Beauty in Breeches(40)

Julius’s hand went out to her. His face was strangely gentle and his amber eyes softened and were filled with compassion and warmth. They told of his own regret, not that her father was dead and that she truly believed he had killed him, but that it should give pain to her.

But Beatrice would have none of his concern and her cold, narrowed eyes told him so. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she spat.

He drew back his hand. ‘Your father did not shoot himself—I can tell you that—but there is more to it than that, Beatrice.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘I—I cannot tell you,’ he said haltingly, finding it almost impossible to think of that night when his whole world had fallen apart, let alone speak of it. For a moment his mask slipped and Beatrice glimpsed fleetingly his inner pain, that he seemed deeply troubled and genuinely at a loss. But then the mask was back in place.

‘But if you want me to believe you, you must.’

‘I—cannot.’

‘Then if you cannot defend yourself, I am not interested in anything further you have to say.’ She turned from him and walked across the room to the door. ‘There is nothing more to be said. I want to be by myself—to think about what I’m going to do—away from here. Away from you.’

Julius’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just exactly what is that supposed to mean?’

‘That I’d rather die than live in the same house as the man who killed my father. I am going to Larkhill—without you. I suppose it was your guilty conscience that prompted you to return it to me.’

‘No, it was because I wanted very much to give you back the equivalent of what was taken from you.’

‘Then I suppose I must be grateful for that at least.’

‘I am sorry, Beatrice, if I have hurt you. I regret that, but please believe me when I say that I desire only your peace and happiness. Do not forget that.’

She turned and looked at him. ‘It is not enough to say you’re sorry, to try to make amends, hoping to wipe out everything you have done,’ she said, stiff with pride and anger. ‘You should have thought of all this before you robbed my father to add to your own fortunes and then killed him. Now it is too late, do you hear, too late! How can I possibly remain married to you knowing this? I will keep Larkhill, but I would rather die a thousand deaths than take anything else from you! Can’t you understand that I hate you?’

She flung the last words in his face and had the bitter satisfaction of seeing him whiten. She triumphed in it, rejoiced in it, hoping for some sign of weakness which would put him absolutely at her mercy, but Julius Chadwick was a man of steel and did not know how to weaken. He merely shrugged and turned away from her.

‘I shall leave for Larkhill at first light. Please don’t try to stop me.’

‘I won’t.’ The fact that she had been so quick to believe the worst of him cut through his heart like a knife, leaving him with a dark sense of having been betrayed. He knew that by not telling her everything he was being unreasonable, but he just couldn’t help himself. Even if their marriage had been a travesty at the beginning, he had become comfortable with the idea of her being his wife and was reluctant to let her go.

‘Go if you feel you must—after this I am sure you can’t wait to leave me, but I will never divorce you,’ Julius continued dispassionately, immune to the wrathful expression on her beautiful face. ‘We will discuss the course of our future at a later date, but until then we have a child to consider and it will be raised by both a mother and a father.’

One look at his face convinced Beatrice that he was absolutely furious with her. Not only were his eyes glinting with icy shards, but the muscles in his cheeks were tensing and vibrating to a degree that she had never seen before.

She drew an infuriated breath. ‘As you said, we will discuss the course of our future another time. Goodbye, Julius.’ With that she swept out of the room, leaving him staring after her. She did not see the move he made towards her, or his look of angry pain and suffering, or hear the sigh of bitter defeat he uttered when she closed the door.

With a sense of burning betrayal and seething anger at her husband’s terrible crime, fighting back scalding tears of hurt, Beatrice hurried to her room—to pack, she decided, for if he wasn’t going to tell her the truth, she would not remain in the same house as a liar and a murderer.

In her wretched suffering she lay awake, hearing sounds of her husband moving about his room behind the closed connecting doors. It went on all night, which told her that he too was unable to sleep. She wanted to call out to him, wanted desperately to feel his arms around her, but she could not do it.



Dawn found her huddled in the comforting warm refuge of her cloak as the coach left the house. On the point of leaving, a letter addressed to her was delivered. It was from Astrid. Not until the coach had left London behind did Beatrice open it. It was as she had expected. Astrid had run away with Henry Talbot. They were in Scotland, at Gretna Green, where they had married. Astrid went on to tell her that they were deliriously happy. Things would be hard for a while since they had no money, but Henry’s parents had agreed that they could live with them for the time being.

Beatrice was happy for Astrid and sincerely hoped her cousin would find happiness wed to the man of her choice. She could well imagine how the news would be received by her aunt and had no doubt that she would turn her back on her daughter and cut her off without a penny.

It was raining hard and clouds the colour of pewter brushed the rooftops of London, the streets blacker than midnight. The roads were bad, as bad as Beatrice had expected when she’d embarked on this journey, and the rain showed no sign of relenting. But she was oblivious to the cold and the discomforts of the journey the closer she got to Larkhill.

She had closed her eyes and listened to the pounding hooves of the horses and the pounding of her heart. The familiar pain of betrayal was still present, but after hours of thoughtful contemplation in a more rational frame of mind she had the feeling that something was not quite right. Had she really married a monster, a murderer? In her mind she could see Julius smiling down at her, hear his voice filled with need. Could the man who had held her so tenderly and loved her with such unbridled passion really have killed her father? Was he really capable of doing that and then making that man’s daughter his wife?

Nothing rang true. In the confused and heated aftermath of her aunt’s disclosure, when her emotions had veered between hysterical panic and shaking irrationality, when she had questioned him and accused him so fiercely, his replies had been tentative, almost painful, and she began to suspect that there was something he had not told her—that even now he was deliberately keeping something from her. He had not denied murdering her father, but then, he hadn’t admitted it either. He had admitted being there at the time, but that didn’t mean he was responsible.

Recalling the moment when the mask had slipped from his face and he had seemed at a loss to know how to answer her questions, she asked herself why. She knew it was not out of coldness.

It was out of fear.

But what was he afraid of? Himself? It was strange how that one look she had seen on his face could cause everything to shift, to put everything into place. Julius wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t mistaken in that. She had been too ready to judge. Had she misjudged him? And if she had, would he ever be able to forgive her?



As the coach swung up the drive to Larkhill, she vividly remembered her confession to him of how she had fallen in love with him and how quickly he had silenced her. She had known he did not love her, but there were times when he made love to her that gave her reason to believe he was coming to that conclusion. She wished she hadn’t left him. She wished she was with him now so that she could tell him she was mistaken and apologise for being too ready to condemn him.

By the time the coach stopped in front of the house, so convinced was she of Julius’s innocence that she was tempted to tell the driver to turn and head back for London, but out of consideration for the tired horses and driver, she decided against it. She would spend one night at Larkhill and then she would take a leap of faith all the way back to her husband.





Chapter Ten


The man who stood at his bedroom window watched his wife climb into the waiting coach. The hood of her cloak protected her head from the driving rain, denying him one last look at her lovely face. As if she sensed he was there, she paused and raised her head in that regal way of hers, the crisp wind flirting with the cluster of curls escaping their confines, before dropping her eyes without looking back, gathering her cloak about her and climbing inside.

His face impassive, Julius watched the coach pull away, but inside everything was shattering, bleeding, draining the life out of him, for without Beatrice it had no meaning.

He had been a fool not to tell her what she wanted to know, but, dear Lord, apart from James and Constance Merrick, he had never told another living soul about what had happened on the night Beatrice’s father had died. He would tell her, that he had decided. He would tell her every sordid detail, no matter how painful, because he now realised that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.