Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(61)

The past two years had taught him differently.

In the case of Leo, however, Beatrix assured Christopher that in spite of his sharp tongue, Leo was a caring and loyal brother. “You’ll come to like him very well,” she said. “But it’s no surprise that you feel more comfortable around Cam—you’re both foxes.”

“Foxes?” Christopher had repeated, amused.

“Yes. I can always tell what kind of animal a person would be. Foxes are hunters, but they don’t rely on brute strength. They’re subtle and clever. Fond of outwitting others. And although they sometimes travel far, they always like to come back to a snug, safe home.”

“I suppose Leo is a lion,” Christopher said dryly.

“Oh, yes. Dramatic, demonstrative, and he hates being ignored. And sometimes he’ll take a swipe at you. But beneath the sharp claws and the growls, he’s still a cat.”

“What animal are you?”

“A ferret. We can’t help collecting things. When we’re awake, we’re very busy, but we also like to be still for long periods.” She grinned at him. “And ferrets are very affectionate.”

Christopher had always imagined that his household would be run with order and precision by a proper wife who would oversee every detail. Instead it seemed there was going to be a wife who strode about in breeches while animals roamed, waddled, crept, or hopped through every room.

He was fascinated by Beatrix’s competence at things women were not usually competent at. She knew how to use a hammer or a plane tool. She rode better than any woman he had ever seen, and possibly better than any man. She had an original mind, an intelligence woven of recall and intuition. But the more Christopher learned about Beatrix, the more he perceived the vein of insecurity that ran deep in her. A sense of otherness that often inclined her toward solitude. He thought that perhaps it had something to do with her parents’ untimely deaths, especially her mother’s, which Beatrix had felt as an abandonment. And perhaps it was partly a result of the Hathaways’ having been pushed into a social position they had never been prepared for. Being in the upper classes wasn’t merely following a set of rules, it was a way of thinking, of carrying oneself and interacting with the world, that had to be instilled since birth. Beatrix would never acquire the sophistication of the young women who had been raised in the aristocracy.

That was one of the things he loved most about her.

The day after he had proposed to Beatrix, Christopher had reluctantly gone to talk to Prudence. He was prepared to apologize, knowing that he had not been fair in his dealings with her. However, any trace of remorse he might have felt for having deceived Prudence vanished as soon as he saw that Prudence felt no remorse for having deceived him.

It had not been a pleasant scene, to say the least. A plum-colored flush of rage had swept across her face, and she had stormed and shrieked as if she were unhinged.

“You can’t throw me over for that dark-haired gargoyle and her freakish family! You’ll be a laughingstock. Half of them are Gypsies, and the other half are lunatics—they have few connections and no manners, they’re filthy peasants and you’ll regret this to the end of your days. Beatrix is a rude, uncivilized girl who will probably give birth to a litter.”

As she had paused to take a breath, Christopher had replied quietly, “Unfortunately, not everyone can be as refined as the Mercers.”

The shot had gone completely over Prudence’s head, of course, and she had continued to scream like a fishwife.

And an image had appeared in Christopher’s head . . . not the usual ones of the war, but a peaceful one . . . Beatrix’s face, calm and intent, as she had tended a wounded bird the previous day. She had wrapped the broken wing of a small sparrow against its body, and then showed Rye how to feed the bird. As Christopher had watched the proceedings, he had been struck by the mixture of delicacy and strength in Beatrix’s hands.

Bringing his attention back to the ranting woman before him, Christopher pitied the man who eventually became Prudence’s husband.

Prudence’s mother had come into the parlor then, alarmed by the uproar, and she had tried to soothe her. Christopher had taken his leave soon after, regretting every minute he had ever wasted in Prudence Mercer’s company.

A week and a half later, all of Stony Cross had been startled by the news that Prudence had eloped with one of her longtime suitors, a member of the local gentry.

The morning of the elopement, a letter had been delivered to Ramsay House, addressed to Beatrix. It was from Prudence. The letter was blotched and angrily scrawled, filled with accusations and dire predictions, and more than a few misspellings. Troubled and guilt-ridden, Beatrix had shown it to Christopher.

His mouth twisted as he tore it in half and gave it back to Beatrix. “Well,” he said conversationally, “she’s finally written a letter to someone.”

Beatrix tried to look reproving, but a reluctant laugh escaped her. “Don’t make jest of the situation. I feel so awfully guilty.”

“Why? Prudence doesn’t.”

“She blames me for taking you away from her.”

“I was never hers in the first place. And this isn’t some game of pass-the-parcel.”

That made her grin. “If you’re the parcel,” she said, giving him a suggestive glance, “I would like to unwrap you.”