Nothing Denied (4 page)

“Why don’t you say hel o,” she said, her voice gentler. “I think I see Amelia over there. We shal meet back at the box when intermission is over.”

Her mother was already waving her off as she moved toward one of the few ladies who stil made an attempt to be kind to her. Beatrice heaved a sigh of relief. There was one obstacle cleared away. And since Amelia and her family were not truly there, that meant she was free for at least a quarter of an hour. She looked around the mil ing crowd with careful vigilance. Somewhere here, the Marquis of Highcroft was in attendance. She had made certain of that before she begged her mother to use her brother-inlaw’s box for the night. Now she just had to find him in the crowd.

It didn’t take long, for the man stood out like some kind of dark angel. In the distance she caught sight of him, leaning against a pil ar with an unlit cigar in his fingers. He was making a slow, steady perusal of those around him, like a cat stalking prey. And he was alone, which made this the perfect time for her to approach. Her heart pounded, rushing blood to her ears and making her a little lightheaded as she advanced on him. She stopped just a pace or two before him and looked up at him. Doubts and questions flashed through her mind, but with difficulty she shook them away.

“Good evening,” she said, very pleased that her tone sounded just as haughty as it always did. There was no use showing fear to this man.

One dark brow quirked as the marquis stared down at her and then slowly straightened up. “Good evening.”

Now Beatrice squirmed just a bit. What she was doing was utterly against protocol. One did not approach a strange man with such boldness. She wasn’t entirely clear on what she should do now.

“I assume you know who I am,” he said, breaking the silence she had not yet fil ed.

She nodded. “Yes. You are Gareth Berenger, the Marquis of Highcroft.”

He inclined his head slightly. “And
you
are Beatrice Albright.”

She frowned. Damn, she had held out some smal hope that he would be unaware of her, al owing her to reveal her problem with reputation in the manner of her choosing. But he knew her name, which meant he had probably heard as many stories about her as she had about him.

Stil , she pressed on, determined to remain on this course. “It appears our reputations have preceded us.”

For the first time the hint of a smile tilted his ful lips and Beatrice stared despite herself. He real y was a handsome man, and those lips were remarkably ful . A wild image of him kissing her suddenly entered her mind and she shoved it aside with a gasp.

“Are you quite al right?” he asked, stepping toward her.

She wanted to step away, to draw back from the darkness and the heat that seemed to radiate from his body. But she forced herself to stand her ground. She did not bend for any man. Even this one.

“I’m very fine, thank you.” She arched a brow. Again that smile tilted his lips, but now it was wolfish. “Indeed you are.”

She blinked. Was that flirtation? Dear Lord, she hardly recognized it anymore, it had been so long. Or perhaps he was mocking her.

“If you know me, then you must have heard the rumors about me,” she said, moving forward to the matter at hand.

His brow arched. “Indeed, and you surely know of my reputation, as wel .”

She nodded. “The things they say about
me
are true.”

A burst of laughter escaped his lips and drew the attention of a few people around them. Beatrice sent the closest group a glare that made them al look away again.

Vultures.

“Are they now, Miss Albright?” he asked. “Are you sure you want to admit to that?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I know what I am. I
am
difficult. I am snobbish. I am…am…”

“A bitch?” he asked.

She flinched at his blunt use of the vulgar term she knew was whispered behind her back. It was her own fault that he said it. She had been bold, why would he not be?

“Perhaps,” she said with a shrug.

“Such honesty is not the norm with ladies of your stature, my dear,” he said. “I do not know whether to admire it or be wary of its cost.”

“There is no cost,” she said swiftly, watching his mouth move with increasing fascination. “Except that I hope my honesty wil inspire yours in return. You see, Lord Highcroft, I wanted to know if—”

She broke off. How exactly did one ask such a delicate question? Now that she was standing with him and he was so tal and so focused on her, the prudence of this course of action seemed less clear to her.

“Are you asking if the rumors about me are also true?” he asked.

She nodded, relieved he had voiced what she could not. “Would I be in danger if we weren’t surrounded by this crowd?”

He inched ever closer, almost until their bodies touched. She could smel him now, an interesting combination of sandalwood and smoke and something warm and enticing that she couldn’t place. She breathed it in and resisted the urge to sigh in response.

“Perhaps you would be, Miss Albright, though not in the manner you may be imagining.”

He smiled, but it was feral, not friendly. Her heart began to race as his shadow closed over her, but she couldn’t look away and she couldn’t move.

“Beatrice!”

She shook her head as her name pierced through the fog around her. She turned toward the voice and was surprised to see her sister Penelope’s husband crossing through the crowd toward her. By his purposeful gate and dark scowl, Jeremy Vaughn, Duke of Kilgrath was not pleased.

He caught her arm and she turned to see what Gareth’s reaction to this interruption was, but to her surprise, he was already gone. She refocused on Jeremy.

“Release me at once!”

“I shal not,” he hissed as he hauled her down the corridor to the curtain before Miranda and Ethan’s box.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Beatrice blinked her eyes innocently. “I was enjoying the opera until someone manhandled me like a brute.”

Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut and Beatrice thought he might have murmured a curse beneath his breath before he snapped, “With the company you were keeping, you are lucky you were only manhandled.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.

“You were with Gareth Berenger!”

She shook his hand away and folded her arms. “And
you
are supposed to be in the country with my sisters, trying to find a match for perfect little Winifred, not here spying on me, the sister everyone hates.”

Jeremy leaned back in surprise at the strength of her response.

“I had a bit of business to finish in London before I joined the party.” He looked at her and his expression softened. She recognized the look as pity and flinched back from it. “Beatrice—”

She cut him off with a glare. “Please don’t pretend that any of you give a damn about me.”

“Everyone gives a damn about you,” he whispered, but it was clear his patience was at an end. “For God’s sake, you know what people say about the marquis, why would you speak to him without a chaperone?”

“First off, people say a great many things that are not true, Jeremy.
You
should know that,” Beatrice began. “And it wasn’t as if I was alone with the marquis.”

At least not yet.

He frowned, but she could see he had no retort to either of her defenses.

“You may be correct that what people say isn’t true,”

he said final y. “I have no idea what Gareth Berenger is or isn’t or what he did or didn’t do. However, I
do
know that it would be prudent of you to stay clear of him. There are a great many questions surrounding him that could have very dangerous answers.”

Beatrice turned away and wrenched the curtain aside. “Wel , I’ve been left with very little choice, haven’t I? Winifred is being taken care of, but I must fend for myself.”

She sent him one last glance before she entered the box and screeched the curtain shut behind her. Gareth dug his heels into his mare’s sides and urged her forward at a faster pace. The wind blew through his hair as they pounded down a twisting path through Hyde Park and for the first time since his return to London, he felt free. A ride had always been a good way to solve his problems, wherever he was or whatever they were.

Today, however, one thought kept returning to his mind. An image of Beatrice Albright in the moment before her brother-in-law interrupted them at the opera. In that one brief instant, her wal s of steel and venom had come tumbling down and he had seen a vulnerability that cal ed to his deepest and darkest self. She could be tamed. He had seen it. And the taming would be such a pleasure, indeed.

Beyond that immediate sexual attraction he had so surprisingly felt, he had also been impressed by the girl’s boldness. Everyone whispered about him, but there was only mock bravery in staying behind one’s fan and wondering. No one had ever had the gal to simply walk up to him and ask him point-blank if he was a murderer.

And yet one little unchaperoned shrew of a girl had. And if she had trembled, it was very little. No, she had looked him right in the eye and chal enged him, al the while throwing the words that had been whispered about
her
out in the open with no excuses or blushes. Yes, that sort of boldness interested him on a variety of levels. Yet it changed nothing. On one of the first nights after his arrival in London, his former lover Lady Wilkinshire had invited him to her soiree, but he had no il usions that she had done so to help him. No, she liked to shock and she liked to flaunt her affairs like the one they had briefly shared before he married Laurel. At any rate, that single appearance in good company had done him no good. No invitations had been forthcoming since. He had been relegated to public events like the previous evening’s opera or the daily deluge of Hyde Park to make his appearances. He was left with only the slender hope that someone of importance would take interest in or pity on him and ask him to attend a gathering.

This was not a situation he was accustomed to, waiting for the approval of others. He was a man of power. He did not like to leave his fate in the fickle hands of others. And yet he had lost his choices, lost his reputation, lost everything, the moment Laurel landed at the bottom of that staircase, her life snuffed out in a horrible instant.

Pul ing his horse to a stop and tethering her on a nearby tree, Gareth paced a short distance down the path. Those thoughts, those memories of his wife, remained as disturbing as the day they had occurred. He would give anything to find a way to forget.

“Lord Highcroft!”

Gareth froze as a female voice cal ed out to him from behind. He turned and watched as the very woman he had been contemplating before his thoughts turned maudlin pul ed her own fil y to a stop and hopped down graceful y.

Beatrice Albright was dressed in a smart riding habit that pul ed tight across the smooth curve of her breasts and cinched around the smal expanse of her waist. As her clothing had the first night he saw her, the blue color of her frock matched her eyes, making their pale color jump out from her flushed cheeks. Her hair was bound up beneath a cap, but little locks of it peeked out, teasing him with honey softness.

“Miss Albright,” he managed to say, moving toward her. “It seems we are thrown into each other’s path again, though I cannot say that I am unhappy to see you.”

She arched a brow and that chal enging look made his loins ache. She probably had no idea the effect she had, which made it al the better.

“Wel , I must first admit that I fol owed you today, my lord,” she said, though she did not look ashamed. “We were interrupted last night and I greatly wish to finish our conversation.”

He smiled. “Ah, Miss Albright, I must say you are the most direct lady I have met in a long while. It is quite refreshing.”

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him, almost as if she were trying to determine whether he was mocking her or not. Final y, she shrugged one shoulder.

“Unfortunately, that is my problem. You see, most men don’t find my directness to be an asset. In fact, they despise my forward, sharp nature. And
that
is my purpose for fol owing you today.”

He folded his arms. “To tel me that most men don’t like you?”

She huffed out her breath. “You do delight in being difficult, don’t you?”

The moment she said it, her face paled a shade and she squeezed her eyes shut hard. Gareth watched in wonder as she calmed herself and when she looked at him again, he recognized the mask that she had put on. She smiled, but it wasn’t real. She softened her angles, making her far less interesting, in his estimation.

“I apologize, my tongue sometimes has its own mind.”

Gareth smothered a low groan. He could too easily imagine what sorts of things her tongue could do if she al owed the right teacher to show her the way.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, tilting her head in the first show of genuine concern he had ever seen her make. “You made a funny sound just then.”

“No, clearing my throat,” he lied. “Miss Albright, it has become abundantly clear that you sought me out today in order to discuss something with me. Why don’t we do so?”

She almost sagged in relief that she would not have to keep up the girlish, simpering mask. Straightening her shoulders, she met his eyes directly and began to speak.

“You are correct, my lord. Although we arrived to the places we are today in very different ways, I believe you and I are in a similar circumstance.”

“And what circumstance is that, my dear?”

She pursed her lips at the endearment, but continued, “Last night we spoke of the fact that we both have a reputation that turns the
ton
away from us. A reputation that wil be difficult, if not impossible to overcome, and yet we both wish to do so. I believe you may want to marry again, am I wrong in that assumption?”

Gareth shrugged.
Want
might be a strong word, but there was no need correcting her. “Yes, I have come to London in the hopes that I might eventual y find a bride. I have an obligation to do so.”

“And I need a husband for…wel , for a variety of reasons.” She drew a breath and for the first time Gareth saw her nervousness before she proceeded. “It is likely neither of us wil be able to fulfil our goals alone, so I propose we join forces. My lord, what if we were to marry each other?”