Chapter Four
As Beatrice had feared, she did not hear from John again, not the following week, nor the week after. She resolved to banish him from her thoughts.
She was not very successful in this regard.
After the first week, her sister and Mr. Hayward, along with their newborn son, departed for Bridlington.
Beatrice might have returned to her father’s household, but she decided to stay in the cottage on the outskirts of his property.
It was a lonely existence, but preferable to being under her father’s thumb.
After the second week, a footman in mauve-and-gold livery arrived, bearing an invitation:
His Grace, the Duke of Penrose
Requests the pleasure of Miss Beatrice Wheatley’s company
At a Masquerade Ball
To be held on the 31st of October
At Mulgrave Manor.
A carriage will be sent to collect you at seven o’clock.
Beatrice gaped at the invitation, certain there must be some mistake. Why would the duke be asking her, of all people, to attend his ball? Their families were at odds, and their acquaintance was trifling. After all these years, she would be shocked if he even remembered her.
Still, the ball was bound to be a spectacle, and Beatrice lacked for any other form of diversion. And she found that she was curious to see the boy she had met all those years ago, see what kind of man he had become. Even if he was unlikely to spare her a second glance.
And so, on Tuesday afternoon, when she knew her father had a standing appointment with his tailor, she paid a quick visit to the main house.
There were a few trunks of old clothes up in the attic.
Beatrice managed to find a gown from the previous century.
It consisted of a purple sarcenet overdress paired with a set of frilly petticoats that were yellowed with age.
That was all right. Beatrice had a petticoat that would serve well enough.
She found a matching wide-brimmed hat of black velvet adorned with three ostrich feathers and an oversized bow made from purple fabric.
In another trunk, there was even a black velvet mask.
And so, on the last night of October, Beatrice found herself climbing into the duke’s carriage, wondering what the evening would bring.
*
John Penrose, the Duke of Roxby, checked his pocket watch for the seventh time.
Beatrice could arrive at any moment. He was fairly certain he would be able to pick her out from the crowd, in spite of her costume.
She had a certain energy about her that made her stand out in a sea of milquetoast maidens.
But he had purposefully sent his carriage to collect her so he could see her disembark and know with certainty she had arrived.
Tonight, he was leaving nothing to chance.
He adjusted the hood he’d taken to wearing in order to frighten off the thieves who had been stealing the farming equipment he’d purchased for his tenants’ use.
His plan had been fairly straightforward—they were terrorizing his tenants, so he would terrorize them back by assuming the guise of the headless driver.
It sounded a bit cracked, but it had worked.
He checked his pocket watch again. What if she intended to refuse his invitation? He could hardly blame her for disliking the current Duke of Roxby. Not after the blunder he had committed all those years ago.
He could still recall the day when they’d first met.
He had been seventeen at the time and she, a few years younger.
He had been on summer break before his final year at Eton.
He hadn’t spent much time at Mulgrave Manor, for all that it was the family seat.
Whitby was not particularly convenient to Eton, where John had been at school, or to London, which his parents preferred.
Besides, the ducal estate included properties scattered across Britain.
They had passed most of his school holidays at a manor house his father owned in Oxfordshire that was much more conveniently situated.
But his father had decreed that it was high time that John familiarized himself with the family seat. And so, they had completed the week-long journey to Whitby.
For John, it had been love at first sight. He loved the windswept moors. He loved the sea—violent one moment, placid the next. He loved the little towns that dotted the coast.
And most of all, he loved the ruined abbey, standing sentinel above it all, a reminder that some things endured, in spite of man’s best efforts to ruin them.
He had ridden out every day since his arrival, regardless of the weather. That particular day had dawned fair.
He had been cantering across the moors when he spotted a boy in the distance. John watched him take a gate without the slightest hesitation and figured he had found his first local friend.
Then, of course, it had turned out that the “boy” had been a girl. A girl with a smart mouth and an excellent seat. A girl who was utterly uncowed by him. Who liked all of the same things he did.
A girl with whom he could be completely himself.
He had returned to the house feeling more than a little bit smitten. In his excitement, he had told his father all about his new friend.
In retrospect, John could see that Father had not been as excited as he was. That his face had paled slightly, and his jaw tightened.
And when John had mentioned that his new friend was named Beatrice, Father had said, “Beatrice? You don’t mean Beatrice Wheatley?”
John had shrugged. “I have no idea.”
A footman had been the one to betray him. “It will be Beatrice Wheatley, Your Grace. She’s known for riding astride, taking fences, and the like.”
His father had pinched the bridge of his nose. “Pack the trunks. I have recalled some pressing business at our estate in Oxfordshire.”
John had protested, naturally. They had just arrived! Were they really going to endure a week-long carriage journey only to leave after three days? Besides, he had promised Beatrice that they would meet again tomorrow. He had begged his father for leave to at least meet with her, to explain.
His father’s eyes had been slightly wild as he said, “You are not meeting Sir Laurence Wheatley’s daughter!”
John must have deflated when he said that, because his father had clasped his shoulder, and his voice had held a note of sympathy as he’d said, “Trust me, son. I’m doing you a tremendous favor.”
They had left the following morning, and John hadn’t returned to Mulgrave Manor until ten years later.
He knew the truth. But he could see that from Beatrice’s perspective, he had abandoned her. He could still picture the way her face had fallen when he had asked her about it the other night. He had wounded her. He knew he had.
In my defense, I was a petulant little shit for the rest of that summer. Now there was an attractive image!
He couldn’t tell her that. But he would explain what had happened. When the time was right.
First, he needed to convince her that they were meant to be together. Because John honestly believed that they were. The spark between them had immediately flared to life the second she stepped into the road and demanded a ride from the headless driver.
Yes, some things were meant to be. And this time, he didn’t mean to make a hash of it.
The ducal carriage appeared at the end of the drive. He peered around a column, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for it to draw up to the house.
Hot anticipation licked through him as the door swung open.
It was Beatrice. He knew it at once. It was something about her posture, and the confidence with which she carried herself. She was wearing a purple dress that had likely belonged to her grandmother along with a ridiculous hat.
Perfect. He adjusted his hood and prepared to capture his quarry.