Beauty in Breeches(37)

‘I don’t think you should,’ he said, putting his newspaper aside.

‘Why ever not?’ Beatrice said, pulling on her gloves. ‘Major will be feeling so frustrated after the journey. A good blow out will do him the world of good. We both need the exercise. Come with us if you like. I’d love it if you would.’

‘No, Beatrice, not today. Besides, it’s raining.’ He spoke softly, patiently, while squaring his broad shoulders and preparing to do battle, knowing his refusal to allow her to ride would more than likely send her back into the stubbornness, the mutinous obstinacy she had shown at the beginning of their relationship.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Julius. Since when did a little rain put you off?’ Picking up her crop, she walked to the door.

‘Beatrice,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I said I would prefer it if you didn’t ride today.’

Hearing a warning note in his voice, she turned and looked back at him, her dark scowl telling him not to start ordering her about—or trying to. ‘But I must ride. I can’t sit about all day, as you have had me do ever since I came back from Larkhill. I shall go out of my mind if I don’t get out of the house. You can’t deprive me of the pleasure I get from riding.’

‘I have no wish to, but what if your horse takes it into his head to bolt?’

‘He won’t—and if he did I can deal with it. I do know my horse, Julius. You of all people know that.’

‘Nevertheless I would prefer it if you did not ride him,’ he told her firmly, tempted to say that he didn’t want her gallivanting about Hyde Park taking risks. This was his child and, by God, he was going to see it born. ‘I’ve told the grooms they are not to saddle him. When he needs exercise they will do it.’

‘Goodness me, aren’t you the fierce one today,’ she remarked crossly. ‘I might as well tell you now that I will not take orders from you or a groom, and if necessary I shall saddle my horse myself.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, going to stand in front of her, trying to put some warmth into his voice so as not to antagonise her. ‘What if you were to take a tumble?’

‘I won’t.’

No, he thought, she wouldn’t. She was the best horsewoman he knew, but his judgement was tempered not with admiration, but with fear.

Perplexed by his refusal to let her ride and his strange mood, Beatrice frowned up at him. ‘Julius, what on earth is the matter with you? There’s nothing unusual in my riding out—and I promise to take one of the grooms with me if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘No, it isn’t that,’ he replied sharply. ‘You can hardly expect to get up on that horse and go galloping in the park when you are in a delicate condition. Have you not the sense to safeguard your child—our child?’

She stared up at him in disbelief, then laughed, thinking he was being ridiculous. ‘Forgive me, but I’m not sure I take your meaning. Child? What are you talking about?’

‘That I know you are pregnant, Beatrice.’

‘I am? How do you know?’

‘Your own body provided me with the announcement of my impending fatherhood.’

‘A baby? But—I can’t be. I mean—I feel so well. In fact, I’ve never felt better in my life. When you’re having a baby you’re… Oh dear! I think I may have put on a little weight but—a baby?’

Slowly shaking her head, feeling as if her legs were about to buckle under her, she sank into a chair, trying to get her head round what Julius had said. Could it be true and, if so, how could she possibly not have known? Her monthly fluxes had always been irregular—although now she came to think of it she’d seen nothing for—how long?—three months. Her breasts were tender, but she had thought that was just blooming womanhood. Her stomach was still taut, yet her clothes had seemed a little tight of late.

‘Dear me, if I am with child then—then I must be four months,’ she whispered. ‘It must have happened on our wedding night.’ She placed her hands to her scarlet cheeks. ‘I cannot believe I didn’t know.’ Her eyes flew to Julius, who was gazing down at her with all the love and tenderness he felt for her there in his eyes. ‘But I might not be. It’s not certain.’

‘We’ll get the doctor to confirm it,’ he murmured, squatting down beside her and taking her hand. ‘But I do think you are, my darling. You really didn’t know?’

Smiling while close to tears, she shook her head. ‘No—but you did. How stupid is that?’

Getting to his feet, Julius laughed softly, pulling her up and gathering her to him. ‘Not stupid, my love. Just a little—naïve, I think. But think about it—how wonderful it will be,’ he murmured into her sweet-scented hair, the mere thought warming his heart.

‘How long have you known?’ Beatrice asked, her cheek against his hard chest, still unable to believe it and yet at the same time feeling a thrill of anticipation race through her. Her heart gave a leap of excitement in her chest, for Julius was acknowledging it and, even more wonderful, was saying he did not mind.

‘Since the night you came back from Larkhill. I wanted to ask you, but I felt you might want to choose your own time to tell me. You would have told me, wouldn’t you—had you realised it yourself?’ He smiled wryly when she turned her face up to his in dreaming contemplation.

She returned his smile tremulously. ‘I could hardly not, could I?’

‘And you are not unhappy about it?’ he said, as he traced his finger along the elegant curve of her cheek.

‘Deliriously happy,’ she murmured, her eyes aglow with love. ‘And you were right to tell me not to ride. I would not wish to harm the baby.’

‘You won’t—if you ride at a gentle pace. I’ll accompany you tomorrow. Hopefully the sun will be shining by then.’

‘It already is,’ she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to hers. ‘For us.’

‘I have something to give you.’ Disentangling her arms, he went to a table. Picking up a flat packet which looked as if it might contain papers, he brought it to her.

Beatrice took it, looking at it and then at him in bemusement. ‘What is it?’

‘My belated wedding present to you.’

Tentatively she opened it and pulled out some papers, yellow with age. She was hardly able to believe what she saw. ‘But—these look like the deeds for Larkhill. But I—I don’t understand.’

‘They are the deeds, Beatrice. I told you I had no intention of keeping the estate. I have made the property over to the person to whom it rightly belongs. You.’

When Beatrice realised what he had done, she was overwhelmed with gratitude and love. Reaching her arms around his powerful shoulders and burying her face in his neck, she murmured, ‘Thank you so much. I can’t find the words to tell you how much this means to me. I really don’t deserve you.’

The naked anguish in her voice brought a constriction to his throat. Threading his fingers through her hair, he framed her face between his hands and gazed at her. ‘I don’t deserve you, my love,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Dear God, I don’t.’



Some days later, Julius had business to attend to at his offices, so Beatrice was alone when an unexpected and unwelcome visitor arrived. It was mid-morning, too early in the day for visitors, so Beatrice was surprised to see her Aunt Moira. Beatrice felt a chill steal across her heart when her aunt breezed into the room. She gave no greeting, save a slight inclination of her head.

Beatrice received her with the utmost politeness. ‘Aunt Moira, this is an unexpected surprise. I hope you are well. I had no idea you were in London.’

‘Why should you?’ Lady Standish began in her authoritarian, yet ladylike way. Without being invited to do so she sat, stiff backed, her hand resting on her brass-knobbed walking cane. ‘This is not a social call, Beatrice. I am here out of necessity, not because I choose to be. You will understand the reason why I am here.’

Sitting stiffly opposite, Beatrice looked at her aunt with unaffected astonishment. ‘Forgive me, Aunt, but I don’t.’

‘I have come to fetch my daughter home. I assume this is where she is hiding out.’

Beatrice stared at her in disbelief. ‘Astrid? But—she is not here.’

‘No?’

It was clear her aunt did not believe her, but if Astrid was not at Standish House and she had not come to Beatrice, then where was she? ‘No, Aunt Moira, she is not. When did she leave home?’

‘Three days ago. She left the house to visit a neighbour for a musical afternoon and did not come back.’

‘Then—is it possible that she might have met with an accident?’

‘No. Enquiries were made. Some of her clothes are missing, which tells me she has run off.’