Chapter Nine
Edward stared down into Miss Deverell’s eyes and felt nothing. Not even the slightest spark of attraction. This was the bride he’d thought he needed—someone he was indifferent to. Someone safe. Unlike the woman he’d married, for Bea made him feel everything.
His wife was the most beautiful woman in the room. Utterly captivating. He knew it and everyone else knew it too.
She had looked stunning the night he’d first met her, drawing him in, but dressed in her white tulle gown, his mother’s diamonds draped around her neck, she dazzled brighter than the chandeliers. She lit up the room solely on her own.
He was proud to have her on his arm—she displayed precisely the comportment expected of a future duchess and yet he couldn’t help feeling she commanded the room not as his wife, but as herself. If only his father could see her now…
Impending loss lay heavy on his heart. Soon, the man who had often made his life a misery would no longer be around.
He should perhaps have been relieved, but instead he felt robbed—of time, and of words that had been unspoken.
He was angry with him. Frustrated, that the Duke was so stubborn that even now, on his looming deathbed, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything kind to his son.
A strange sense of longing ached in his throat.
Bea’s words from earlier came to his mind, about letting go of his need for his father’s approval.
He had always feared following in his father’s and his brother’s colossal footsteps but she had told him he only needed to meet his own expectations.
If that were true, when he became Duke, what were his hopes for himself?
Perhaps he could use the title to his advantage, almost as a purpose, to improve the things he cared about.
Fairer pay for workers, better living conditions for the poor…
He could lead by example and use his influence for good.
He wanted to make an impact. Maybe he could do that, with Bea by his side.
But all that would mean his father was gone, without them having reconciled their differences.
His grief almost drowned out the noise of the whispers in the ballroom about his bride.
He knew what people were saying about them, behind their backs.
He’d seen the scowls. Heard the derisive and contemptuous laughter coming from the aristocrats’ downturned mouths.
At first, his stomach had clenched, his spine had straightened, as he’d tried to ignore it.
Rise above it. But then he realised, he didn’t so much care about the comments for himself, he just didn’t want them to hurt Bea.
But if Bea had noticed, she hadn’t given herself away.
She had handled the evening with a certain poise not even some of the wealthiest people in the room possessed. She was strong, he realised. Resilient.
He cast a glance her way. While he was grateful to his good friend for looking after her, he didn’t like seeing her glove-covered fingers meeting Mr Webb’s.
He felt protective, possessive, determined as soon as the tune was over they would make their excuses and leave so he wouldn’t have to subject her to any more scrutiny or snubs.
And before anyone else had time to ask her to dance.
He wanted her back, to have her all to himself.
He had invited Miss Deverell to the floor because he’d needed to smooth things over.
For his father more than anything else. She was pleasant enough, and it seemed she was not sorry things hadn’t worked out between them either—it was purely their parents who had been keen for them to wed. His conscience was clear.
Finally, the music ceased, and he let Miss Deverell go. He was eager to go after his wife. But when he reached Bea’s side and stared down into her eyes, he knew something was wrong.
She glanced around her. ‘People know where I’m from, Edward,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know how. I’m sorry.’
His brow furrowed. ‘Why, has someone said something?’
‘Yes, those three women over there.’
He stole a glance over to where she’d gestured and clocked the women staring in disapproval, their gazes loaded with judgement.
‘They know I used to work at the inn,’ she hissed. He nodded, and she frowned. ‘Edward, you don’t seem surprised.’
‘To be honest I thought everyone already knew. I have heard what people are saying.’ The names they were calling her. He clenched his fists. ‘Secrets always have a way of getting out.’
She reared. ‘I thought people just assumed we had married so quickly and quietly because of Thomas. If they know I was a serving maid, why did you make me get dressed up like this? What is the point in coming here, wearing all of this, behaving a certain way, if people know the truth? It makes me feel like a fool, a fake, as though I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. I would have preferred not to come.’
His scowl deepened. ‘I wanted you to come. And you are dressed appropriately for the occasion. You are no fool and you are certainly no fake, Bea. How else are you meant to dress, as my wife, as a future duchess attending a ball? Tell me what they said.’
He saw her throat work, but she shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
It must have been bad if she didn’t want to repeat it, and his stomach tightened into a fist in preparation to hear it, steeling himself for the fury he knew would follow. He leaned in and took her chin in his hand, despite propriety, tilting her face up towards him. ‘It does to me.’
She sighed. ‘They implied I used certain means to trap you. They said they couldn’t linger to talk in case they caught a disease from me.’
He swore and she blanched.
‘Mrs Thorpe was shocked. She didn’t know what to say,’ she said, looking all around her, checking no one could hear them. ‘I felt bad for her.’
‘I am sorry you had to listen to that, Bea.’ He was livid on her behalf. He wondered if he should go over to those women and give them a piece of his mind, but he didn’t want to escalate the scandal.
‘What did you say in response? I cannot imagine for one moment you let those comments go unanswered.’ She wasn’t like him. She was able to do what he was not—say things as they were.
‘I told them you were obviously a man of unconventional taste…’
Edward couldn’t help but grin. ‘That I am.’
‘…which is my good fortune. But I have been berating myself since. I know I should have kept quiet. I’m sorry, Edward. My tongue ran away with me. I feel as if I have let you down.’
Only then did he see the wobble of her lip, before she caught it between her teeth, the hurt etched on her face.
Suddenly he realised the insults had carried some weight, that her behaviour did matter—not because it was of importance to her, but because she was concerned for him and what he would think about it.
She was trying to protect him, putting his needs before her own. People rarely did that.
Just when he thought he couldn’t like her any more than he already did, his heart swelled in his chest.
He was glad she had stood up for herself.
For him. And he wondered why he had ever felt the need to change her.
Her gentle teasing and her brutal honesty had disarmed him when they’d first met, but he had also found it liberating.
The way her comments pierced through any pretentiousness had bolstered him, making him feel free.
And suddenly, his desire to protect them from further scandal was overridden by the need to preserve her uniqueness.
He wasn’t sure he wanted her to have to put on a performance for him and these despicable people any longer.
He wanted to reassure her that he could handle it—the controversy about them. Absurdly, right now, that was what was important to him, making her feel better, not gossip. He couldn’t fathom why he had let the fear of the ton’s judgement rule him for so long.
‘We knew that people would have things to say about our relationship. But their comments reveal more about them—their own jealousies and insecurities—than you or me. We just have to ignore it and wait for the rumours to die down,’ he said.
The Viscount and his wife walked past them and sent a disapproving glance his way, seeing Edward’s hand curved around Bea’s chin.
He knew he should drop his fingers, stop touching her, but rebellion rushed through his blood and suddenly, he wanted to be reckless.
He drew her face closer to him, so they were a breath away, and she stared up at him in shock.
‘Why Lord Harrington, what will people say?’
‘Right now, I am not sure I care.’
He lowered his hand to take hers in his and he tugged her out of the ballroom and into the courtyard. Once outside in the cool night air, he pulled her close to him again and she laughed.
‘Where is George and the damn coach? For the sooner I get you inside, the sooner I can kiss you again.’
The coach pulled up outside Longwood Hall and they both drew a breath, staring at each other, the assurance of what was to happen between them now so very real.
They entered the house and Edward took Bea’s hand in his again, but he forced himself to take a breath. He must not rush this. ‘Hungry?’ he asked her.
She nodded, and he led her towards the dining room, where the embers of the fire were still smouldering. He pulled out a seat and slipped off his coat and cravat, hanging them over the back of a chair. ‘Sit down, I will go and check on my father and call for Mrs Potter.’
‘Oh, Edward, don’t wake her. It’s so late. Surely we can fix our own supper?’
He looked at her. It went against convention, it wasn’t how things were done, but he was starting to enjoy breaking the rules with his wife. Why shouldn’t they make their own food? At least that way they could choose exactly what they wanted. And he wanted to be alone with her, uninterrupted.
‘We could have a picnic on the rug again,’ she suggested tentatively.
Suddenly nothing sounded more appealing.
He nodded. ‘I will be right back.’