Liar,a voice whispered in her head.Even now, you don’t regret it.
“Mr. Smith being a friend o’ yours,” Mrs. Ellerby said, beaming, “I invited ’im to join us for a spot o’ tea.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting, but Mrs. Ellerby mentioned oatcakes.” Murray smiled at the farmwife. “It was an offer I could not refuse.”
Mrs. Ellerby giggled like a debutante.
Grudgingly, Bea had to admit that Murray didn’t seem to hold the typical prejudices against people who didn’t fit society’s mold. He was as charming to Mrs. Ellerby as he’d been to Fancy. At the same time, she recalled all the stories in the papers about his prowess: she did not doubt that his ability to appear kind and genuine was part of his arsenal as a negotiator. There was a reason why this man got his way in boardrooms and bedchambers across the land. A reason why he was confident that he could convince her into selling Camden Manor.
Bea’s jaw tightened. He could take himself and his bloody charm off to perdition.
Janey, tired of being ignored, let out a screech. Bea rocked her, making soothing sounds to no avail. Mrs. Ellerby moved to take the infant, but Murray beat her to it.
“Why don’t I have a go?” he asked.
Before Bea could react, he took the wailing babe from her. The instant Janey felt new arms around her, she looked up. Her face, which had been scrunched up in mid-wail, smoothed. She blinked at Murray, letting out a gurgle as he cradled her against his broad chest.
“Janey ne’er quiets so quickly.” Mrs. Ellerby looked as astonished as Bea felt. “You’ve a way with babes. ’Ave you children o’ your own, sir?”
“No, ma’am, but I have three nephews and spend time in the company of my friends’ progeny. Children tend to like me,” Murray said.
The claim might have sounded immodest had Janey not been cooing and fluttering her eyelashes at him. Bea caught Mrs. Ellerby’s eyes, which were wide with a message that anyone could read:a man who looks like ’im and is good with babes? Land ’im quick before someone else does!
“Are those the oatcakes, ma’am?” Murray peered over at the table with polite interest as Janey yawned, snuggling against him. “They’re quite different from what I grew up with in Scotland.”
“’Ere in Staffordshire, we’re famous for our oatcakes,” Mrs. Ellerby said proudly. “I’ll make you up a fresh batch.”
“You needn’t go to the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all, especially since you’ve got Janey asleep again. Why don’t you give ’er to me, and then you and Miss Brown can ’ave a nice chat in the garden while I finish up in ’ere.”
As much as Bea dreaded being alone with Murray, she knew this was a confrontation that could not be put off. She had to glean his intentions…and make her own position clear.
“The garden is this way,” she said in cool tones. “Follow me, sir.”
7
Mrs. Ellerby’sgarden contained thriving vegetable patches and a cluster of fruit trees near the back fence. As Wick followed Miss Brown’s rigid, velvet-clad figure to the little orchard, he was acutely reminded of the masquerade. Two nights ago, she’d possessed the same determined posture as she’d gone to lock the study door before propositioning him.
He doubted that he was to be treated to the same kind of enticing offer now.
Shame, that.
He had no doubt that Miss Beatrice Brown was his mysterious lady butterfly. He’d known it the instant he’d “dropped” into her garden yesterday. She might have worn a mask and wig at the masquerade, but he’d recognize her musical voice, bee-stung lips, and glorious form anywhere. Of course, he couldn’t bring up their rendezvous in the presence of her friend; he was a gentleman, after all, and would never damage her reputation that way.
Seeing herhadbeen a shock…but not because of her scar—the reason, he gathered, that she’d worn such a concealing mask. He wondered about the origin of that thin pink ridge, which started at the top of Beatrice’s right cheekbone and curved down her cheek, like half a heart. That she felt she had to hide her unusual beauty caused an odd tightening in his chest. Initially, the mark had surprised him, the way a smudge of paint on the Mona Lisa’s cheek would be distracting.
Thetruesurprise had come from the fact that Beatrice Brown—whom he’d pictured as a prune-faced spinster, cackling as she penned her savage missives—was the most stunning female he’d ever met. No scar could dim a beauty as rare as hers.
She had bone structure that would make a sculptor weep and eyes…God, hereyes. They weren’t blue, as he’d initially guessed, but a remarkable shade of lavender. The color was as unique as she was. Paired with her lustrous white-gold hair, she looked exactly like the angel he’d called her. And the other parts of her, encased in a severe plum velvet riding habit…well, he knew from experience that they could indeed transport a man to heaven.
Just thinking about their lovemaking brought a rush of heat to his groin…and an uneasy twinge to his conscience. He’d had difficulty falling asleep the night before. Staring up at the crack in the inn’s ceiling, he’d mentally reviewed the cues he’d picked up on. How her kiss, while passionate, had held the flavor of innocence. How surprised she’d seemed by her own responses.
How incredibly snug her pussy had been.
At the memory of that lush, exquisite constriction, he swallowed. What was her degree of experience exactly? Surely no maiden would have gone to a masquerade and offered up her virginity to a stranger. And yet…
He could not ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut. He had to know whether or not she’d been an innocent. For years, he’d striven to redeem himself for his early mistakes—to earn back the honor he’d lost during his days as a selfish, reckless rake. The notion that he might have regressed to his old ways was appalling and not something he could condone.
