Chapter 7

“Wherein a cautious friendship blooms.”

8 th November 1820.

Rutherford kept his word. He rose early and took breakfast with her, and they would share their plans for the day. Then Bea rarely saw him again, though sometimes she would glance out of a window and spy him out in the gardens. He would grin and raise a hand to wave at her and Bea would wave back. Other than that, they only spoke at dinner. They had shared three more dinners, and Bea was pleasantly surprised by how well each had gone. They discussed the progress they had made, and the merits or failings of the staff with whom they were working. But they also discussed books, the theatre, music, and a wide range of topics, including politics.

He even discussed the Radical War and the recent execution of two of the men involved in the uprising at Bonnybridge. Bea had never had a man other than her father give her a proper conversation about such topics, for such things could not be discussed with women, certainly not unmarried women, in polite society. Her uncle would never have allowed her to have an opinion about such things. Yet Rutherford treated her as an equal, as though she had a brain in her head. He listened to her point of view and did not immediately squash her ideas, but considered them, and that was a rather thrilling experience.

As their peaceful coexistence continued, the house took shape, one room at a time. Rutherford seemed even more eager than she to get the work done and he hired more staff, an army of maids and workmen thronging the old place so that it felt as if it were a giant anthill, seething with activity. Walking from one room to another was perilous, for you might turn a corner and run straight into a maid with a mop and bucket, or a painter, or men hefting the newly acquired bits of furniture into place. It was exciting and exhausting and sometimes it seemed as if there was not a quiet corner to be found anywhere.

Such a hive of activity was bound to stir interest in the local area, however, the news that the wickedest rake in England had not only married, but married money, became a predictable subject of conversation. All the local shopkeepers were eager for the earl to patronise their premises, and anyone looking for work would appear on the doorstep of Chalfont. So, it was inevitable that her uncle would eventually put two and two together.

Though the butler had been instructed from the outset that her uncle, Lord Worth, was under no circumstances to be allowed into the house, it did not stop the viscount from standing on the doorstep and demanding to see Bea. His voice was loud and angry enough to reach her parlour with ease.

“Just let him bellow, my lady,” Rachel advised, giving Bea’s hand a squeeze as she came out and dithered in the hallway. “He’ll get bored and go away soon enough.”

Bea knew that was true, but the idea her uncle might believe her too afraid to face him rankled. “No. He’ll only come back again. Better I get it over with,” Bea said, though her heart was beating too hard, too fast.

Steeling her nerve, she put up her chin, reminding herself that she was the Countess of Rutherford, and her uncle had no hold over her. Not any longer.

Bea gestured to Morley, who opened the door, and she strode out to stand on the top step. From here, she could look down upon her uncle, and that was not an unpleasant sensation.

“You are not welcome here,” she told him, relieved that her voice barely trembled.

Her uncle, who had paused his shouting, turned at the sound of her voice. “You little bitch!” he said furiously, stalking up the stairs towards her. “I suppose you think you’re very clever, you scheming little whore.”

Bea jolted, never having been spoken to so in all her life. “If you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, we have nothing left to say to each other,” she said, about to turn but her uncle grasped hold of her wrist, his grip bruising.

“Not so fast. You owe me, Beatrice. That money ought to have been mine, if your father had not been such a besotted fool over you. I demand you give me what is mine.”

Bea stared at him, so incredulous that for a moment she forgot to be afraid. “That money now belongs to my husband,” she said with icy disdain, and not entirely truthfully, but she was not about to tell him of their deal.

“That disgusting excuse for a man,” Charles said in contempt, sneering at her. “You’ll be a laughingstock for having married such a vile libertine, I hope you realise.”

Bea stared at her uncle, never having experienced a surge of hatred so overwhelming as she did in that moment. “That vile libertine has treated me with respect. He took me in and has dealt with me fairly and with more kindness than I believed possible, yet my family, my dear uncle, purposely arranged a situation where a loathsome toad of a man could force his attentions on me until he bullied me into agreeing to wed him. Which of those men do you think worthy of my regard, and which of my unending scorn and disgust?” she demanded, the contempt in her voice so audible her uncle flushed.

His grip on her wrist tightened though, twisting, and Bea gave a cry of pain.

“I’ll have that money, Beatrice,” he growled. “You owe—”

“Take your damned hands off my wife!”

The words thundered in her ears, roared with such fury even Bea jumped. Her uncle turned but did not release his hold on her.

“Rutherford!” Bea exclaimed, relief flooding her at the sight of her husband running up the steps towards them.

“I said release her!” he bellowed, and Bea gasped at the rage flashing in his eyes.

Her uncle was a large man but run to fat and, being far older than Rutherford, in the prime of life no longer. He let go of Bea and glared at the earl who stalked up to him and pushed him hard, making Uncle Charles stagger backwards.

“If you were not so decrepit, I should knock you down this second, but if you ever, ever lay a finger on her again, I shall kill you,” Rutherford said, his voice so cold and so certain Bea shivered.

“Shall you indeed?” Charles replied, with more bravado than Bea expected, for it was clear Rutherford could flatten him if he chose to do so. “You did not come off so well in your last meeting, I understand,” he said with a sneer.

“I deloped,” Rutherford said, his voice low. “You may be sure I shall not do so for you.”

“I shall contact my lawyers,” her uncle snarled, glaring between them. “I shall get the marriage annulled.”

“On what grounds?” Rutherford demanded incredulously. “Beatrice is of age, she needed no permission from you, and if you think the marriage has not been thoroughly consummated, you are a bigger fool than I reckoned upon. You’ll be laughed out of court if you try that one,” he added with a smirk. “After all, my reputation precedes me.”

“You won’t get away with this, Beatrice,” Uncle Charles growled, his face flushed with anger. He didn’t look well, his eyes too bright, almost febrile. “I’ll have that money yet!”

Rutherford had clearly had enough. Taking hold of Charles’ arm, he wrenched it up behind his back and forced him down the steps.

“Unhand me, you bastard!” Charles raged, struggling to no effect as Rutherford proved just how outmatched he was.

Rutherford marched the man down the steps, practically throwing him headfirst into his carriage. “Get him out of here,” he bellowed to the footmen who had been watching with wide eyes, wondering whether to interfere. “And make sure he’s never allowed to set foot on the estate again. Anyone who permits it will face instant dismissal. Is that understood?”

The men nodded and hurried to manhandle her uncle into the carriage, closing the door on him.

Bea watched from the top of the steps with a sense of unreality until the carriage moved away, back down the path.

Rutherford turned and hurried up to her. “Beatrice? Are you well? Did he hurt you?”

Bea shook her head.

“Lord, you’re shaking,” he said in dismay, shrugging out of his coat. He put it around her shoulders and guided her inside. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re tougher than that vile bully can ever understand. Don’t let him upset you. You won, remember? You outsmarted him and got everything you wanted—well, not everything, you got me , but all the same, you thwarted his disgusting plans.”

He guided her inside and back to her lovely parlour where the fire was blazing.

“Come, sit down. I’ll fetch you a glass of brandy,” he said, manoeuvring her to her favourite chair.

“I’m q-quite all right,” she protested, sitting down with a thud.

“Of course you are,” Rutherford said. “I never thought anything different. Still, such an ugly scene is upsetting for anyone. It upset me .”

Bea looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said, letting out a shaky breath. “I swear I was never so pleased to see anyone in my whole life.”

He returned a crooked smile. “Ah, well. At least I’m good for something, eh?”

Bea opened her mouth to protest the comment, but he turned away to pour her a glass of brandy and she realised she did not know what it was she wished to say, so she said nothing.

Rutherford returned with the glass and then frowned as he realised she was cradling her wrist. He set the brandy down on a side table and knelt beside her.

“Show me,” he said, gesturing to it.

Bea lifted her arm and uncovered her wrist. He gently tugged up her sleeve to reveal that it was red and angry, bruises already appearing on her fair skin. Rutherford’s face darkened, a look in his eyes that frightened her a little.

“I ought to have killed him then and there,” he growled. “He’ll pay for that, Beatrice, I swear it. I—”

“No!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. “No, please. I want no more upset, no fighting, no duel. Please, Rutherford, promise me.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he met her eyes and gave a taut nod. “Very well, but if he ever lays a finger on you again, if he comes within a mile of you, I shan’t keep that promise.”

Bea smiled, touched and reassured by his vehemence. Whilst she had not believed he would stand back and allow her uncle to abuse her, she had not expected to be protected so fiercely.

“Thank you, Rutherford, for what you did for me,” she said, staring at him. “I knew everything would be all right the moment you appeared, and it was. I’m so glad you were there.”

To her surprise, a tinge of colour crested his high cheekbones. “So am I,” he said softly. “Shall I call Rachel for you? You’d best see to your wrist.”

Bea nodded, and he smiled. For a moment she saw the man he might have been if he’d not thrown everything away for a life of gambling and scandal, if he’d not chosen pleasure over a desire to make something of himself, his life. But perhaps he simply didn’t know better. His mother had died when he was a baby, and from the little she had heard of his father, he was no fit person to be a role model for an impressionable boy. Perhaps Rutherford really was a good man, deep inside. Perhaps he’d only needed a reason to change his behaviour, and he’d not had that before. Though she knew, knew , she would regret her action, she could not deny the impulse to lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, my knight in shining armour.”

He stilled, gazing at her in obvious shock. “The armour is tarnished. Beyond repair, remember,” he replied, something that sounded like regret in his voice.

“Tarnished, certainly,” Bea agreed. “But perhaps it might be mended, given time and a lot of elbow grease.”

He laughed at that, the endearing crooked smile she was becoming familiar with making an appearance. “How much elbow grease?” he demanded suspiciously.

“ A lot,” she repeated, her voice firm.

He snorted, shaking his head, and then got to his feet. “Drink your brandy, little Boudicca, I shall fetch Rachel to tend your battle scars.”

With that, he went out of the room, leaving Bea feeling oddly happy despite the stresses of the day.

Justin dithered in Bea’s parlour later that same day, awaiting her appearance for one of their thrice weekly dinners. He’d felt strangely restless and out of sorts since the scene with her uncle. No. That wasn’t true. He’d wanted to kill Viscount Worth and would have happily gone after him with that intention in mind upon seeing her lovely skin so abraded and bruised. Even now, rage burned in his guts at the damage her uncle had done, but that wasn’t what had him in a stew. For her sake, he could put that aside… assuming the bastard never bothered them again. No, the thing that had him all on edge and pacing the room with nervous impatience to see her again, had been the kiss.

He told himself he was being ridiculous. It had hardly been a kiss at all. No doubt she considered it a sisterly peck on the cheek. It had been a sisterly peck on the cheek! She had asked him to treat her like a sister, after all. Justin wondered if she had the slightest idea how hard it was to do as she asked, when every time he saw her, he became more and more obsessed with the idea of making her his own.

He'd tried to step back and consider his feelings impassively. It was logical to suppose that he would desire the woman he was sharing a house with. In the first place, she was a desirable woman. There was no question of that, though she was by no means the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. Some of the highflyers he’d spent time with had possessed the kind of beauty that poets wrote sonnets about, that might drive a man mad if he was fool enough to give his heart into their keeping. Justin had never been that man. His heart had never once been in danger. He’d been friends with many of his lovers, at least for the time the affair lasted. Somehow, he had never gained the knack of leaving gracefully. When they discovered they really could not hold him, that they were not the one who could keep his attention, they became resentful, despite having been told time and again what his rules were.

He’d had many parting gifts thrown at him, for he was always generous, even when his pockets were to let. Too generous, according to John, but the women had given something of themselves, and he had given so little of himself it seemed like he owed them that much. Oh, he’d given them his time, his attention, had done everything he could to ensure their pleasure, but he’d always kept himself aloof, almost a voyeur of his own life, remote, detached. He was not detached where Beatrice was concerned. The remoteness that had kept him going through the years seemed to have deserted him the moment she had appeared before him, walking into danger with her head high and her eyes flashing with scorn. Coolly making a bargain with the devil as if she did it every day, instead of in the hours after having fled her uncle’s house and escaping the abuse she had been promised there.

God, but she was brave and strong, and yet so lovely and fragile he had the appalling urge to want to keep her safe from everything. Not just from her uncle either, but from anything, any person or event that might so much as ruffle her composure. He wanted to ensure her comfort and buy her gifts to make her smile. What was wrong with him? He was turning into a blasted mooncalf after two decades as a devoted rake.

He told himself he was simply out of sorts after a traumatic period in his life, combined with not having bedded a woman for far too long. The confrontation with Lavinia’s husband had been worse than even he had imagined, and he’d known it would be bad. Lavinia might have told him it would not be so dreadful, but he was not a fool. He’d known better than she what he was doing. Not that he blamed her; she had been desperate and in her desperation, she had played down her husband’s wrath. Robert was a coward, she’d said, he would never challenge him to a duel. Ha! Not that it would have changed anything. Justin had known and had done what he always did—exactly what he wanted to do and damn the consequences. Well, the consequences had been terrible. Really, really terrible, and he’d almost died, and the entire world now believed him the worst kind of libertine. At least before they had accepted him because he was amusing and handsome and he knew how to dress and, even if he hadn’t a feather to fly with, he was still an earl. That meant something. Or it had.

But he had broken the rules, those unspoken rules that all gentlemen knew existed, even if they never acknowledged them, and that had been his undoing. Nevermind that Lavinia’s husband had been the real villain. Everyone knew it, but that was behind closed doors and was therefore not their affair. They hadn’t wanted to look at reality, had not wanted to see. So, Justin had done the only thing he could do and forced the bastard’s hand. In public. Where he could not escape the consequences. Sadly, Justin hadn’t escaped them either. So much for doing the honourable thing.

‘No good deed goes unpunished’ was a phrase his father had been fond of and had repeated often in the weeks they had spent together. It wasn’t until recently that Justin had truly appreciated what those words meant. Before Lavinia he had taken his pleasure where and when he liked, he had lived precariously, but well enough, depending on whether the cards or the horses favoured him, or if his ladylove of the moment was inclined to indulge him with expensive gifts. Lavinia’s plight had prompted a fleeting moment of chivalry, a desire to do something honourable that he had been paying for ever since.

Now, he was exiled from the world he had dwelled in since he was old enough to take his place in it. He’d been banished from everything that was familiar, and his life-raft was his old home, finally being raised from the ashes of decay and neglect and rising like a phoenix, renewed and beautiful once more. Beatrice shared the wonder of that metamorphosis with him, so it stood to reason a bond would exist between them. Though it had been through no fault of her own, she too had been hurt and knocked about by the vicissitudes of life and so he found in her a reflection of his own pain. It was only to be expected that he was drawn to her, that he wanted to seek comfort in her company, in her arms… in her bed. Only to be expected, he repeated urgently, trying and failing to keep his mind from the inevitable path it would take. He swallowed, lurid pictures appearing in his mind’s eye, of her delicate arms about his neck, of her unbound hair sliding over his naked skin, of— No .

No, he’d made a promise and, for once in his miserable life, he was going to keep it.

He looked up as the door opened and Beatrice came in, and it was as if the universe had stepped in and sent a message even he could not find ambiguous, for she was dressed in a gown of white satin. It was beautifully embroidered with tiny blue flowers and embellished with seed pearls and blonde lace and made her look so pure and virginal the back of his neck burned with shame for the thoughts he’d been having about her just seconds earlier. Yet his depraved mind only desired her more, wanted her with greater urgency. She was his wife, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. His wife.

“Good evening, my lord. I hope I am not late. Have I kept you waiting?” she asked, glancing at the mantel clock.

“Not in the least, and it is not exactly a hardship to wait for you in this lovely room. I hope you do not mind me making use of it. I do not wish to trespass upon your private space.”

“Of course not.” She waved this away, which he found heartening until she added, “I can hardly complain when I have not yet seen fit to decorate your own parlour, but you may be certain I shall begin it next week. Now that the study is complete, your parlour and the library will be my next project.”

“Ah, then you will soon be rid of me,” he said, his tone rather more brittle than he’d intended.

She paused, giving him an oddly penetrating look. “I meant no insult,” she said cautiously.

Justin shook off his irritation and forced a smile. “Of course not. None taken,” he said, setting down his empty glass. “Shall we go through?”

Beatrice nodded, accepting his proffered arm, and he escorted her out and through to the breakfast room. It was serving as their dining room too until that was habitable again.

“I prefer eating in here to that great draughty hall,” Beatrice said as a footman held her chair for her. “It’s far cosier.”

“It is,” Justin agreed, taking his own place beside her. “Which is just as well. I was informed earlier we have been lucky the chimney hasn’t fallen on our heads while we were dining.”

Beatrice pulled a face and nodded as she accepted a glass of wine. “I know. Did you see how much soot came down, not to mention half a ton of bricks? It was a wonder no one was hurt. The workmen were black from head to toe, the poor fellows. Will it be a dreadfully expensive repair?”

Justin shrugged. “Fairly dreadful, but better it was discovered, and the job done properly. As you say, no one was hurt, and the work was unavoidable as I wish the house to remain standing for generations to come.”

She fell silent, a slight flush of rose colouring her porcelain skin that Justin wondered at until he recalled his words. For generations to come. Of course, there would be no generations to come if she did not accept him as her husband. He thought about apologising but decided against it. No doubt it would only make her increasingly ill at ease.

The soup course was served, giving them a moment to overcome the slightly tense atmosphere. Justin waved the servants away, telling them not to return until he summoned them, and watched his wife covertly, his gaze drawn to the elegant line of her lovely neck, to the simple string of pearls she had looped around her throat. He had never seen her wear elaborate jewellery, though he supposed she’d hardly had a moment to shop for such things. Everything she’d owned must have, by necessity, been left behind at her uncle’s house when she had fled. He frowned at that, wondering what treasures she was missing, what mementoes of her beloved father she had been forced to abandon. The idea rankled. That bastard had taken enough from Beatrice, Justin would not allow him to keep that which did not belong to him.

“Would you be free tomorrow morning?” he asked her, so suddenly she started.

“Oh, I… Yes, perhaps. At least, I could be if it is something important. I had planned to discuss the work to be done in the library and write some letters. Do you know, I had a reply from a dear friend of mine this morning. I wrote a few days ago to explain a little of what had happened to me, and she wrote back at once. Isn’t that wonderful? All this time, I believed I had been forgotten, but it was not true. At least… not entirely.”

“Not entirely?” Justin queried, momentarily diverted by the glimmer of doubt he saw in her eyes, the anxious way her brows tugged together.

“I’m being silly,” she said with a shake of her head that made her curls bounce.

“I doubt that. Go on, say what you are thinking. You cannot shock me, remember? I’m entirely wicked and quite unshockable.”

She laughed a little at that, but her expression became serious once more. “Well, it’s just that Julia was my best friend in the world. I believed we told each other everything, shared our hopes and dreams and… and I cannot help but think that if she was suddenly taken away to live with a relation after the death of her father, I would do more than write a few letters and then give up when I got no reply.”

Justin smiled, though his heart ached for her, understanding at once what she meant. “Of course you would. You would have gone to see for yourself, no matter if she had been taken to live in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. You would have gone and knocked down the door until someone presented your friend to you and you were assured of her wellbeing.”

She flushed, staring at him, and he realised she believed he was mocking her.

“I mean what I say, Beatrice,” he said in a hurry, setting down his spoon. “You are the kind of person other people rely on. You are good and true and honest, and if you give your word, you keep it. If I had ever lived the kind of life where I’d had proper friends, I should have wanted one like that, like you.”

Beatrice held his gaze for a long moment and then her lovely mouth curved up. The smile did something odd to his heart, making it feel at once light and too full, as though it would escape the confines of his chest. “You do have one like that,” she said softly.

He would have smiled if his throat hadn’t ached so, if the words hadn’t touched upon some raw, private space he had kept hidden from the world, even from himself. What was she doing to him? Little by little, she was unravelling everything that held him together. All the untidily stitched repairs to his soul, to his peace of mind, to the ragged empty spaces that would yawn open if he let them were coming undone. He forced down the panicky sensation in his gut and told himself he was becoming overwrought. She had offered him friendship, for heaven’s sake, friendship, not a place in her bed. Why was he getting in such a lather over being friends with his own wife?

“What did you want of me?”

He jumped guiltily, gazing at her, wondering if she had read something in his face that had shown he wanted far more than mere friendship, but she only smiled.

“You asked if I was free in the morning,” she reminded him.

Oh. Justin nodded, trying to pull himself together. “Yes, I… I did.”

For the love of God, are you going to let her wreck you? demanded the voice in his head. He shook it off, remembering what it had been he’d wanted to do for her, for this woman who was foolish enough to be his friend when the world and his wife thought him sunk too low to ever show his face again.

“Why?” she prompted, giving him a look that suggested she thought he was acting rather oddly. He didn’t blame her.

“Because I want to take you back to your uncle’s house,” he said, realising too late that had been a clumsy explanation.

Her spoon fell with a clatter, and she stared at him in shock.

“No! Not… no , I only meant to recover the things that you left behind,” he said in a rush, reaching out and covering her hand with his. The action was instinctive, the urge to reassure her, to comfort her, but now his hand rested atop hers, feeling the cool, soft skin beneath his palm, and the way she trembled.

“The things I left behind?” she repeated, gazing at him in confusion.

“It’s just I was thinking that you left with such haste, you must have left things behind. Clothes and jewellery? Perhaps things that you treasured and would want beside you now you are settled. Your uncle has no right to them, and you should have them back. If you wish for me to go alone and fetch them for you, you need only provide me with a list, and I shall see it done. But I thought… I thought perhaps you would wish…”

“Yes!”

Her eyes glittered with a vibrancy he’d never seen before, excitement and determination and… pride? He wasn’t sure, but that she was pleased he did not doubt.

“You would really do that for me?” she asked, sounding strangely breathless.

He smiled at her, the desire to tell her he would do anything for her hard to hold back, but he was not ready to make such a damned fool of himself. Not when she would think he only wished to bed her. He did wish it, the voice in his head said emphatically, but he knew himself too well not to recognise an attempt at delusion.

“I would. I would be glad to,” he told her, the only words he would allow himself to speak.

She turned her hand beneath his and squeezed his fingers. “Thank you, Rutherford. Thank you very much.”

“Justin,” he said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “Please, call me Justin.”

“Thank you, Justin,” she repeated, looking a little uncertain but saying it anyway.

Elation filled his chest, triumph at having won something of true value, giving him a sense of pride, a kind of happiness she had never experienced before.

“You’re very welcome, Beatrice.”

She slid her hand free and turned her attention back to her soup, but the sensation lingered throughout the meal, making him feel like a king.