Beauty in Breeches(36)

When she stood up and stretched languidly, like a cat beneath the sun’s warmth, the slender, graceful length of her was outlined beneath her robe. The fabric strained over her breasts, rich and full. Her figure was taut and trim, yet he saw the slight roundness of her belly as her robe clung to her.

All at once Julius felt unbalanced by the strength of his emotions. Was it possible that his wife was with child? Doubting his suspicion, he cautiously looked again. No, the swelling was there, noticeably. He was perfectly still as though the slightest movement might disturb his thoughts. He wondered if she knew she was with child and, wondering if she did know, why she wasn’t telling him of his impending fatherhood?

He did his best to calm himself. Should he tell her he knew her secret? Should he wait for her to tell him of her own accord? The child would make a difference to their marriage, he realised that, and he and Beatrice must try to shape some solidity into their lives—for the child. The child. The mere thought of a child growing inside Beatrice warmed his cold heart until it glowed with something sweet and loving. He felt a thrill of anticipation race through him and his heart gave a leap of excitement. He wanted to reach out for her, to touch and caress that little mound, but his pounding heart told him to be cautious, not to rush things.

He glanced at her face. She seemed preoccupied, troubled, suddenly, and he wondered if she might be considering how best to tell him of her pregnancy.

‘Is there something you wish to tell me, Beatrice?’ he prompted with peculiar gravity.

On a sigh she turned and looked at him. ‘Yes.’

His heart soared. He waited in hope and expectation for what she was to say.

‘It—it’s Astrid, Julius. I am so concerned about her.’

Dumbfounded, Julius stared at her. ‘What? Astrid?’ He sounded stupid. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. ‘What about Astrid?’

‘Aunt Moira is forcing her into marriage with a man almost old enough to be her grandfather. Oh, Julius, I have to help her.’

Julius swallowed down his immense disappointment. ‘You may speak freely. Please tell me the facts. What is the name of the prospective bridegroom?’

‘Lord Alden. I am sure you are acquainted with him.’

‘I am. And has Astrid asked for your help?’

‘No.’

‘Then do you think you should interfere?’

She stiffened. ‘Interfere? I would not call concern for a dear cousin interfering. I’m at my wits’ end trying to work out what to do.’

‘Have you spoken to her?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I have not. Aunt Moira will not let her see me. I’ve seen George on occasion and he is powerless against his mother.’

‘Lady Moira cannot force Astrid to marry against her will.’

‘Yes, she can. Astrid is terrified of her. She is cowed by her mother. She will do what she is told to do. But George tells me that she is suffering greatly. She is making herself ill.’ Moving towards the bed, she sat beside him, moving closer when his arm came round her, and in a small voice, she said, ‘Julius—could you, perhaps…?’

Annoyed that she should feel such concern for her cousin when he was riven with questions about her condition, he lifted his head and looked at her in that lofty manner so characteristic of him. ‘And what would you have me do? Leave it, Beatrice. Do not interfere in this.’

Beatrice held his gaze, stung by his words, but determined to stand her ground to the bitter end. She felt that she was fighting for Astrid’s very life. ‘Do you doubt the seriousness of my cousin’s plight?’

‘I think it might have been exaggerated. Married to Lord Alden, Astrid will be mistress of one of the finest houses in the country and she will find him a generous husband. Beatrice, I will not become involved in this. I will not be used.’

‘And so Astrid will have to suffer a miserable marriage to a lascivious old man so that your good name might be preserved? Shame on you, Julius.’

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. Beatrice stared back at him, outwardly calm while her emotions became a turmoil of anger, fear, exasperation and compassion—and a deep, abiding love for her husband.

Julius scowled, knowing that what she said was right—Alden was a lecherous old man and he couldn’t blame Beatrice for wanting to prevent her gentle cousin from marrying him. ‘All right, Beatrice,’ he said more agreeably. ‘You win. I promise I will give the matter some thought.’

Gently pushing her away, he tossed back the covers. Swinging his long, muscular legs over the side of the bed, he stood up and proceeded to dress, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips when he saw his wife’s face light up with joyous delight. Utterly defeated in this, laughing softly, he strode round the bed and caught her to him, kissing her lips before turning for the door.

‘But think on, my love. Do not strain the bonds of husbandly affection beyond this. Now I will leave you to dress and see you at dinner.’

On a sigh Beatrice sank on to the bed. ‘Julius,’ she said softly. With his hand on the door handle he turned and glanced back at her, hearing the emotion that clogged her voice. ‘Thank you.’

He smiled. ‘For what?’

‘For everything.’

The smile faded from his face, replaced by an expression so intense, so profoundly proud that he could not speak.



Over the days that followed, instead of repairing to Highfield, Julius decided to stay in London for a few weeks to be close to the offices where he conducted his business and for Beatrice to enjoy the position of prestige in society she was entitled to. For the first time in his life he enjoyed the company of a woman—taking her places, showing her off and lavishing expensive gifts on her.

When the novelty of their unconventional marriage had run its course among the members of the ton, they became a favoured couple, much sought after for any social occasion. Invitations arrived at the house in large numbers. They went through them together, laughingly inventing excuses to decline some of the invitations so they could spend their time together in serenity and seduction.

Beatrice’s days were filled with contentment. Her nights were spent in Julius’s bed and the primitive, wild splendour of his lovemaking. He would linger over her with painstaking tenderness, making love to her slowly, prolonging her release, until she had to plead with him to end the wonderful sweet torment. Other times he would reach for her in hunger and take her quickly. She came to learn there was a baseness to him, too, when he would take no denial, when his kisses could be fierce and demanding, his passion all-consuming, leaving her breathless but thoroughly content in the warm security of his embrace.

He taught her many things, one of them being to show him what she wanted. He also taught her the power she had over his body—and how to use it. Always an avid learner, Beatrice put her new-found knowledge into immediate and highly effective use; but, when not stirred to impassioned heights, she would simply nestle in her husband’s arms, feeling the brush of his lips on her brow or a nuzzling kiss against her ear. He was the husband that women dream of having for their own and Beatrice was still stunned by the realisation that he was hers.

Among a society where it was considered unfashionable for husbands and wives to spend all their waking hours together, the Marquess and Marchioness of Maitland—who were rarely seen apart and were clearly very much enamoured of each other in a way that went beyond wedlock—made it fashionable. With collective sighs of envy, society had to admit that they made a striking couple, the marquess incredibly handsome, smiling that lazy approving smile at his beautiful young wife, who seemed to have the ability to make him laugh in a way no one had ever heard him laugh before. And the marquess clearly adored his wife and didn’t care if the whole world knew it. Theirs was a most unusual marriage.





Chapter Nine


Ever since Julius had noticed Beatrice was pregnant he had floundered in a sweet morass of unbelievable joy and hope that would not let him rest—hope that this child would give them an anchorage to settle down. It was so unbelievable. Some instinct warned him not to let her know he knew her secret—if she knew herself. If she did, he was waiting for her to tell him of her own accord.

It was on their wedding night when she had conceived—over four months, yet still she had not said a word. For the first time in his life he was completely bemused by what went on inside a woman’s head. Why hadn’t she told him? A woman must know when she was pregnant—surely? He had been waiting for two weeks, scarcely leaving her side—not that he wanted to—so he might be available when she finally revealed her condition, which couldn’t be long.

The matter came to a head when her horse was brought from Larkhill and she came into the drawing room in her riding habit, her face lit up with excitement. She intended taking Major for some exercise in the park, despite the fact that rain-filled clouds covered London and already heavy splashes could be heard against the drawing-room windows. Julius came alert instantly. He could imagine his wife’s idea of exercising her mount—more like a break-neck gallop clearing any obstacle that confronted her.