Chapter Eleven
‘Do we really have to go?’
‘I am afraid that we must. I promised Mrs Thorpe you would be there. She will be disappointed if you are not. They all will be. I think they have come to prefer your company over mine.’
Bea laughed.
They were going to Almack’s Assembly Rooms on King Street and Bea had been trying to get out of going all day. Edward had told her this was where elite prevailed and she thought they would be much more comfortable socialising here, with just their few, close friends.
‘What about your father?’
‘Knowing him, and how stubborn he is, he will be around for a while yet. And to be honest, it might be good to cling on to some kind of normalcy.’
‘This is still not entirely normal for me, Edward.’
His lips twisted. ‘I know that.’
It was getting easier, though, with every assembly they went to. Now that Bea knew herself better, knew Edward better, and she felt more settled at Longwood, they had both stopped seeking approval so much and had decided to just be their best selves.
Being with Edward had changed her. Yes, he had transformed her into a lady, through her clothes and her hair and her lessons in deportment. But he was constantly telling her what a good mother she was—and a good wife—and she was beginning to believe it. Believe he truly cared.
But she still couldn’t say she loved attending these events. She would much rather stay at home with her husband and son.
‘Have you had chance to talk to him—your father?’
He ran a hand round the back of his neck.
‘Edward…’
‘I will. On the morrow.’
She sighed, resigned to the night that lay ahead of them. ‘Will I have to watch you dance with other women again?’
‘As I will have to suffer watching you dance with other men.’
If it was up to her, she would only dance with her husband all night long.
‘But I promise you this—I will make it up to you later.’
She smiled. She was looking forward to it already.
She was glad Edward had opened up to her about his parents.
Now she could understand the man she had married so much better.
His fear of marriage. Everything he’d told her explained why he was who he had become.
Her heart had gone out to him when he’d told her about his mother.
It was a tragic tale and he must miss her terribly.
She was lucky she had married a man she cared about, and who she hoped was beginning to care for her too. A man she wanted in her bed, all the time, and who seemed to have an insatiable desire for her in return.
Though he had still not mentioned any words of love.
Was he capable of love?
She knew his father had starved him of it, withholding his affections, taking his mother away. But didn’t that mean Edward now deserved love in his life more than anyone? Or did he fear giving it, worried it would lead to more rejection?
As they headed to the door of the fine establishment in St James’s, their names were checked off the guest list and Bea’s pulse skittered with nervous apprehension.
Would she ever get used to this? Edward escorted her into the huge ballroom lit by gas-fired lanterns and decorated with mirrors and medallions.
Their entrance didn’t cause quite the stir like it had at the first ball he’d taken her to.
There were still a few raised eyebrows and bowed heads as people whispered between themselves, but it seemed as if the scandal was dying down. She knew Edward was pleased.
They found their friends and discussed various people who were in attendance tonight.
Bea was starting to learn the names of the people they spoke about—and put a face to them.
When Mr Webb asked her about the summer exhibition and if she’d enjoyed it, Bea spoke animatedly about the pieces she’d seen.
She could feel Edward’s warm gaze upon her as he returned from the refreshments table and handed her a drink.
‘What is it this time?’ she asked.
‘Just lemonade,’ he said. ‘They have a rule of no alcohol here.’
‘Why?’
‘To maintain strict control.’
‘Does no one have any fun around here?’ she teased.
He grinned. ‘Can I have the first dance?’
‘To get it over with?’ she said, repeating his words from Lady Harroway’s ball.
His eyes narrowed on her and he leaned in. ‘No, because you are too far away and it is the only way I will be able to touch you all night, until we get home.’
‘You make a good point.’
She put down her drink and they made for the floor and the band began to play a waltz.
Edward took her in a close hold and she found she was enjoying herself far more than she thought she would.
She liked being in his company, wherever they were, and the lively music always lifted her spirits.
Bea also enjoyed the steps now she knew them better and her confidence had increased.
When it came to an end, they returned to their friends.
Mrs Thorpe leaned in to tell her about a Miss Watson, seen to be on the dance floor with a married Mr Henderson for a second time this evening—quite the scandal—and as Bea turned to look, a man pushed past her and her shoulder collided fiercely with his.
‘I beg your pardon, how careless of me,’ she said. She looked up and when she saw his face, recognition registered, and she went stock still. Memories of the worst night of her life returned with force. Fear reared its ugly head, so swiftly, it winded her.
She saw him stop dead too, realisation dawn in his own pale eyes, and he inclined his head. ‘Forgive my clumsiness.’
She felt all the colour drain from her skin.
Edward must have seen something, as within a moment, he was at her side.
‘Lord Wintour, may I present my wife, Lady Edward Harrington. Beatrice, this is Lord Wintour.’
‘I am honoured to meet your acquaintance,’ the man said.
Nausea churned as his hot breath burst across her face. Bea could not speak.
‘Please. Allow me to make amends—would you be so kind as to grant me the next dance?’ he said.
Panic flared. No! She did not want to dance with him.
She did not want to go anywhere near him.
She had hoped to never see him again. But with an awful sense of dread, she knew etiquette demanded she say yes.
She was not engaged for the next dance and to decline would be seen as a snub to Lord Wintour and the hostess.
She could not shame Edward by saying no.
It took all her effort to incline her head.
Lord Wintour sneered and stepped away and she briefly closed her eyes, willing the quadrille that was taking place on the dance floor to never end.
When she opened them again, Edward’s dark searing eyes were studying her. ‘Have you met Lord Wintour before?’
She could not tell him the truth—it was the secret she had tried to keep from him, to protect him, and her, from certain ruin.
She had to bury it, to safeguard this new life they had started to build together.
But the trembling had started in her legs and now she was shaking all over.
She didn’t think she would be able to dance with the man.
She needed to get out of there, and she did not want to lie to Edward. Not anymore.
In desperation, she gripped his elbow. ‘Don’t make me dance with him,’ she pleaded. ‘Please, will you take me home?’
His brow furrowed, and just when she thought he was going to insist she uphold her obligation, he relented.
He nodded, taking swift control. Holding her round the waist, perhaps sensing she might stumble and fall if he didn’t, he led her to the door.
He spoke to the patronesses, explaining Bea felt unwell.
He apologised, saying they had to leave urgently.
The dance was coming to a flourishing finish and Bea willed their conversation to end so they could escape out the door before it was too late. But as the band stopped playing, a voice filtered across the quiet room.
‘Do you think Lord Harrington is aware he married a Covent Garden whore?’
She watched Edward’s face change as the words sank in…
As the entire room registered what had been said.
She could almost feel the tremors of shock ripple around the assembly hall—that she hadn’t just been a serving maid, but a streetwalker was among them.
Their friends turned to look at them, all no doubt wondering if it were true.
Strangers turned to stare, and she could almost see them clinking their glasses in cheer, saying: ‘We knew it! She was never one of us.’
She felt the gut punch of being shamed in front of the ton. Of Edward being disgraced in front of all these people. His worst nightmare. Because of her. And it was more than she could bear. In one sentence Lord Wintour had surely destroyed the Harrington name and ruined her beyond repair.
Mortification threatened to choke her, but she forced herself to look at her husband, terrified of what she might see when she met his gaze.
The reality was so much worse than she’d expected.
She had thought he might flinch and stare down at her, incredulous, even horrified, but he didn’t.
Instead, he just stood there, an unnatural stillness about him, cold censure etched in his face.
She sensed his awful resignation—that she had let him down, as perhaps he had known she always might—and his beautiful blue eyes carried the weight of his judgement.
In that instant, she knew he thought the worst of her and it felt like such a betrayal.
‘Edward—’
‘Do not say another word,’ he bit out, cold, cutting condemnation lacing his voice. ‘We will talk about this later.’
Then they were moving. He was gripping her arm, bundling her out of the establishment and out onto the street. George pulled up with the carriage and Edward practically threw her up into the coach. He followed her up and slammed the door behind him.
‘Edward,’ she tried again.
‘I cannot even look at you let alone talk to you right now, Bea. Let us make this journey in silence—at least give me that.’