She feared that the skin might burn off her cheeks completely if the conversation continued. At the same time, she wanted Fancy to have the facts that she, herself, had been lacking. Her own mama had only alluded to the sexual act with confusing euphemisms… The thought of her departed mother brought the usual pangs of sadness and guilt, and she shut out the bittersweet memories.
“Sweet Jaysus.” Fancy blinked at her. “And you liked it?”
“I did,” she replied with candor. “And I didn’t even have to use the, ahem, device you obtained for me. He had one with him.”
Bea had learned about the sheaths from her maid Lisette who, being French, was armed with much practical knowledge. The question had been how to secure one of the contraptions; Bea couldn’t risk the scandal that such inquiries in the village would cause.
Fancy had again come to her aid. As a tinker’s daughter, she had ways of obtaining whatever was needed. She’d snuck into her brother Liam’s supply of “Gentleman’s Goods” and, sure enough, had located the item. She and Bea had giggled helplessly as they’d examined the long tube made of sheep’s gut.
“’E sounds like a true gent,” Fancy mused.
“He was a gentleman in every sense of the word,” Bea said.
Except, perhaps, for his wicked turn of speech during their lovemaking. Given that Bea had found his earthy vocabulary titillating—and that she’d propositioned a complete stranger—she supposed she wasn’t much of a lady.
Oh well.
“Then I’m ’appy for you,” Fancy said simply. “Will you be seeing ’im again?”
She suppressed the pang of yearning. “Heavens, no. I don’t know his name, nor he mine, and that is the way it ought to be. It was a one-time affair.”
“But if ’e was ’andsome and kind, wouldn’t youliketo see ’im again?”
Fancy’s question highlighted one of the key differences between her and Bea. Despite having a dazzling array of practical skills—the legacy of her tinkering family—Fancy possessed the heart of a dreamer. She believed in love, the triumph of good over evil, and faerie tale endings. An eternal optimist, she had no wish to be cured. If life presented her with a crate of lemons, she’d happily make lemonade for the entire village.
Bea, on the other hand, was a realist. She’d paid the price for being too trusting. She now understood that beauty and love were not the keys to happiness: true contentment lay in controlling one’s own destiny. If anyone threw lemons in her direction, she’d scoop them up and toss them right back. Or she’d slam the gate and let the lemons splat where they would.
“And have him run for the hills when he sees my face?” Her smile was sardonic, the taut pull of her damaged right cheek a reminder of what she’d become in the world’s eyes. “Last night only happened because I wore a mask. Because he could not see who I truly am.”
“Maybe ’edidsee who you are.” Fancy leaned her elbows on the table, her heart-shaped face stubborn with hope. “The cove guessed that you were a butterfly, didn’t ’e? Maybe ’e wouldn’t care about the scar, which ain’t ’alf as bad as you make it out to be. You’re beautiful, and the right man would see it. And your beauty ain’t just on the outside. You’re generous, caring, and—”
“Rich. Don’t forget my best feature,” Bea said.
Fancy gave her an exasperated look. “Your money ain’t your best feature.”
“It is to me. It’s the source of my independence, the reason I can live life on my own terms.” Terms that wouldnotinclude a handsome and masterful lover, she told herself, no matter how wonderful the experience had been. “Last night was a fantasy, nothing more. I’m glad to have satisfied my curiosity. But now I’ll move on and tend to the things that truly matter.”
“What’s more important than love?” Fancy said philosophically.
“This was lust, not love.” The important distinction had to be made and, Bea thought,neverforgotten. “And you’re one to talk: you turned down two proposals this year.”
Fancy snorted. “Those ’ad naught to do with love. Those ’ad to do with fellows wanting a housekeeper, cook, and nanny for their children. I already do all that for me own family, why would I be wanting more o’ the same?”
Despite Fancy’s optimistic nature, she could also be startlingly astute. While Bea didn’t believe in love for herself, she supported her friend’s dreams. Fancy had always wanted a husband to love and who loved her in return…and Fancy deserved to have what she wanted.
“One day you’ll find what you’re looking for.” Reaching over, Bea patted her friend’s small but capable hand. “No one deserves love more than you.”
“You deserve it too,” Fancy said doggedly.
Bea smiled, ready to change the topic from love. In truth, she did have something rather troubling to discuss. She removed a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her skirts, placing it on the table.
“Enough of faerie tales,” she said. “I received a letter this morning.”
“Another one?” Fancy scowled. “From that blighted railway fellow who won’t let you be?”
For the last two months, Bea had been engaged in a contentious exchange of letters with an obnoxious industrialist by the name of Wickham Murray. Murray wanted to build his railway through her estate and had sent repeated offers to buy her land. Despite Bea’s refusals, the letters kept coming. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, proposing that they should meet in person in London—the last place on earth she wanted to be.
His behavior fit with the stories she’d read about him in the papers. According to the articles, he’d been dubbed “The Iron Duke” for a number of reasons. The obvious one was his success: the company he ran with two partners, Great London Northern Railway, was the premier business of its kind, earning him an exalted status. Murray’s moniker also referenced his will when it came to getting what he wanted: his charm and negotiation skills were legendary.
