Beauty in Breeches (7 page)

‘Good Lord, no. Miss Standish is exquisite and quite charming, but she is not to my taste.' Julius meant it. To
anyone with experience, Astrid Standish's mere prettiness could not hold a candle to Beatrice Fanshaw's raw kind of beauty. Miss Standish could prove troublesome in her own way, but she was very definitely not the same sort of trouble Miss Fanshaw would be. He would never be bored with her, that was for sure. ‘In any case, you have spiked your aunt's ambitions well and truly with this outrageous escapade.' Suddenly curious to know more about this self-contained young woman, although he couldn't for the life of him think why, he said, ‘Why does she resent you?'

‘I think she sees me as some kind of threat to Astrid. Against her wishes, my uncle took us in when my mother and I had nowhere else to go. To add to our difficulties my mother was very ill. Her illness began immediately after my father died. Aunt Moira didn't go out of her way to make us welcome. When my mother died she would have turned me out were it not for my uncle.'

‘I'm sorry,' Julius said, his tone suddenly sympathetic. ‘That must have been an awful time for you when you lost your mother. I am not unacquainted with death and loss,' he said, thinking of the loss of his own mother. ‘I have not forgotten the pain of it. How was your relationship with your uncle?'

‘He always treated me kindly. Before he died he made Aunt Moira promise to do right by me: to maintain me as one of her own children, to bring me out into society and to ensure that the man I married was suitable. I suppose she considers she has kept this promise as well as her nature will permit, but as soon as my
uncle died she made it plain that I should not think myself on an equal footing with my cousins. How could she like or accept an irksome alien, someone inferior and unconnected to her by any tie, an intruder on her own family?'

The softening of her manner enhanced her beauty and Julius boldly and appreciatively stared at her hard for several moments. There was a forlorn, lost look about her and he sensed she bore a deep inner pain and bitterness that had driven her to where she was now. In fact, he saw in her that which was in himself, and
that
something stirred, something moved that had not moved in a long time. It came unbidden, unexpected, born of the bleakness of his own life. Over the years he'd stifled that feeling as best he could, but it had been there just the same, telling him how he felt, and it was ridiculous, totally ridiculous, for with so much to do his life was full. But always there was something not quite right, something missing from his life.

‘I can see your life at Standish House has not been easy and that you do indeed need rescuing,' he said softly.

‘I have become accustomed to it.' She gave him a sideways, almost coy look. ‘Will you be my rescuer, Lord Chadwick?'

He considered her remark in silence. Perhaps he should rescue her from her predicament. After all, if it wasn't for his father, she wouldn't be in this position, so maybe he should accept her marriage proposal. ‘Tell me. Why do you want to marry me so badly?'

‘You know why. Because you own Larkhill.'

‘Yes, I thought that might have something to do with it,' he remarked drily.

‘But I have no money. I can't afford Larkhill. I have nothing save what my aunt chooses to give me, which is very little, therefore it is up to me to provide for myself. I will no longer be a burden to my aunt. I can no longer submit to her opinion as a matter of course. In short, Lord Chadwick, I have decided to be my own advocate and make my own case.'

‘Will that be such a hardship for you?'

Beatrice detected a mild concern in his voice. ‘I hope not. I am indeed at your mercy. After this I cannot stay here. My aunt will cut me off from all connection with her family because I dared ask you to marry me. If you refuse to do this, I shall have to find somewhere else to live and an occupation to support myself.'

His eyes held hers in an enquiring glance. ‘What you really mean is that your pride won't let you show defeat.'

She bristled at his light, mocking tone. ‘After this I shall be regarded as low as a fallen woman—a helpless and defenceless female.'

Her words were so inappropriate he laughed out loud. ‘Helpless and defenceless be damned. A woman who can ride as you do and beat me at my own challenge, a woman who can ask a man to marry her and when he rejects her can still lift her head with fire in her eyes, is not what I would call helpless or defenceless. I salute your courage and your boldness, Miss Fanshaw. You are undeniably brave—and reckless. But you are being selfish in throwing your desirable
self at me, daring me to take advantage of you because you want something badly enough. You are playing with fire and it is inevitable that at some time you will be burned. I am unwilling to satisfy your wicked schemes and am most reluctant to take advantage of you—though God knows I would like to and you fully deserve it.'

‘I don't know if I should be flattered or insulted by that remark, Lord Chadwick,' Beatrice retorted, her cheeks flushed with indignation.

‘Take it either way. It is immaterial to me. So, it all boils down to the fact that you want to marry me for my money.'

‘Your wealth does make marriage to you more palatable.'

‘You don't have to go to such lengths as to tie yourself to me for life to return to your former home. When I asked you if you would demand Larkhill as the forfeit I recall you saying it would be nothing as fine or as grand as that—which makes me feel decidedly inferior that you consider me less important than a house.' He gave her a steady look. ‘Why settle for me?'

‘Because I need you—your money—to restore Larkhill to what it was. You have neglected the property sorely since you took it from my father.'

Shrugging himself away from the wall and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he began to pace. ‘I understand your resentment. It can't be a comfortable situation for a woman like you, a young woman robbed of her own family, yet with your whole life ahead of you. While ever you live with your aunt you are in
Astrid's shadow—you, who are the more beautiful of the two.'

Beatrice was so humiliated by his reference to her plight that her heart clenched with the truth of it. It was such a bleak and accurate summary of her life that she almost choked at the future that opened up before her. ‘That's how it is for a lot of women,' she said, stung into honesty, ‘especially when a woman finds herself without a family of her own. It's not what one would choose. I don't like it and I decided long ago to find my own way out—hence the wager. Do you have family, Lord Chadwick?'

He shook his head. Pain and desolation entered his eyes, but it quickly disappeared and his expression was suddenly guarded. ‘No, Miss Fanshaw, I do not. From the moment I saw you I realised that we might have something in common. Like me, you like to make your own choices. I owe no man a living and I owe no woman a duty. In short, I am my own man, free to do as I choose. That's the way I like it and how I want it to remain.'

‘It's different for a woman.'

‘I know. But if all you want is to return to Larkhill, you don't have to marry me.'

‘No?' She looked at him warily. ‘It seems to me, Lord Chadwick, that you are trying to wriggle out of your promise. You really are going to renege on your word, aren't you?' She took a deep breath, her eyes flashing daggers. ‘Very well. I can't force you to marry me. Now, I think you'd better leave.'

When she tried to sweep past him, his strong hand
gripped her arm and spun her around. He hadn't known her twenty-four hours and yet somehow she already showed a talent for clouding his cool calculation. He shouldn't be angry with her—not when he was the one hiding too many dark and brooding secrets. It was himself he should be angry with.

‘Devil take it, woman, I don't want to marry you! I'm not the marrying kind. I'm no good for you. Can't you get that through that beautiful head of yours?'

Suddenly he seemed enormous and very close to Beatrice. His powerful body emanated heat, matching the heat that was rising in her cheeks. ‘I don't want to marry you, either. You are nothing but a—a barbarian. But I will not withdraw the forfeit. I will not make it easy for you. It is up to you to extricate yourself in whichever way you see fit.'

His eyes blazed. ‘Barbarian? Lady,' he warned, his voice hoarse with fury above her, ‘as yet I haven't even begun to act the barbarian. If you insist on marrying me, then let me warn you in advance that I have learned from an expert how to make a wife's life a living hell.'

His hold on her arm tightened and he looked at her for a long moment. She was so lovely, cool, virginal and stunningly arousing—and the most hair-raising woman he had ever met. He could feel himself responding, a fact that only inflamed his anger. Slowly, with menacing deliberation, he backed her against the shadowy garden wall. His grip wasn't painful, but the casual strength in his fingers was unyielding and made it impossible for her to escape his grip despite her struggle.
‘Take your hands off me,' she snapped to cover her growing alarm. Giving up her futile struggle, she glared murderously at the angry light glinting in his eyes. ‘How dare you call yourself a gentleman when you go around molesting women?'

‘Only those who stupidly believe they can get the better of me,' he said between his teeth. ‘I'm merely trying to assure you that you don't want to be my wife—to give you a taste of what you will be up against if you continue with this farce.'

One hand rose to grasp her chin, but Beatrice turned her face away, eluding capture. When his hard fingers at last closed over her jaw, she gasped with fury. ‘Stop it. Do you hear me? Don't you dare hurt me! Kindly take your hands off me!'

Julius stared down at her. He hadn't missed the flare of temper in her eyes, or the fright. ‘I've never hurt a woman in my life. But I mean to convince you to reconsider the forfeit you demand from me.' His gaze dropped to her soft lips, then slid lower, following the line of her throat down to the tantalising mounds beneath the soft fabric of her shirt. With her head thrown back, they quivered and thrust forwards invitingly, emphasising the undeniable fact that she was an alluring woman.

As he released her chin, his fingers unintentionally brushed her breast. He was instantly aware of the contact. So was she—he could tell by the furious blush that rose to her cheeks.

Beatrice tried to ignore the effect of his touch.

‘Release me this instant,' she demanded heatedly. ‘Kindly remove your hands.'

It was a supremely proper response—prim, restrained, ladylike, just the kind he would expect from a woman of her social standing, who had been taught to hold the physical side of marriage in aversion. ‘Why? Don't you want me to touch you?' he murmured, deliberately running his fingers along the line of her jaw. She was so close that he could smell the fragrance of violets in her hair. ‘Don't you know that as my wife I shall be able to touch you where I like and when I like, that you must accept my attentions no matter how repugnant you find them to be? Shall I give you a taste of what to expect when I exert my husbandly rights?'

Drawing her rigid body closer, he pressed it against his, and the sensation of her soft body and her slender legs encased in breeches moulded to his own acted on him like a powerful aphrodisiac. Desire surged through him, heating his blood, sending it singing through his veins, and then his mouth crushed hers with a controlled expertise that left her gasping, shocking her with his arousing warmth.

Julius finally raised his head. ‘Consider it, Miss Fanshaw. You will have to learn to enjoy my lovemaking,' he warned, ‘to be available to me whenever I want you, so if you still insist on being my wife, perhaps you should start enjoying it now.'

Still reeling from his devastating kiss, Beatrice stared up at him, two bright spots of colour highlighting her cheeks. His voice had suddenly grown husky with sensuality.

Julius's smouldering eyes stared back at her. She knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. If he was trying to destroy her resistance, he was succeeding. When he fitted his body to hers, she tensed with a mingling of dread and wanton longing. She hardly had time to catch her breath before his mouth descended on hers once more and his tongue plundered the inner softness in a fierce, brutal kiss that was meant to punish and humiliate her.

Rigid with fury, she clawed and squirmed against him, trying to break his hold and to drag her mouth away from the fierce possession of his lips. Her struggle only seemed to encourage him on his course of persuasion and he deepened the kiss. His arm went around her, his hand cupping her buttocks to bring her hips even closer to his. Raising his head a fraction, he murmured, ‘I would take my pleasure of you any time, at my leisure, any time I choose. I would make you moan for me,' he rasped against her lips, ‘moan with pleasure.'

Beatrice shuddered, seeing something primitive and terrifying flare in his eyes as his arms tightened. She jerked back, a protest rising in her throat, but his lips stifled her voice with a demanding insistence that stunned her into immobility. She had never even imagined what it would be like to be kissed—at least not in the way Julius Chadwick was kissing her, with his mouth moist and parted, warmly tasting hers, his tongue parting her lips to probe and explore with a hungry ardour and an inflaming expertise that rendered her weak.

Mindlessly she slid her hands up his chest, trying to cling for support to the very object that was destroying her balance. Confused and lost in a haze of nameless yearnings, she raised herself up on her toes, responding to the forceful pressure of his arms.

Julius groaned in response, deepening his kiss as she moulded her body against his. Her breath was so sweet, the feel of her so good he felt himself respond with that part of him that didn't give a damn about his mind, which was telling him to tread with care. In his mind he knew that what he had intended wasn't working. He was driving himself insane and losing the battle for control.