Chapter Two
Over the next two hours, Agnes’s birthing pains grew more intense. Sitting with her was nerve-wracking, but Mrs. Danby assured her and the mother-to-be that everything was progressing as it should and the baby was positioned properly.
Beatrice was trying to help her sister drink a little tea between contractions when the silent night was broken by the sound of shouting from the front garden.
Mrs. Danby scowled in the direction of the ruckus. “What can those hooligans be on about?”
Beatrice sighed. She didn’t want to ask Mrs. Danby to leave the room, not when Agnes was so close. “I’ll go see what’s going on.”
She limped outside. In the garden, she found four men.
One was John. He was still wearing his cowl.
The next was her sister’s beau, Thomas Hayward.
The third was the vicar, Mr. Briggs.
And the fourth? The man who happened to be yelling?
That was her father.
“This is an outrage!” the baronet shouted. “I insist that you unhand me!”
“No one is handling you,” John noted mildly.
Ignoring this indisputable fact, her father swept a hand through the air. “You cannot force me to give my consent. Agnes is my daughter, and I will not permit her to marry this, this—”
“Of course you are correct, Sir Laurence,” the vicar interjected. “But I beg you to think of your grandchild. It is within your power to spare the baby from the shame of illegitimacy. Can you not find it in your heart to show compassion toward an innocent?”
Mr. Hayward wrung his hands. “I would like to apologize again, Sir Laurence. I was weak. I know that I dishonored both you and your daughter through my actions. But I love Agnes, and I promise that if you will give us your blessing, I will spend the rest of my life striving to make her happy.”
“Happy?” Her father crossed his arms. “What do I care if she’s happy? I want to see her properly settled!”
John must have noticed that Beatrice had limped into the garden, for he called, “Miss Wheatley, how close is your sister to delivering the baby?”
“She is progressing quickly,” Beatrice replied. “Mrs. Danby says it could come at any time.”
John rounded on her father. His voice dropped to a menacing growl. “Now see here, you spineless little weasel—”
“You cannot speak to me that way!” her father spat. “I am a—”
“Baronet,” John said with him.
Her father cast him a glare, but John continued, “And the highest-ranking man in the vicinity, excepting the Duke of Roxby. We know.”
John’s face remained concealed, but Beatrice could hear him rolling his eyes. And no wonder—this was one of her father’s most cherished complaints, that he was a baronet, and never received the respect he felt he was due, especially from that arrogant bounder, the Duke of Roxby.
Her father lifted his chin. “You, young man, should show some respect!”
John took a step forward. “I will give you precisely the amount of respect you deserve—none.”
“Impudent whelp! But I shall have the last laugh, because the truth is, you cannot force me to give my consent. You peasants cannot force me to do anything!”
Beatrice had had enough. “But I can,” she said in a dangerous voice.
Her father seemed to mark her presence for the first time. “Beatrice! What on earth are you doing out at this time of night?”
Beatrice glowered at him. “Supporting my sister.”
Her father glowered right back. “This is no place for you. Go back to the house. Now!”
Beatrice crossed her arms. She was every bit as stubborn as her father. She probably got it from him, in fact, although she hoped she used her stubbornness for better causes. “Did you not hear me? I said that I can force you to do the right thing by Agnes.”
He rolled his eyes. “I can’t imagine what card you think you’re hiding up your sleeve.”
“The truth,” Beatrice shot back. “If you do not give your consent for Agnes and Mr. Hayward to marry, I will tell everyone that you ran up such substantial debts at the tailor that you had to sell the Wheatley emeralds. The ones procured by the first baronet, that have been in the family for two hundred years.” She kept her eyes fixed on her father.
“The whole world will know that you squandered the family legacy on padded coats and shirts with lacy cuffs, and that what passes as the ‘Wheatley jewels’ today are nothing but paste.”
Her father’s face was ashen in the lantern light. “You…you wouldn’t dare!”
Beatrice’s voice shook, but with rage, not fear. “Try me.”
Beatrice watched as her father tried to recover his usual bravado.
It did not work. She could tell that she had shaken him to the core.
“I would like to emphasize, gentlemen, that my daughter’s accusations are spurious. Spurious, I say!”
“Hmm,” John murmured, an unmistakable note of skepticism in his voice.
“That being said,” her father continued hastily, “I should hate for my good name to be tarred by these shocking lies.”
“I’m sure you would,” John said dryly.
Her father held up a hand as if he were about to grant a great boon. “I will therefore give my permission for Agnes to marry Mr. Hayward on one condition—that all of you gentlemen swear an oath that you will never repeat my daughter’s false claims.”
“I promise,” Mr. Hayward said at once.
Mr. Briggs inclined his head. “You have my word as a gentleman.”
“No one will hear about it from me,” John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her father scowled. “Is a wedding even legal? It’s not as if the banns have been called, and I can’t imagine anyone roused the bishop from his bed at this ungodly hour to grant a license.”
Mr. Briggs answered, “You are correct, Sir Laurence.” He gestured to the headless driver.
“But the, er…John here has assured me that I will have a valid bishop’s license in my hand for Miss Wheatley and Mr. Hayward before sunset.
The date listed on the license will be the same as the date of the wedding.
I know that we are bending the rules. But again, it is all for the sake of an innocent child.
If I, as vicar, am willing to allow it, then surely there cannot be any objections. ”
Her father pinched the bridge of his nose. “Very well. Now that that’s settled, I suppose we should step inside. It would seem we have a wedding to attend.”
*
Needless to say, Agnes was thrilled, and in short order, Mr. Briggs pronounced her and Mr. Hayward man and wife.
Beatrice yielded the chair at her sister’s bedside to Mr. Hayward. It was a husband’s place, after all.
She hobbled outside, eager both to get some air and to give the newlywed couple some privacy.
She saw that the other witnesses to the wedding had had the same idea.
Her father was already seated atop the headless rider’s cart, arms crossed, waiting to be conveyed home.
John was conferring in hushed tones with the vicar.
Their conversation must have concluded, because the vicar nodded, then went around to the back of the cart. Beatrice expected John to take his place at the driver’s seat, but he surprised her by approaching her instead.
“It looks like I’ll be heading to York at dawn to secure that marriage license.”
Beatrice raised a brow. It was almost fifty miles to York. “That will make for a long day.”
“It will. But needs must.”
Beatrice bit her lip. This man was a stranger, yet he was going to so much trouble on her sister’s behalf.
“We’ll need two witnesses to sign the parish register,” John continued. “I can be one of them, and you can be the other. Wait until late afternoon. It will take me at least that long to get back with the license.”
He started to turn away. Beatrice seized his forearm. “Wait—I haven’t properly thanked you.”
He turned back to her, and although she could see nothing of his face beneath the hood, she could feel his regard. It caused her cheeks to heat in the cool night air.
She swallowed. “I wouldn’t even have been able to fetch the midwife without your assistance. That was kindness enough. But you even roused the vicar from his bed and forced my father to give his consent.”
He snorted. “That part was your doing, Miss Wheatley. Rarely have I witnessed such efficient blackmail.”
She lifted her chin. “I am not the least bit sorry. I know I will sound like the villain in a melodrama if I say that the ends justify the means. But I think you will find that there is little I would not do for the people I love, including my sister, and my unborn niece or nephew.”
“So I have observed.” His baritone was rich with amusement, and possibly even admiration. Her cheeks flamed.
Before she could speak, he continued, “Should you have future occasion to commit blackmail, or otherwise require my assistance, you have but to ask. Send a note to the stables at Mulgrave Manor. Address it to John.”
Beatrice started. Mulgrave Manor was the seat of the Duke of Roxby.
“Are you in the duke’s employ?” His accent was not that of a groom or coachman.
But gentlemen who ran extensive breeding operations sometimes employed a master of horse—a steward, of sorts, to oversee the business of running their stables.
She had not thought that the duke had an extensive stable, but the present duke had only recently returned after several years spent traveling the Continent.
Perhaps he had plans to establish such an operation?
Beatrice was not sure. She had been so busy worrying over her sister’s situation that she had not had time to attend to the latest gossip.
“Something like that.” Now there was definitely a note of amusement in John’s voice.
Beatrice shook herself. “In any case, I wanted to thank you. You went to a great deal of trouble tonight in order to help a complete stranger.” She laughed.
“If your goal is to be the scourge of the North Riding, I regret to inform you that you are a miserable failure. You might dress the part, but you act more like a white knight.”
“I’m no white knight,” he growled.
Quick as a cat, he seized her about the waist. His voice was a dark rumble in her ear. “And you’re going to thank me.”
The world went dark as he leaned over her, and his hood enveloped her face. Her senses were flooded with his citrus scent. Warm lips brushed the corner of her mouth, searching, before settling over hers.
Between her reputation for being a termagant and her father’s snobbish attitude that none of the local men were good enough for his daughters, Beatrice had never been kissed before.
But from what she had observed, she had expected it would be a straightforward process.
Party A touches his lips against those of Party B, producing a pleasant feeling.
But now that she was experiencing it, Beatrice would not have described the sensation as pleasant.
Not that it was unpleasant, but…why was her head swirling, as if she might faint?
Why did her knees feel as if they might buckle?
Was something wrong with her? Surely, this was not supposed to be happening.
She grasped his shoulders for purchase, and oh!
That proved to be a mistake! She had known that he was broad of shoulder, but she had not realized, until she had him beneath her hands, that those shoulders were sculpted as if from marble.
She stroked curious fingertips down the curve of his biceps and groaned in appreciation.
John seized the opportunity, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth!
And oh! Had she thought her head was swimming before?
That had been nothing, nothing compared to the sensations swirling through her, pulsing through her.
She had no idea what she was doing, but her lips were moving and her tongue was tangling with his, eager for… what, she was not sure.
With a snarl, John pulled her close until her body was flush against his. Something hard pressed against her stomach. Having been raised in the country, Beatrice knew what that was.
But much to her surprise, rather than feeling revolted by this physical evidence that the Duke of Roxby’s master of horse was lusting after her, Beatrice reveled in it.
The thought, Thank goodness, he feels the same way!
flashed across her mind in the same instant she realized that the sensations that threatened to overwhelm her were, in fact, desire.
A sound arose from her throat, something between a cry and a moan.
She dug her nails into his flesh, desperate to get closer.
Some base instinct had her rubbing herself against him like a cat, reveling in the sensation of his hardness against her softness.
It felt good, it felt so very good, and she wanted—
Firm hands seized her shoulders. John’s voice sounded uncharacteristically raspy as he pushed her back. “That’s enough, Menace.”
Cold night air surrounded her once more. Beatrice swayed on her feet, yearning toward him again. But he held her at a distance.
She gave a mewl of protest.
John responded with a chuckle. “Just as I expected.”
“What?” she blurted. “What did you expect?”
“You,” he said simply. “Us.”
“That’s hardly an answer,” she grumbled. Noticing the farm cart parked some twenty feet away, she blanched. “Oh, my gracious! I can’t believe we did all of that in front of my father! And the vicar!”
John spared the cart a brief glance. “Don’t worry. Mr. Briggs is in back. And your father has his nose so high in the air, he didn’t deign to notice us here on the ground.”
Beatrice peered around him. If her father had witnessed their amorous display, he gave no sign of it. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
John stepped back, releasing her shoulders. “Send a note to me at the duke’s stables if you need my assistance. Or if you’d like to see me again.”
She hugged her arms against her chest. The night air felt colder than before. “I can scarcely see you now,” she complained.
His only response was a wave. Beatrice watched him drive away, feeling strangely bereft at the loss of a man she hadn’t known existed just a few hours ago.