There was a certain irony to the fact that he, considered one of London’s most eligible bachelors, didn’t seem to warrant the slightest consideration from her. She’d thrown his offer back like it was a too-small fish when many a marriage-minded miss would have given their eyeteeth to land him. Admittedly, Beatrice’s refusal didn’t put him off in the slightest. It wasn’t just the challenge of her that he enjoyed—although he did adore their banter—but the complex sum of who she was.
A sultry masked lover. A vulnerable innocent. A caring and capable mistress of the estate.
He had a feeling that he was just scratching the surface of Beatrice. That she would take a lifetime to know…and she would never bore him. While his honor had obliged him to make her an offer, he’d been surprised to discover that he was far from unwilling to make her his bride. In the past, whenever the topic of marriage had come up, he’d heard the slamming of a cell door. Or, worse, the tense, inescapable silence that had characterized the state of affairs between his own parents.
The notion of marriage to Beatrice, however, brought a strange sense of calm. In her presence, the void inside him seemed to lessen. Curiosity had once prompted him to ask Richard how the other had known that Violet was “the one.”
Just knew.Richard had shrugged in that stoic way of his that had always reminded Wick of their dead papa. But then his brother’s eyes had lit with humor.My lass has a way of making an impression, no?
Since Violet had pushed Richard into a fountain on their first meeting, Wick couldn’t disagree. He had a particular fondness for his sister-in-law and saw resemblances between her and Beatrice. Both were unconventional ladies. Spirited and strong, they were fiercely loyal to those they cared about.
Working alongside Beatrice’s farmers, who gossiped more than housewives, had given Wick the opportunity to learn more about his future bride. According to the men, Beatrice was generous and kind, giving everyone a fair shot, even those who were shunned by society. She was good to her word and expected others to be too. No one knew anything about her past or the family she’d been born into, but she treated the Sheridans—Miss Fancy and the rest of the travelling clan—as if they were her kin.
At the same time, she suffered no fools. Ellerby had told him that she’d ejected some bastard named Randall Perkins from her property after he’d been caught harassing her lady’s maid. Perkins, apparently, had been none too happy about losing his cottage, yet Beatrice had stood firm.
Her strength of will didn’t surprise Will one bit; hell, he admired her for it.
Miss Brown is an independent female, make no mistake about it.Ellerby had given Wick a man-to-man look.But that big, empty manor ’ouse must get lonely. My Ellen reckons a strong woman like Miss Brown needs an even stronger man to make ’er happy.
Was Wick the man for the job? As he lathered his hair, he felt self-doubt creep over him. He’d come a long way since his younger days, but even now he felt wary of being trusted with another’s happiness. Most women wanted him for his looks or money, not his character, a fact that had suited him just fine…until Beatrice.
For some reason, her comment that she’d only been drawn to his physical qualities and perceived abilities in bed had stung. Her assumption that he would try toblackmailher was even worse. What kind of a man did she think he was? Moreover, what had happened in her past to give her such a cynical view of human nature?
Nonetheless, he thought as he rinsed, physical attraction and sexual compatibility gave them common ground to start. Both were ineffable yet necessary qualities that he was looking for in a mate—ones that, for him, were either there or not.
Luckily for him, both were present in spades with Beatrice.
Memories of the masquerade washed over him. Christ, she’d been hot, as hungry for him as he’d been for her. Those breathless pants she’d made, the way she’d rubbed her drenched virgin cunny against his tongue and then his cock, begging to be taken. The way she’d surrendered completely to him, her pussy milking him of his seed…
Laying his head back against the tub’s edge, he fisted his rod, the flesh already turgid and pulsing. He frigged himself idly, not with the intent to climax but just to enjoy the sensations of arousal. Of desire brought on by thinking about Beatrice.
His lust was amplified by possessiveness. He had never taken anyone’s virginity before, had never wanted to. Yet knowing that Beatrice had lain only with him, that he alone had known her sweet and generous passion, made him want to be not only her first lover but her last.
The more he thought upon it, the more compatible they seemed. Sexually, obviously, but also in their personalities. He found her resilience not only admirable but reassuring. While she might surrender delightfully in bed, in life she was an independent woman. Sensible and self-possessed, she wouldn’t have unrealistic expectations of marriage. He would do his utmost to be an excellent companion to her, but she wouldn’t depend on him for her happiness—which meant he could not disappoint her.
He rose from the bath, water sluicing over his hard frame. As he toweled himself off and rang for his valet, he knew that courting Beatrice Brown would not be easy. Then again, negotiation was his specialty, wasn’t it? The biggest obstacle seemed to be her stubborn refusal to see her own beauty; he decided he would work on that at the ball tonight. There was, of course, the looming complication of his railway and her land…
He donned his robe and told himself,One disaster at a time.
10
“Oh, Fancy,”Bea breathed. “It’sbeautiful.”
“Do you like it, truly?” her friend asked eagerly.
That evening, while the harvest ball was in progress, the two women had snuck away for a private celebration of Beatrice’s twenty-fifth birthday. They’d gone to one of Bea’s favorite spots, a massive oak tree situated on the far side of the pond. According to her gardener, the tree was over a century old: it had giant, heavy branches that hung low to the ground, creating a cozy, leafy cocoon hidden from the outside world.
Darkness had fallen, and Bea and Fancy had hung their lanterns upon the overhead branches, bathing the space in a golden glow. They sat upon a natural indentation in the sprawling base of the tree that made a perfect bench. From the other side of the pond came the sounds of the ball: a lively reel, stomping steps, and laughter drifted over on the balmy breeze.
Earlier, Bea hadn’t seen Murray at the party…not that she’d been looking for him. Or, if she had, it had been so that she could talk to him and tell him to leave her be. Then Fancy had pulled her away from the celebration. As Bea didn’t like a lot of fuss, no one knew that it was her birthday except her dearest friend. Fancy, being Fancy, had brought her a gift.
Nestled in an old candy box, the organdy cap was trimmed with two rows of good quality lace and tiny rosettes made of ribbon. The cap had trailing ribbons embellished with more rosettes. The stitching was neat, the craftsmanship impeccable.
“I adore it.” Bea held up the cap, admiring her friend’s handiwork. “It would fetch a pretty penny at any Bond Street millinery. How did you come up with the pattern?”
“A lady in the village was wearing one like it. I asked her where she got it, and she looked down ’er nose at me.” Fancy mimicked an affected aristocratic accent. “You couldn’t afford it, gel. It came direct from London and is the crème de la crème of fashion.” She paused, rolling her eyes. “I may not know whatcrèmemeans, but I know ’ow to sew a few pieces o’ fabric and lace together, I do.”
Such was Fancy’s talent that she could merely look at an item of clothing and reproduce it. Not only that, but she could take a few scraps—a bit of lace here, some ribbon there—and turn it into a masterpiece.
