Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

OF DAYS GONE BY

B eatrice's heart pounded in her chest, making her feel certain that her rib cage would crack at any moment. Her breath came fast as she stared through the small gap in the curtain, her feet rooted to the spot. Oh, once again, she had been a fool!

Yet back in the ballroom, she had felt tears coming and found herself unable to hold them back. Certain her parents as well as her betrothed would not look kindly upon them, Beatrice had been left with no choice but to flee from the ballroom. She had not known where to go but ran blindly along the corridors. For a moment, she had thought herself safe, a reprieve from the drone of the many voices in the ballroom, certain all she needed was a few moments to gather her wits before she could return.

Then, however, voices had drawn near—men's voices!—and every muscle in Beatrice's body had tightened in terror. Suddenly, being found crying in the ballroom had not been the worst she could have imagined. Indeed, if she were found out here in the darkened corridor with a group of young men…

Beatrice pinched her eyes shut, unwilling to imagine her parents' reaction, Mr. Carter's reaction, the ton 's reaction.

And then another voice joined the others.

A voice that had rang with vague familiarity.

Holding her breath, Beatrice bit her lip, listening intently, trying to make out the words as a distant murmur drifted to her ears. For a second, she wondered if perhaps she could slip away while the others—whoever they were—were distracted. Yet those who faced the alcove would easily spot her if she were to try to make her escape. And so, despite her trembling nerves, Beatrice remained where she was.

"So, why are you trying to get rid of us?" one of the young men inquired of the man with the familiar voice, who stood with his back to the alcove, his face hidden from her. "Let me guess. You are in the company of a young lady and wish for a moment of intimate solitude with her. Am I correct?"

At the man's suggestion, Beatrice's hands curled into the curtain of the alcove, her body trembling with outrage and fear. And then, to her even greater shock, the man with the familiar voice nodded.

Beatrice stared at him. How could she not? She did not even know who he was. She did not even—

Her mind reeled when she—rather belatedly!—realized that the man had to be aware of her presence in the alcove. Indeed, had he not glanced over his shoulder at one point? Beatrice could not quite recall, her memory too blurred by the rampaging emotions racing through her body at present. Indeed, he had to be aware of her presence. Why else would he have confirmed the other man's words? Only why had he done so? What motive could he have?

And then the group of young men turned away and headed back toward the ballroom. Beatrice exhaled a breath of relief while her gaze fixed upon the man with a familiar voice… or rather the back of his head. If only she could—

The moment he turned, Beatrice recognized him.

It was none other than Viscount Hawthorne, Lord and Lady Whickerton's son, the man who had been so insistent upon making her acquaintance the night before. What could he possibly want? Beatrice wondered in panic. Then she shrank back, deeper into the alcove, when Lord Hawthorne took a step toward it.

"It is all right, Miss Hartley," he said in a soft voice, barely louder than a whisper. Again, he cast a look over his shoulder, back toward the ballroom. "It is safe to come out."

For a long moment, Beatrice merely stared at him through the gap in the curtain, unable to move. Yet as she slowly drew air into her body, taking one deep breath after another, she realized she did not have a choice. After all, she could not spend the rest of the evening here. Other people could come upon her. Her parents would eventually miss her. All kinds of things could happen that would see her ruined. No, she had to step outside. At least, for the moment, there was only Lord Hawthorne there.

Tears still clung to Beatrice's eyes as she slipped through the curtain back into the hallway. Her gaze remained fixed upon Lord Hawthorne's face, trying to gauge his intention. He had to know what would happen if they were found here together.

Alone.

Why was he still here? What did he want? She wished he would simply leave so she could return to the ballroom. At the same time, Beatrice knew that she was far from presentable. If she returned now, everyone would see her distress, her heartbreak, her despair. No, somehow, she had to calm herself first. Yet how could she do so with him watching her?

"I know a place where no one will find you," Lord Hawthorne said suddenly, his voice still soft, his words barely making themselves heard. "Come. I'll show you." He took a step to the side and gestured for her to follow him.

For a moment, Beatrice hesitated. Yet when Lord Hawthorne moved down the hallway, her feet carried her after him as though of their own volition. After all, what choice did she have? She could not stay here, and neither could she return to the ballroom like this. Even in this very moment, Beatrice could feel fresh sobs rising in her throat, her lips pressing together so hard to keep them at bay she was certain she would see them bruised.

Silently, they followed the long corridor and then turned a corner. Farther down on the right side, Lord Hawthorne opened a door and then beckoned her inside. Again, Beatrice hesitated yet for only a moment. Then she stepped after him, her eyes sweeping over the darkened chamber, recognizing it as a small sitting room in the back of the house, tall windows allowing a glimpse of the star-spangled night sky.

As the door closed, Beatrice spun around to find Lord Hawthorne on the inside. Perhaps she had been a fool to think that he would leave. "What do you want?" Beatrice demanded, her hands trembling as she eased backward.

At the tone of suspicion of her voice, Lord Hawthorne flinched, the shocked expression that came to his face reassuring Beatrice even more than the words he spoke next. "I assure you, you've nothing to fear for me. I am merely here to stand guard, to keep you safe." He retreated a step until he stood with his back to the door, as far away as possible from her.

For a long moment, they looked at one another, and then Beatrice nodded. "Thank you," she murmured because it felt appropriate to say so. Despite her suspicions, he had done nothing to harm her. Had he truly sent those men away in order to keep her safe? Had that been his motive? Did gentlemen exist, after all?

"If need be," Lord Hawthorne said with a nod toward a wooden panel on the right, "if anyone comes upon us here, you can escape through there. It is a secret passage that leads back out into the corridor farther down, closer to the ballroom. No one will see you. I shall stay behind and distract whoever might come." He still stood with his back pressed to the door, an almost apologetic expression in his eyes as though any of what had happened tonight was his fault.

Beatrice nodded in acknowledgment of his words. "Thank you," she said once more, for there was truly nothing else to be said, was there?

A stifling stillness fell over the chamber, and Beatrice felt her limbs grow heavy… and her heart as well. Her eyes closed, and for a brief moment, she swayed upon her feet.

"Are you all right?" came Lord Hawthorne's concerned voice. "Perhaps you ought to seat yourself."

When Beatrice opened her eyes, she saw he had taken a step toward her, his gaze watchful, his expression concerned. "I… I hardly know," Beatrice admitted with a heavy sigh. Tears welled up in her eyes once more, and she felt them spill over and stream down her face, more chasing upon their heels. Instantly, she spun around, turning her back to him, not wishing him to see. Heavy sobs rose from her throat, and Beatrice all but sank forward, resting her forehead against the wall, her hands balled into fists as they came to rest against the smooth wallpaper.

"Please, what can I do?" Lord Hawthorne whispered, such a pleading and almost desperate tone in his voice that for a moment Beatrice thought he was the one in pain.

"Leave," she managed to say, unable to move, frozen in this moment. "Please, leave me alone. Please, go."

One moment stretched into another before Lord Hawthorne spoke again. "I'm sorry, but I cannot do that. Please, let me help you."

Beatrice heard him move closer, the sound of his footsteps sending an icy chill down her back. Perhaps she was being foolish again, allowing herself to be trapped in a situation like this with a man she did not know, alone and far away from the ballroom. She remembered the night Eugene had asked her for a stroll beneath the stars. She had been in love with him from the first moment they had met, and so it had been only too easy to ignore that voice of warning in her head. The cold had soon driven them back inside, and somehow, they had found their way to a darkened, empty chamber. It had been a ball at his townhouse, and he had assured her that no one would find them. He had spoken the most wonderful words, whispered them to her, and Beatrice had felt swept away by the moment, by the love in her heart.

Now Beatrice knew that her mother had been right all along. Apparently, young men did say whatever was necessary in order to seduce a young lady they desired. And it had been no more than desire, had it? He did not care for her. Not truly. Not beyond that one night.

"Who broke your heart?"

At the sound of Lord Hawthorne's voice, Beatrice spun around, finding him standing only two arm's length away. "How do you…?" Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she exhaled a deep breath. "How do you know?"

A sad smile came to his face, and he shrugged. "It is easy to see," he replied, holding her gaze gently. "Is it Lord Strumpton?" Beatrice started, and he added, "I saw the way you looked at him, the way he ignored you." As he spoke, the words seemed to cause him almost physical pain, the expression upon his face anguished.

Panic seized Beatrice's heart. If Lord Hawthorne had seen so easily, did everyone else know as well?

"Do not worry," Lord Hawthorne assured her. "No one knows, and I promise I will not breathe a word to anyone of what happened here tonight." He held her gaze, and Beatrice was shocked to realize that she believed him.

"Thank you," she said again, knowing that these two little words fell far short of what he had done for her tonight.

He nodded in acknowledgment. "Do you wish to speak about it?" he asked carefully, clearly having no intention of leaving her alone.

Oddly enough, Beatrice no longer wanted him to leave. Somehow, his presence eased her breathing, made her feel less alone. And as unwise as it was, yes, Beatrice did want to speak about it. "I cannot." She closed her eyes and once more turned away.

Behind her, Lord Hawthorne inhaled a slow breath, and she all but sensed his conflict. "I should call him out," he said unexpectedly, anger in his voice.

Whirling around, Beatrice stared at him. "What?" She shook her head, trying to clear it, wondering if she had misunderstood. "You cannot!"

Lord Hawthorne's eyes narrowed, and he inched a step toward her. "Why not? He hurt you. I know he did." A muscle in his jaw tensed, and Beatrice marveled at the anger she saw in his face. Why did he care?

"He did," she finally admitted, and speaking those words out loud somehow did ease the ache in her heart. "Yet I cannot allow you to risk your life for me. It would be foolish, and it would change nothing." She held his gaze and saw his shoulders slump, his anger fading, replaced by something more rational, something gentler.

Lord Hawthorne's eyes blazed beneath the moonlight, a blue flame of intensity smoldering deep within. Beatrice could read a fierce determination in his gaze that was tempered only by an unexpected compassion. Tall and proud, he stood before her, but with no sense of superiority. In that moment, he appeared to Beatrice like a knight of days gone by, brandishing his sword and ready to fight for her honor. "Perhaps not," he said in reply to her objection. "Yet no one has the right to hurt you." His gaze remained fixed upon hers. "No one."

Beatrice felt her lips begin to tremble, tears once more blurring her vision. "It is not only his fault," she said honestly. "I allowed myself to be fooled. I was gullible and careless." She closed her eyes for a moment, then she moved over to the windows, her gaze seeking the stars' faint light. "I should've known better." She hung her head, and her tears dripped down onto her folded hands.

Again, one moment stretched into another before Lord Hawthorne spoke again. "Why are you to marry Mr. Carter? It is not your wish, is it?"

My wish? Beatrice thought, remembering the small image of a shooting star Francine had painted for her. What would be my wish?

Slowly, Beatrice turned to meet Lord Hawthorne's eyes. "It is not."

He nodded, looking down at her. "Why then?"

Beatrice knew she should not answer. In fact, she should not remain here with him a moment longer. Still, her feet would not move. Her lips, though, did.