Page 10 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

Highbury House drawing room

THREE DAYS LATER ~ AFTER A VERY AWKWARD SUPPER

A verting her face from the middling-aged, beefy man sitting far too near on the settee, Beatrice took shallow breaths in an ineffective effort to not inhale his stomach-churning stench. What cruel irony that Pemberton Dungworth’s breath smelled similar to fresh horse manure.

Sweat beaded his broad brow, balding pate, and thick upper lip, and dampened the armpits of his hideous chartreuse jacket. His fetid breath coming in wheezing pants, he repeatedly dabbed at the moisture with a soggy handkerchief.

“One would expect the temperature to be less stifling with the shore breezes,” he complained to no one in particular.

“This is an unusually hot August, and the humidity makes it seem even warmer.” Uncle Cedric slid his smug, assessing gaze from Mr. Dungworth to Beatrice and back again. “I trust the weather in Rotherham is more temperate?”

Mr. Dungworth was a partial owner of a successful tannery in Rotherham and now that he’d achieved wealth, he sought a blue-blooded wife to elevate his social status. Only no noblewoman born on the right side of the blanket would consider his suit.

They probably took one whiff and ran hell-bent for nothing in the other direction.

Hence, when he and Uncle Cedric had struck up a conversation at The Old Ship Hotel the other night—highly odd that Uncle would deem to lower himself to speak to such a person as Mr. Dungworth—the conversation had drifted toward matrimony.

Or had Uncle steered the discussion in that direction deliberately?

How could he believe Beatrice would ever agree to a match with this odious person?

Every instinct told her that her uncle only considered Mr. Dungworth’s suit for her hand in marriage precisely because the man was so abhorrent.

Was there no end to Uncle Cedric’s acrimony?

“However do you manage to appear cool in this oppressive heat, Miss Fairfax?” Daisy, Mr. Dungworth’s mother, asked. But before Beatrice could summon a polite response, Mrs. Dungworth wiggled a pudgy finger toward her. “It’s the lack of flesh on your bones. Skinny women never understand what we curvaceous women suffer.”

Curvaceous ?

Beatrice bit the inside of her cheek to prevent her jaw from dropping open.

Neither Mrs. Dungworth’s stays nor her son’s corset—obvious beneath his jacket—could contain the mother’s and son’s excess flesh.

As equally corpulent as her offspring, Mrs. Dungworth briskly waved her fan with the vengeance of one attempting to sail a schooner across a windless ocean. Her cheeks heat-reddened, she pulled a face, causing her many chins to fold into one another. “I came to Brighton for the health benefits of sea bathing. However, I can tell you, neither my gout nor arthritis are improved in the least. I also continue to suffer from digestive disorders.”

An indiscreet, loud passage of wind followed her complaint, but Mrs. Dungworth continued waving her fan without interruption or apology, as if flatulence in drawing rooms was commonplace.

Perhaps for her, it was.

“The cold water makes my joints ache,” she said, her tone taking on a whining pitch. “And I vow the breeze is detrimental to my delicate constitution and shall no doubt bring on the ague.”

Beatrice would bet a draft horse’s constitution was less robust than the matron’s.

The hypochondriac hadn’t stopped her monologue of pains and illnesses since plopping her broad posterior at the dining table and consuming more rich food than Beatrice had ever witnessed a woman eat.

No wonder she had digestive issues.

“You are sorely tested, to be sure, Mother.” Mr. Dungworth gave his mother an indulgent smile. “When I wed, my wife shall tend to your every need. I know how much you look forward to your feet and legs being rubbed each evening to ease the pain from your bunions and gout. You’ll no longer have to rely upon a servant to do so. My wife shall do the honors.”

Leaning forward, the bull of a man gave Beatrice a speaking glance.

Egads. He cannot be serious .

He expected his wife to rub his mother’s feet?

Every night?

Beatrice tried—she really did—not to cast a covert glance at his mother’s swollen feet bulging over the tops of her slippers.

Schooling her features into a benign expression, Beatrice lifted her lilac-scented handkerchief to her nose on the pretense of covering a dainty sneeze. A more loathsome pair, she’d never had the misfortune of meeting. For the life of her, she could not conjure a single redeeming quality for either mother or son.

I cannot stand much more of his putrid odor .

As if his malodorous putrid breath wasn’t stomach-turning enough, the man reeked of sweat—an onion-like acridity that lingered heavily in the air. A cloying sweet aroma, reminding Beatrice of rotting over-ripe fruit, a cheesy pungency—potent and nauseating—that wafted outward every time he moved, and a sour, yeasty odor that clung to his clothing, made it necessary for her to repeatedly swallow the bile climbing the back of her throat.

The little dinner she had gagged down threatened to reappear.

And still, Uncle Cedric looked on with a cruel air of satisfaction.

Why did he hate her so?

“Shall we take a turn about the terrace, Miss Fairfax?” Mr. Dungworth smiled, revealing a row of yellow, seldom cleaned teeth. “I’m sure the outdoor temperature is more inviting.”

“What an excellent notion!” Uncle Cedric exclaimed too enthusiastically while nodding.

Still, outside, Beatrice might avoid a degree of the malodorous assault on her senses.

“Yes, indeed. My dogs would enjoy stretching their legs.” If Beatrice must stroll with the repulsive man, at least she’d have her faithful pets nearby should he try anything untoward. “I shall fetch them from my bedchamber.”

Uncle had relegated Nala and Teddy to Beatrice’s chamber for the evening.

Given how often Mr. Dungworth’s bulgy, peat-brown eyes sank to her bosom, she expected he’d not act as the gentleman when they were alone.

Mr. Dungworth scowled. “ I do not like dogs.”

“Horrid, awful creatures,” his mother put in. “They scratch and snuffle and smell.”

Had she sniffed her son of late?

Or considered the lingering offensiveness of her digestive indiscretions?

Beatrice lifted her chin. “My dogs are my closest companions. They go everywhere with me.”

Nala and Teddy might be the very thing to put this offensive toad off the scent.

“I’m sure the dogs can forfeit a walk this evening, Niece.” Steel edged Uncle Cedric’s seemingly innocent suggestion. “Mrs. Dungworth and I shall have a nice chat while you enjoy the terrace with Mr. Dungworth.”

Rising, Beatrice fashioned a polite smile, though she wanted to tell her uncle and the Dungworths what she thought of them and damn them to the scorching environment the three of them deserved to spend eternity sweating in. “As you don’t intend to act as chaperone, I must insist my dogs accompany me as they do when I walk about Brighton. Otherwise, I shall have to refrain from taking the air. I’m certain no one here would have me smudge my reputation.”

Except, Beatrice believed, her uncle didn’t give a beggar’s curse about her reputation. In fact, he might very well hope Dungworth would compromise her, and then try to force her into marriage with the beastly man afterward.

“Very well.” With considerable effort, Mr. Dungworth hoisted his enormous frame from the settee, which creaked in relief upon being spared his immense weight. “I suppose I can manage with the dogs outdoors. Cannot abide them in the house, however.”

“Goodness, how ill-suited we are.” Beatrice couldn’t conceal her triumphant smile, and surely victory glinted in her eyes. “I sleep with my pets. Every. Single. Night.”

His mouth dropped to his barrel chest as his mother simultaneously exhaled an outraged gasp.

Feeling quite chipper and confident, Beatrice headed toward the doorway, calling over her shoulder, “I shall fetch my dogs and meet you on the terrace, Mr. Dungworth.”

Dungworth gave a disgruntled nod and sent Uncle Cedric a blistering glare before trundling toward the open French windows.

Highbury House Terrace

TEN MINUTES LATER

Nala and Teddy at her side, Beatrice inhaled a cleansing breath.

This was so much better than inside where odors lingered.

As always, the gentle evening breeze contained a hint of salty tanginess. Nevertheless, compared to the odoriferous man plodding beside her, each breath straining the confines of his corset and making him sound like a winded Ascot racehorse, the breeze was as welcome as a draft from heaven.

“You are attached to the creatures?” Mr. Dungworth gave her dogs an ill-disposed sideways glance.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Nala and Teddy are like family to me.”

Tightening his mouth into a critical line, he made a rough rumbling noise in his throat, which sounded as if he gargled hot coals or glass.

Seizing the opportunity to press her advantage and prove how incompatible they were, she clasped her hands together.

“I am happiest when I am with them. I cannot imagine a life without my pets.” She blinked at him innocently. “I also have a blind cat, a fox, a dove, and a hare. Normally, I tend to several more animals as well. I welcome and care for every animal in need.”

Dungworth couldn’t prevent the revulsion contorting his face but with difficulty, recovered his composure. “ Ahem. Yes. Well. I view animals purely from a commercial perspective.”

The revolting man would.

“We are sorely discordant in that regard.” Beatrice didn’t mince her words. “I try to save animals, and you make a living from tanning their skins.”

His eyes grew marble hard, and his calculating expression made a shudder ripple across her shoulders.

“Miss Fairfax, your uncle gave me permission to address you.”

“He overstepped.” Beatrice ran a hand over Nala’s head to calm and reassure herself. Dungworth was an utter fool if he thought her dogs wouldn’t protect her. She lifted her chin. “I am of age and make my own decisions.”

Grunting, he shook his beefy head. “His lordship assured me you seek a husband and has, in fact, already selected a church and cleric in London where we are to exchange vows.”

London ?

That cannot be true.

Before Beatrice could deny the falsehood, Mr. Dungworth suddenly clasped her arm in a bruising grip and forced her to face him. For his immense girth, the man was astonishingly swift.

“You shall require a firm hand, but I believe I can force you into submission eventually.” His foul breath gagged Beatrice. “You shall be my wife.”

My God in heaven. He’s serious .

It was as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

Beatrice would not consent to the match.

She would not.

Her life would be utter hell.

Uncle could not force her to wed Mr. Dungworth.

But he could toss her onto the street.

He wouldn’t do it in Brighton, however. Beatrice was confident of that.

To do so would cast him in a terrible light amongst Brighton’s elites, and his reputation was everything to him. Which meant, Uncle Cedric would cart Beatrice elsewhere, where she knew no one and stood no chance of getting help, before he cast her out.

Her stomach gave a sickening jolt as hopelessness rocked her again.

Still, she would rather take her chances on the streets than marry this pig.

“No. I shall not.” She thrust her chin upward, proud that she hadn’t stuttered once. “I do not know you, nor do I wish to further our acquaintance.”

Beatrice tugged ineffectually, trying to free herself. Icy fear slithered up her spine when, instead of heeding her efforts, Dungworth wrapped his other ham-fisted palm around her free arm and jerked her toward him.

Beatrice gasped in pain.

She would bear bruises by tomorrow.

Nala issued a warning growl low in her throat.

Fur raised, Teddy crouched low, prepared to spring to Beatrice’s defense.

Stupid, stupid Dungworth, oblivious to the dogs’ aggression, dragged Beatrice nearer and attempted a slobbery kiss. She quickly averted her face, his fat, wet lips skidding across her cheek to her ear, leaving a putrid saliva trail on her skin.

“How d-dare you?” She wrested a hand free and slapped him with all her strength, the sound echoing in the still evening. “I shall n-never marry you. Never!”

Nala lunged and Teddy dove.

The boarhound clamped her jaws on Dungworth’s ample behind as Teddy sank his sharp teeth into the fiend’s calf.

Howling in pain, Dungworth promptly released Beatrice’s other arm and cupped his portly rump with one hand and his calf with the other.

“Now I understand why no man will have you, and why your uncle cannot wait to be rid of you,” he growled between his stained teeth. “You’ll end up a dried-up spinster.”

“Far better than tied to a slovenly, obese wretch for life.”

She turned and ran to her bedchamber, dogs at her heels, and locked the door behind her.

Leaning against the wood panel, her heart pounding in her throat and hands clammy with fear-induced sweat, Beatrice closed her eyes.

What have I done ?