a skilled horsewoman.

Both horses held their paces well up the long, punishing slope, then raced across the rough ground at the edge of the woods, where the undergrowth was home to badgers and foxes. Her head down to avoid low branches that might sweep her out of the saddle, Beatrice kept a careful lookout for loose rocks, dangerous, treacherous roots and slippery puddles which the sun was unable to reach and dry out. Major fell behind Lord Chadwick's horse. Both horses were blowing foam as they crested the hill. The track now lead down to circle Larkhill.

Leaning forwards like a jockey to get every inch of speed from Major, urging him on harder and harder, Beatrice was after Lord Chadwick in a mad, downward dash. The hooves pounded, sending divots of earth up behind. She urged Major onwards, then there was a giant hedge before her, white with summer blossom. His body flowing easily with his horse's stride, Lord Chadwick held the advantage and cleared it first. Beatrice felt Major's hind quarters bunching up beneath her and with one giant leap she cleared it with
an effortless, breezy unconcern and hit the ground on the other side. Lord Chadwick glanced around and waved his hand, laughing jubilantly on seeing her several lengths behind. With a laugh in her own throat, Beatrice recovered and was off again, pounding into her fastest gallop once more.

Racing across the soft parkland grass, Lord Chadwick was just ahead of her, his attention fixed on winning the race. But Beatrice was gaining on him. She could feel the ripple of her hair as it loosed its pins and laughed recklessly to feel the wind in her face. Major's ears were back to hear her laugh, then forward as they came to another hedge with a ditch before it. She checked only for a moment and then they soared over it as one. She could smell the scent of summer flowers and crushed woodbine as Major's hooves clipped the top of the hedge and then they were moving on, even faster.

With the meadow and the finishing post within sight, there were only two lengths between them now and with a surge of energy, knowing exactly what his mistress wanted, Major, confident, trusting and elated, sailed past Lord Chadwick's beautiful grey, the crowd shouting, ‘Go on, Miss Beatrice!' They flew past the winning post, at the point where they had started.

The crowd erupted, everyone laughing and cheering. Julius pulled his sweating horse to a halt and took in Beatrice's mud-spattered face and tumbling, tangled hair. Her golden skin was flushed with heat and excitement and her eyes—winner's eyes—were a sparkling, brilliant green. Dragging in a deep breath, exhilaration
coursing through their veins, their wide smiles were mirror images. Julius couldn't help thinking that it was worth losing the race to see her laughing with such unfeigned delight. It was a warm, husky, rippling sound. His eyes locked on her lips, on the column of her slender throat. Instinctively his hands tightened on the reins.

He dismounted and went to her, placing his hand on her horse's foam-flecked neck. ‘It was a good race. Quite splendid. You win. You rode well,' he conceded. ‘Congratulations.'

She sprang from the saddle and stood close to him, her smile shamelessly triumphant. She was able to feel the heat of his body as he could feel hers. Fuelled by the breathless excitement of the race and her win, and the pleasure of standing so close to his strong manly body, she was aware that she was trembling.

It was a long time since Julius had enjoyed a ride as much, or as fast and unrestrained, with company that could handle the going as well as he. ‘George was right. You're an intrepid horsewoman.'

Tossing her head, she laughed happily. ‘I couldn't let you have the advantage of me now, could I?'

‘I suppose not. So, Miss Fanshaw—the forfeit? What is it to be?' He stood without moving, awaiting her pleasure.

Unsmiling, she met his gaze and held it. He was looking at her with quiet patience—like a cat before a mousehole. Having puzzled on how to approach him, she chose directness, calming herself and saying, ‘By his own actions my father gambled away everything
he owned to you, causing him to lose his self-respect and his sanity. Now you are the only person I can think of who can help me.' She could sense he was wary, that his guard was up. There was a distance between her and this man which might never be closed. The startling amber eyes rested on her ironically.

‘Of what help could I possibly be to you? What is it that I can do? My curiosity is aroused as to why you should go to all this trouble to take me up on my wager. I detect a certain recklessness in you, and if I know anything of feminine vanity it will be something of value that you think only I can give you. Will you please put us all out of our misery and tell us what it is?'

Beatrice drew a deep breath, then fired her salvo. ‘That you marry me.'

J
ulius was deaf to the collective gasps that followed this statement. Suddenly his entire body tensed. His fists clenched on his riding crop and then convulsively tightened. His features, about to relax into lines of arrogant satisfaction, froze and his face became a hard, cynical mask.

‘Either you are carrying pity for me in losing the race to an unbelievable extreme, or else you're not playing with a full deck.'

‘I am neither dim-witted nor crazy,' Beatrice stated, ‘and pity has nothing to do with my reasons for wanting this marriage.'

‘Marriage? Come, Miss Fanshaw. Think about it,' Lord Chadwick intoned in silken menace, as though his brooding eyes and smooth voice and his slight, dark smile could mesmerise any unsuspecting female. ‘Admit it. You were having a lark.'

‘Oh, no, Lord Chadwick. I never lark about, as those who know me will tell you.'

Gazing at her directly, Julius searched her face for some indication that she was joking, but her expression was completely unemotional. The soft pink lips were tantalising and gracefully curved, vaguely smiling. It stirred his imagination no small amount.

‘Despite what you say, I think this really must be some kind of charade you play. You are asking me to do the impossible.' She remained silent, holding his gaze, and the fire that had sprung in her eyes convinced him that this was no charade and that she was deadly serious. ‘Good God!' The words were exhaled slowly, but otherwise he simply stared at her. Then the corner of his mouth twisted wryly in a gesture that was not quite a smile. ‘I suppose I left myself wide open for that.'

As everyone looked on with shocked, incredulous expressions, he smiled coolly. ‘You must forgive me if I appear shocked. Naturally I am flattered by your proposal, Miss Fanshaw—in fact, I am quite blown away by it. Well—if this isn't the most peculiar marriage proposal I have ever heard. You are without doubt a most shameless, impulsive creature.' He was now amused. ‘You expressed admiration for my horse earlier. Will you not take him instead?'

Beatrice shot him an indignant look, straightening her back. She recognised that her impromptu proposal had taken him completely unawares, but she played the game on. She shook her head, tossing the curling tresses that had become loosened by the race enticingly.

‘Please have the good sense to take me seriously. Am I so ugly, sir, that you would prefer to rid yourself of your precious horse than to be wed to me?' His bold gaze stirred something deep within her and the sensation was not unpleasant.

‘On the contrary,' he answered with an apparent ease he was far from feeling, ‘your beauty so blinds me, I fear I must be led to the altar by the hand—should I accept your proposal. Now, about my horse. What do you say?'

Disregarding the sarcasm in his tone, Beatrice pinned a brilliant smile on her face. ‘But I couldn't possibly take your horse. I recall you saying that you could not possibly part with him, in which case I would not dream of taking him from you. So I will settle for you instead. Come, Lord Chadwick? What do you say?' She flicked a glance around the bystanders within earshot. They were waiting to hear what he had to say with baited breath.

Julius let them wait a while longer as he faced the open challenge and measured the power of her will in her green gaze. There was plenty that he wanted to say, but not here, not now. In her resentment, if this young hellion thought to make a fool of him and believed she had him cornered, then she didn't know who she was dealing with. She would find out, but in the meantime he would play along with her game—for knowing how she held him in absolute contempt, that's all it could be. However, he was intrigued, all his senses completely involved with her. There could be worse things than being married to this beautiful, feisty firecracker.

‘Then what can I say except that I consider myself fortunate to find myself betrothed to the most beautiful young lady in Essex.' Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips, and in so doing played the forfeit, as if young ladies proposed to gentlemen in this way every day of the week.

After a good deal of laughter, disbelief and hesitant congratulations, Julius and Beatrice, accompanied by a thoroughly bemused George, rode back to Standish House.

 

Clattering into the stable yard, the two men swung from their saddles and Julius tossed the reins to George, who led both horses away. Beatrice turned in the saddle, but before she had a chance to dismount, Julius's hands closed, strong and sure, about her waist. He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a child, lowering her slowly until her feet touched the ground.

Beatrice felt a blush tinge her cheeks—it was all she could do to meet his gaze fleetingly. It was the first time a man had touched her, had dared take such liberties.

‘Thank you, my lord,' she said tightly, ‘but the time has not yet come when I cannot get off a horse without assistance.'

Julius looked down at her, his tone slightly acid. ‘The pleasure is all mine,' he said in clipped tones. ‘Would you deprive me of that?' He stepped away from her. ‘We need to talk.'

‘Yes, we do.'

‘Now would be as good a time as any.' His eyes
held hers. His face was a taut mask of controlled anger. For an instant he thought she would argue—he was relieved when she tightened her lips and inclined her head in apparent acquiescence. ‘Come, let's take a walk.'

With studied calm Beatrice allowed him to place his hand on her elbow and escort her out of the stable yard and into a quiet part of the gardens. There was a controlled alertness in his manner, like that of a large cat, its strength ready to explode, but for the present docile. She was reminded of a large black panther she had seen on her visit to the zoo at the Tower of London with Astrid. In repose the panther's sinews had flexed and stretched in a fantastic rhythm of life that mesmerised. Julius Chadwick was slim, yet sturdy, and moved with almost sensuous grace. There was a sureness in his stride as if he carefully planned where to place each foot. At the moment he appeared relaxed, but Beatrice knew that he was aware of her and everything around him.

His grip felt strong and steely. A host of unfamiliar sensations passed along her nerves and her heart turned over distractingly. Such unexpected susceptibility was not, to her mind, a helpful development. She had never before been so afflicted—she hoped the effect would fade quickly. To her chagrin it did not go away when he removed his hand.

‘I don't think we'll be disturbed here.'

His tone, clipped and dry, had Beatrice shifting her gaze to his face. He was a towering masculine presence in this quiet corner of the garden. ‘What is it you want
to say?' she asked, beginning to feel the first pangs of discomfort with the dark way he was regarding her, his gaze narrowed and assessing.

The corner of his mouth twisted wryly. ‘Don't look so worried. I don't intend to harm you.' Looking down into her wide eyes, Julius saw speculation leap in their depths only to be replaced by wariness. His gaze locked on hers. ‘I believe it's time for a little plain speaking.'

Beatrice stiffened. ‘On what subject?'

‘On the subject of your ridiculous forfeit—our future.' In an endeavour to disguise the tension that had gripped him and the way her nearness was affecting him, how he found it nigh impossible to look away from her golden hair lightened by the sun, her unfathomable green eyes and beckoning fragrance, he took a couple of steps away from her and gazed over the gardens. ‘Am I
honestly
supposed to take you—I mean, this proposal—seriously?'

‘I assure you, I am completely serious.'

‘Then do you mind if I ask you a few questions?'

‘Ask me anything you like.'

He tilted his head to one side, his face a mirror of bewilderment and disbelief. ‘Are you, by any chance, under the influence of drink, Miss Fanshaw?'

‘Absolutely not. I rarely drink anything stronger than watered-down wine.'

‘Then am I supposed to believe that at some point you might have fallen in love with my larger-than-life reputation? That is what it would have to be since, to my knowledge, we have never met.'

‘That scenario is as ludicrous as the one before it.'

‘Then it can hardly come as a surprise to you to learn that I might have some objections to the proposal.'

‘It wasn't a proposal.'

Julius's contemplation was steady. ‘What was it, then? An order?'

‘No.' The word was out before Beatrice had considered it. She tried to erase the admission with a casual wave of her hand. ‘That is…'

‘
Plain
speaking I believe I said. I
don't
like being forced. It goes against my grain. It is a most unwise thing for you to do. Most unwise. How dare you compromise me in this manner?'

Beatrice lifted her chin. ‘I had hoped you were too much of a gentleman to renege on your word.'

‘I don't have to be a genius to work out that you
planned
this. What concerns me now, what we need to discuss, is what comes next.' Leaning against a low stone wall and resting his arm on the top, letting his hand dangle limply, he caught her glittering gaze and held it. ‘Tell me. When do you want the wedding to take place?'

‘Why, I…' Feeling heat wash over her face, she faltered, taken off guard.

‘Come now,' he pressed. ‘Don't tell me you haven't thought it out. One day? Two days? A week—a month? How long?'

‘As soon as possible was what I imagined.'

‘Well, imagine again. If you
imagined
I'd meekly consent to this madness, you were far off track.'

‘If you recall, my lord, you did consent to it. Very well, we will wed at your convenience, I suppose.'

‘And
I
suppose that would be never.'

‘You mean you
will
go back on your word?'

‘You can bet your damned life there is nothing that would please me more. But were I to do that, I would blacken my reputation. The short of it is, Miss Fanshaw, I don't want to marry you—and if you know what is good for you,
you
wouldn't want to marry me either. Which is why I am leaving it up to you to cry off.'

She gaped at him. It was her turn to be nervous. ‘Cry off?'

His eyes mocked her. ‘That's what I said. It's very simple. You can let it be known that your forfeit was a joke, that you did it for a laugh, that you had no intention of holding me to my word.
You
will have to be the one to say it. Everyone must hear it from your own lips.'

‘But I can't do that.'

‘No? Pray tell me why not?'

‘Because it would be a lie.'

‘You mean you actually do want to marry me?'

She looked at him surreptitiously. ‘Yes,' she replied—not that she had any idea what marriage to him would entail once she had caught him. ‘I will not withdraw the forfeit.'

She would not beg him to wed her. Nor would she back down. But what a disaster she had made of it. She must have been out of her mind to think she could manage this. With that characteristic recklessness with which she tackled everything in her life, she had rushed
to accept his wager without much thought to how he would react should she win the race and request his forfeit. But it was too late now. She had set the ball rolling, so to speak, and she would not back out now.

‘When I named the forfeit, why did you concede by going so far as to announce our engagement?'

‘Because at the time I did not take your proposal seriously. I thought you were playing some kind of mischievous game—that it was some light-hearted jest, that in some twisted way you were trying to get back at me for what you accuse me of doing to your father. I merely entered into the spirit of things. Naturally I believed you would withdraw your ridiculous proposal and it could be laughed off with no ill feeling.'

Beatrice met his look squarely. ‘You do not know me. You were wrong to think that.' She glared at him. ‘It was no twisted, mischievous game, Lord Chadwick. I have thought long and hard about this. Perhaps now you will realise that I was being deadly serious. Besides, after asking you to marry me in front of an audience, the scandal will be being broadcast throughout London as we speak. If you refuse to marry me, I will have ruined any chance I might have had of making a suitable marriage.'

‘That is unfortunate for you, but it is entirely your own doing. It does not concern me.'

‘I accept that, but you could do a lot worse than marry me. I have nothing of my own to bring to a marriage, but both my parents were well connected. I meet a gentleman's criteria of youth, good health, breeding,
I am reasonably pretty, or so I've been told, and I have an unblemished reputation.'

Julius raised a sardonic brow at her self-praise and contemplated her wickedly gleaming green eyes. ‘I am impressed, but you failed to mention problematical, as bold as brass and as determined as they come.'

She smiled. ‘I admit that I can be troublesome on occasion, but on the whole, you can have no objections to my suitability.'

Julius's expression was one of disbelief. He looked her over carefully, as if to judge her for her worth, and appeared dubious as he crinkled his brows. ‘No objections—' he retorted sharply, then bit back the rest of his words, clenching his jaw so tightly a muscle jerked in the side of his cheek. ‘I have plenty, Miss Fanshaw, and I can imagine Lady Standish will have some of her own to add. How will your esteemed aunt receive your outlandish proposal to me?'

‘She will be livid, I expect. You see, where my aunt is concerned, as an impoverished orphan she has never had any regard for me. I am a duty she is forced to endure. In her world, marriages are arranged for consequence and money. She has you in her sights for Astrid. Not only are you outrageously wealthy, but you are also a marquess and we haven't had one of those in the family before, so she sees it as advancing the family cause.' She cocked her head on one side and looked at him steadily. ‘Would you have offered for Astrid? Did my aunt read your attentions toward Astrid correctly?'