Beatrice halted, bending her right leg several times to stretch the muscle. A hot bath was in order the moment she returned home.
Horrible wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the creature she’d once been. Beatrice had a host of regrets. So many, she’d taken to writing them down lest she forget.
Andromeda, Duchess of Granby was on that list.
There were others, of course. The poor younger son of a marquess who had a very pronounced overbite. He’d reminded her of a rabbit. She’d mocked him, in front of his friends, at a ball, and he’d tried to harm himself after. Or Miss Elkins, a slightly plump young girl who had only ever wanted to be Beatrice’s friend and been treated unkindly for her efforts. The lady’s maid, Mattie May, who’d burned the side of Beatrice’s neck with curling tongs because she was new and terrified of Beatrice’s mother, Lady Foxwood. She’d been sacked without a reference.
“The list of my sins is never ending, Cicero.”
Unexpected accidents have a way of putting things into perspective. Pinned beneath Castlemare’s second best carriage, half-drowned, her blood flowing into the river from lacerations on her face and neck, Beatrice had had quite a lot of time to think. Mostly about how she’d ended up as the Duchess of Castlemare because she’d been unable to admit defeat gracefully after being tossed over by the Duke of Granby for Andromeda Barrington.
Andromeda, the woman whom Beatrice had tried to destroy with gossip and vile innuendo. Whose reputation she’d gleefully shredded between her fingertips because Beatrice had feltslighted. Andromeda, who, ifshewere pinned beneath a bloody carriage, would have her entire family searching for her.
No one had looked for Beatrice.
Andromeda had been the first name Beatrice put in her ledger.
The small book, bound in green leather, sat in her parlor even now, careful notes in Beatrice’s hand, written within the margins. It was how the Chiddon’s lone church had been repaired, as well as the vicarage. Both had been to atone for Miss Elkins, who had married shortly after Beatrice and subsequently died in childbirth. She hadn’t even attended the wedding, though Miss Elkins had invited her.
Beatrice sucked in her breath as a cramp struck her leg, tightening the muscles of her thigh. She bit her lip, waiting for it to fade. Since her accident, riding usually made her right leg ache, as did walking a long distance. But she refused to give either activity up. She had to get around somehow, and Beatrice no longer cared to ride in a carriage.
“Ah, there we are, Cicero. I thought I missed it.”
The fallen tree, the one Beatrice had been looking for, finally came into view. The large maple had toppled against an outcropping of rock but at an angle which raised the trunk high enough that she could scale up the length and mount Cicero without assistance. Better to ride the remainder of the distance than attempt to walk. If she didn’t return home soon, Mrs. Lovington, Beatrice’s overly protective housekeeper, was likely to send out half of Chiddon to find her.
Admonishing Cicero to stay put, Beatrice placed her horse on one side of the tree trunk. Lifting her skirts with one hand, she forced herself up the trunk, groaning out loud at the stretch of her leg. But once upright, Beatrice easily climbed into the saddle. She settled and took the reins.
Branches snapped to her left, causing her to twist in the saddle. She scanned the trees and heavy brush but saw no one on the path.
“Only a fox.” She patted Cicero. “We saw one just the other day; do you recall? Or possibly a deer. Either way, no more running off. You should be braver than that.”
Giving Cicero a nudge, she pointed him in the direction of Beresford Cottage, dreaming of her warm bath and the welcome solitude of her own company.
3
Ellis watched Beatrice from behind the thick bramble. She’d been following the same path for the last half hour, which called into focus her obvious familiarity with the area. Beatrice had not been limping when she’d dismissed him in the meadow, but she was now. Every so often, she stopped and stretched or rubbed a hand up and down her thigh. The fall from her horse must have strained her muscles.
When Ellis had turned Dante away from Beatrice, he’d resolved that if he had the misfortune of seeing her again, he would merely ignore Her Ducal Snottiness and ride on. But not a moment later, Ellis found himself turning back to follow Beatrice. He told himself it was out of concern for her safety because she was riding without a groom or her husband. Anything could happen to a lone woman in the woods of Hampshire, and he wasn’t about to desert a lady who might need his help, even if shewasBeatrice Howard.
When she finally stopped before the trunk of a large tree lying on its side, Ellis moved Dante behind a thick overgrowth of what appeared to be blackberry bushes. He could see her purpose; she meant to get back on her horse.
Why didn’t she merely ask me?
She grunted as she scaled the trunk, then vaulted into the saddle with a low sound of pain. Beatrice clutched the saddle, bent over the neck of her horse, her body moving as she breathed, before finally straightening.
Injured and too stubborn to admit she needed help.
Dante moved a fraction of an inch, snapping a thick branch beneath his hoof.
Beatrice paused, looking over her shoulder to search the thick forest, but she didn’t see Ellis. After another moment, she nudged her mount down the path. The sun had climbed higher, dappling the trees and forest floor with circles of light.
Ellis hesitated only a moment before following.
He had nothing better to do that morning than follow Beatrice, and he was curious. And the least he could do, though she wouldn’t appreciate his thoughtfulness, was to ensure she didn’t fall off her horse.
He thought back to what he knew of Castlemare and whether the duke had property nearby. Or Lord and Lady Foxwood, Beatrice’s parents. Sadly, he couldn’t recall. Castlemare was a gentleman with whom Ellis had never been personally acquainted, nor had he ever wished to be. The man was the veryepitomeof ducal entitlement—so superior he rarely spoke to anyone he considered beneath him, which was nearly all of London. Ellis supposed that made him a perfect match for Beatrice Howard, who’d always thought so highly of herself.
Turning her tiny nose up at him. Disparaging Ellis at every turn. Coldly decrying him as some sort of mindless peacock.
