Page 4 of Much Ado About Hating You (Second Chance Season #2)

Three

R ichard haunted the shadowed end of the drawing room as the after-dinner crowd began to thin. A group of guests remained near the bookshelves, chatting over refilled glasses of wine, and another group still inhabited a card table. John and Evelina remained, sitting near an open window, knees kissing, hands tangled, as they looked out on the evening garden. Blissful almost matrimony.

Richard snorted and pulled his book up to block his view of the guests.

“I’m done for the evening,” a guest said. Richard peeked over the top of his book. A woman stood up from the card table, and a man sitting nearby stood with her. She nodded to John. “Thank you, Lord Prescott, for a lovely evening.”

“I look forward to tomorrow’s diversions,” the man said, escorting the lady from the room.

When they were gone, the two remaining at the table broke into complaints.

“Who will play with us now?”

“It is too early to retire.”

“Come along, someone. Please. Evelina?” The young woman shuffling the cards looked with pitiful eyes at her host’s betrothed. “Surely you wish to play.”

Evelina shook her head. “I’m not in the mood. And I shall have to return home with my mother shortly.” Her mother lived in a nearby manor house, and Evie had decided to sleep there instead of taking at a room at Slopevale. “But perhaps… Beatrice?”

From her corner, the opposite of Richard’s, Beatrice lifted her head from her own book. She wore green silk this evening, and her dark hair shone in the candlelight. “Me?”

“Yes, they need you for cards,” Evelina said.

“But that’s only three,” the card shuffler’s companion said. “We need a fourth for whist.” She crossed to a different chair.

Beatrice, having abandoned her book, took the now open seat. “I enjoy whist. With the right partner.”

“Mr. Clark.” This from Miss Selena Bell. “You have been alone in that corner all evening. You must come out and have some fun. Partner Beatrice. You must.”

He must not. He waved a hand. “No, thank you. I’m quite happy here in my corner.”

“Come, man,” John said. “Do not be so aloof.”

“Not aloof. Merely tired. I’m afraid Miss Bell would find me a slow-witted partner this evening.”

Her arm resting across the back of the chair, Beatrice lifted a brow, a challenge. “Just this evening?” A slow chuckle rumbled around the room, and she basked in the approval of her insult.

It made him want to sit across from her and show her how very sharp and cunning he could be.

But he didn’t belong at that table. She was a wealthy shipping merchant’s daughter. And the woman who sat to her right was a baron’s wife. The woman who sat to Beatrice’s left was a politician’s sister. They all wore jewels Richard’s own mother had never known; the sort his stepmother had draped about her neck as casually as a chain of daisies.

“I’ll play.” A man stepped away from a group conversing near the fire. Richard had not yet had the pleasure of an introduction, but he knew who he was—Baron Peterson. He settled into the chair across from Beatrice with a warm grin and an easy slouch.

Beatrice returned the grin, her confidence matching his. “Lord Peterson. Thank you for rounding out our numbers.”

“Anything to please the ladies. Do you mind if I smoke?” The baron pulled a cheroot from his pocket.

Beatrice’s eyebrows winged together almost imperceptibly. She did mind. But she shook her head. “So long as you remain sharp, I can forgive a bit of smoke.”

The woman could forgive everyone and everything but for Richard. He was tired. He wanted his bed. But he stayed right where he was, watching. Pretending not to.

The back of her slender neck, that tiny dark tendril of hair that curled against it, fallen and oh-so strokable. Her shoulders squared when she had a good move and wiggled when she didn’t. When she laughed, the sound went straight to his veins like a jolt of starlight.

Peterson dangled a cheroot from the side of his mouth and held his cards with thick fingers. He and Beatrice made good partners, quickly perfecting the art of silent communication. A symphony of glances passed between them.

Each one of them like stepping on a nail, sending sharp, unexpected jabs of pain through Richard’s chest.

Beatrice laughed again, starlight shooting through him again, this time with a frenzy. And something darker, too, as she tilted her head to the side, curved that lovely neck out for everyone to see.

For Peterson to see?

What was she thinking? She was still an unmarried and damned attractive woman. Cheroot would get ideas with all those glances she threw his way. Intimate ideas.

Richard popped to his feet and marched toward his brother and Evelina. “What,” he hissed “were the two of you thinking?”

Slowly, they regarded him. John scowled, bewildered.

Evelina wore the sort of sly, shy smile he knew meant trouble. “We are enjoying the evening. Have you enjoyed it, Richard?”

“Not at all, and you two know why.”

John cast a lazy look at the card table. “You tell us why.”

“Who is he?” He thrust his chin at the man sitting across from Beatrice.

“Do you mean Lord Peterson?” Evelina said.

“I do if you mean the sausage-fingered cheat partnering Miss Bell.”

“I do mean the gentleman partnering Beatrice. I have no opinion on the shapes of his fingers. And no idea if he cheats.”

“Better not,” John grumbled.

“I find myself very clever,” Evelina said, “for making the match.”

“A match!” It was only once the entire room went dead silent that Richard realized he’d said that bit more loudly than he should have.

The conversationalists by the fire disregarded him and returned to their wine and each other. Those at the card table blinked, then stuffed noses back into their cards.

All but for Beatrice, whose gaze seemed armed with bullets aimed to kill. Him.

He shoved John and Evelina apart and sat between them. “You have no regard for the poor baron, I see.” Richard crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again. “Miss Bell will claw his eyes out.”

“You think so?” Evelina asked, turning slightly to view the card table.

A laugh rose high and sweet, tugging at Richard’s ribs. It was joined by a laugh of a deeper timbre.

“Sounds like she’s amusing him well enough,” John said. “Look. They’re getting along.”

Richard would not look. Nothing in the world could induce him to look. Again.

He looked. Beatrice was smiling at Cheroot as if she knew no other expression. And the man had the sort of gleam in his eye that boded well for an unmarried lady. Or disastrous. Depending on intentions.

“Good for them,” Richard mumbled.

“You sound jealous, brother.” John elbowed Richard’s ribs, the cad.

“I’m not. How absurd. Evelina, how could you be so unfeeling? Ruining this man’s life.”

“I’ll pretend you did not say that. Beatrice is my friend, and I would not promote a connection if I thought it unwise.” Evelina crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “What exactly happened between you two?”

“We were casualties of a broken romance.”

Silence. Silence so loud Richard could hear his brother’s interest. Evelina’s, too, their curious pulses thumping like rabbit feet on hollow ground.

Oh hell, they’d thought… “Not ours ! Martin and Selena.” He shoved to his feet, and his brother and Evelina melted back toward one another like water poured into a cup, shoulders bumping, hands twining, and gazes locking in complete understanding.

There was nothing to understand.

Except maybe what had Beatrice leaping from her seat, holding her cards flat against her chest with a wide grin as Peterson leaned back, enjoying the sight of her.

“I hope they’re happy together,” Richard grumbled. “Now tell me the itinerary for the next fortnight, so I can do my best to witness your joy and avoid the harpy at the same time.”

“Absolutely not.” Evelina kicked his ankle.

“Just enjoy yourself.” John said. “Evie, I need to speak with Richard for a moment. Estate business.” He guided Richard back toward the shadowed end of the room where he scowled at the assembled guests for a moment. “Do not tell Evelina, but I need you to do what you do best.”

“Annoy Beatrice? Easy. All I have to do is breathe.”

“No. Be jolly. Bring people together. This entire event has only just begun, and I’m already seeing fissures.”

“What do you mean?”

“My guests and Evelina’s guests are not exactly compatible.”

“Ah.” John was a marquess. He’d invited friends and acquaintances from parliament and the London social season. But Evelina was a country gentleman’s daughter, had married a man without title or wealth the first time around. She’d invited farmers and artists and tradesmen. “A felicitous union may be possible between you two but not between your acquaintances.”

“See there.” John pointed to the group by the books. “That’s Chesterton and his brother and their wives. Old friends of the family. But there”—he nodded at the card table—“those are Evie’s friends. The two groups have segregated themselves, and I’m afraid if they remain so, Evie will take it as an omen. Or some ill feeling will arise between the groups, and…” He shrugged.

“You cannot have that.”

“Precisely. Can you do what you do best? Be jolly and likable and make everyone feel comfortable and welcome? No hiding behind bushes from now on.”

More laughter rumbled from the card table, shared by Beatrice and Mr. Peterson again. Richard did not have to look to recognize her laugh, and Peterson’s had, somehow, become quickly burned into his memory. They sounded horrible laughing together. Discordant.

“I’ll help you, John. You know I will.” Richard clapped his brother on the back and made for the group situated by the bookshelves. He hesitated. These were not his people. Bastard that he was, they tolerated him, and only because his father and now the present marquess accepted him so fully. Taking a breath that broadened his smile, he parted the space between Lord Chesterton and his wife with his shoulder.

“Good evening, my lord, my lady.”

“Oh…” Chesterton’s fuzzy gray eyebrows bounced up and down. “You’re the old marquess’s basssss… boy.”

He’d been about to say bastard . Richard pretended he’d not heard the drawn-out s . “I do not mean to interrupt your conversation, but the gentleman at the card table… Peterson?” He paused as the group’s attention wandered across the room, landed on the man with a cheroot in his mouth, cheroots for fingers, and attention for one Miss Beatrice Bell. “He was wondering what the best wine for a spring evening was, and I told him only you would know for sure. My father always said you had exquisite taste. Would you condescend to make a recommendation?”

Chesterton’s lips parted in a grin. “Indeed, I would. You have your father’s charm, my boy, even if you are a by-blow.” He patted Richard’s arm as he wandered toward the card table. His wife and the others followed close behind, moving past Richard as if he were a ghost.

Good. Richard had nothing left to give them. He paused in the doorway only to make sure the little trick hadn’t erupted in a fight, but Peterson seemed entirely pleased that Chesterton had singled him out.

Beatrice, however, seemed unamused. She’d put her cards face down on the table and leaned back in her chair. She was looking right at Richard, her expression pronouncing one word as loudly as if she spoke it: Retreating ?

Yes, maybe he was. Only for tonight.

He trudged up the stairs and found his bedchamber. He peeled the clothes off his body in slow, heavy movements, but finally he could climb into his bed in only his smalls and lie on his back like a starfish. His hand hit the table beside his bed, the book always there atop it, and he picked it up, held it above his face as he opened it.

El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha. She’d always simply called it Don Quixote . Had called the author, the Cervantes fellow, a genius. But Richard couldn’t even read the damn thing. Well, not most of it. There were three words on the title page in the top right corner, written in faded ink, he could read well enough.

Beatrice Bell’s book.

He rubbed his thumb across the words she’d put there in her own looping, slightly messy script, as he had done most nights since he’d first discovered it abandoned in the library seven years ago. Just after Beatrice and Selena had left. He knew the last time she’d touched it, could see her carrying it as she entered the library. They’d agreed to meet there; she had agreed to begin his education in reading Spanish. He’d hoped to sneak a touch of her hand, but she’d entered the room pale and trembling, clutching the book at her chest…

“Beatrice?” Took three steps to get to her. “What’s happened?”

Her eyes lifted slowly, her head tilting back so he could see her face—pale and drawn and pinched. “Have you not heard?”

“Heard what?” The catch in her voice alarmed him, and he took her hands, drew her across the room, and sat her near the crackling fire.

“Mr. Fisher has left. And he has told Selena that she will not hear from him again.”

Richard nodded. “Yes, well, I’m sure your cousin has other concerns at the moment.” Like Daniel. “You should tell her to be careful. As I told Martin.”

Like a firecracker popping to life in the sky, her gaze flared, sparked. “You told Martin? What does that mean?”

He couldn’t tell her everything. He’d promised not to speak of secrets that weren’t his own. And despite his parentage, he possessed a gentleman’s soul. He wouldn’t gossip and ruin a lady, no matter how guilty she was. “That is between he and I.” This meeting was not going as planned. He should redirect it. “Come, let us look at the book you’ve brought.”

“No.” She snapped it to the table as she stood. “Tell me about Martin and Selena. Did you advise him to leave here, to abandon my cousin?”

“They were not yet wed. And nothing is final until they sign a registry.”

“They are in love, you brick head!”

He snorted.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a sound. It means nothing.”

“I am not an imbecile. What does it mean?”

“Fine!” His arms exploded outward. “I suppose it means that if your cousin is in love, she has odd ways of showing it.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You insult her?”

“She insults herself.”

Impossibly, her mouth’s shocked O widened.

He snapped it closed. Two fingers beneath her chin, kissing her soft, warm skin for a single blessed moment.

She batted his hand away.

Frustration, deep and sharp as lightning, ripped through him. “It is for the best. For Martin and for Selena. They are young. And likely it is not love so much as ? —”

“Who are you to say if it is love? Do you have so many more years than them? Are you Romeo or Tristan, so deeply in love with some poor woman you would die for her?”

“No.” The word sounded like a growl and felt like a lie, but her sneer cut him to the bone, made him hide the truth to protect himself. “And you know better than I? Have you ever been in love then?”

A flutter of her lashes, the sneer disappearing. She swallowed, and her slender throat bobbed, and something inside him cracked in two.

“Beatrice, can we be done with this argument? The matter between Selena and Martin is not about us. Has nothing to do with us.” He ventured a step forward. “Please. Let us sit and lose ourselves in study.” In each other.

“She is like a sister to me.” Her eyes glistened. “My only real family.”

Oh hell. “And Martin like a brother to me. As you wish for what is best for your cousin, so I wish for what is best for him.” He held out a hand. “Come, Beatrice. Sit with me and let us make a pleasant afternoon.”

She shook her head, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the tears were gone. “You have no idea how many hearts you break, Mr. Clark.” And then she was gone, leaving him with a book he could not read and a single certainty.

He knew exactly how many hearts he’d broken. One. His own.

He snapped the book back on the table and turned on his side away from it. He would not think about what had been, what might have been.

Christ . What would never be. Even if she ever forgave him, he couldn’t pursue her. A bastard courting a rich man’s only daughter? Even if she had been entertaining a friendship with him, she never would have accepted anything else. Fairy tales were made of less impossible pairings.