PortraitofPassion (9 page)

Simon found his mind full of Beatrice after their passionate
encounter in the shadowy maze. He debated sending his regrets to the Countess
of Casterbury and staying home that evening to contemplate his best course of
action in facilitating an affair with the beautiful and imminently desirable
artist. In the end, the manners his mother had drummed into him since boyhood
would not allow him to ignore the fact that he’d accepted the invitation, and
thus must attend what promised to be a decidedly dull dinner.

It was a small, intimate gathering, twenty of Lady
Casterbury’s closest friends, including Miss Fairchild and her parents. Henry
spent the entire evening trapped in conversation with Miss Fairchild and her
mother, while Olivia sat quietly across the table from Simon. Other than the
occasional response to questions and comments directed specifically to her, she
said very little. Simon imagined she was thinking about the day they had passed
in Moorehead’s secret garden.

Simon also spent much of the evening thinking about the
afternoon, paying little attention to the talk around him. Unlike Olivia, who
seemed to have come away from the picnic subdued and introspective, Simon found
himself in an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. He was determined to make
Beatrice his mistress. He was still in possession of the ruby and diamond
necklace he’d purchased, the first of what he hoped would be a long line of
jewels he would give to her. She would be the perfect mistress—passionate,
caring and independent. He had no doubt he could convince her to stay on in
London beyond the few weeks she had planned. He would set her up in a house
close to his own.

“I have come to England to acquire my home.”

He could buy her a house, a pretty little town house, and
hire a small staff to care for her. She had no need to spend her money on a
house. He had more than enough money to provide for her. She could continue to
paint and save her money. For afterward. His mind shied away from the thought.

They could be happy together. She may have followed Henry
from Paris in hopes of becoming his mistress, but Simon was convinced she would
do better with him. Henry was a boy, barely four and twenty, with little real
experience but for whores in the brothels. He was all but betrothed to the
simpering Miss Fairchild, and while Simon strongly doubted betrothal or
marriage would keep Henry home at night, he would not have the time to devote
to Beatrice.

Beatrice would not be content to sit in her little town
house awaiting her lover. Simon recognized her restlessness, her curiosity, her
adventurous spirit. He would take her riding in the early morning hours before
the members of the
ton
arrived in the park to crowd the paths and lanes
with their carriages and docile mounts. He would take her to the theater and
the opera, to Covent Garden to see the fireworks. They could spend time in the
country, not at Eastridge, the family seat, but he had a number of lovely
smaller estates where no one would know or care that he had brought his
mistress.

He thought that with her passionate nature, she might be a
jealous woman. He would certainly have to remain faithful to her for the
duration of their arrangement. He liked to think he was not a jealous man but
as he would be providing for her, he would naturally expect her to share her
luscious body with him alone. When it came time to marry, as he knew he must,
they would part amicably. He would deed the town house to her and provide her
with a lucrative financial settlement. He was confident it could all be
arranged to suit both of their needs.

It’s a reasonable arrangement
, he thought as he rode
home from Lady Hastings’ exceedingly dull dinner later that night, a reasonable
arrangement between two reasonable people. He was looking forward to putting
the proposition to her on the morrow.

But as he lay in his bed willing sleep to claim him so that
he could be up early to surprise Beatrice at the park, he replayed the events
from that afternoon.

He remembered the odd feeling he’d gotten looking at Henry,
the dizziness and sense of foreboding. Was there more to Henry and Beatrice’s
relationship than he knew?

And what was that bit about love and marriage? His groggy
mind tried to remember. He had thought at the time that he was beginning to
unravel at least one of her mysteries.

“How many married couples do you know who love each
other?”

And Moorehead’s response to Olivia’s odd question. “
Bea’s
parents loved one another passionately, devotedly, until the day her father
died.”

But he had also said that true love existed, “
but not
within marriage
”.

And Henry, what had he said that first night, something
about her dreading her birthday as her father had died just days before it.

It seemed so obvious now, even his tired mind could put the
pieces of the puzzle together. Beatrice’s mother and father had not been
married but had passionately loved one another, apparently living together,
until he had died just before her eighteenth birthday.

That ruled out his suspicions that Moorehead was her father.
He was alive and had been romantically attached to Mrs. Forsythe for some
thirty years.

Add to these conclusions the fact that Moorehead and
Beatrice’s mother, Mrs. Morgan presumably, had known one another for at least
twenty years. They seemed to have been close enough friends that Beatrice had
known Moorehead most, if not all, of her life.

It left Simon wondering who her mother was, that she had
traveled in Society to a degree that would have allowed her to meet and
befriend Viscount Moorehead. It was an old and well-respected title, and other
than his longtime love affair with Mrs. Forsythe, he had not been one to flout
convention or stray from the fold. Could the mysterious Mrs. Morgan be a friend
of Mrs. Forsythe? Is that how she had met Moorehead?

Beatrice was the child of a long-standing liaison between
two people who had loved one another outside the bonds of matrimony. Had her
father been married? It seemed likely, else why didn’t her parents simply marry
one another, if not before she was conceived then after? Was that the reason
for the secrecy? Such things were more common than people liked to admit. It
may have been a well-known secret. Perhaps he would ask his mother what rumors
she remembered from those years, if she ever returned from Eastridge.

As he finally began to fall asleep, his last thought was to
wonder where his father fit into the story.

* * * * *

He awoke in the morning firm in his conviction that he and
Beatrice would be lovers. He would keep her in care and comfort, and in his
bed, as long as he was able. She would come to trust him and finally lay the
mystery to rest. If he was very diligent, he might even accomplish it all
before nightfall.

Simon set off for Hyde Park in the pale light of dawn,
hoping to arrive before Beatrice. As it was barely seven when he took up a
position on a small rise some distance from the entrance, he felt confident he
would see her enter the park and could ride down to meet her. Surely Moorehead
would allow them some measure of privacy together.

But when Beatrice rode into the park on her gray gelding,
she was not accompanied by Moorehead. Simon did not recognize the gentleman who
rode with her, but judging by his attire he was no servant sent to ride behind
her and watch over her. They cantered across the open field side by side in the
opposite direction. Simon urged his horse down the slope and onto the path
behind them, careful to stay far enough away that they would remain unaware of
him. He followed them for half an hour. He told himself he was only waiting
until Beatrice slowed her horse to a walk to approach her. He was not spying
upon her and the gentleman. Of course not.

When the riders ahead of him finally slowed, providing him
the opportunity to catch up to them, he found himself slowing his mount as
well. He found a spot in the trees, to rest in the shade for a moment, he told
himself, before making his presence known.

He watched as Beatrice turned to the gentleman riding beside
her and struck up a conversation. They spoke together. Simon could not hear
their words nor could he hear Beatrice’s laughter. But he could see her fling
back her head to laugh at something her companion said. He could see her reach
over to lay her hand upon his arm. He watched as first the young gentleman,
then Beatrice, looked across the great expanse of green fields. Assuring their
privacy? He thought then that she might spy him, lift her hand to wave and call
him over. She did not. They were clearly aware only of one another.

What the hell was going on? Who was the gentleman? They were
close enough that Simon could determine that he was a young man, dark-haired
and well-dressed, seated upon a handsome black horse. He watched as they ambled
around for a few more minutes before turning back toward the park gates.

As Simon followed them from the park along the city streets
back toward Moorehead’s establishment, he told himself he was simply making sure
that Beatrice arrived home safely. He would give her time to stable her horse
and enter the house before knocking on the front door as a gentleman should.
She would invite him in, perhaps to join her for breakfast, and she would
explain that the gentleman was a friend of Moorehead who had been enlisted to
ride with her in her host’s absence. It was all perfectly innocent, surely.

He took up a position some distance from Moorehead’s
stables, into which both riders had disappeared, and waited.

It was more than an hour before Beatrice walked out into the
yard hand in hand with the man, shading her eyes from the morning sunlight. She
turned to watch her companion return to the stables. He reappeared carrying her
hat. It was then that Simon realized what had kept them so long in the stables.
He felt as if a stone had settled into his stomach as he watched the man pick
what must be hay from Beatrice’s clearly mussed coiffure before placing her hat
upon her head and lifting her hand to his lips.

What a cliché, he thought with a harsh laugh—she’d taken a
roll in the hay. In his mind he saw Beatrice and her lover rolling around on
mounds of hay in the shade of an empty stall, skirts hiked, breeches lowered,
for surely they had not taken the time to disrobe. Or perhaps they had. They’d
been in there for more than an hour. Had she removed her riding habit? Had her
lover removed it for her? He imagined her long limbs entwined with those of her
dark lover as she pulled him into her body. Or had she risen above him and straddled
him, taking him into her body that way? Had that man, that unknown man, taken
her breasts in his hands, his mouth?

Fury washed over him. If there was pain in the mix, he
ignored it. He concentrated upon the rage that filled him, fisting his hands,
hardening his jaw, pulsing in his blood.

That bitch, he thought viciously. Did she act the wanton for
every man she encountered? Was she a woman who needed every man she met to
desire her? She had had Henry panting after her in Paris. Never mind that she
had not given herself to his cousin, she had clearly set out to entice him, had
pursued him to London. Had she then decided that Simon would make a better
catch? Had she recognized that Henry was little more than a boy? Was that why
she had turned her attention to him?

Was the dark-haired gentleman a lover she kept in the wings,
to slake her lust while she set about slowly seducing him, playing with him,
luring him into whatever scheme she had set her mind to? He saw his encounters
with her in a whole new light. She had set out to entice him, throwing herself
at him in the park that first day.

“I practically threw my breast into your hand.”

“I willed you to kiss me.”

He saw now that he never would have found her in the maze.
She had found him. Clearly she knew that maze like the back of her hand. She
had lured him, seduced him, had him on the brink of offering to set her up,
provide for her financially and buy her a house
.

“I have come to England to acquire my home.”
Acquire
indeed, with her body.

As he turned his mount away, he determined that he would
have her. He would have use of that luscious body she was so eager to share. He
would take her and use her until he obliterated the desire that, even now, ran
through his veins. Then he would toss her aside with nothing. No offer of
protection, no financial gain, no home of her own.

Simon rode home from Moorehead’s house in a blind rage. He
neither saw nor heard the bustle of the crowded streets he traversed. He could
only see the picture imprinted upon his mind’s eye—Beatrice, her clothes
wrinkled, her hat missing and her hair in disarray, stumbling from the stables
hand in hand with her lover.

Beatrice entered the crowded ballroom on Bertie’s arm. She
heard the hush that fell across the room, saw the eyes that swung in their
direction, felt the frost that entered the air.

“I told you we should not have come,” she whispered to
Bertie, all the while keeping a cool smile upon her lips.

“Nonsense,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room. “Lady
Florence knows you are residing in my home. As her invitation only arrived
yesterday, you can be sure she intended I bring you with me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I’ve no earthly idea, but I am persuaded we shall soon know
the answer.” He gave his head a slight nod to the right and Beatrice looked to
see their hostess making her way through the crowd to them.

“Viscount Moorehead,” Lady Florence greeted him before
turning to Beatrice. “And the lovely Miss Morgan.” She bowed her head regally.

“Lady Florence,” Beatrice replied with a similar bow of her
head. She looked into the lady’s cool, blue eyes. There was certainly no
welcome there. Lady Florence was a tall, thin woman with ice-blue eyes and
fading blonde hair. Beatrice estimated her age to be somewhere near fifty. She
wore a low-waisted gown in the exact shade as her eyes.

Beatrice had opted to wear a silk gown of vibrant amber,
cinched tight below a low bodice. Short capped sleeves rested on her arms below
her shoulders. She wore a stiff corset that pushed her small breasts up high,
creating cleavage where none existed. One too-deep breath and she feared her
nipples would appear over the thin ribbon of black lace that adorned the
bodice, sleeves and hem. A simple black onyx pendant on a gold chain dipped low,
drawing the eye to where her breasts met. Matching onyx ear-drops swayed about
her neck when she moved.

She wore her hair piled high upon her head with half a dozen
onyx-tipped pins holding it secure. She thought they looked lovely peeping out
from her tresses. Abby, the maid Bertie had hired to assist her while in
London, at Bea’s insistence had created her coiffure to appear slightly
disheveled, with soft curls escaping to flow down her back and her bare
shoulders. Her hands were sweating in the black silk gloves that hugged her
skin to above her elbows.

She knew she looked the part she intended to play. Society
expected her to appear flashy, sensual, enticing. They expected her to smile
and flirt and dance immodestly. She intended to give them what they so clearly
wanted.

She only hoped she could pull it off. She felt anxious and
lightheaded. The crowd was large, already she felt as if there were not enough
air left in the room for her. They had all sucked it up, these preening and
posing gentlemen and ladies of the
ton
, with their curious gazes and
whispered conversations.

Who were they to judge her? Bea silently demanded. She had
bluer blood than most of them flowing through her veins. If they only knew.

For one brief moment, as Bertie led her farther into the
room, she imagined the looks upon their faces if they knew who she was, if she
simply blurted it out. She could get their attention easily, they were all
focused on her already. She trembled with the urge to shout it out to them.

“Easy now,” Bertie whispered, patting her hand where it
rested upon his arm. “You can do this.”

With conscious effort she reined in the misguided urge and
pasted the smile back on her lips. She scanned the room, her head held high and
motionless.

Thankfully, from out of the crowd came Henry, with Simon
following slowly behind him.

Henry stopped before her and executed the same flamboyant
bow with which he always greeted her. Bea forced herself to join in the game,
curtsying low with her arm outstretched. She willed her hand not to tremble and
knew she was only moderately successful.

Henry grasped her gloved hand in his and raised her up. He
wore his customary smile and Bea found her first real smile of the night.

“You are, as always, the most beautiful lady in the room,”
he said, releasing her hand.

Bea looked from Henry’s smiling face to Simon who had
stepped up beside him. No smile there, she saw. He regarded her somberly, his
eyes hard, his mouth firm. He greeted her with the merest bow of his head.
What
have we here?
Bea took in his rigid posture and stern countenance. Was he
going to act the staid gentleman with her now, after all that had happened
between them?

“Lord Easton,” Bea held her hand out to him, knowing he
could not refuse the gesture. He was a gentleman after all. He clasped her fingertips
for the merest moment before quickly dropping his hand to his side. He flexed
his fingers before wiping his gloved hand on his trouser leg.

Bea couldn’t have been more hurt had he smacked her. The
insult could not have been plainer. She felt her eyes fill and her lips tremble
before hurt gave way to anger. How dare he!

She lifted her head, forced her lips to curve into what she
hoped was a smile. She feared it appeared more a grimace. She felt a tear
hovering in the corner of her eye. She would not cry before him. As casually as
she could manage, she lifted one gloved finger to catch the moisture before it
dropped, quickly raising her hand to her hair to pat at a loose curl.

She tore her gaze from his to find Henry looking from Easton
to her with confusion.

“Lord Hastings,” she purred, “would you be a darling and
escort me to the refreshments? I would dearly love a glass of champagne.”

She turned away from Simon without a word in parting. She
suspected Moorehead was still standing with him but did not look back to be
certain. She did not want to see the disdain upon Simon’s beautiful face. She
would not look upon him, not once, never again. He could go straight to the
devil!

“Did you see Easton drop her hand?” she heard a woman
whisper as she passed by a group of matrons.

“Clearly he has more sense of decorum than his cousin,”
agreed her companion.

“But really,” replied a soft voice, “was it necessary to
wipe his hand that way?”

Bea moved away before hearing a reply. She was tempted to
look back to see who had spoken up to protest his behavior.

Henry offered her a glass of champagne. She recklessly drank
it down and held out her empty glass.

“Planning to get tipsy then?” he asked.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” she answered.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you foxed.”

“Well, hold on to your hat, my lord, you are in for a
treat.” Bea drank down the second and reached for a third, which she sipped,
enjoying the cold bubbles sliding down her throat.

“Sounds like the musicians are beginning the first set,”
Henry said with a smile. “I’ve promised it to Miss Fairchild, but will you save
the second for me?”

“I would be delighted,” she replied. She watched him walk
off in search of his partner.

Emboldened by two glasses of champagne, Beatrice wandered
about the perimeter of the grand room. She stopped to watch the couples dancing
before turning to scan the young ladies seated against the wall. Wallflowers,
they were so cruelly termed. Beatrice wondered if she would have sat just so
had she had a Season. She thought it likely. With no fortune and unknown
parentage, the marriage-minded men would have ignored her entirely.

Spotting an empty seat next to a pretty girl with laughing
blue eyes and blonde hair, she walked over, and as gracefully as she could in
her stiff corset, lowered herself to perch upon the seat.

She smiled at the girl and received a smile in return. She
didn’t know enough to ignore her, Bea realized.

“Are we allowed to converse?” she asked the girl. “Or must
we wait for a proper introduction?”

“Oh I think among us,” she waved her hand to include the
other girls lining the wall, “there is no need for such formality. Not that you
are one of us, of course,” she hurried to add.

“I am Beatrice Morgan,” Bea said. “And I don’t think we are
so different, we are all unmarried ladies, after all.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Morgan,” replied the girl. “I am
Julia Fairchild. And you are no wallflower.”

Bea tilted her head in acknowledgment. She was not a
wallflower. She was a fallen woman who had missed the fun of the fall! She
sipped her champagne as she thought about that. She was sorry, sorry down to
her very bones, that she must abandon her plan to fall with Simon. Lord Easton,
she admonished herself, she must not think of him as Simon. He was Lord Easton
again, and would remain so.

She thought about his hand as he flexed it and wiped it upon
his leg. She drew in a sharp breath as pain shot through her. Oh that he could
treat her so! What had she done to deserve his scorn?

Clearly he regretted their time together. But to maliciously
insult her so, and in front of Henry. She did not deserve that. So she had
earned his disgust with her wanton behavior, she could accept that. But she had
done nothing to earn his cruelty.

“Do you know that gentleman?” Julia Fairchild interrupted
her thoughts.

Bea followed her gaze to see Bertie standing off to the side
of the dance floor, silently watching her. He stood in a group of gentlemen,
one of whom Bea recognized as his friend, Lord Sydney. Bertie raised his brow
and Bea knew he was silently asking if she needed rescuing from the line of
young girls. She managed a small smile and she gave a subtle shake of her head.
She was quite fine where she was for now.

“Yes,” she answered, and she finally made the connections.
“Are you sister to Miss Jane Fairchild?”

“You’ve met my sister?” Julia asked with surprise.

“Yes, just last week, at Gunter’s with Lady Palmerton.”

“Oh Lady Palmerton. They have become friends it seems. Mama
and the Dowager Countess are trying to make a match between Lord Hastings and
Jane. I do not think it will happen though. I do not think he will offer for
her in the end.”

“No?” asked Bea.

“No, I think he is much too intelligent not to see through
my sister.”

“What should he see?” Bea asked.

“Oh forgive me,” Julie Fairchild exclaimed. “I should not
speak of my sister so.”

“I will not spread tales,” Bea assured the girl. She really
was beautiful. Prettier than her sister. And so friendly and sweet. The
friendliest lady she had met in London, by far. Well, apart from Olivia.

“Well, she is silly and shallow,” Julia went on in a rush.
“She cares nothing for him, only for his title and connections.”

“Isn’t that the way of the
ton
?” Bea asked. “Don’t
most girls plot to marry a title? And don’t the gentlemen holding such titles
search out just such silly and shallow girls to take to wife?”

“Yes, I’m sure that is true, only he…” She broke off with a
quiet gasp. “He is coming this way!”

Bea looked up to see Henry approaching. She watched from the
corner of her eye as her new friend sat up straighter, a blush and a smile upon
her face.
So, Julie Fairchild covets her sister’s beau.

“I believe this is my dance,” Henry said, bowing to her. He
looked at her companion with a quick smile of recognition. “Well, if it isn’t
little Miss Julia. Where have they been hiding you? I haven’t seen you since
your come out ball.” Bea imagined her family had indeed been hiding this lovely
young girl. They must know she would outshine her sister.

“Oh,” Julia replied with a giggle. “I’ve been to any number
of gatherings.”

Henry smiled again before turning to Bea once more. “Shall
we?”

“I’m sorry, Lord Hastings. I believe I am a bit too dizzy to
dance just yet.” She held up her now empty glass. “But please, do not sit out
this set on my account. I am sure Miss Julia could be induced to take my
place.”

Henry looked to the girl beside her, and gentleman that he
was, he bowed graciously and offered his hand. “May I have the honor of this
dance?”

Bea watched them walk to the dance floor just as the music resumed.
After retrieving another glass of champagne from a passing servant, she
wandered around the dancers and out onto the terrace. The night was warm, with
only the barest hint of a breeze. The gardens were lovely, lit here and there
by tall torches. Small groups and couples wandered about.

Bea leaned forward to rest her hand upon the waist-high wall
that encircled the terrace. She realized she was a bit dizzy in truth. If she
finished this glass of champagne she suspected she would be quite drunk. She set
the full glass on the wall and stared out into the night.

She mentally sifted through the sorrow Lord Easton’s
contempt had wrought, trying to fix her mind upon Henry and her plan. It was
still a good one, she decided. She had set upon it before she met Lord Easton.
There was no reason she could not still accomplish her goal. She would simply
avoid him when he was with Henry. She would devise ways to spend time with
Henry and Olivia without their cousin.

She straightened her spine and lifted her head and gave
herself a mental shake. Enough, she told herself. Enough thinking on things
that could not be. Enough getting sidetracked by desire. Time was fast running
out. She needed to finish this. She needed to be home. She needed Idyllwild.

With one final glance out at the gardens with their promise
of quiet and breathable air, she prepared to return to the crowded ballroom
filled with censure and disdain.

She turned and there he stood.

Lord Easton was not ten feet away, silently watching her.
She caught her breath as she took in his face in the dark of the night.
Torchlight flickered in his eyes and across his cheekbones, creating haunting
shadows that prevented her from seeing his expression.

“Lord Easton,” she said, and though she tried to keep any
emotion from her voice, she heard the rage and the pain. So did he, she
realized as he flinched and took a step back. Good. Let him know she was not to
be treated so. She would not allow him to injure her. She stepped forward and
to the right of the silent man.