Beauty in Breeches(23)

‘You’re being very stupid, Canning—and as immature as I remember,’ Julius said. ‘You should know better than to bait me.’

Unperturbed and emboldened by the backup of his two friends, Canning laughed inanely and continued. ‘Get the bit between her teeth, tighten her rein a bit and she’ll be as docile as a lamb. I don’t think you’ve introduced us, Chadwick.’

Julius’s brows lifted. ‘No.’

‘It’s not very sociable.’

Julius answered by slamming a fist in Canning’s face that knocked him to the ground. ‘I don’t feel like being sociable, Canning,’ he uttered icily, looking down at him with utter contempt, seeing the blood from his burst nose staining his yellow coat to match the colour of his waistcoat. His eyes sliced a warning to the stunned friends not to interfere. ‘That was for insulting my future wife. Insult her again at your peril, Canning. Excuse us.’ Taking Beatrice’s elbow, without looking back, he strode towards the house.

Shocked by what had just happened and hoping that Canning wasn’t badly hurt—although she had to admit that he deserved the punch in the nose—Beatrice was almost running to keep up with Julius’s long strides. ‘Julius, please slow down. Who was that man?’

‘Lord Percival Canning, a neighbour of mine with an axe to grind to do with some lands he wants to buy off me. I’ve no intention of selling to him, but he never gives up. He never fails to take the opportunity to put my back up.’

If Julius’s black scowl and rigid jaw was anything to go by, Lord Canning had succeeded admirably, Beatrice thought. But the meeting with the aforesaid gentleman made her realise for the first time what a laugh Julius’s friends must be having at his expense. In the eyes of everyone who’d followed the stories in the newspapers, she had manipulated him into marrying her. She was filled with guilt and remorse over what she was asking—no, demanding—of him.

‘Julius—I had no idea… I’m sorry,’ she said with quiet desperation.

At those words Julius’s gaze jerked to her and he stopped dead. Beatrice almost cried out at the blistering contempt blazing in his eyes.

‘Julius, I—I can imagine what you must be thinking—’

He interrupted sarcastically, ‘Oh, I don’t think you can. If you could, you’d be quite horrified at this moment.’

‘I—I didn’t think—’

‘What you think is not my primary concern at this moment,’ he bit back coldly.

‘But…I never realised people would react this way—truly. Your friends… They are laughing at you. I will call an end to it…’

‘What? And shame me more than you already have? Don’t even think of quitting now, lady,’ he hissed. ‘We play this damned charade out to the bitter end.’

‘But I…’

‘Shut up,’ he ground out, without relinquishing his hold on her elbow. ‘Let’s get out of here.’



Not until they were in the coach and Julius had regained a modicum of self-control and his hard face was wiped clean of all expression did he speak.

‘So, Beatrice, what have you to say about your first London ball?’

‘Until our encounter with the obnoxious Lord Canning, it went better than I thought it would, although I confess I’m glad it’s over. It will be a relief to be back at the house.’

Julius nodded and not by the flicker of an eye did he betray his admiration for way she had conducted herself in the face of so much condemnation. It was a pity his admiration did not extend to himself, he thought bitterly. He should have known better than to retaliate with his fists to Canning’s baiting.

‘Very soon you will be coming home with me.’

Looking at him, Beatrice wondered at her sudden weakness in the garden. She really had intended backing out of their arrangement if that was what he wanted. But she could see that to walk away from him now would be tantamount to jilting him and would be a slight to him and to his rank, and she could not do such a thing to him.

‘When will you be taking me to Highfield?’ she asked. ‘Lady Merrick has told me how splendid it is.’

‘My ancestors would be pleased to hear it,’ he remarked drily, feeling no pride or any warm sensation in the palatial splendour that was Highfield Manor.

‘You don’t like it?’

‘I find it oppressive. I don’t often go down there—not since the demise of my parents—and, as you have just witnessed, the neighbours leave a lot to be desired.’

‘You must miss them—your parents.’

‘My mother, yes. As far as my father was concerned, no. We were not close.’

He turned his head and looked out of the window, but the tension pulsating from him began to play on Beatrice’s nerves. She wished that he would open up to her and tell her more about his family and why he felt such antipathy for his father. She felt sure it went beyond his father’s weakness for gambling and drink. Julius was locked behind a barrier and she was on the other side. It troubled her that he seemed to know a great deal about her, then shut her out when she asked for answers in return.

‘Did your father hurt you?’ His expression turned glacial. She knew she should heed the warning in her head, but ploughed on regardless. ‘Why do you hate him?’

‘Hate? Yes, I hated him.’ That was his only response, but his eyes were full of secrets, as unyielding as cold, hard steel.

‘Why won’t you tell me what he did that makes you feel like this?’ Beatrice persisted. He gave her an impatient look, a warning look, and did not reply. She knew he was getting angry with her, but she was not ready to give up yet. ‘Why do you find it so painful to speak of him? It might relieve your feelings if you were to confide—’

‘Beatrice, do me a favour,’ he interrupted acidly. ‘Do not tell me how to deal with my feelings and I won’t tell you how to deal with yours. Agreed?’

She flinched at his hard tone, but she detected a turbulent pain beneath his cold veneer.

‘You are such an innocent still, Beatrice, a naïve child in many ways.’

‘At least I’m not heartless,’ she retorted.



For the rest of the journey back to Upper Brook Street nothing more was said. Julius had his gaze fixed out of the window, aware of Beatrice glowering at him in the light from the carriage lamps. When anyone tried to get too close or attempted to pry into his past life, resentment surfaced towards his father and the terrible crime he had committed towards Beatrice’s father. May God help her—and him—should she ever discover the truth.

He shoved the painful memory away, reminding himself that his father was dead. What mattered now was getting on with his life and his future with Beatrice. And yet the old barbs stuck in his flesh and posed problems, threatened what happiness he hoped for.

Beatrice wanted answers, but her questions awoke years of anger and hurt and deception and lies. To protect his father—a father unworthy of a son’s loyalty—and to prevent an almighty scandal, Julius had allowed himself to be unfairly maligned. He never realised he would meet a beautiful girl who, completely innocent about her own connection to the night that had ruined his own life, would probe into his mind in her curiosity to know him better.

And now, whatever the cost, to protect his future with Beatrice and Beatrice herself, this terrible secret must remain hidden. He would carry it to the grave.

But secrets had a way of slipping out.





Chapter Six


Despite her determination to get through it without a hitch, Beatrice’s wedding to Julius had a distinct aura of unreality and strain about it. At the outset, Julius had said he did not care to surround the ceremony with any pomp. This suited Beatrice perfectly, for she did not want to attract further attention to herself.

She was numb to the world about her as she stepped through the high, main portal of St George’s Church in Hanover Square, Mayfair’s most fashionable church. The aisle was illuminated by candles and it seemed a long walk down on Lord Merrick’s arm. She had no bridesmaids, not even a matron of honour, the only guests being a handful of Julius’s close friends and Lord and Lady Merrick, for which Beatrice was thankful. Never had she felt so alone. This was supposed to be the most important and happiest day of her life, yet she had no family or friends to bear witness to her marriage.

Two men rose to their feet as she approached the pews at the front of the church. One of them, his tall, powerful frame garmented regally in midnight-blue velvet and flawless white cravat, moved forwards and half-turned so that he might watch her progress. His face was stark and serious, almost harsh, and Beatrice was not to know that Julius Chadwick was fighting to control the strong rush of emotion that went through him at the sight of her in her heavy ivory-satin wedding gown.

For a moment Beatrice was tempted to turn before the vows were spoken and fly from the insanity of what she was doing. But even as she argued with herself she took her place beside Julius, to join her life with his. The amber eyes of her husband-to-be held hers, narrowing, assessing, as though he were studying the woman who had manoeuvred him into marriage.