Beauty in Breeches (3 page)

She particularly watched him when he conversed with Astrid, noting that he never betrayed any emotion other than polite interest, and there were moments when he observed the festivities that his expression slipped and he looked bored, as if he would prefer to be elsewhere.

Beatrice folded her arms across her chest. Already she had decided to use this handsome lord in her desire to return to Larkhill. She could not help her aunt's dreams. She had her own dreams. Someone had to be disappointed. However, she did consider what Astrid's feeling might be on the matter and she would speak to her first, but an opportunity had presented itself that she did not intend letting slip away. This was the time and the place. The way to capture Lord Chadwick was to surprise him before his conscience was awake, not to let him prepare and consider and reject her in advance.

With Henry Talbot, the son of a close neighbour by her side, Astrid wandered away from Lord Chadwick and Beatrice saw her aunt's bright, demanding stare, prompting her daughter to make herself available to Lord Chadwick once more. Beatrice saw Astrid's
shoulders slump and watched her walk back to him. Her cream parasol trembled over her fair head as he stepped forwards to meet her. He bowed low and took her gloved hand, but Beatrice knew, with keen insight, that it was not the heat of passion Lord Chadwick felt for Astrid. And what was her silly cousin blushing for? Why was she trembling?

‘What's happening now?' she asked Lizzie when the maid returned to the room. ‘It looks as if some kind of debate is taking place at the far end of the garden.'

‘And so it is. One of the footmen told me in the kitchen that the main topic of conversation just now is the racing at Goodwood and about Lord Chadwick's acquisition of a horse he purchased recently at Newmarket. Apparently he's challenged anyone to a race who thinks they have a mount that can beat his. As yet no one's been brave enough to take him up on his challenge, but it still stands.'

A slow smile curved Beatrice's mouth and her eyes lit. ‘Well now, that is most interesting.' At last she'd heard something that caused her to turn from the window. Despite the impropriety of what she was about to do and her aunt's wrath when she found out, she would seize this God-given opportunity before it slipped away. ‘You're right, Lizzie,' she said, with more enthusiasm than she'd shown all day. ‘Perhaps I should go down. Help me dress, will you? My green, I think. I must look my best for Astrid's party.'

 

Assured of her beauty, the green of her gown making her hair glow more golden and her eyes to
shine brighter, she was endowed with a boldness second to none. The beautiful setting, the laughter and the warmth of the day spurred Beatrice on through a sea of nameless faces to carry out her scheme to its limit. She was quite mad, of course, but that neither concerned nor deterred her from her purpose. She was not about to act like a rider who falls from their horse before the race was done.

With a false smile pinned to her face, she followed the pretty path that wound its way through the attractive garden drenched in warm sunshine, her eyes on the large group of people at the other end. Some of the fashionable, overdressed gentlemen were sprawled out on the lawn, drinking champagne and talking and laughing much too loudly as the liquor loosened their inhibitions. Beatrice was confidently aware of the gleam of her silk dress hinting at the contours of her long shapely legs as she walked. Long gloves encased her arms and her shining hair was caught up at the crown in a mass of thick, glossy curls.

She was surrounded by other ladies, beautiful ladies, but when Beatrice put her mind to it only she had that perfect self-conscious way of walking. She moved as if every man present was watching her. She walked as if she were irresistible, such was the power of her conviction that she would achieve her goal in what she had set out to do. Even the diamonds adorning the throats of the ladies winked at her like bright-eyed conspirators as they caught the sun. A certainty stronger than anything else assured her that her hour of triumph was near.

She was aware of the stir she created as she
continued to advance, with a strange sensation of fatality and enjoying a kind of immunity. A lightning bolt of anticipation seemed to shoot through the crowd, breaking off conversation and choking off laughter as some two hundred guests turned in near unison to see where she was heading.

In the surrounding haze Beatrice no longer saw anyone but him. Her attention was focused entirely on him. She looked at him fixedly. Had she wanted to look away, she could not have done. She was not even conscious that people were watching her, feeling they were about to witness something surprising.

Never had Beatrice seen such a figure of masculine elegance. Lord Julius Chadwick looked so poised, so debonair. His movements, his habitual air of languid indolence, hung about him like a cloak. With his dark hair tousled by the breeze, he looked every inch the well-heeled businessman and landowner—and a great deal more dangerous than the average country gentleman.

The perfect fit of his coat and the tapering trousers accentuated the long lines of his body. It was impossible not to respond to this man as his masculine magnetism dominated the scene. A slow half-smile curved his lips and she saw him give a careless shrug. He raised his fine, dark eyebrows at some remark. She completely ignored the young women in the knot eyeing him with encouraging, flirtatious glances over their fans, tittering and giggling. Where other women might have succumbed to the irresistible pull to see behind the cool façade and start uncovering the man beneath, Beatrice
could feel the palpable danger around him. She was never a rational person, but this time she knew she should have the good sense to heed the warning and turn and walk away. But her mind was made up. Too much was at stake.

Lord Chadwick cast a pair of laughing eyes over those around him; his gaze came to rest on a pair of jade-green eyes in which gold-and-brown flecks blazed, a sure sign that their owner was under some urgent compulsion, staring at him with a fixed intensity. He stood watching her in silent fascination, then he smiled slowly. Julius was easily moved by the beauty of a woman and the calm boldness with which this one was looking at him intrigued him.

He saw a sculpted face of unforgettable beauty, with high, delicately moulded cheekbones, a perfect nose and generous lips. It was a strong face, but essentially feminine. Her hair was burnished gold by the sun. Bright curls clustered in artful disarray on the top of her head, a few gilded wisps wreathed about her delicate ears and nape, drawing attention to her slender neck. There was something unusual in her attitude. A strange sense of shock quivered through him when he recognised her as the woman he had seen at Larkhill some days past, and again today when instinct had drawn his gaze to an upstairs window of the house. Who was she and why did she watch him so intently?

Beatrice faced him with outward calm. She looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment, as though estimating her chances. The corner of her mouth rose
insensibly as her eyes narrowed. Now that the moment of confrontation had arrived she was strangely relieved.

‘I hear you have offered a wager to anyone who believes their horse can beat yours. I will accept your challenge,' she announced clearly. A loud gasp ran through the guests as they gathered about, parting for her to pass through. At the sight of Beatrice Fanshaw the frosty eyes of the hopeful young ladies pierced her back with a thousand darts; those young ladies fanned themselves with growing annoyance.

Lord Chadwick excused himself and came forwards to meet her. Her face was uptilted; as he looked at her, deep inside, he felt something tighten, harden, clarifying and coalescing into one crystal-clear emotion. Taking her gloved hand, he gallantly bowed over it. As she lightly rested her fingers in his, he brushed them with a kiss.

‘Whoever you are, you look extremely beautiful, a rare jewel adorning the garden.'

How dashing he is, Beatrice thought, smiling triumphantly at him as he looked at her searchingly. The warm liquid of his amber gaze missed nothing as he became caught up in the excitement of her presence. She totally ignored the other women struggling to maintain their composure as they tried to hide their hostility towards her.

‘What it is to be so popular, sir. I thank you for the compliment,' she said coolly, lightly, withdrawing her hand, as if his compliment meant nothing to her at all while secretly feeling a trifle flattered that a man
should find her attractive, ‘but I have an aversion to flattery.'

His eyebrows lifted at her forthright remark. ‘Really? I am surprised to hear that since every female of my acquaintance welcomes adulation from the opposite sex.'

‘Do they?' she replied airily. ‘Flattery and false praise are much the same in my book.'

Curious about her casual, cool manner, yet undaunted, his smile was humorous. ‘I assure you that my flattery was genuine and well meant. It is not flattery to tell the truth.'

Beatrice glanced around. ‘You appear to have attracted a great deal of attention yourself. Why, ladies surround you like moths around a candle.'

He tilted his eyebrows with amusement and leaned forwards so that only she might hear his words. ‘Many moths, but only one rare butterfly. Besides, I have never been partial to moths,' he murmured, and Beatrice read in his face such evident desire that heat flamed for a moment in her cheeks. A curious sharp thrill ran through her as the force between them seemed to explode wordlessly, but she did not forget who he was or why she was here.

He took a step back from her. ‘So, who have we here?' he asked, regarding her down the length of his aristocratic nose. Her body was slender but rounded in all the right places and disturbing in its femininity. The swell of her hips was outlined softly beneath the soft folds of her gown and her breasts, exposed just enough above the low neckline, hinted at their firm
shapeliness. He had not been so intrigued by a woman in a long time. ‘Will someone not introduce us?'

Beatrice stiffened as his challenging and impertinent eyes sharpened and narrowed in amusement. And did his gaze actually linger on her breasts pushing their way up out of her bodice, or was it only her confused imagination that made it seem that way?

With Henry Talbot by her side, Astrid glanced up at him shyly and said breathlessly, ‘Oh, this is Beatrice, my cousin, Lord Chadwick. She is quite mad about horses. Indeed, she can think and talk of nothing else from morning till night. It comes as no surprise that she is interested in taking you up on your wager.'

Julius arched a brow, smiling. ‘Beatrice?'

‘I am Beatrice Fanshaw,' Beatrice provided, lifting her chin proudly and looking directly into his narrowed amber eyes. Her own were glowing with brilliance and fire, her gaze never wavering from his face as she awaited his reaction to her announcement.

In a split second his smile was wiped clean from his face and his eyes were now sharp and penetrating with interest and something that resembled shock. The young lady who had so intrigued him a moment before had suddenly taken on a whole new identity. ‘Ah! Fanshaw! Of course. How very interesting. I do recall the name.'

‘You should. My father was Sir James Fanshaw.'

‘I remember your father. However, I was not aware that he had a daughter.' Already nettled by her cool attitude, Julius delivered his reply with a small bow
and an exaggerated show of disdain. ‘It is obvious you know who I am, Miss Fanshaw.'

‘You are Julius Chadwick.' Her words were firm and measured as she failed to address him with the courtesy of his title. ‘The same man who ruined my father.'

‘And is that what all this is about? You are here to beg me to retrieve all that he lost?'

Something welled up in Beatrice, a powerful surge of emotion to which she had no alternative but to give full rein. It was as if she had suddenly become someone else, someone bigger and much stronger than the woman who had joined the party. Her eyes flashed as cold fury drained her face of colour and added a steely edge to her voice.

‘Those who know me know that I never beg, Lord Chadwick, and by my oath I intend to take more from you than an old man's loss.' Her promise was made with an icy, threatening calmness.

Julius looked at her, his face a mask of indignation, but then he was so taken aback by her outburst that his superiority evaporated. He stared down at the lovely young woman whose fury turned her eyes to a darker green.

‘Dear me, Miss Fanshaw. I can see I will have to watch my step.'

‘More than that, my lord. You are the man directly responsible for my father's death.'

Her attack took him so completely by surprise that he looked startled for a moment and more than a little uneasy, then a hard gleam entered his eyes, for his
conscience was sore with the irony of trying to protect the reputation of his own undeserving father while—at least where Miss Fanshaw was concerned—damaging his own. ‘I don't think so,' he replied, aware that those around them had fallen silent and were watching and listening with an uneasy, open curiosity. ‘Your father brought about his own death.' He smiled. ‘It was easy to beat him. He had no skill when it came to cards.'

‘Then why did you allow him to stake Larkhill? You certainly didn't want it—indeed, you have not spent a penny piece on it since, for it is crumbling with neglect. Do you enjoy taking things from people who are weaker than you—humbling people? In my opinion that is the mark of a coward.' She took a step towards him and was pleased to see him take a step back.

Not discouraged and ignoring the gasp that went up from the crowd, he gave a bark of laughter. ‘You call me a coward?'

She smiled. ‘Only a coward would do what you did. You knew he couldn't win. You knew his loss would destroy him. Didn't that worry you?'

He shook his head slowly. ‘Not unduly. He was a grown man. He knew perfectly well what he was doing when he staked a house and estate that was already mortgaged up to the hilt.'