Chapter 6

“Wherein the dust settles, or billows, depending on your point of view.”

1 st November 1820.

“It’s a wonder what can be done in little more than a week,” Rachel said, standing back and admiring their handiwork.

Bea nodded, not beyond giving herself a mental pat on the back as she regarded her new parlour with approval. Throwing enormous sums of money and a good many servants at a job did make things happen at speed. They had turned the house upside down over the past days, soot and dust invading every room as the new army of servants got to work. Life had settled itself into a new routine which had become surprisingly familiar in a short time. Bea rose early, avoiding Rutherford, broke her fast in blessed peace in the smallest parlour—which had been the easiest to clean and furnish as a temporary breakfast room—and then got down to the business of organising staff, choosing paint colours and ordering curtains and furniture from the vast array of brochures, more of which arrived every morning.

The scent of fresh paint still filled the room, sharp and astringent despite the bowls of potpourri she had set upon side tables, but the parlour she had chosen as her own private space was complete. This, the kitchen, and her bedroom she had earmarked as being the most urgent. She hoped Rutherford had no illusions about her decorating and furnishing his room, for she would not set foot in that den of iniquity for all the tea in China.

Still, the parlour was a magnificent success. Yes, there were still gaps that needed furniture, spaces on the walls crying out for paintings, but those things were in hand, and she did not wish to rush but to take pleasure in the details. The room looked marvellous, though, painted in shades of green and blue with touches of gold and rich amber in the soft furnishings. The autumn landscape beyond the window contrasted beautifully, highlighting the warmer tones and making her eager to curl up in one of the large, comfortable chairs she had placed by the crackling fire. Soon it would be time to draw the thick damask curtains as the sun set behind the trees and the last of the daylight fled the sky. Bea was looking forward to it, to the sensation of being safe and warm in a room that made you feel cosseted. Though she still lived in a state of nervous excitement awaiting the day her uncle appeared on her doorstep, the knowledge that she was safe now was an extraordinary blessing after so many months of stress.

Bea moved around the room, touching items she had chosen as she went, plumping a lovely velvet cushion, admiring the new mantel clock as it ticked softly and steadily. The chimney had been swept so there was no belching or smoking, and Rutherford had got his workmen to repair the windows after she had written a polite note requesting it done, and handed to Rachel, who gave it to John, and then he to her husband.

She had, miraculously, seen nothing of Rutherford since that day in the garden. Though it was a large house, she had assumed they would run into each other often, but either by luck or design, it had not happened. Neither had he demanded she appear at dinner, as he had insisted upon her agreeing to. Each night she had expected the summons, knowing she could not refuse, for she had given her word, but it had never come. Strangely, despite it being exactly what she had wanted and hoped for, not having seen him did not make her feel more relaxed. Instead, it gave her the sensation of living in close quarters with a tiger, knowing it was out there in the undergrowth somewhere, but never knowing when it would show itself. Though she had scolded herself soundly for her fanciful notions, the disquieting sensation lingered.

From what she had gathered from Rachel, his lordship was spending most of his time out of doors, supervising the work. Bea admitted herself surprised by this, having assumed he’d give orders to a steward and then leave them to it. The idea he might get his hands dirty had never occurred to her, though supervising was akin to bossing people about and perhaps that kind of thing gave him satisfaction, she thought, reminding herself he was untrustworthy, despicable and best avoided. Even so, curiosity nagged at her. She wondered what progress he had made and, worse, she wondered if he had seen her lovely parlour and what he thought of it. Did he admire the changes she had made, or did he dislike her taste and resent her making such changes to the home he’d known all his life?

She was still musing on this as Rachel departed, saying she must ensure their new cook had settled in. Bea let her go, not having any qualms about that. The woman, a sturdy no-nonsense female by the name of Mrs Kershaw, had excellent references for her previous twenty years, but had been forthcoming in explaining she had left her last employ where she had stayed for little more than a year, because the mistress was ‘a featherbrained ninny who couldn’t have organised her own toilette let alone a household.’ Bea had taken to her at once and told the woman she thought they would get on marvellously, for she herself was a managing female who liked things all her own way. This had made Mrs Kershaw laugh roundly and agree they would enjoy some wonderful battles in the future. So, with mutual respect and understanding, Mrs Kershaw had begun giving orders and arranging the kitchen as she preferred it. Bea had left her to it, safe in the knowledge that they would eat well that night and poor Rachel need not run herself ragged any longer.

With one last look of pride at her new parlour, Bea went out, intending to go up and see if her new bedroom was finally finished as she was tired of the pokey little chamber she was using for the time being. She had just closed the door and taken two steps when the front door banged shut, a gust of chill air sweeping in as Rutherford appeared. Bea froze, suddenly struck with the urgent desire to escape back into her parlour. Telling herself not to be such a ninny, she stayed where she was. She was not about to hide from the blasted man, Bea watched as he handed his hat and coat to a footman. The butler, a tall and impressive looking fellow with iron grey hair and an air of consequence far greater than Rutherford’s, informed him his valet was preparing a bath for him and his correspondence had been taken up to his rooms as the study had been packed up as he’d requested, ready for decorating.

Rutherford nodded his understanding and walked towards the stairs, halting as he noticed her watching him.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head.

“My lord,” she replied, equally formal. “You’ve been outside,” she said, rolling her eyes inwardly at the inane statement. That much had been obvious. Still, he did not smirk or make some irritating comment, merely nodded.

“There’s much work to be done, but things are happening at last, which is heartening. I have an army of gardeners clearing undergrowth, and the stables, which have been in a sorry state indeed, are finally getting a new roof. I have missed having more horses about the place,” he told her with a smile. “When I was a boy, the stables at Chalfont were some of the finest in the county. I’d like to think they could be again.”

“A fine ambition,” she remarked, thinking at least it was better than putting another notch on his bedpost or gambling the money away on the turn of a card.

“You like to ride, my lady?”

She nodded. “I do, very much.”

“Then we must see about getting you a horse,” he said, smiling at her again. “Do you ride well? If you will forgive such a question.”

“I believe so. Certainly, my father always thought so, but perhaps he was biased. I miss riding with him very much. It always vexed me when I rode with my cousin, for she was too nervous to gallop or indulge in anything more than a trot. I have so missed the feeling of the wind rushing past and the sensation of flying across the countryside.”

He stared at her with interest and looked as though he might say something else, but he seemed to think better of it. She thought he was about to turn away, heading up the stairs, when words she had not meant to speak flew from her mouth.

“We have a new cook, a Mrs Kershaw. She began this morning, turning the kitchens upside down. And the new staff, too,” Bea remarked with a nervous laugh. “I believe we may have a fine dinner awaiting us tonight.”

“Us?” he repeated, taking altogether the wrong part of her explanation and focusing on it.

“Well,” Bea said, suddenly flustered. “Assuming you are eating? I never said we must eat together.”

He studied her for a long moment, during which she felt oddly energised by his scrutiny.

“No, of course not.” Rutherford returned a mocking smile and began to move away.

“Oh, very well!” Bea said impatiently, which had him turning around, his expression one of confusion. “I know! I know I said I would dine with you. There’s no need to act as if I’m being unreasonable. Dinner is at six. Do not be late,” she added tartly, before turning on her heel and going back into the parlour, despite having had no intention of doing so.

She leaned back against the door, closing her eyes and cursing herself.

“Beatrice Alice Huntingdon, you are a fool,” she told herself in frustration, remembering belatedly that she was now Langley, not Huntingdon, which did nothing to soothe her temper.

Rutherford’s expression of mingled amusement and bewilderment was still vivid in her mind, making her cheeks burn with mortification. Had he even realised they’d not shared a meal? Had he forgotten their arrangement so quickly? Did he no longer wish to torment her by enforcing the stupid rule? Did he not care to spend time with her? She did not know and ought not to care, either. She ought to be jumping with joy at an entire week passing without having to endure his company. What on earth had she been thinking?

Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. He had demanded they dine together three times a week, had he not, and she had agreed. If he did not wish to rouse himself in time to break his fast with her, so much the better, but she would not have him accusing her of reneging on their deal. That was all. That was the only reason she had forced the issue, for she certainly had no desire to spend a couple of awkward hours in his presence.

The realisation that she had several new gowns in bright colours to choose from, now she was finally out of mourning, mollified her somewhat. At least she need not face him looking a dowd.

Justin stared at the parlour door as Bea closed it a little too forcefully. He frowned, somewhat taken aback by her outburst, but finding a pleased smile twitching at his lips. He did not doubt the only reason she had pressed the matter was because she feared him accusing her of reneging on their agreement and demanding some other, no doubt improper, recompense for the omission. Still, that she had requested he dine with her, when he had said and done nothing at all, was a victory so far as he was concerned. Whistling, he made his way up the stairs, feeling rather pleased with himself.

John was waiting for him as the butler had told him, having finally been returned to his station as valet, instead of chief cook and bottle washer. That the return of status pleased the man was obvious, as John was in an excellent humour and had enjoyed himself enormously by taking charge of reorganising and decorating Justin’s rooms. Justin had privately hoped his wife might decide upon the decorating and furnishing of his chamber, but it had been a forlorn hope and one he’d not been stupid enough to press. He knew well enough what she must imagine had taken place in this space, assuming she had any idea what to imagine, but that she believed it depraved he did not doubt for a moment. His valet, too, was turned out as fine as fivepence in an expensive new suit of clothes that Justin had no qualms about paying for. Loyalty was rare in his experience, and he was not about to risk losing it by being tightfisted.

“There’s hot water ready. If you’d like to sit down, my lord, I’ll give you a shave. There’s to be a fine dinner tonight, what with the new cook arriving, so you’d best dress appropriately and not show me up. We don’t want Lady Rutherford to think you’re completely lacking in manners, or that I can’t turn you out proper, like.”

Justin gave his valet a wry look. “John, either stop my lording me and speak your mind, or give the title the respect it deserves, even if I do not. The combination of my title and your plain speaking makes me feel like I’m being scolded by an overbearing nanny.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but mayhap if you’d been scolded a bit more by an overbearing nanny, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess, now would we?”

“Is that the royal we , John?” Justin replied, stripping off his neckcloth, amused despite himself. “And I was scolded very soundly, I promise you. Nanny Gordon was the stuff of nightmares. I swear she would have frightened Wellington. She certainly skinned my arse frequently. I remember many times when I could not sit down for days on end. Spare the rod, spoil the child, John, you see. Look what good it did, what a fine specimen of manhood it produced,” he said, gesturing to himself with a mocking smile.

John snorted as Justin sat back in the chair and titled his head back. “Will you not tan your own brats’ arses, then?”

Justin experienced an odd jolt of surprise at the question. He had told Bea that she might one day come to him, wanting him to give her a child, supposing she hadn’t taken a lover to provide one for her by then. That idea made him feel hot and so nauseated he swallowed hard. Pushing the unsettling thought away, he considered the idea of his own children for the first time in his life. He’d assumed the line, and the title, would die with him—most likely in a gutter outside some gaming hell or brothel. But what if it didn’t? What if Beatrice gave him an heir, what if she gave him a daughter too? His heart gave an erratic thud behind his ribs, and he wondered if he had abused his body so much with alcohol and burning the candle at both ends that he’d drop down dead from a heart attack one day soon. Justin realised then that he wanted to live to see his children, should his wife be foolish enough to give him any. He considered John’s question and shook his head.

“No.”

“Really?” John paused in the act of frothing up the shaving soap, looking at him in surprise. “You’d get the nanny to do it, then?” he asked, a note of disapproval in his voice.

Justin shook his head. “If anyone ever lays a hand on a child of mine, I shall dismiss them on the spot,” he said crisply.

John stared at him for a long moment and then grinned. “Right you are, my lord.”

“Stop that!” Rachel scolded, swatting Bea’s hand away from her newly arranged hair. “You’ll spoil it and do stop fidgeting. Anyone would think you were going to dinner with his majesty, the state you’re in.”

“I am not in a state,” Bea retorted indignantly, though she knew that was a lie.

No matter how many times she cursed herself for being an idiot, she still could not believe she had voluntarily arranged to have dinner with her husband. Her frustration with herself seemed to manifest itself in a desire to appear at her very best. She would not be put at a disadvantage by appearing anything but magnificent. If she believed doing her hair, donning jewellery and a beautiful gown were akin to dressing in a suit of armour—and she did—then she would appear ready for battle, and for anything the wretched man could throw at her.

Rachel made a scathing sound that suggested she remained unconvinced, but Bea ignored her, instead she turned this way and that before the looking glass, grateful the large cheval mirror had arrived earlier that day.

“Yes, you look every inch the countess, my Lady Rutherford,” Rachel said, folding her arms and standing back to admire her handiwork. Bea regarded her maid in the mirror, noting the amused glint in her eyes. She turned to face her.

“You think I’m being ridiculous?”

Rachel studied her thoughtfully. “Not ridiculous,” she said after a drawn-out pause.

“Well, you think something,” Bea pressed, never having known Rachel not to say what she thought.

She waited while Rachel considered.

“I think you look very beautiful, and you should have a care what you wish for.”

“What does that mean?” Bea asked, crinkling her nose in confusion.

“It means, if you are thinking to go downstairs and capture that man’s attention, you’ll likely do just that, so beware the consequences, that’s what it means,” Rachel said, wagging a finger at Bea.

“I do not want to capture his attention,” Bea returned, feeling a flush of heat travel from her toes to her hair. “I simply will not have him treat me like some silly child. If he thinks to trick me again, or to tease me or… or play whatever games he has in mind, he will find I am not so foolish as to take part.”

Rachel nodded, apparently agreeing with this, though Bea was uncertain of the look in her eyes. “Well, as long as you know what you’re doing,” she said mildly.

Bea was not the least bit certain, but she was not about to admit that to Rachel, or to anyone. She avoided answering by taking one last look in the mirror. “Thank you, Rachel. My hair looks lovely,” she said with a smile, and escaped the bedroom before her maid could make any other unsettling observations.

She made her way down the stairs where the new butler, Morley, nodded a greeting. “Good evening, my lady.”

“Good evening, Morley, is Lord Rutherford down yet?”

“No, my lady.”

Bea nodded, relieved to have a few moments to settle her nerves. “I shall take a glass of Madeira in my parlour. Please show his lordship in when he comes down.”

Morley nodded his understanding, and Bea left him to await her drink. The parlour looked splendid with the curtains drawn and the lamps lit, the firelight flickering in the hearth. She gave a little sigh of pleasure and took a moment to walk about the room, tweaking a cushion and straightening an ornament as she went. Settling down in one of a pair of comfortable chairs, covered in a lovely embroidered green and blue fabric, Bea sat by the fire. She faced the windows with the door to her back, imagining sitting there during the day, knowing she would be able to see the rolling hills outside. Bea smiled and allowed herself a moment of pure happiness at having such a beautiful room to relax in. A moment later, a footman appeared, bearing a bottle of Madeira and two glasses. He served her and left the bottle and the extra glass on a side table at her request.

Bea sipped her drink and was trying to remember the last time she had felt quite so content when the door opened, and her heart seemed to give a series of flurried beats in her chest. He was here. She knew it was Rutherford before he appeared in her line of vision, though she did not know how.

When he appeared before her, he stood for a moment, gazing around the room, taking it all in. Though she tried her best to appear nonchalant, Bea had to admit she was desperate for his opinion. It was the first room she had ever designed entirely by herself, with her own choices of colour and furniture and soft furnishings and, whilst she loved it, she was still a little uncertain what anyone else might think. Her husband, devil though he was, had been known in town not only for his excesses, but for having exquisite taste and an eye for fashion. If anyone should know anything about style, she supposed he ought.

“Well,” he said, after an interminable interval that she was certain he strung out on purpose. “I can hardly believe it is the same room. You have a flair for colour and an eye for style, Beatrice. Congratulations. It’s the kind of room one dreams of returning to when out in the cold and wet.”

“Yes! Exactly that,” Bea said eagerly, sitting forward in her seat despite having been determined not to let him charm her. All it had taken was a few words of flattery and she had caved in at once, drat him. Yet, his description was exactly what she had been aiming for. “I wanted a place where one could be warm and cosy and quite at ease when the rest of the world was unfriendly and cold.”

He gave a soft laugh, slanting her a rueful smile. “I may never leave, in that case.”

“You really like it, you’re not just pouring the butter boat over me in the hopes of gaining something?” she demanded, frowning.

“My, my, you really do despise me,” he remarked, reaching for the bottle and pouring himself a glass of Madeira.

Bea bit her lip, wishing she’d not been quite so forthright. “I beg your pardon, that was uncalled for, and no, I do not despise you. Not in the least. I simply do not know you and I trust you not at all.”

“Ah, well, that’s much better,” he replied, grinning over the rim of his glass. “à votre santé,” he added, raising the glass to her before he drank.

Bea returned the salutation and sipped her own drink, watching through narrowed eyes as he made quick work of his glass and refilled it. He sat down opposite her, his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He wore dark trousers that fitted snugly about his thighs, highlighting a physique she found surprising considering his indolent lifestyle. The waistcoat and coat were likewise dark, a deep navy blue, she thought, though it was hard to tell between blue and black in the lamplight. Either way, the severe colour highlighted his fair hair and sharp bone structure, a foil for his golden good looks. He appeared to her eye in the light of a dissipated angel; Lucifer in the weeks just after the fall. A lazy smile curved his sinful mouth and Bea realised she’d been staring. Flushing hotly, she looked away.

A knock at the door saved her from any off colour remark he would surely have made about her perusal of his person, and Morley announced dinner.

Bea set down her glass and got up, a little surprised and unnerved, when she found Rutherford at her elbow, ready to escort her in. It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him, but it seemed churlish, for he was being courteous, the least she could do was meet him halfway. So she placed her hand on his sleeve, immediately aware of the strength in the arm beneath her fingers.

“How is your shoulder?” she asked him, looking up at him.

If he resented the reminder of his ignominious duel and subsequent exile from town, he did not show it. “It mends,” he said, leading her out of the parlour. “It still aches rather, but the sawbones did a decent job patching me up and had a fair hand with a needle, for it seems to be a neat job. John is a conscientious nursemaid who frets over the wound too, so there is no chance of it getting inflamed again.”

“I’m glad,” she replied politely.

He snorted at that. “No, you’re not. It would have been perfect for you if I’d married you, got an infection in my blood and turned up my toes. A wife and a widow within a week. How merry you would have been.”

“That is an appalling thing to say!” Bea said in outrage, glaring at him and trying to forget she had once thought exactly that.

“It is. True, though,” he replied, a wicked glint sparkling in his eyes.

Despite her intention not to let him charm her, the dreadful comment tickled her, and she could not quite smother the choked laughter that caught her off guard.

“It is,” she admitted, and then covered her mouth with her hand, not quite believing she had said such an awful thing.

Rutherford laughed, shaking his head. “Well, I hope I have not been such an appalling husband after our first days of marriage that you still wish me six feet under.”

His words were still teasing but Bea wondered if there was a real question there.

“Of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “Indeed, funning aside, I never wished such a fate upon you. Only that you leave me in peace. Your lifestyle is not one I admire, and I wish no part in it.”

They had reached the dining room by then and he did not answer as footmen hurried to pull out their chairs. To Bea’s mingled relief and dismay, she realised she was sitting by his side at the head of the table. Whilst shouting up and down the enormous length of the dining room would have been ridiculous, this seemed rather too intimate, and once again she wished she had kept her blasted mouth shut.

They sat and the conversation that followed was stilted until the white soup was removed and a haricot of lamb, fish with white wine and mushrooms, a vegetable pie and assorted pickles were served. Then Rutherford dismissed the footmen, leaving them to dine in private.

“You dislike having servants around?” Bea asked, somewhat surprised. Most of the nobility she had experience of treated servants like they were merely part of the furniture, paying them no more mind than they might a side table. Her father had not been one of them and they had never eaten so formally at home. Her uncle had been another matter.

“Servants gossip, even the best of them,” Rutherford said, making a pleased sound as he sampled the lamb. “This is excellent.”

Bea smiled and nodded. “I knew Mrs Kershaw would be splendid. She brought fresh baked rolls and a pot of her own jam to the interview,” she said with a laugh.

“They were good?”

“The rolls were like little puffs of air, so light it was a wonder they did not float off, and the jam was heavenly.”

“What kind of jam?”

“Bramble,” Bea replied, almost sighing with pleasure as she tasted the fish in white wine sauce. It was light and perfectly seasoned, the mushrooms giving an exquisite earthy note to the dish.

“Is there any left?” Rutherford asked, pausing with a forkful of lamb suspended in midair.

“I-I don’t know,” Bea asked in surprise. “I can ask. Why?”

“It’s my favourite thing in the world,” he admitted ruefully. “Good bread, thick butter and bramble jam. If ever I was given cause to request my last ever meal on earth, that would be it.”

“Bread and jam?” she said, somewhat sceptically.

He nodded, laughing at her expression. “My tastes are not so peculiar and wild as you might imagine. Indeed, I find I am happier this evening than I can remember being for many years, so I thank you for that.”

Bea almost choked on the mouthful of food she’d just taken. As it was, she swallowed with difficulty, staring at him, her heart hammering. “Don’t do that.”

Rutherford looked up from his plate, frowning. “Do what?” he asked in confusion.

Bea pushed back her chair, getting to her feet. “I agreed to dine with you, to be civil with you, but on the condition we were polite. You wanted friendship, and I said no, that was a bad idea, but this … this intimacy you try to foist upon me, the idea that I have made you happy with a bit of inane conversation when you are used to heaven alone knows what exotic pleasures—” She sucked in a breath, trying to still her heart which was beating too hard, too fast. “I beg you will not treat me with such contempt. I am not a fool.”

With that, she turned and strode towards the door. Rutherford got to his feet, his chair screeching on the polished parquet as he followed, grabbing her arm.

“Not so fast, lady wife,” he said, and she heard a thread of anger in his voice, a steely note that made her skin prickle with alarm. “Why are you so damned determined to see me as a monster? Must you believe every word ever written about me? Is there no room for doubt in that well-protected heart of yours? I spoke true, blast you. I am happy, and yes, it was a little inane conversation, on an evening spent in my own home, with good food and my beautiful wife beside me, that did it. If you believe me too shallow, too loathsome and sunk in depravity to find pleasure in such things, then so be it, but it’s true all the same and I shall not take it back!”

With that, he released his grip on her arm and returned to the table. He sat down, snatching up his wineglass and taking a large swallow.

Bea stood frozen to the spot, uncertain of what to do, what to think. He sounded entirely sincere, but could this also be part of a long-term plan to wriggle his way into her affections? But why would he bother? Was he so desperate to make a conquest of her, just to prove a point? Could a man the ton had labelled a rake and a rogue for so many years, really be worthy of a second chance?

Cautiously, she returned to her seat. Her hands shook a little as she reached for her wine and took a sip.

“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly and, when she looked at him, she found him staring straight ahead. “I ought not to have spoken so to you. I can hardly blame you for your contempt. I earned every bit of it with years of dedicated work.”

The words were harsh and bitter, filled with self-loathing.

Bea cast around for something to say but found nothing. Her instincts told her he was genuinely upset, but the past months of finding herself alone and powerless at the hands of her uncle had made her overly cautious, and perhaps a little callous.

“I will leave you to eat your dinner in peace,” he said suddenly, pushing back his chair.

Before she had made a conscious decision to do so, Bea’s hand shot out and she grasped his arm. “Wait.”

Rutherford stilled, his blue eyes fixed on her, a look there she could not read and did not wish to interpret.

“Don’t go,” she said, releasing his arm, as the feel of it beneath her hand was giving her the oddest sensation.

“There is no need to suffer my company for the sake of good manners,” he said, his voice almost a growl.

“I am doing no such thing. I—” Bea took a breath and said the words in a rush, before she could think better of it. “I apologise.”

His expression was one of such incredulity that Bea could not help but smile.

“I am capable of apologising when I’m wrong.”

He gave a little huff of laughter. “What if you’re not wrong? What if this is all part of an elaborate plan to get into your good graces?”

“Is it?” she asked him, watching his face carefully.

He pondered the question, turning his wineglass back and forth. “Yes and no,” he said at length.

Bea frowned. “Is that a confession?”

He smiled at her. “There’s no dastardly plot, Beatrice. I have no desire to hurt or manipulate you, but I would like to be in your good graces. I would very much like it if my wife thought of me with something less than revulsion. I want to be considered at the very least as a friend, but… perhaps even someone to rely upon.”

Bea stared at him, wanting to believe him. He sounded so sincere, and she knew her stupid heart was eager to give him the chance he desired, but she had no wish to be hurt any further than she had been. Her father’s death had shattered her, then her uncle’s bullying and machinations had undermined the idea that there was anyone left in the world in whom she could put her trust. Even Rachel, of whom she was so fond, was paid to stay by her side, though she had remained when she might have found an easier position, Bea reminded herself. But Rutherford’s character was said by all to be so thoroughly black, surely she would be a fool indeed to put her trust in such an unworthy man.

“What you ask is no small thing, my lord,” she said, forcing herself to look at him as she spoke.

His blue eyes glittered, his gaze intent and his attention absolutely focused upon her, which was at once nerve-wracking and somehow thrilling. That this man who had cut a swathe through the women of the ton , none of whom had captured his interest for more than a fleeting moment, might truly desire her good opinion, her regard, might want her attention focused upon him, well that was a heady temptation and one she could not allow herself to be seduced by.

“I have no reason in the world to trust you, every reason to believe you will disappoint me. I have no one left in the world to whom I might turn. My only living family has betrayed me so vilely I never wish to see them again. I am alone, and the temptation to put my trust in you is one I dare not give in to. I do not wish for you to hurt me.”

The light that had shone in his eyes dimmed at her words. “I understand,” he said, nodding. “I know I ask too much. I have always asked too much, but perhaps, in time, I might prove to you I am not so black as I have been painted. Perhaps in time, you might give me that chance?”

Bea considered this. “If you wish to be my friend, then treat me as such. Do not try to woo me. Speak to me as… as you might speak to John.”

His eyebrows rose at that, and she hurried on.

“Well, not John, perhaps. A sister,” she suggested, pleased with the idea. “Treat me as a sister and perhaps, in time, I shall feel content to be your friend.”

“A sister,” he replied sceptically. “I never had a sister. I would not know how to begin.”

“An aunt, then.”

He gave a choked laugh. “Good God, my Aunt Sophronia seemed like Methuselah to me even when I was a lad. She’s been dead for two decades. I promise you, you do not have the slightest thing in common.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I believe you take my meaning, however.”

He nodded. “I do, and I promise to try, though if you wish such treatment, I beg you will not come down to dinner dressed so splendidly, for you will test the limits of my willpower most dreadfully.”

“You are doing it now!” she protested, throwing up her hands.

“So I am,” he remarked in dismay. “Very well. We will start over. Beatrice, would you pass me that pie? It looks delicious and I am famished.”

Beatrice slid the plate over to him, watching as he helped himself to a large slice. He took a mouthful and nodded his approval.

“Oh, that’s good. You must have some and tell me what rooms you are planning on attacking next. What do you have in mind?”

For a moment, Bea hesitated as he served her a slice of pie, watching him cautiously, but if he was prepared to do as she had asked, then she could at least have a civilised conversation with him.

“Well?” he pressed. “Tell me everything you have planned.”

And so she did.