Page 4 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)

Highbury House Gardens

THAT SAME DAY ~ QUARTER PAST THREE

B arely able to keep a mutinous scowl from forming, Beatrice held her head high as she clasped the yards and yards of seafoam green silk in her white-gloved hands and traversed the terrace flagstones. With each step, she held her breath so she wouldn’t trip over the fabric and make a fool of herself, yet again.

She grudgingly admitted that the sophisticated young woman who’d stared back at her in the oval cheval mirror in her chamber bore little resemblance to the girl attired in a gingham frock that morning.

Millborn had swept Beatrice’s hair into a confection of curls, leaving a few tresses to trail down to her left shoulder. The servant intertwined a creamy satin ribbon through the strawberry-blonde locks before tucking two jeweled emerald combs into the coiffure. The emeralds at Beatrice’s ears and throat twinkled happily in her reflection, oblivious to the turmoil inside the solemn-eyed woman who wore them.

Then, at Uncle’s insistence, the kindly maid had set about applying cosmetics to Beatrice’s face, which did rather enhance her features nicely. The rice powder muted her freckles and gave her complexion a creamy appearance. The lip and cheek rouge added spots of color to her pale skin, and her gold-tipped lashes appeared ever so much thicker and darker with the light application of burned cork paste.

Beatrice pondered the use of cosmetics, generally reserved for and associated with women of loose morals. Uncle must be quite desperate to make her more appealing, which only cast additional self-doubt upon her already bruised esteem.

For as long as she could remember, Uncle Cedric had told her how unattractive she was.

From what faint memories she had of her sweet mother, Mama had been beautiful.

Beatrice permitted her mouth to turn downward as she descended the wide stone stairway.

All the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Beatrice had fumed about Uncle Cedric’s audacity. Over and over, she’d tried to create a scenario that wouldn’t require her to marry a stranger—probably a decrepit old sod reeking of garlic and dirty feet—or render her homeless without a farthing.

She had considered—for all of three seconds—asking Uncle to allow her to borrow against her trust and set up a modest house elsewhere or to loan her the money to do so, which she would repay promptly upon turning five and twenty.

However, she strongly suspected his acrimony toward her wouldn’t permit him to show her that kindness or favor and had quickly discarded those hair-brained notions.

She’d only agreed to sit for the dratted portrait to buy herself a little more desperately needed time.

Surely it would take Uncle a few weeks to find a gentleman who agreed to marry her, sight unseen. Well, not precisely sight unseen. There would be the miniature portrait, after all.

If the artist ever finished the likeness.

And that was precisely when the beginnings of a plan started to hatch.

Beatrice could delay the painting’s completion.

Yes, indeed.

Just the thing.

Beatrice Blossom Carina Fairfax, you’ve become devious.

She glanced downward, only a smidgeon of remorse sluicing through her for what she was about to do to this lovely gown. For she had just determined that mishap after mishap would occur to prevent the artist from completing the miniature in a timely fashion.

The truth of it was, Beatrice wasn’t above bribing the fellow either; although he likely wouldn’t wait three years for his payment and he might run to Uncle Cedric and confess all.

A mischievous smile twitched the corners of her mouth.

No, she’d have to manage to ruin the gown to delay today’s sitting. Next, perhaps, she’d take a tumble and bruise her cheek or develop a week-long megrim.

In truth, the options were endless.

Delightfully endless.

Food poisoning. A skin rash. Sunburn. A summer cold. Weepy eyes. Spilling tea on the painting. Nala knocking the painting over.

Cork powder in Beatrice’s eyes would surely irritate them and make them red.

A blackened eye—Beatrice was clumsy after all.

Another ruined gown…

On and on and on.

She would come up with scheme after scheme to prevent her likeness from being painted.

Then what would Uncle do?

With Nala and Teddy trotting at her heels, Beatrice picked her way toward the marble folly in the formal gardens where Uncle had ordered she have her likeness replicated. The satin slippers adorning her feet were better suited for the house’s marble and parquet floors, not freshly clipped grass.

Uncle Cedric had seen the gazebo furnished with a floral settee, several throw pillows, flowers, ferns, and other greenery. All in all, the folly was lovely, and had Beatrice not been so put upon, she might have appreciated the effort that had gone into creating the attractive space.

She supposed a garden portrait was a minor concession on his part, as Uncle knew she preferred the outdoors.

More likely, however, was he didn’t want her future husband to see the inside of Highbury House. To prevent the money-grubbing potential husband from comprehending Uncle Cedric’s wealth and perhaps demanding a dowry, in addition to getting his greedy hands on her twenty thousand pounds.

Uncle Cedric, the heartless wretch, had refused her request to allow Nala and Teddy in the portrait. And that had caused another concern to raise its warty little head… What if he threatened to take her beloved pets from her if she didn’t comply?

Beatrice feared it wasn’t beyond him.

Well then, she would have to make certain the series of mishaps were wholly believable.

As she tiptoed across the greens, trying not to slip on the grass, she contemplated the precise moment she would trip on the gown and take a fortuitous tumble. She needed to ensure the gown was beyond repair—torn and stained. A couple of rolls across the verdant lawn ought to assure just that.

A tall, dark-haired gentleman attired in gray, stood with his broad back to her.

Odd, she’d expected a shrunken, balding, grizzly-eyebrowed eccentric with hair poking from his ears. Her rather too acute observation of this man revealed he was young and fit.

He’d arranged his painting materials outside the folly on a table.

What had Uncle Cedric said his name was?

Cassius Westbrook?

Uncle boasted the artist was quite accomplished, but Beatrice had never heard of him. That meant little, however, since she knew few people beyond those that she attended Sunday services with and her two friends, Esme and Charlotte.

Nala gave an excited woof and dashed forward.

The artist spun around, his dark blue eyes widening upon seeing a ten-stone boarhound descending upon him with the exuberance of a bull detecting a cow in heat.

Lord, he was breathtakingly handsome.

If Beatrice wasn’t worried her dog was about to assault him, she might’ve taken a moment to appreciate his male perfection.

A first for her.

“Nala. Stop!”

When Nala ignored her command, Beatrice hoisted her skirts higher and broke into a run.

Teddy yipped in excitement and tore after Nala.

“Teddy. Nala. Stop this instant!”

Rather than show alarm at having two dogs charging toward him, the handsome artist appeared amused.

He must be familiar with dogs.

Nala never behaved like this and concern for the artist’s safety drove Beatrice to lengthen her stride into a sprint. The emeralds at her neck bounced up and down, and one curl plopped onto her shoulder and then another curl. And another.

Nala skidded to a stop in front of Mr. Westbrook, and then, to Beatrice’s utter astonishment, rose on her hind legs, placed both her immense paws on his shoulders, and gave him a slobbery doggy kiss before they both toppled to the ground.

“ Oomph .” Mr. Westbrook landed with a thud, Nala atop him and continuing to lick his face.

Teddy joined the fray, running in circles around the two of them, barking.

“Oh, no.” In her shock, Beatrice released her gown, which promptly tangled about her legs.

Rip .

Before she could cry out, she fell, rolling over and landing a few feet from Mr. Westbrook.

She only spared half a second to consider her coiffure and gown’s complete destruction. Had she planned this debacle, the outcome couldn’t have been better.

“I say, Miss Fairfax. Are you all right?”

Though his tone was gentle, distinct humor underscored Mr. Westbrook’s query.

Face scorching with humiliation, Beatrice dared to open her eyes, her gaze colliding with midnight blue. A tremor swept through her.

More than all right, thank you .

He patted Nala’s withers as if it were a common occurrence to be knocked on one’s back by a huge hound and to have the beast perch upon one’s prone form.

Oh, he is quite the loveliest man I’ve ever seen .

Beatrice offered a shy smile.

“I b-believe, Mr. Westbrook, ’tis I who ought t-to be asking you that question.” As she sat up, she slid her attention to Nala. “Nala, off M-Mr. Westbrook. Sit.”

Naturally, her blasted stutter would have to manifest.

Nala promptly complied, her tail thumping a happy rhythm.

Tongue lolling, Teddy plopped his little bottom beside her.

Nala never took to strangers.

Never .

“What the devil goes on here?”