Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

O akley was more than delighted to leave the rumour-mongering over his recently-departed uncle in the past. Damian Richmond, Lord Tipton’s younger brother, had been up to no good from the day he had been born to the day he died, and Oakley did not much care to remember anything about him. Naturally, the family had done as was proper and mourned him—as much as any family could mourn someone who was nothing but a burden and a scandal to them all.

No, he could not concern himself with Damian, for his thoughts were in another quarter, one that caused him pain and pleasure in equal measure: Bess, or as she must be called now, Mrs Beamish. He repressed a shudder that arose just from thinking of it.

He went to the table where supper had been laid, first enquiring whether the ladies at the table wished for anything to be brought to them. “I could not bear to eat another morsel,” Lady Tipton declared, and the others murmured their agreement.

“I do not know where he puts it all,” he overheard her add as he walked away, her voice sounding strangely proud about it.

The table had been laid with a fine-looking sponge cake as well as syllabub and some marzipan done in the colours of spring. He helped himself to a little of all of it, and a glass of wine, before going to take a seat next to Scarlett. It was not a coincidence; he took the seat believing that, of them all, Scarlett was the least likely to take him to task about marriage for the rest of the evening.

She gave him a smile as he sat down. “Poor Oakley.” She reached over and patted his cheek. “Was Lady Carbrooke dreadfully impertinent?”

“No more than she usually is—only the subject was different.” Oakley grinned and took a bite of cake. He angled his body towards her and lowered his voice, hoping no one would overhear him. “Do you think it strange that Bess and Beamish have not been in town? I think it is peculiar that they are hidden away in the country. Bess was such a friendly sort of girl, I am sure she would much rather be enjoying the Season.”

Oakley could never deny that the moment he beheld Bess, he loved her. He loved the softness of her, from the gentle pink of her cheeks to the sweet dimples on her elbows. She would be Lady Oakley now but for one thing: a dastardly man called Beamish. Contrary to every custom of his past, Oakley had not fallen out of love with her. If anything, he had found that unrequited love burned hotter.

“Newly married people will often disappear a bit to enjoy each other’s company,” Scarlett replied with a warm smile in Worthe’s direction. Worthe gave her a little wink in reply.

“Beamish’s home is in Hertfordshire,” Oakley protested. “A few hours’ travel to London, and I have heard, myself, Beamish boasting of his horses. They might have come in for a play, a party…anything. And he has a house here, does he not?”

“I believe Beamish let his house last Season, and Bess’s family certainly did. However, I do believe we might see her here for at least a short time in the coming weeks.”

Oakley’s heart gave a little jump at that, although in truth he knew not whether he anticipated or dreaded such a circumstance. “Indeed?”

Scarlett gave a quick little nod to emphasise her certainty. “Would you like to read her most recent letter to me?”

There had been a brief period, after Bess neglected to invite Scarlett to her wedding, when their friendship had faltered. Not surprisingly, Scarlett had been hurt that her oldest and dearest friend had hastily married without much of a notice to anyone, and without asking her to stand up with her.

Last summer, Oakley had been called upon to deliver a note of warning, written by Scarlett to Mrs Beamish at her husband’s estate. With what had been transpiring at the time, Scarlett and Oakley and indeed all the Richmond family had worried she might be in danger of Damian harming her.

It had been the last time Oakley saw her, and Beamish had been strangely absent, off in some other city. Part of him yearned to see them together, for until he did, it just did not seem possible that she was lost to him forever. Perhaps if he saw the testament of Bess’s happiness written in her own hand, then he would finally believe it. “Yes, I would like that,” he said, finally replying to his sister’s query.

Scarlett rose and went to the adjoining small alcove where, she informed him, she liked to read and write letters. Oakley watched as she pulled out the drawer and extracted a small bundle of letters, removed the topmost, and then replaced the bundle in the drawer. “I confess, she has written far fewer than I should have imagined,” Scarlett said cheerfully as she returned to him. “We used to talk every day! But that in itself is proof enough of her happiness. She is too busy with her husband to write, even for me.”

Oakley only half-heard Scarlett’s words, having unfolded the pages she handed him.

My dearest, darlingest Lady Worthe,

What a delight to address you as such! I only hope you are half as happy in the marriage state as I am with my beloved Beamish. I am a poor excuse for a friend, I know, in having neglected my reply to you for so long. So long that you were required to write to me twice to elicit my return letter! I am fortunate that you have such a forgiving disposition.

Oakley exhaled gustily as he read the rest of the missive which, in truth, was not very extensive. There was a report of a dinner party Bess was planning for her neighbours—people he had never heard of—followed by a paragraph on a horse that Beamish was considering for her, some intimations of a possible house party in the autumn, and a vague mention of indefinite plans to be in town.

“When I replied, I told her they positively must come to town and stay here,” Scarlett said. “We have ample room, and I should be delighted to have a party for her. But we will see what she says when she replies.”

Her face clouded a little then, and she added, “If she replies, that is. Sometimes I do not hear anything from her for months. The Season might be over before I have another letter.”

“Perhaps you should write again? Tell her more urgently that she must come to town.”

Scarlett looked at him pityingly. “Oakley, darling, you really must?—”

“I know, I know! Put her aside!” He shoved one hand up through his curls and sighed. “You know you once told me that when you met Worthe it was like the piece of a map dissection falling into place. There was no need to look further—you had your fit. Well, what is one to do when some absolute noddy comes along and steals your piece? ’Tis not so easy to just slot another in the gap.”

Scarlett reached out, putting her hand on his arm and squeezing sympathetically. “Did you ever consider proposing to her? I know your acquaintance was very short.”

Oakley swallowed, wondering whether he ought to confide in his sister a small secret he had held close to his heart for some time. “I…I did propose to her. In a manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean?”

“You will recollect, of course, the night of the dinner her mother gave—the one where Reverend Margrave arrived so suddenly with Sir Humphrey?”

Scarlett shuddered. “Good lord, how could I forget?”

“We…Bess and I…well, we were up all night that night.”

Scarlett gaped at him.

“Quite indecent of me, I know.” He gave her a lopsided grin.

“But you left! Everyone left!”

“I did, with the others, but Worthe, as you recall, returned to give one of the servants a note for you. I accompanied him, and it so happened that Bess came upon us. She…asked me to remain, and so I did.”

Scarlett still looked absolutely astonished. “You might have been caught!”

Oakley barked a laugh. “Would that we had been! But no, obviously we were not. I told Worthe to go on—which he did, very reluctantly—and I remained until we heard the reverend beginning to stir about in the bedchamber above us. It was all quite innocent I assure you! We did nothing more than sit in the drawing room, talking, and at length…”

He sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair again. “I told her I could see no other future but one with her.”

“And what did she say?”

“She told me she loved me.” A smile came over his face as he remembered it. “I believe she did, too.”

“Bess would not bandy about such words lightly,” Scarlett agreed. Then her face fell. “Oh. But then you had to leave town because of me.”

“Family comes first,” Oakley said staunchly. “I did what I needed to do, what it was my duty to do.”

“You must have thought her dreadfully capricious, though?” Scarlett asked worriedly. “To be caught kissing Beamish in so short a time after you left!”

“She said the very same thing the next time I saw her, when I went to Hertfordshire to warn her about Damian. She told me she hoped she might still count me among her friends and said that her attachment to Beamish had been of long standing. It was all very cordial; resentment is simply not in my nature, so of course I forgave her at once. I am sure it was my own fault. She must have heard how I am in and out of love so readily. She likely did not think I was in earnest.”

“Oh, my darling brother.” Scarlett squeezed his hand. “And to know now you have been suffering heartbreak all this time, and that it was all my fault!”

Oakley was shaking his head firmly before the sentence was complete. “No. Scarlett, you must not feel responsible for this in any way. Beamish is an elephant-eared fopdoodle?—”

Scarlett laughed. “Elephant-eared! His ears are large but not as large as all that!”

“—and he stole her from me. Plain as that. And I…I simply must accept it.”

Resolution suffused him as he recognised the truth in his own words. More determinedly he said, “And I shall. I shall accept it and move on. Pray to Almighty God I can fall in love with someone else—and soon.”