Читать книгу The Notorious Countess - Liz Tyner - Страница 9
ОглавлениеBeatrice flipped the paper over, saw no other markings, and then read it again.
A virgin? Lord Andrew? The name was familiar. Perhaps she’d heard it from her brother, but if so that meant he was the duke’s brother.
She folded the paper and tapped the edge against her bottom lip, a scent of masculine spice touching her nose. But he was too old, surely, to be a virgin.
Sniffing the paper, Beatrice remembered the curling warmth she’d first experienced in Riverton’s arms and how precious she’d felt. She grimaced. Those feelings had changed. Riverton had a gift for saying anything a woman wanted to hear, up to and including a marriage proposal.
When he’d told her that her lack of height made her even more beautiful, she’d not minded wearing the slippers with no heels. He’d even complimented the bit of imperfection of her nose being longish and the way her brown hair always curled and curled. He’d sworn sirens must have looked exactly the same to have been able to entrance so many men. Riverton knew exactly what she’d been unsure of and he’d fanned the insecurity away, pulling her into his web.
She’d never again be so daft. But no matter how much she wished otherwise, she’d loved the feeling of being cherished. Of course, she later discovered she’d have been better off falling in love with a maggot-infested rotting carcase. She was hard-pressed to tell the difference.
Now she was left with the memory of betrayal, and how much a man’s caresses could soothe and deceive. And the utter aloneness of being utterly alone. A man could visit a brothel and heads turned the other way, pretending to see nothing. Women, however, had no such meeting place.
She had no wish to court, or do anything to risk another marriage, but she longed to be held. Most widows could be free with their affections—but ones with the notoriety she had didn’t get many requests for late-night waltzes. She hadn’t really been aiming for Riverton’s private parts after he’d released the maid and turned on her instead, but he’d spread that tale from Seven Dials to Bond Street. He’d even claimed to have been asleep at the time.
What man would court a woman who might trim his anatomy while he slept?
To be held again would be nice... But for him to have to pay Tilly? She shut her eyes and shook her head. One could not imagine how ghastly he must look. She shuddered, imagining the popping waistcoat buttons and a scalp with little white flecks outnumbering the strands of hair. Perhaps his nose was longish, too. She gazed in the mirror, turned her head sideways and sighed. Her mother’s nose.
She crumpled the paper slowly. Even for the most dazzling earrings Tilly was terrible to do such a thing.
Or maybe Tilly was lonely. Incredibly lonely. Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself. Snuffed candles could do wonders for a man’s bad complexion. And wine. A lot of wine.
And a duke’s younger brother. She wasn’t sure which duke—most of them were so advanced in years she’d paid more attention to their grandsons than younger brothers or even sons. Surely this one would appreciate a little less than what Tilly would have offered. A virgin could be cuddled and coddled, and would leave thinking he’d been given a quite wonderful treat. She could even give him the little love nibbles that had always sent Riverton into those spasms of bad poetry.
And she would not let his age diminish him in her sight.
The lord might appreciate the care of a sensitive woman. Small niceties. She believed strongly in helping those less fortunate. The needy. The terribly, terribly lonely. Perhaps he was just very shy.
She walked to Tilly’s mirror and reached up, releasing her brown hair to flow around her shoulders. Then she grasped the strands, jerked the hair into a severe knot to capture the curls and jabbed the pins in. Not her best look, she realised, noticing how the bun listed to one side. She’d have to cover her hair anyway.
But if Tilly could wear Beatrice’s clothes, and her perfume, then perhaps Beatrice could wear a mob cap with ties under the chin and take Tilly’s room. And the housekeeper, Mrs Standen, had some hideous frocks stored. A pair of spectacles she used when mending. Even if Beatrice happened to meet the lord later, she doubted he’d recognise her.
Beatrice hoped Mrs Standen wouldn’t mind parting with some of her perfume, too. Beatrice swore the old woman mixed vanilla and cinnamon—because she always smelled as though she’d been rolled in confectioneries. A perfect scent to entice a mature virgin. She’d see if she could turn a sow’s ear into a delightful diversion—and give the poor old man a memory to take to his grave.
He’d never know she was Lady Riverton, or—she snorted—according to the scandal sheets, Beatrice the Beast.
* * *
Andrew ignored the view of the town houses out the carriage window, thinking back to Fox’s words. This was just another example of uncontrolled emotions destroying someone’s life. This woman had let her heart lead her and now that same heart was on the verge of destroying her.
This would not be the first time he’d seen a woman distressed over a man’s perfidy and had to calm her. Fox knew. Andrew had confided in Fox years ago.
But that was the past. Life went on—usually.
He’d taken great pains with his appearance, knowing the importance of creating a look of assurance and authority. Fawsett, his valet, had practically hummed his approval. The white cravat lay just so and the black frock coat accentuated Andrew’s lean form, and fit him with the same precision a suit of armour might. His chin burned from the close shave and the careful application of the shaving soap which reminded him of the mild scent of freshly sawn wood. He inhaled deeply.
He’d been pleased at the maid’s quick appraisal before she skittered away when he’d been leaving his home. He’d seen a certain glint behind her eyes.
The boots, new. The clothing—impeccable. Hair freshly trimmed and he’d had to stop Fawsett to keep him from combing the dark locks into waves.
He stepped down from the conveyance and paused. He recognised the house. He’d not heard the address or he would have known. This was the architect’s house. The one he’d hired to make drawings for the renovations he’d had done. A brute of a man who would have been entirely too tiresome except he was better than Nash. Only his reputation for throttling people who disagreed with his quest for perfection kept him from being the most sought-after architect in England.
But, perhaps a mistake had been made.
He looked to the driver. ‘Are you sure this is the residence Fox mentioned?’
The man nodded. ‘Yes. Foxworthy told me to see you to the servants’ entrance.’
Andrew felt little hiccoughs of despair in his midsection. He hoped this woman was not someone he’d seen before or would be seeing again. He did not want to meet her and feel her embarrassment later when she recalled their conversation.
He trekked the steps which led to the tradesmen’s entrance almost directly under the main door and was one level lower than the street.
He’d barely knocked when the latch opened. A shadowed face stared at him.
Blazes. This was Fox’s amour?
She wore one of the little caps like his grandmother had worn and spectacles, and her hair escaped from under the cap and straggled around her face. The tiny candle she held gave her shadows he supposed he should be thankful for, and the dress—long-sleeved with hanging things and loopy frizzles around her neck. His grandmother would never have worn anything so frightfully odd looking.
Surely she wasn’t—? ‘Tilly?’ he asked.
She raised the candle up, then down, then up again. He’d never seen a candle follow the gaze so.
‘Dash it,’ she muttered and took a step forward, nearly singeing him with the flames. He stepped away from the tiny wick.
‘Tilly?’ he repeated, knowing without any hesitation she was Tilly.
Andrew looked at the spinster, clamped his jaw and then opened his mouth, choosing his words delicately.
She let out a whoosh of air, nearly putting the candle out. He stepped backwards and she lunged, grabbing his sleeve. ‘Inside. Quick.’
He hardly had a choice—she was about to burn him with the flame. He puffed the candle out.
Dragging him into the house by his arm, she muttered, ‘Dark. Pardon. Follow me. I know the way.’
He kept his steps guarded, hoping not to trip over her skirts.
‘Oh, my,’ she muttered, moving towards a narrow band of stairs, pulling him along behind her.
He planted his feet firmly at the base of the stairway used by the servants. ‘Fox is deeply distressed—’
She turned to him, still gripping his sleeve. ‘Shh,’ she whispered. ‘We can talk in...’ she paused ‘...upstairs.’
‘Very well.’ He must accept that she had to guard her reputation.
* * *
She opened the door to a cramped room with a small bed, not big enough for his length. A wardrobe hulked over the space in the corner. A rather unappealing chamber, although it was hard to tell with only an insignificant candle lit—far from the bed. The room had cooled from the day’s heat.
She lit a lamp and placed it beside the candle. Then she pulled the chair closer to the bed, pointing him towards the seat of it. She sat on the bed and held out her arm, indicating he sit. Next, she clasped both hands on her knees.
This was not the shy, grief-stricken woman he’d expected. He sat. ‘You appear to be forgetting about my cousin rather well.’
‘Your cousin?’ She firmed her lips. ‘I am deeply distressed. Very sad.’
‘I thought you might be dejected by his loss of affection.’
‘Yesterday, I was,’ she said, ‘but this morning I woke up all afresh.’
He stood. ‘I am pleased to hear that. I must be leaving—’
She also rose, and then took his hand.
‘I am so desolate.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘Beyond despair.’
He stared at her and she smiled. ‘If it means a chance to keep you here longer,’ she added. ‘Once I saw you standing at the doorway, I completely recovered.’
He examined her face. ‘So you have not really been sorrowful over the loss of Fox in your life.’
‘Fox? Lord Foxworthy?’ She leaned forward. ‘In truth, I danced with him once.’
Andrew didn’t speak.
‘He’s a bit over-fond of himself, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘And wears those indigo waistcoats to make his eyes look bluer. Plus, he flutters his lashes too much when he’s talking.’
‘His mother buys those waistcoats for him and he wears them to please her. Underneath all that nonsense he spouts, he’s not a bad person. Though he has been complimented on his eyes about one hundred times too much for his own good.’
‘Personally...’ she leaned forward ‘...I like a nice brown in eye colour.’ She appraised him. ‘Though it’s hard to tell in this light.’
‘I think there’s been some mistake,’ he said.
‘No mistake,’ she said. ‘And you do not have to, um...’ She shrugged. ‘The earrings. Fox may keep them. I don’t want them. Meeting you is all the reward I need.’
He took in a breath, his thoughts exploded and everything became very clear. ‘I am...so relieved.’ Fox! Andrew would let him choose what clothing he wished to be buried in, and then Andrew would assist with the final arrangement of his cousin’s body.
She put a hand near her face and fanned as she stared at him. ‘I could see you as a knight, or a conqueror. Something majestic. But I am sure you hear that all the time.’
He needed to make sure she knew this was not a transaction. Nor was it to be an adventure such as in the sordid tales Fox told. ‘I think you might have formed a wrong conclusion.’
‘Yes.’ In the dimly lit room her teeth flashed. ‘I thought you might be rather...um, unsightly. Rather old.’
‘Speaking of age...’ He stepped into the middle of the room. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
She moved farther from him. Her mouth opened, but she didn’t speak.
‘Age?’ he repeated.
‘Twenty-six. Barely.’
‘You jest.’ Maybe ten years ago.
‘I assure you,’ she plucked the spectacles from her face and leaned closer. Then she paused and her eyes remained on him, but her head turned to the side. Her voice softened. ‘You did not think I could be twenty-six?’
Without the eyepiece, he could tell she was younger than he’d first thought. His courtesies did not desert him, although his honesty did. ‘I cannot believe you a day over twenty-three.’
She placed the spectacles on the nightstand, then gave a pleased tilt of her head, smiling. ‘And your age?’
‘Two years older than you.’
‘Perfect,’ she said, touching a hand to her face.
A spot of red darkness showed on her knuckles. Surely this lady had not injured herself over Fox? He could not pull his eyes away. ‘What is that?’
She raised her hand, looking at the back. ‘Vermilion.’ She shrugged. ‘I painted this morning. Just a miniature I am working on. I have a few supplies here.’
He breathed again.
Her fingers reached out and clasped his.
For a moment they both stood motionless, the room soundless.
‘I expected—’ She seemed to have trouble with her words. ‘I didn’t expect you to be so... Well, I thought you’d be more— You’re not—’
At her appraisal, pleasure sparked in his body.
She exhaled a breath that came out as a sigh. ‘Oh, my.’ She peered at him. ‘You’ve legs like a racehorse—only more my speed.’
He tipped his head in recognition of her compliment. Women did not comment on a man’s legs, but he was quite willing to let her continue.
‘And shoulders.’ Her hand still held his, but the free one patted along the top of his coat. ‘Hard to believe.’
He concealed his smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘A reward. For me.’ She chuckled and released his fingers. She clasped her hands at her chest, almost bubbling her words out. ‘I am so very grateful. I did not expect a man anything like you.’
‘You’ll get the earrings,’ he said. ‘But they will be from me. Not my cousin Foxworthy. And simply a gift of friendship. Nothing else.’
She tiptoed up and spoke, her lips almost against his ear, and the wine scent of her breath touched his nose. ‘I will treasure the gift. A memento of a wonderful meeting. Between friends.’ Her hands patted down his arms, then moved to his chest and gave little brushes. ‘Lord Andrew, I would have found time to get away from my painting had I realised men like you were about.’
She leaned closer. She smelled of—not some jarring scent which spoke of illicit pleasures, but wholesomeness. Of home and hearth.
She wobbled a bit and he steadied her, both hands on her waist. She must have had a considerable amount of wine.
‘I should leave,’ he said, still holding her. The garment bunched under his touch. She felt like a wraith under her clothing. The dress did not fit her at all.
‘Yes, you should. But not just now.’ She melted against him with a satisfied, ‘Ah...’ that he could feel from his chest to his heels. ‘Let me enjoy this moment. It has been a very long time since—’ she had her arms around his waist ‘—never.’
‘Never?’
‘Well, never like you. You’re all sturdy. And you smell a bit like a tree. I’ve never been near a man who smells like a forest.’
Rivers of warmth flowed in his body and he moved carefully, trying to keep her clothing from gathering under his hands and letting the shape of the woman underneath wisp into his mind. She had a nicely rounded derrière. Perfect, in fact.
But that didn’t matter. He needed to leave. Now.
He stepped back as he moved to extricate her hands, but she stumbled. He steadied her.
‘Did you drink an awful lot?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I was rather enjoying being close to you and wanted to continue. If you would just stand there a moment longer. Small price to pay. Much less expensive than earrings and, from my perspective, better than any jewellery.’
The door seemed to be getting further away.
With the delicacy of handling an eggshell, but the firmness of his strength, he took her arms and held her erect while he moved back. ‘I must be going. I have a cousin to throttle.’
She gasped. Her smile evaporated. ‘Well, that was a slap across my face.’
He didn’t move. ‘I would never—’
She interlaced her fingers. ‘I would have preferred you to have said something along the lines of, I must go now. I wish to thank Foxworthy for the chance to meet you.’ She slid her hands apart and her fingers splayed, before she waved him away. ‘Never mind.’
‘Miss Tilly, I did not mean any offence.’
She took in a breath so big he was surprised any air remained for him to breathe.
‘Ohhhh. Never mind. Truly. Never mind.’ Her hands flared out at the sides of her body. ‘What you said reminded me of quite a few very unpleasant things.’
He took her hands, not saying a word until her fingers relaxed. ‘I would not wish to remind you of anything bad. And I am not the least upset at Fox for engineering the chance to meet you. I am only displeased that he tricked me.’
‘I would not really rate that as high on the betrayal scale as some things a cousin could do. And I suspect my cousin has been quite the little vindictive wench in my life. She always has been so sweet to my face. So kind, and yet, now that I look back, I suspect on those moments she was kindest, she was really most cruel.’ She bit her lip for a second. ‘I just realised that I have been befriended for years by someone who possibly delighted in every bit of misfortune I have had.’
She turned, folding her arms across her chest, and looking to the wall. ‘Perhaps you should go now. I have a cousin to throttle.’
She shivered. He didn’t know why, but the movement reminded him of a little bird who’d fallen from the nest. He couldn’t very well leave and not put her back on firm footing.
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he rubbed softly, soothing the tremors. He leaned down, lips close to her ear. Voice soothing, he said, ‘Simple fix, really. I’ll introduce your cousin to mine. It will all work out. They’ll take care of themselves for us.’
‘Oh,’ she said, leaning back against him, moving so her face was only inches from his. ‘I suspect they have already met...’
‘Then we must make certain they see more of each other.’
‘You’re perfect. Handsome and vengeful all in one.’
He wrapped her in his arms. He had no choice. ‘Not normally. Handsome, that is.’
‘Modest, too.’
‘Extremely.’ They stood so close, comfortable, as if they’d been friends for years. She caused the most satisfying warmth in his body. ‘But I really must go. And I am pleased Fox provided me this opportunity.’
The door didn’t get closer. Wasn’t really his fault. And this was an innocent encounter. The mob cap reminded him to take care. A woman in a cap did not incite any desires in his body—much. He brushed his face against the cloth and his hands clasped at her waist. The fabric of her gown bunched under his fingers. He smoothed it gently.
‘Are you by chance in search of a mistress?’ she asked. ‘I would like to apply for the post. Temporarily only.’
‘No. I want no entanglements.’
She squeaked.
She pulled away, her warmth leaving his body, but she turned and, even in their closeness, threw herself against him, holding him with all her might. ‘No entanglements. Vengeful, and legs to spare. This is too perfect. I am dreaming.’ She relaxed away from him, put her hand up, feeling his jawline, running her hand up until her fingers nestled in his hair. She chuckled. ‘You can be in my dreams any time.’
‘I would be honoured. But...’ he placed a kiss on her nose, surprising them both ‘...I must arise early in the morning.’
‘I completely understand.’ Her breath touched his lips.
‘Goodbye.’ At the end of the word, their lips met. Nothing mattered but holding her. Their kiss ended, but only barely.
‘It was nice to meet you,’ she whispered against his skin.
Andrew let his fingers drop over the hooks at the back of her gown, amazed at how easily the clasps slipped open. ‘Likewise.’
She pressed against him, causing his desire to rampage. The pulses of heat in his body could have melted carriage wheels.
One of her slender fingers traced down, stopping at the knot of his cravat. ‘I do not understand how you men wear such things. They look so stifling.’
‘I hadn’t noticed it before. But you’re right. It’s decidedly warm.’
‘And it will be much—cooler in here if you remove it.’
Reason entered his thoughts. He could not risk the morass of passion.
But then azure eyes flickered at him and lips parted, and he was looking down into a perfect face. He cupped his hands to her cheeks just to hold her for a moment. Tilting her head back, he pressed his mouth against hers. Nothing in the world mattered, but Tilly.
Her body pressed into his arousal. She shivered and kicked her shoes away.
Then she snuggled close again and he reached down, tilting her chin up so he could see her lips. Luscious red, full, shaped with promise for a man’s gaze.
A promise they delivered on. No other woman had kissed him with the innocent abandon she had.
This woman was worth waiting for. But he didn’t want to wait. He’d waited a damn lifetime and a half. He could wait—later. The last hooks fell away at his fingertips and this time when she stumbled, he fell with her on to the bed, cushioning their fall with his hands. They were half on the bed, half off.
Putting a knee on the bed, he slid her to its centre, looking into the most the angelic form he’d ever seen.
She half-sat. Her hand stopped just before she reached her lips. She moistened her fingertip with her tongue. Then rubbed her finger at the fullest part of her bottom lip. Placing a kiss on her finger, she blew it in his direction.
She reached down, slowly, bringing her dress up the length of her legs. The creamy whiteness contrasted with the room. She lifted her skirt higher, and higher, and he could not move. She stopped, just before unveiling herself completely, and he was frozen, awake but dreaming.
Her knees moved apart, the fabric of her gown sliding down, covering the valley between her legs. ‘I want to be the first thing you think of when you wake tomorrow.’
He regained the use of his voice. ‘I can assure you, you will be the first and only woman I think of tomorrow.’
He reached for the cravat at the same time as he heard a muted irate voice, and footsteps outside the door. And he was too far from the candles to snuff them.
‘—and then she threw me out bodily and told me she would send my things to Mother’s, but I want my clothing now—’ The screeching voice stopped and a strange woman stepped inside, followed by a man he knew.
The pair became immobile. The architect took up the entire doorway.
‘Pardon me,’ Andrew said, giving a light bow.
‘Oh, my,’ the woman with the lamp said, then she smiled and looked up at the man beside her. She turned her eyes back to the bed. ‘For shame.’ She snickered.
‘Tilly. Leave.’ The man’s voice sliced the air into slivers.
Andrew looked to the bed. Tilly didn’t move. The woman with the lamp, however, put her hand on the door facing. ‘I guess you may as well send my things. I don’t need them as badly as I thought. I need to have a few words with Mother. And she thinks I’m— Ha!’ She waved. ‘Farewell.’
She flounced out.
Andrew looked on the bed at Tilly and saw that her skirts had managed to slip down to demurely cover her knees, and she reached up to push the shoulder of her dress correct, but it didn’t stay.
‘Wilson,’ he inserted, moving a step towards the bed, shielding Tilly’s body from view. ‘I understand your wish for decorum in your household and I regret the display, but I do believe Tilly’s mistress is away and she is not needed, and we were just leaving.’
‘Get. Away. From. Her.’ Wilson’s fists clenched and his eyes had a cold stare.
The woman pushed herself up and she stared at the architect. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ she asked.
Andrew looked to the bed. A companion should not speak so to the master of the house. ‘Tilly?’
Andrew dodged the fist. Heard the woman scream ‘No’ behind him, and then next thing he knew, she’d thrown herself between them.
Just as deftly Andrew moved her aside. He stood ready to flatten the other man.
‘Will,’ she snapped out from behind Andrew. ‘You shouldn’t be in Tilly’s room.’
‘My house!’ Wilson growled. ‘Lord Andrew, I do not know how you convinced my sister to dress in such attire to satisfy some strange craving you might have. I would never have thought you leaned that direction.’
Hell, Andrew thought as another realisation erupted inside him. He had erred. Just like his father. But he was not wed and he would not disgrace Tilly. ‘This woman and I,’ Andrew said, ‘are extremely fond of each other and are considering marriage.’
‘As if I’d let you marry her—’ Wilson exploded.
‘She’s old enough to decide for herself,’ Andrew said, his fists ready. ‘She’s on the shelf.’
‘She’s a widow,’ Wilson said.
Andrew lowered his hands and looked at her. Wilson had called her his sister. A widow. He’d heard of her. Thoughts pounded in his ears. This woman was not Tilly. ‘Beatrice the—?’
‘I would not continue that sentence,’ the woman on the bed told him, standing and smoothing down her skirt. Her mouth had a feral twist. ‘Else you will see what a beast I can truly be.’
* * *
The only sound since Andrew and Wilson entered the library had been the pouring and sloshing of liquid. The room couldn’t have been much wider than the length of two carriages, yet Andrew wagered his brother’s ducal town house lacked the same refinement. The filigree pattern of the gold had been subtly recreated in the weave of the curtains. Even the door panels had matching designs. Only the painting by the sconces jarred the room’s decor—an odd scene of a woodland frenzy with a growling bear, a badger-type animal and a dragon poised for combat.
The cabinet set back into the wall where the decanters rested wasn’t only to store things, but to display beautiful glass. Andrew stood at one edge of it, the architect at the other.
Andrew waited for Beatrice to join them. Wilson had insisted she change from what he’d referred to as her costume.
Beatrice the Beast. He’d nearly pounced on Beatrice the Beast. Not surprising, really. He’d let down his guard.
‘A marriage will be forthcoming,’ Andrew said. ‘I will not tarnish a gentlewoman’s reputation. It is unforgivable.’
‘I suppose she could do worse.’ Wilson broke the silence. ‘She has, in fact. Riverton. Thought an earl would do better by her than he did. Sad he died so. First, he waited too long after the wedding. When he did fall ill, he didn’t suffer enough. The bumble berry didn’t even appreciate good design when he saw it. If not for the generous marriage settlement on Beatrice and the provisions in his will... Still, I didn’t see how much of a scoundrel he’d become or I’d never have let him near Beatrice. Would have cracked him like a chestnut.’ He thumped his glass on to the wood and stared at Andrew. Wilson’s eyes reflected the sheen of brandy.
Andrew quirked his lips. ‘I certainly hope for Beatrice’s sake you could tackle something larger than a chestnut.’
‘I’m sure I could.’
Andrew moved, reaching for the decanter to pour more brandy into Wilson’s glass. He let his brandied breath reach the architect’s face. ‘If you need any help defending your sister, let me know. I will certainly be able to crack any chestnuts.’
Wilson’s brows acknowledged the statement. ‘Only reason I agreed to draw plans for you,’ Wilson said, ‘was because you appreciate a good design.’ His brows snapped together. ‘Look how you’ve repaid me. I created a masterpiece for you and you—’
‘I made an error, but I will correct it. I thought she was—someone else.’ He paused. ‘She is a fascinating woman.’ Andrew put the glass to his lips, let the brandy rest in his mouth, and then swallowed. ‘Even with the cap, she does burst into a person’s notice.’
‘You’re the first man I know of she’s shown any interest in since Riverton courted her, wed her and finally did the one decent thing of his life and died. Beatrice has such a sense of honour that she made me swear not to kill him.’ He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘My trusting sister. If I were capable of murdering Riverton, I could certainly lie about it.’
The architect lifted the decanter. He poured more liquid, then thumped the container against the table top. ‘And you must know of the nickname she’s gathered in the papers because of the unfortunate incident with the scissors. It didn’t help when not too long after she hit Riverton’s carriage with a parasol because the lightskirt he’d loaned it to made such a spectacle of showing up at the house. Beatrice’s home.’ He swallowed a drink. ‘My sister’s actions catch every eye.’
‘With the scissors, she near cut her husband’s—leg off.’
Wilson shook his head. ‘Exaggeration. He healed. And he deserved it. At the time I was disappointed in her for not doing more damage.’ The architect’s eyes focused on Andrew and his voice burned into the air. ‘I dare say Beatrice would have little reason to dismember you. You keep your cards well hidden.’
Andrew nodded. He preferred to live his own life and not let others live it vicariously through the scandal sheets. He’d seen enough suffering because of their sharp-edged ink.
The architect shrugged. ‘You can’t be as bad as Riverton, or whatever else she might pull out from under a dustbin. I admit, Riverton presented well and I thought he would make a better husband than he did.’
The door crashed back and Beatrice swayed in, perched on slippers which would topple a lesser woman.
She waved an arm, ‘I hope you two have settled your differences. I must get a letter written to Mother so when she reads of this, she’ll not feel the need to interfere.’
She had a dazzling smile, chin out, and just the whisper of what might have been tears at her eyes.
‘Your brother and I have discussed this, Lady Riverton, and I would like to talk with you alone.’
Andrew knew he’d lost control in the bedchamber and she would not suffer for it. He would not repeat his father’s mistakes. Although he harboured no animosity towards his father, he retained the rage of how innocents could be hurt because someone else traipsed through mud and sloshed it in all directions. He would not cause anyone pain or embarrassment because of his actions.
‘No need.’ She raised her hand, fingers splayed, and rotated her wrist. ‘The scandal sheets need to fill their papers. People must have something to talk about. Better me than their neighbours.’ She moved her head, then stilled a moment as if posing for a drawing. ‘And I do make for a good tale.’
