The irony of it did not escape her. She was called the Beast and yet he was the one with the temper.
Her brother had hated Riverton’s indiscretions more than she had. Wilson had raged, feeling the need to protect his sister. She’d not wanted even more scandal, so she’d worked hard at keeping a happy, uncaring facade. She suspected her brother had thought of having Riverton killed, but neither of them had wanted to risk such tales getting about. She didn’t mind the stories about her family, as long as they were adventure-filled and showed her relatives in a dashing light. Except, she hadn’t done so well in keeping the on dits adventurous with the scissor incident. Memories of that day returned. Her husband would have strangled the servant—and the girl’s crime had been in not realising he was at home and taking the cleaned bedclothes into the room. He’d thought the maid some kind of burglar.
Riverton. Might he rest in pieces. Small ones. With jagged edges.
She opened the note.
Tilly,
I have procured the amethyst earrings you so desire. They can be in your hands on the morrow if you can convince Lord Andrew you are a retiring sort and deeply distressed because I have tossed you aside. But mostly you must be able to get him to console you and overcome his reluctance to enjoy all the treasures a man can have at his fingertips. Sadly, he has refrained from such joys in the past.
He will arrive at the servants’ entrance as the clock strikes midnight. If he stays until morning and you put a smile on his face, I’ll have the amethysts to you by next nightfall.
Sincerely,
F.
Beatrice 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.