Beauty in Breeches(30)

And her spite, Beatrice thought crossly. She sighed deeply and linked her arm through George’s, in perfect, amiable harmony with each other as usual. ‘Yes, I imagine she has. Come inside and have some breakfast with me—bacon and eggs are on the menu, and kippers, too—and if we put our heads together we’ll try to work out what is to be done. Astrid cannot marry that man.’



Julius looked out of the carriage window, wishing the driver would go faster. He’d left Portsmouth at first light and now the sights and sounds of London were all around him. It had taken him two months to track down his stricken ship, which had managed to limp into a small port in Portugal, and a further two to have the cargo transferred to another vessel and to oversee the repairs before it was deemed seaworthy enough to embark for England.

Now he was impatient to be home and considered the shock his sudden arrival would cause to Beatrice. Had she changed in his absence? he wondered. Had she been lonely? Had she missed him? More than once it had occurred to him that she might resent having him return, that she might be enjoying the single life to the hilt, but that idea was nearly as repugnant as the idea that she might have found another on whom to bestow her affections.

What surprised him most was how much he had missed her. In his mind’s eye she glowed like a light. Every day and night he thought of her, conjured up her image in his mind, trying to imagine what she was doing, how she looked, tracing every curve of her face in his mind, remembering her magnificent green eyes and the soft sweetness of her lips. He relived every minute he had spent with her, recalling every word, every inflection, how it had felt to hold her, to make love to her.

They would not remain in London. He would take her to Highfield. He was eager to show Beatrice her new home. She would be happy there—they would be happy together. They would make their marriage work. They had to. If he wanted his family name and the title to continue, he must start providing heirs. He wanted his life to have meaning, to have a real marriage—meaningful and lasting, a wife and children and love—not the empty relationships that passed for marriage in society.

He wanted Beatrice more than he’d wanted anyone in his life. At thirty-one years of age and after more affairs than he cared to remember, he had fallen victim to an outrageously spirited, beautiful girl who blithely incurred his displeasure, amused and infuriated him as no other woman had ever done. He had started off determined to gain the upper hand, but somehow she had managed to get him by the throat.

He was driven by a ridiculous eagerness to see her, as if his life depended on it. At last the carriage pulled up outside his house and he got out, smiling to himself when he saw the Merrick carriage in front. No doubt Constance was calling on Beatrice. He was glad his young wife had had company in his absence.

He let himself in as Constance was on the point of leaving. In the process of pulling on her gloves, she stopped and stared at him in shocked amazement.

‘Why—Julius! You’re back! Why didn’t you let us know you were arriving today?’

He grinned, embracing her warmly. ‘I thought I’d surprise you. It’s taken me longer than I expected tracking down that damned ship. How is Beatrice? She is well, I hope?’

Lady Merrick became flustered as she considered how best to explain Beatrice’s absence. ‘I—I expect she is—but…’

He was no longer smiling as servants began moving quickly in all directions to inform those who didn’t know that the master was home. ‘Expect? What are you saying, Constance?’

‘Beatrice isn’t here, Julius. She’s—at Larkhill.’

For a moment Julius was unable to absorb the full shock of what she said. In a low, deadly voice, he said, ‘What did you say?’

‘That Beatrice is at Larkhill.’

‘But I specifically told her I wanted her to remain here in London until my return. I was under the impression that she would do just that.’

‘Oh but she did—at first,’ Lady Merrick said defensively.

‘When did she leave?’

‘Shortly after she received your letter telling her you would be away for some time.’

‘And have you heard from her since she left?’

Lady Merrick shook her head. ‘No, but then I didn’t expect to. I called today on the off chance, thinking she might have returned.’

Furious with Beatrice for refusing to yield to his authority, Julius strode into the drawing room and poured himself a large brandy. Sinking into a chair, he drank deep, but the fiery liquid did nothing to soothe his raw nerves.

Having followed him, Lady Merrick saw the harshness in his taut features and sighed with helpless understanding. ‘I know how displeased you must be about this, but can you really blame her? London is all very well, but Beatrice is a country girl at heart. Be honest with yourself, Julius. It must have crossed your mind that she would go to Larkhill.’

‘As a matter of fact it didn’t. When I told her to remain here I expected her to abide by my wishes. How dare she even consider disobeying me? How dare she? The conniving little… I should have realised it was no small task expecting her to remain in London when that damned house beckoned.’

In dumbfounded amazement, Lady Merrick stared at him, beginning to understand the reason why he was so furious with Beatrice. It was unbelievable that Julius, who had always treated women with a combination of easy indulgence and amused tolerance, could have fallen victim to the same kind of feelings that affected the rest of the human race. Apparently this self-confident, invulnerable man had lost his heart to his own wife.

She suppressed the urge to smile. ‘Did you not realise that with Beatrice’s need for control, such an order would only make her feel pressured into defying you? What do you intend to do about it?’

‘Right now I can think of several things that are appealing—one of them being to wring her neck and another to go after her and drag her off to Highfield and put her under lock and key.’

Lady Merrick sighed and shook her head. ‘I can imagine what society would make of that—more grist for the mill.’

‘I don’t give a damn what society thinks,’ Julius said curtly, which was not the truth. In this case he did care; he was furious at being made to look a laughing stock by being unable to keep his wife under control. ‘I know just how to handle my errant wife, believe me.’

Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and took a long, harsh breath, trying to bring his temper under control. Beatrice would either bend to his will or he would break her to it, but either way she would learn to behave herself, he decided with cold resolve. For a few minutes he considered going down to Larkhill and confronting her openly with the ruthlessness that she deserved, then discarded the idea. He would make her come to him and he knew exactly how to do it.



Beatrice and George trotted into the stable yard at Larkhill, having spent a wonderful morning riding in the crisp November air over grassy tops of hills, meadows and shallow valleys. George was the first to notice the small elderly man walking about the yard, a younger man in tow, notebook in hand. In dark, sober suits they seemed to be inspecting the buildings. On seeing them they stopped what they were doing and began walking in their direction.

‘I say, Beatrice, it looks as if you have visitors.’

Beatrice held her horse in check and watched the strangers approach. ‘Who are you, sir,’ she said, addressing the older of the two, ‘and what are you doing here?’ She was somewhat bemused by their presence.

‘I am Mr Sinclair of Sinclair and Lawson, estate agents, and this is my clerk, Robert Denham. I believe you must be Lady Chadwick, Marchioness of Maitland.’

Without taking her eyes off him Beatrice nodded. ‘An estate agent? Forgive me, Mr Sinclair, but I have made no arrangements for an estate agent to view Larkhill. I think you must have made a mistake. Perhaps it is some other property you wish to see in the area. If so, I am sure I can direct you to it.’

‘Oh, no, my lady. It is Larkhill I have been instructed to view.’

‘On whose instruction?’

‘Lord Chadwick—your husband, Lady Chadwick.’

Beatrice froze. A premonition of dread gripped her heart. Perfect months of dreaming away the days at Larkhill—golden days, happy days, days filled with joy and contentment, of riding with George and basking in the memories of her childhood—turned into panicked confusion.

Julius was back.

She stared at Mr Sinclair in utter disbelief, her mouth agape. A wave of dizziness rushed over her. She gripped her riding crop and for a moment could not speak at all. She was utterly stunned, crazed confusion charging through her veins.

‘But there has to be some mistake. There must be.’

‘There is no mistake, Lady Chadwick. Your husband has instructed me to do a valuation on the estate with a view to selling. I hope you don’t mind that I have made a start, but with such a large property to inspect it will take up most of the day. I did call at the house and was told you were not at home.’