Page 2 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

Still in Highbury House’s gardens

HALF A DOZEN FRENZIED HEARTBEATS LATER

S lowing her pace, Beatrice scanned the landscape and rubbed her arms to dispel the gooseflesh that had arisen there.

Other than a pair of turtle doves soaring toward a horse chestnut tree, nothing disturbed the morning’s tranquility. A lone, pristine white cloud floated in the cerulean sky. A ten-foot weather-worn stone wall encased the estate, assuring that no vagrants or uninvited visitors could enter the earl’s immaculately tended property.

“It’s all right,” she assured the dogs, although she wasn’t positive everything was all right.

Nala gently nudged Teddy’s nose and received a wet tongue across her muzzle in response.

Perhaps having both experienced abuse and deprivation, the two dogs had become inseparable, besides being Beatrice’s most ardent protectors. She could walk nearly everywhere in Brighton with only the dogs as her chaperones—which she did at every opportunity, despite her uncle’s disapproval, though he hadn’t forbidden her jaunts.

After all, what was he to do?

Accompany her or prohibit her sojourns and bear her presence all the more?

No, permitting her to roam at will was the lesser of the evils, and how she relished that small jot of freedom.

With her faithful dogs at her side, no one dared so much as glance in her direction without the appropriate degree of respect awarded to the Earl of Highbury’s niece.

With another small sigh, Beatrice surveyed the lavish grounds.

Golden sunlight bathed the tidy verdant lawns, neat-as-a-pin hedgerows, the dual rows of meticulously tended roses, and the ostentatious five-story manor painted a pleasant ivory shade.

Elegant stone Grecian urns brimming with trailing ivy and seasonal flowers, including regal orange, pink, red, and yellow begonias, nasturtiums, and pink and purple petunias—a rather new bloom to England—adorned the terrace on the house’s west-facing side.

The continuous muffled roar of the waves breaking along the shore echoed in the distance, harmonizing with the ever-present, ringing cries of gulls.

How Beatrice loved those comforting sounds. She always wanted to live near the sea. But not in Brighton, where she might encounter her taciturn uncle.

Filling her lungs with balmy air, she closed her eyes and willed her topsy-turvy stomach to settle. The house and grounds, while beautiful, were nothing but a fa?ade, an elegant veneer presented to the public, hiding the dysfunction within.

Hans bobbed his blond head as he patted Nala’s back.

“Morning, Miss Beatrice.”

“Good morning, Hans.”

He opened the door, and Beatrice slipped into the carriage house, Nala and Teddy on her heels.

Fabian, a three-legged fox, missing half an ear and blind in one eye, lifted his head and gave her a foxy smile before burying his face in his bushy, russet tail once more. He’d spend this afternoon outdoors in the long run, built on one side of the carriage house.

“Can I feed Fabian today?” Hans gazed at the fox with adoration.

“Of course you can.”

Sporting a wide grin, the boy hurried to the shelf where Beatrice kept Fabian’s food—mostly leftovers the boy’s kind-hearted grandmother saved for the animals.

Monty, a hare Beatrice had rescued from a snare, hopped with a lopsided gait to the side of his cage to greet her. Isabella, a dove with a broken wing who would never fly again, but who spent her mornings in an aviary when the weather permitted it, cooed softly.

Deaf and blind after two bratty youths had tried to drown him, Lancelot, the ugliest cat Beatrice had ever seen, unfolded from his feline coil and unerringly found his way to her despite his sensory deficiencies.

Laughter bubbled up from her chest at the warm greetings from her animal friends.

Hans chuckled while petting the contented fox, happily munching away on a meaty bone. The lad knew the daily routine so well he could care for her pets by himself if needed.

Mewing softly, Lancelot wound between her ankles before nudging noses with both dogs. Despite her massive size, Nala remained unerringly gentle with the smaller creatures.

“I know you’re hungry, my dears. I shall hurry.”

After securing an apron over her simple but pretty yellow gingham frock, Beatrice set about tending to her charges.

Beatrice resumed singing as she completed her daily chores, allowing her mind to wander to a time when she’d be free of this gilded prison. Except for eight extremely painful years spent in boarding and finishing schools, awful, humiliating experiences she preferred to put from her mind, Beatrice had never left Brighton.

She fully intended to rectify that once she gained her freedom.

Naturally, Nala and Teddy would accompany her. As for her other pets, she planned on hiring someone to care for them while she traveled from one splendid, warm location to another.

Surely, if she economized, dedicated herself to thriftiness, and invested wisely, her inheritance could sustain her throughout her life.

Wrinkling her forehead, she paused in sweeping the floor.

When the time came, she needed to find someone reliable and honest to help her invest her inheritance.

But who?

Would Reverend Dawkins know of anyone?

It couldn’t hurt to ask, but there was no rush. Neither was there any harm in educating herself on the matter, so that when she came into her inheritance, she would be prepared.

The door swung open, and she barely suppressed a gasp.

Once more, warning bells clanged louder than Notre Dame Cathedral’s.

Uncle stood silhouetted in the opening.

This couldn’t bode well.

Even at seven and forty, he presented a fine figure of manhood. Tall and slender, he turned many a woman’s head. Regardless, he gave no female more than a passing glance. He spent far more time on his toilet and appearance than Beatrice ever had, and she thought him a rather vain man.

Only once before had he ventured into Beatrice’s private domain.

Mouth turned down in disapproval, he raked his steely gaze over her, Hans, and the animals.

When had he ever spared her a kind word or a smile?

Hans sent her a nervous glance before edging toward the doorway. “I’ll see you this evening, Miss.”

Uncle stepped aside, and the child darted out, making good his escape.

Lucky soul.

Without preamble, Uncle Cedric announced, “I’ve arranged to have an artist paint a miniature of you, Beatrice. I’ve also purchased a gown worthy of your station for you to wear and have directed Millborn to style your hair.”

He gestured toward his own neatly combed, rich brown locks, distinguished gray peppering his temples.

“You shall wear my mother’s emerald and diamond parure set. I expect you to be ready at half of three when the artist arrives.”

As was his wont, Uncle Cedric gave orders. Never once had he inquired about what Beatrice might want or prefer.

Head canted, she tried to calm the trepidation storming inside her as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“What n-need is there for me t-to have a m-miniature painted?”

She didn’t fool herself into believing it was because he wanted a token to remember her by.

No, this unfeeling, cold-hearted man had rid the house of every single remnant of his sister when she’d run away with the Italian lace merchant who later broke her heart and left her with child. To this day, Uncle Cedric refused to speak Mama’s name, referring to her as “your mother” or “my sister.”

“It’s enough that I decree it, Niece,” he snapped.

His features shifted, and something akin to chagrin flitted across his stern visage, but the impression was so fleeting that Beatrice thought she must have imagined it.

He stepped outside and in his usual unapologetic and arrogant air said, “I’ve decided it’s past time you marry, Beatrice. I mean to travel to London with the miniature to assure potential suitors that you are not entirely unbecoming. Once a match has been arranged, you shall exchange vows in London as well.”

“M-m-marry?”

Please, God.

He cannot be serious .

Would Beatrice’s husband take possession of her money?

She’d never seen the will or trust documents. Neither did she know if her inheritance remained under her control after marriage.

If they did not…

Beatrice would be in exactly the same position as now.

No, far, far worse.

Marriage was for a lifetime. She’d have no hope of escape.

“With your grandmother’s inheritance as enticement, even your stutter and lack of social graces might be overlooked, and an acceptable match is not beyond hope.” He flicked a piece of lint off his expensively tailored jacket.

He might’ve requested the butler refold his news sheets, so disinterested did he sound.

Beatrice clasped her hands together until her fingertips grew numb. “Am I t-to have n-no choice in t-the m-matter?”

God, how she hated her stutter, especially when she needed to speak her mind.

“Of course, you have a choice.” His flinty, gray, emotionless gaze pierced her as he slid his mouth upward an inch into a predatory smile. “You are free to refuse my decree. However, if you do so, I shall put you from my house at once. I’ve more than met my obligation to your mother.”

Am I to exchange one prison for another ?