Chapter 1

The Baron Arrives

Pemberton Manor, London, 1793

“Beggars can’t be choosers, can they, Beatrice?” Phineas Bolton, the Earl of Ramsbury, said.

Beatrice was shocked—not at what her father had said, but that he had said anything at all. After months of the silent treatment, he had finally spoken to her without using her mother as an intermediary.

“What?” she gasped.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Phineas repeated a little more forcefully.

Beatrice kept her composure. She wanted to break out into a large grin and hug her father, but they were in public, and he might not appreciate it even if they were at home. She was on her way to forgiveness but was not there yet.

“Father, you need not worry,” she assured. “I shall not run from this. I will abide by your decision.”

Phineas nodded. He looked around the large room for an acquaintance of his. “You had better,” he warned.

“Oh, my dear,” Letitia interjected, “let her be. She is here, isn’t she? And look how beautiful she is. You don’t talk to her for weeks, and the first time you do, it is to scold her for something she has not done.”

“Do you remember what happened last time?” Phineas asked.

“Yes, I do, and so does she. Beatrice is obviously sorry for what she did, so let’s enjoy the evening. We have our two beautiful daughters here, and the Baron will be here soon, won’t he?”

“I hope,” Phineas replied.

“You hope?” Letitia furrowed her brow. “He is your friend, isn’t he?”

“Acquaintance,” Phineas emphasized. “I don’t know him all that well, but he informed me he would be here, so he will.”

“And if he does not show up?” Letitia asked.

“He will,” Phineas assured. “I don’t know why you are looking at me like that, my dear.”

While their parents argued in hushed tones at the ball so no one would hear them, Beatrice and Hannah stepped to the side so they did not have to listen. Their mother and father often bickered, and Beatrice was sure it was the fuel that kept their love alive. Their parents’ marriage was an arranged one, but they had fallen in love with each other. Beatrice noticed they often bickered and seldom argued—perhaps there was a lesson to be learned there somewhere.

“Isn’t this a splendid ball?” Hannah asked.

She had found every event she had ever attended to be splendid or magnificent or wonderful. Although, on this occasion, she was right.

“It is,” Beatrice agreed. “The Earl of Pemberton certainly knows how to host a ball. It shall be a very good night.”

“Aren’t you worried about the Baron?” Hannah asked. “You’ve not met him yet. What if he is awful?”

Beatrice leaned in closer to her sisters and hissed, “Of course, I am worried about the Baron. It is all I have been able to think about for the past week. Don’t worry, I shan’t run this time. I’m here to do what is right and to make Father proud. You are the only hope for us now, Hannah.”

“The only hope?” Hannah asked. “What do you mean?”

“Charlotte was forced into marriage because of me, and now I shall be forced into one of my own. You shall have the luxury of choosing your husband. Don’t take that task lightly—it is a privilege.”

Hannah looked down at her feet before looking around the room. She chewed on her bottom lip and nodded.

“Don’t worry, Hannah. You look beautiful in your dress, and you will look even more beautiful in your new dress when you debut soon. When you do, you will have many suitors after you, I am sure of it. Take the time to decide which man is the right one for you. I am not one to give advice, but you have the luxury of time and space. I shall soon marry, and Father will be in no rush to find you a husband. Have fun as you search for one.”

“I wish you could do the same,” Hannah said. “You look gorgeous too in your dress, and I know many men would be proud to have you as their wife. Is there not a way to find a man you actually like?”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Beatrice countered. “There are many reasons to marry, and after my wrong, I shall make it right again.”

She didn’t believe her own words, but they were for Hannah. Beatrice wished she could wed for love and get to know the man beforehand, but she had made her bed, so to speak, and she would lie in it.

“I know you still feel guilty about what happened, but you shouldn’t,” Hannah insisted. “What you did was understandable in many ways, but you didn’t know what would happen to Charlotte. That was not your fault, and it worked out well for our sister in the end. Perhaps the same will happen to you.”

“We can hope,” Beatrice said doubtfully. “For now, let’s not dwell on the past or the future but on the present. We are here to enjoy ourselves.”

And worrying about meeting the Baron will not change anything. I will meet my husband tonight, so I might as well enjoy the last few minutes of freedom I have.

“Come,” Phineas ordered. “We must thank our gracious host.”

He took off across the hall, and the three women followed him.

Robert Hawkins, the Earl of Pemberton, was their host for the evening. He had invited many families into his house for one of the first balls of the Season. He was twenty-nine years old and one of the most eligible bachelors in London. He now stood with Agnes Jennings, the daughter of the Viscount Willmington.

Beatrice kept a neutral expression as she approached the two, more to do with Agnes than anything else. Agnes had everything a woman could ever want, being brought up in luxury, but for some inexplicable reason, she had taken a dislike to Beatrice and Charlotte. She had debuted the same year as Charlotte, and she had become competitive while Charlotte had not. Beatrice had a way with words and could charm almost anyone—Agnes was jealous of that.

Beatrice prepared herself for the worst. She had seen some people since her reappearance, but not Agnes.

“Lord Pemberton, thank you for inviting us tonight,” Phineas said. “My daughters were very excited to attend.”

Robert nodded to Phineas. “Thank you, Lord Ramsbury. It is my pleasure to have you and your family here tonight. Allow me to introduce Miss Agnes Jennings, the daughter of the Viscount Willmington.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Phineas said.

More introductions were made for those who did not already know each other.

“It is pleasant to see you back in Society, Lady Beatrice,” Agnes noted. “You were gone for a long time, and they informed us all that you were sick.”

Before Beatrice could respond, Phineas cut in. “Yes, she was. My daughter had a long recovery, but she feels a lot better now. We appreciate your concern.”

“We all missed her terribly,” Agnes added.

Beatrice wanted to roll her eyes at Agnes’s words—some might have missed her, but not Agnes, and the ton must have gossiped terribly about her.

“Lady Beatrice, were you not supposed to marry the Duke of Hayward? I don’t understand why your sister married him instead,” Agnes continued.

“We have gotten off-track.” Robert gave an apologetic smile. “This is not the time for idle gossip, Miss Jennings. I am sure Lord Ramsbury would rather talk about other things or have refreshments. Yes, let me show you where our cognac is, Lord Ramsbury. I do not bring out my very best stuff with so many people here, of course, but I am sure what we have will be to your liking.”

Agnes fell into step with Beatrice and Hannah as they followed the two men toward the refreshments table.

“I am to marry the Duke of Walford, of course,” Agnes stated as if she had been questioned about her status. “Some say he is cold and stern, but they do not know him like I do.”

Beatrice shivered at the mention of his name. She was not on the best of terms with Agnes, but she worried Agnes did not know what she was getting herself into.

“So, you know him well?” Beatrice asked, detecting some lies within the boasting.

She had heard tales of the Duke of Walford as well. She had not met him, and with how many talked of his cruelness, she did not want to.

“Yes, I am enamored with him,” Agnes said.

“How long have you been courting?” Beatrice asked.

She should not care about Agnes’s relationship, but the woman had irked her numerous times in the past and had tried to stir up trouble with her questions before Lord Pemberton had stepped in.

“Oh, I forget how long we have been courting,” Agnes replied. “Long enough to know we are right for each other.”

Perhaps they deserve each other.

Beatrice did not like thinking such spiteful thoughts, but she was still ticked off about being forced to wed a man she had never met, and there was no hope of escaping it this time. If she ran away again, she would ruin her father’s reputation. Worse still, she feared Hannah would be forced to take her place if she did run.

“I have heard His Grace is a stern man with no humor,” Hannah noted.

Beatrice was glad her sister had spoken up so she would not have to. There was something about Agnes that brought out her competitive streak. Part of it was due to Agnes holding back. They had encountered each other in the past, and Agnes had always thrown barbs, but not this time. Perhaps she was content now that she was going to marry or worried about her suitor. Beatrice felt a hint of sympathy toward the woman.

“His Grace is a good man, and we will make a fine couple when we wed.” Agnes leaned toward Beatrice. “I shall not become another Runaway Bride.”

“What?” Beatrice gasped a little too loudly.

Agnes leaned in even closer so she could whisper. “That is what they are calling you now. The Runaway Bride! Isn’t it fitting? I was very proud when I came up with it.”

Beatrice was too worried to be annoyed at her. “Do they really call me that?” she whispered.

“Oh, all the time,” Agnes said. “Not to your face, of course. You are the talk of the town still, and I am sure you will be for months.” She giggled. “Were you really sick? There were some who suggested you were with child.”

“What?” Beatrice gasped loudly.

“What are you saying?” Hannah hissed, getting close to the two women.

She and Beatrice had an eye on their father, who was conversing with Lord Pemberton—they did not want any trouble at the ball.

“Oh, nothing,” Agnes replied, down with her troublemaking. “Only informing your sister of some gossip.”

Beatrice wanted to scream but noticed her father staring at her. Agnes was not only relaying gossip; she had started the gossip and was proud of it. Beatrice fervently wished that the Duke Agnes was to wed would not be loving, and that Agnes’s life would be miserable.

Oh, stop it! This is not you, Beatrice. You cannot stoop to her level. It doesn’t matter if she is happy or not. It only matters that you make Father happy.

Beatrice wanted to cry. Did her happiness matter at all?

The small group rearranged itself, and she stood by Lord Pemberton, a welcome respite from Agnes. He made a comment about her dress, but Beatrice did not fully hear it because of her father. Phineas looked constantly toward the door, and Beatrice knew the Baron would arrive soon.

She avoided looking in that direction, needing to put off the moment for as long as possible. It was her last few minutes of complete freedom—as free as she could be with her father watching her every move.

“I wish to thank you, My Lord,” Beatrice said when she had a moment alone with Robert.

“Whatever for?” he asked.

“You stepped in when things got uncomfortable for my father and me. These past few months have not been easy, and the less we can talk about it, the better.”

“Everyone deserves their privacy,” Robert stated. “I am sure you had your reasons for doing what you did, and I can see you have returned to face your past mistakes. I have not seen your father often, but I have encountered him enough over the past few months to know he is more content.”

Beatrice nodded. “He doesn’t deserve the trouble I have caused, but I will cause no more trouble.”

“A good lesson for all of us. I am often around people who cause unending trouble. It is entertaining at times, but it can become tiring too.”

Beatrice hoped Lord Pemberton was talking about Agnes—someone else must see how she truly was. He was a good man, that much she could see from their brief interactions, and part of her wished she was promised to him instead of the Baron. Lord Pemberton was the right age, handsome, and could hold a conversation and navigate societal pressures. She had no idea of his situation, but if she pleaded with her father, he might?—

Her thought was interrupted when Phineas’ face lit up in recognition. He moved swiftly to her and took her by the arm.

“Beatrice, come and meet Lord Mutton.”

Her father gripped her arm tightly, as if she might try to make a run for it.

Beatrice took a final look at Robert and knew that dream was over. Besides, she barely knew him, and asking her father to reconsider who she would marry would seem hypocritical. She had not yet met the Baron.

“Oh,” she muttered under her breath.

The thought of Lord Pemberton had been removed when her father took her arm, but all other thoughts were removed when she saw the Baron approach. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected the man who commanded the attention of everyone else in the room, even if he did look extremely angry to be attending the ball.

He was tall with an athletic build and broad shoulders, his tailored suit hovering between being too tight and not tight enough. His black hair starkly contrasted with his bright green eyes, which lingered on her for a moment before they moved on. He stood tall, looking down on everyone else.

Beatrice did not think of marriage or her future with the man, but the time in between—the night of their wedding, when he would take her to his bedchamber and have his way with her. She wondered how quickly they could arrange the wedding.

When he locked eyes with her and smiled, her knees weakened so much that she almost melted.

“Beatrice, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Lord Mutton,” Phineas said.

The smile on her face dropped as quickly as the man before her. Her eyes followed him as he strode off elsewhere, and when she looked back, she had trouble maintaining her composure.

Lord Mutton stood before her.

He looked to be in his late fifties, though the way he moved suggested he was much older. He wore a suit that hung loose on his frame, suggesting weight loss in the previous months. His frame was wiry and slightly hunched, and his eyes were hooded and dull, almost closed, so she could not discern the color. The Baron’s black hair was thinning and had been combed back, likely to cover his appearing baldness.

Beatrice looked in the direction that the handsome gentleman had gone, but he had disappeared. She stood wistfully for a moment, as if he might return and replace Lord Mutton.

“Beatrice!” her father hissed. “Do not be so rude!”

Beatrice looked back at Lord Mutton, who could barely muster a smile. She thought about running, but that was not an option anymore—both because of her father and the awful Runaway Bride nickname.

No, there was no running from her future. She had decided to do this to overcome her guilt. However, she did not expect horrible disappointment to replace it.

She had made her bed, and now it was time to lie in it.