The Rake's Ruined Lady (9 page)

Beatrice’s spine tingled at the sound of that familiar baritone. Hugh Kendrick was several yards behind but had obviously addressed her as no other person was within earshot. He seemed to be casually strolling in her wake, yet with no obvious effort he had quickly caught her up and fallen into step at her side.

‘It is an unwritten law that funerals and weddings must have more than a fair share of bad weather.’ Bea’s light comment was given while gazing at a mountain of threatening grey nimbus on the horizon. To avoid his steady gaze she then turned her attention to the rolling parkland of Blackthorne Hall that stretched as far as the eye could see. The green of the grass had adopted a dull metallic hue beneath the lowering atmosphere.

‘Were you preparing for showers on your own wedding day?’

Beatrice was surprised that he’d mentioned that. A quick glance at his eyes reassured her that he hadn’t spoken from malice. She guessed he wanted to air the matter because, if ignored, it might wedge itself awkwardly between them. She was hopeful he shared her view that any hostilities between them should be under truce today.

‘I was banking on a fine day in June, but one never knows...and now it is all academic in any case.’

A breeze whipped golden tendrils of hair across her forehead and she drew her cloak closely about herself. She scoured her mind for a different topic of conversation but didn’t feel determined to rid herself of his company.

‘It seems the dowager was liked and respected by a great many people. My father has sung her sincere praises and those of her late husband.’

‘They were nice people. The late Lady Blackthorne was always kind and friendly to me. I was made to feel at home when I spent school holidays with Alex here at the Hall.’

Bea smiled. ‘You have known each other a long time?’

‘More than twenty years.’

‘I expect you were a couple of young scamps.’

‘Indeed we were...’ Hugh chuckled in private reminiscence, then sensed Bea’s questioning eyes on him. ‘Please don’t ask me to elaborate.’

‘Well, sir, now you’ve hinted at your wickedness I feel I must press for more details.’ A teasing blue glance peeked at his lean, tanned profile.

‘Just the usual boyish antics...climbing trees, catching frogs and tadpoles, building camp fires that rage out of control,’ Hugh admitted with a hint of drollery.

‘A fire...out of control?’ Beatrice echoed with scandalised interest.

‘It was a dry summer...’ Hugh’s inflection implied that the drought mitigated the disaster. ‘Luckily for us the old viscount remained reasonably restrained when learning that his son and heir together with his best friend had burned down a newly planted copse of oak saplings while frying eggs for their supper.’

Beatrice choked a horrified laugh. ‘Thank goodness neither of you were injured.’

‘I burned myself trying to put the fire out...’ Hugh flexed long-fingered hands.

Bea had never before noticed, or felt when he’d caressed her, that area of puckered skin on one of his palms. She recalled his touch had always been blissfully tender. Quickly she shoved the disturbing memory far back in her mind before he became puzzled as to what he might have said or done to make her blush.

‘It was quite an inferno,’ Hugh admitted. ‘It frightened the life out of the viscountess; she made Alex and me amuse ourselves indoors for the rest of the holiday. We rolled marbles with bandaged hands till we were sick of the sight of them. Even when the physician told us we were fit to be let out we were kept confined to barracks. But I wasn’t sent home in well-deserved disgrace.’ His boyish expression became grave. ‘I could give you many other instances of Susannah’s kindness and tolerance.’

Beatrice realised that Hugh was as moved by Susannah’s passing as had been the weeping ladies in the Blackthornes’ hallway. But of course he would not show the extent of his feelings: once, when a personable chap rather than a diamond magnate, he might have been less inclined to conceal his sadness behind a suave mask. Quietly she mulled over the theory of whether gentlemen felt it was incumbent on them to foster an air of detachment as they became richer.

‘And what mischief did you get up to in your youth, Miss Dewey?’

Bea glanced up with an impish smile. ‘Young ladies are never naughty,’ she lectured, before tearing her eyes free of his wolfish mockery.

‘I seem to recall a time, Beatrice, when you were very naughty indeed...’

‘Then I advise you to forget it, sir, as it is now of no consequence,’ she snapped. She tilted her chin and strode on, but no matter how energetic her attempt to outpace him he loped casually right at her side.

‘But you don’t deny it happened?’ he provoked her.

‘I have nothing to say on the subject other than you are very ill-mannered to bring it up.’

‘My apologies for upsetting you...’

He’d spoken in a drawling voice that made Bea’s back teeth grind together. ‘You have not done so,’ she replied, in so brittle a tone that it immediately proved her answer a lie.

‘Of course we were talking about childhood. I alluded to a time when you were most certainly a woman, and I admit it was not fair to do so.’

Bea said nothing, despite his throaty answer having twisted a knot in her stomach. She again contemplated the countryside, presenting him with her haughtily tilted profile.

‘So, did you enjoy your schooldays? How did you spend them, Beatrice?’ His tone had become less challenging, as though he regretted having embarrassed her by hinting at her wanton behaviour with him.

‘When we lived in London Elise and I were schooled at home by Miss Dawkins,’ Bea responded coolly. A moment later she realised it was childish to remain huffy. He’d spoken the truth, after all, even if it was unpalatable. ‘I was almost fifteen when we moved to Hertfordshire, so there was little time left to polish me up. Papa did engage a governess for Elise, and the poor woman did her best to prepare me for my looming debut.’ An amusing recollection made her lips quirk. ‘She despaired of my singing and piano-playing and told Papa he had wasted his money buying an instrument that neither of his daughters would ever master.’

‘What did Walter say to that?’ Hugh asked, laughter in his voice.

‘I cannot recall, but I expect he was disappointed to have squandered the cash; we were quite hard up by then—’ Beatrice broke off, regretting mentioning her father’s financial struggle. Hugh, in common with many others, would know that her parents had divorced amidst a scandal that had impoverished Walter Dewey. It had been a terrible time for them all and she didn’t intend to now pick at the painful memory.

‘I expect you missed your mother’s guidance during your come-out.’

Hugh abhorred hypocrisy so avoided judging others’ morality. He was no paragon and had had illicit liaisons with other men’s wives, although neither of his current mistresses was married. He therefore found it hard to understand why Arabella Dewey had left her husband and children. In polite society the customary way of things was to seek discreet diversion when bored with one’s spouse. But it seemed Arabella hadn’t been able to abide Walter’s company. Hugh found that rather sad, as he sensed the fellow was basically a good sort and the couple had produced two beautiful girls.

Arabella had passed on years ago, when still in her prime, but not before she’d scandalised the
ton
by abandoning her husband and teenage daughters to run off and live with her lover.

‘Aunt Dolly did her level best to take me under her wing and turn me into a sweet debutante,’ Bea finally answered, having reminisced on that dear lady’s efforts to obtain invitations to top social functions so she might attract a suitor.

‘Thank goodness she failed,’ Hugh muttered. He put up his hands in mock defence as Bea glowered at him. ‘It’s a compliment, I swear. In my experience debutantes tend to be vapid creatures.’

‘I’m surprised you know any well enough to be able to judge.’ Unfortunately Bea’s sarcasm had not been spoken quietly enough.

‘What do you mean by that, Beatrice?’

What
did
she mean by that? Beatrice thought frantically. She’d rather not let him know that Elise had told her he was a notorious rake.

Ignoring his question, and his scorching stare, she chattered on. ‘My father paid handsomely to get us vouchers for Almack’s that year, but it wasn’t a successful season for me.’ She stopped short of elaborating on her failure: some hostesses had spitefully shunned them because the gossip over her parents’ divorce was still doing the rounds.

‘What did you mean by your comment?’ Hugh demanded, undeterred. His firm fingers circled her wrist, turning her towards him. ‘Why would I not know such young ladies?’

Beatrice shook him off, then set on her way again. ‘I know you liked Fiona Chapman, but she is rather too old to be called a deb.’ She was thankful that excuse had popped into her head. Moments later she regretted having drawn her friend into it; in mentioning Fiona’s age she’d sounded bitchy and jealous. Besides, Fiona was only a year her senior...

‘I still like Miss Chapman very much,’ Hugh said levelly.

‘And so do I like her very much. Actually, I had a letter from her just days ago,’ Beatrice blurted in emphasis.

She sensed the same quickening of her heart as she had on first absorbing the disturbing fact that Hugh and Colin had argued about her in public.

‘Did the letter have good news for you?’ Hugh asked. He’d immediately guessed what information Fiona might have passed on.

‘I think you probably know the answer to that.’ Beatrice twisted towards him, eyes blazing accusingly. She was tempted to give him a piece of her mind about risking her reputation in such a way, but the lych gate was now in view and beyond it, standing by some ancient leaning headstones, was her father, supported by his stick. He raised a bony hand, signalling to her to come to him, just as Elise also gave her a wave. With a curt dip for Hugh she sped ahead to join her family, filing into the chapel.

Chapter Eight

‘I
suppose I must speak to the fellow,’ Walter grumpily announced.

Beatrice removed her father’s port from his fingers, setting it on the table before he spilled it down his front.

They were sitting side by side on a small fireside sofa and had been observing the company attending the wake. Alex and Elise were the perfect hosts, moving through the room talking to the mourners. From elderly estate servants, now retired, to the Duke of Rodley, who’d arrived on horseback from the next town with two bottles of best cognac strapped to his saddle, all were being graciously thanked for their kind messages and tributes.

‘Would you like me to fetch you some pastries from the buffet, Papa?’ Beatrice had noticed her father again reaching for his depleted glass of port. He was drinking too much, as was his wont. Over the years Walter’s daughters had had to ask their manservant to take their father to bed when he’d been unable to rouse himself due to over-imbibing.

‘Another fruit tart might be sufficient, my dear. I have room for just one.’ As his daughter rose from the sofa, he added, ‘And will you bring the fellow over to me so I might talk to him before he leaves?’

‘Do you know that he’s soon leaving?’ Bea asked, glancing at Hugh’s dark figure surrounded by some jolly people.

‘The viscount told me his friend Kendrick intends returning to town today. I imagine he will not set on the road after dark...not in this weather.’

Walter turned to the dismal grey afternoon beyond the enormous casements. The fire to one side of them had been hissing and spluttering as the driving rain dampened the apple-scented logs. After the funeral service they had been lucky to return to the Hall before the worst of the rain set in.

‘Will you fetch him over?’ Walter nagged. ‘I’d sooner not struggle up out of this chair to go to him and eat humble pie with strangers present.’ Walter sighed. ‘Yet it must be done. My conscience will not allow it to be otherwise.’

Hugh’s group were loudly toasting Susannah’s life. Alex’s mother had left strict instructions that she wanted no maudlin speeches at her wake but a thanksgiving for the blessing of a wonderful life shared with an adored husband and beloved son.

Moving gracefully through the throng towards the dining room, Bea angled her head in an attempt to drag Hugh’s attention from his lively companions. He now seemed oblivious to her presence, and yet before, when walking to the chapel with him, it had been impossible to escape his taunting amber gaze. She’d no intention of approaching him to loiter meekly at his shoulder, waiting for an opportunity to interrupt.

On passing over the threshold into the dining room she glanced over her shoulder, and her heartbeat quickened as his eyes clashed on hers. She felt a burst of elation that had nothing to do with being a step closer to carrying out her father’s task. She’d experienced similar excitement years ago, when she’d easily lured his attention every time she quit or entered a room.

Turning her head, Bea carried on towards the buffet table—but not before she’d noticed him concealing his private smile with a sliding forefinger.

He’d made no move to leave the group and Bea fumed. If her wordless plea for an audience wasn’t plain enough for him to act on he could forgo having her father’s apology and her farewell before he left for London!

‘Are you still hungry, Beatrice?’ Hugh’s eyes skimmed over her slender figure swathed in black silk. ‘You certainly look as though a little more sustenance might benefit you.’

‘You...you think I am too thin?’ Beatrice stammered. His comment had irked, and his swift approach had startled her. Her gaze dropped to the intricate folds of his cravat, pinned with a sizeable diamond. Sourly she wondered whether he’d dug it up himself.

‘You seem less...buxom than I remember.’

Bea’s soft lips parted in a mixture of astonishment and indignation. She’d never realised he’d thought her fat.

‘Well, I’m happy with my appetite!’ she breathed. ‘I never eat too much, and I think it impertinent of you to make such a comment.’

‘Am I to pretend I know nothing of your body when I can recall it quite clearly within my embrace and pressed to mine?’