Page 9 of Much Ado About Hating You (Second Chance Season #2)

Eight

T hree days after the most erotic moment of Richard’s life, he stormed into the Slopevale breakfast room and stood like a soldier before the long table.

Everyone blinked up at him.

John raised a single brow, clearly questioning Richard’s sanity.

Evelina offered a warm smile. “Join us, brother.”

“Where’s Miss Bell?” he asked. And where was Peterson?

“And where have you been?” John asked. “We have barely seen you lately.”

“Busy.” Searching for a brother who could not possibly be in England. He should tell John what Beatrice claimed to have seen, but it was likely nothing. No use worrying him during what should be a worry-free occasion. “Miss Bell?”

The woman had come against Richard’s hand then disappeared, not once seeking him out despite his many and prolonged absences from the party. When he did join the group, she didn’t even look at him.

Peterson, though… she’d looked her fill at him.

And Richard was a few breaths away from turning his brother’s pre-wedding celebrations into a massacre. The only reason he’d not blackened the man’s eye, thrown Beatrice over his shoulder, and carted her off like the brute she called him was because John had already lost one brother to ungentlemanly actions. He should not lose another.

Daniel, oddly, was saving Richard from making a mistake. He was the only thing keeping Richard from using his father’s sabre, an old family heirloom that hung on the wall in the foyer, to lop off Peterson’s head. Or parts lower. Either would work, frankly. No time for mutilations, though, when combing the grounds and surrounding areas looking for his exiled younger brother.

Beatrice hadn’t really seen Daniel. She couldn’t have. But she wasn’t flighty. She’d seen someone . And he’d discover who. Because if anyone had seen them kissing in the boat before they’d plunged into the lake, he needed to stop the rumors before they shackled her to a man she hated, a man her family would despise.

He’d found nothing but frustration and a rising unease. Perhaps she had imagined it. Could be that her return to Slopevale had caused an avalanche of memories that were superimposing themselves over the here and now. Only Daniel was not here and now, and searching for him was a useless pursuit.

Especially since he could be pushing Peterson off a roof (how to get him up there, though…) and taking Beatrice to a nice warm bed.

Her scent lingered in his memory, the feel of her breast still warmed his palm.

She hated him.

But not when he kissed her.

The corner of his lips tipped up.

Hell, his mere birth made him an outsider to good society, and he’d always tried to fit in anyway, never taking more than those around him were willing to give him. Beatrice’s father would likely have an apoplexy if he thought his only child was about to marry a bastard. Society would turn up their noses, and she’d have to endure gossip she did not deserve.

Marriage. To Beatrice. It would never happen.

But lovers… Maybe he’d convinced her to give it a try.

If he could get rid of Peterson first.

“Can someone please tell me where Miss Bell is?” He was whining, that much clear from the titters rippling down the breakfast table.

Miss Selena Bell—sitting right next to Martin, it must be noted—said, “In the garden. She promised a walk to Lord Peterson this morning.”

Baron Bloody Peterson. Hell.

He bowed to Miss Bell. “You have my eternal gratitude.” He swept out of the room. Yes, they were all whispering about him now. No doubt he’d given rise to myriad rumors and speculations. He’d have to be more careful, not let frustration ride him so hard. But matters of Beatrice seemed to spiral out of his control before he could do anything about it. Always had. To meet her had been to admire her, and admiration had run a quick path to coveting. First her body, then her brain. Now he seemed to need them both as air and something else as well.

That he punched back, locked away. No use in inspecting what he couldn’t have.

So he stepped into the garden, inhaling determination with the fresh morning air and yelled, “Beatrice bloody Bell! Where are you?”

Cursing from beyond the rose bushes. There was a little walk there in a bower. He strode for it, found at its far end, two bodies, walking quickly, side by side on a path big enough only for two. Beatrice and Peterson. Their shoulders brushed. Her skirts flirted with his legs. Such intimacy in the composition, in how he walked slightly twisted toward her, hands clasped behind his back and neck bent to hear her better.

She glanced over her shoulder, saw Richard, cursed again, grabbed Peterson’s arm, and tugged him forward, clearly anxious to put space between them and Richard.

Absolutely not.

He quickened his pace to catch up. That pox-arsed baboon could not have her. When he reached them, he sliced into the small space between them and patted them both on the back before crossing his arms over his chest and jutting out his elbows. Distance. He must create distance.

“Good morning, Miss Bell,” he said. “Peterson.”

“Good morning,” Peterson drawled. “Is there something amiss at the house?”

“Not at all!”

“Then what brings you here?” Beatrice asked, each word a poison dart meant, clearly, to maim him.

“Exercise, naturally. Companionship. I thought you might like a little variety in company.” Richard elbowed Peterson in the ribs. Perhaps a bit too hard. “One such as you, Peterson, shouldn’t have to carry the weight of entertaining an intellectual such as Miss Bell.”

“The lady and I have spent many rousing hours in one another’s company,” Peterson said. “I am more than capable of keeping a bluestocking entertained.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Richard said at the same time Beatrice growled.

“Bluestocking? I am one I suppose, but your tone gives it an insulting sound I take offense to.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Richard said. Impossible to keep the cheer from his voice.

“I meant no insult.” Peterson looked properly bewildered. “I don’t think I’ve done a thing. It’s all you, Clark. Before you showed up, I was doing rather well with the lady.”

Richard whistled. “I’m not the one who disparaged bluestockings.” He turned to Beatrice. “Did you know he was doing well with you? What do you think that means? Sounds like he was trying to tame a horse.”

“Well, it’s a bit like that, isn’t?” Peterson ran a frustrated hand through his hair, forgetting he wore a hat. It toppled backward off his head, and he stopped, bent to pick it up.

Richard rushed Beatrice forward, abandoning the other man and relishing her gasp.

“A bit like taming a horse?” Pink flushed high in her cheeks, and he wanted to kiss those outrageous spots of color.

“Did you know he was such a prat?” Richard whispered near her ear.

She shivered but said, “I’m concerned you’ve manufactured this entire conversation. None of this is real.”

He shrugged.

And Peterson caught up with them. “I did not intend to offend, Miss Bell. I’ve been having a lovely time with you.”

And just how lovely did the man mean? Lovely in an entirely proper social sense? Lovely in terms of courtship? Lovely as in, I know the taste of your cunny and cannot live without it ?

Richard’s hands became fists.

“Yes,” Beatrice said, rounding Richard and hooking her arm through Peterson’s. “I have had an excellent time, as well. We should continue our walk. Alone.”

Richard strode after them, walked as close behind them as he could, ears wide open.

Beatrice peeked at him, then sighed. “Go away, Mr. Clark.”

“Can’t. I’m chaperoning.”

She froze, threw him an incredulous look as Peterson roared a laugh.

“Go find a bonnet or turban, then,” Peterson rumbled.

“Or some smelling salts,” Beatrice added. “Some accoutrements that will identify you as the aged chaperone you clearly are.”

Peterson chuckled. “He cannot be a day younger than fifty.”

“Oh, you’re too kind. I was thinking five and sixty.”

Richard narrowed his eyes, wavered a finger between them. “Stop that, Bea. Bantering is what we do together.”

“ We do not do anything together.”

He pushed between them again. “You break my heart, Bea.”

Beatrice pulled Peterson more tightly to her side. “Go visit the cows. You prefer their company anyway. And it’s Miss Bell .”

“We’ve been friends for so long, surely we no longer let formalities chain us.”

“You can call me Ivan, Miss Bell,” Peterson said.

“No, she cannot.” Richard broke them apart, stuffing his entire body between them and keeping them at bay with his elbows.

“You may call me Beatrice,” she said.

Richard growled. “This entirely—shit!” He said the last bit face down in the gravel. Where the hell had that rock come from? What damn twig had jumped up to throw him face-first into humiliation?

Soft hands fluttered at his back as he pushed to his feet. “Are you hurt?” Beatrice asked, her voice softer than before.

“My pride is bruised beyond compare,” he grumbled.

“You deserve it.” Her voice was tart, but her eyes sparkled. She enjoyed it, every damn bit of it. Not just his embarrassment, but their exchange of barbs, his dogged pursuit, his bravado and insinuating claims to her attention. She barely suppressed a smile, and it was all for him, not for the man standing nearby looking increasingly more irritated. She did not attempt to restrain her amusement.

“Bea.” He lowered his voice. “I have something to tell you . About a mutual acquaintance who you believed to be attending this gathering.”

“Who?” Peterson asked, hovering above them like a bird of prey.

“No one,” Beatrice and Richard said at the same time.

“Ah, my lord… Ivan…” Beatrice chose each word with extra caution. “I do need to speak with Mr. Clark. I’ll see you inside?”

The other man looked between Beatrice and Richard, clearly hesitant.

Beatrice waved to the house rising above them. “Many windows, Ivan. Many eyes. And as Mr. Clark has already pointed out, I am over thirty years old.”

He gave a stiff nod and strode toward the house.

“Thank God he’s gone.” Richard stood, brushing himself off. Beatrice was right; there were entirely too many windows. He took her hand and dragged her under the trees, their branches stretching out shade over the green grass. He leaned against the trunk. “I’ve been looking for Daniel.”

“Ah.” She drew a line in the grass with the toe of her little boot. “That’s where you’ve been.”

“Missed me?”

“No.”

“I’ve missed you.”

She sighed. “I swear I saw him. But…” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s ridiculous, isn’t it. He could not be here. And yet… why would I have imagined him?” She avoided his gaze.

“We were just speaking of him that morning. You saw someone, but not clearly, and your mind supplied the details.”

“Yes, that’s possible.”

Silence seemed as heavy as the shadows beneath the branches.

Finally, Richard said, “Have you no reaction? To what I said about missing you.”

She waved his question away, crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s true,” he said. “Have you thought any more about my offer?”

She bit her bottom lip.

“Has Peterson offered?”

“No!” Her arms flew to her sides, hands fisted in an instant.

“Good.” As her body tensed, his relaxed. “Quite excellent. I do not care to share you.”

She opened her mouth, and he poised to accept her barbs, to throw them back. But she snapped her lips closed and slumped against the tree a quarter turn away from him. She closed her eyes and rubbed them with the heels of her hands.

He rolled onto his shoulder and peered down at her. “Are you well? Not suffering any consequences of our dip in the lake?”

She shook her head.

“Why are you scared of water? Your father owns boats. I’m sure you’ve been on boats. You visited your mother’s family in Spain one winter, didn’t you?”

“Yes. And I was miserable the entire voyage. There and back. If I visit them again, I might not return. Simply to avoid the travel.”

Then don’t go. “Why?”

“I owe you no explanations.”

She didn’t. But he wanted one anyway.

“I suppose, though, I owe you something for saving me.”

He’d always save her. “Here, I’ll tell you something of myself, payment for your own story.” She was terrified of water and could not swim. Serious business. He’d have to offer a serious price. “I was five when my mother brought me to Slopevale. She was a seamstress in the village, and I looked exactly like my father, exactly like John, too. We could have been twins. The villagers were not blind, and they were quite aware of my father’s proclivities. I distinctly remember the vicar’s wife calling me Marquess’s Little Mistake several times, as if it were my name.”

Beatrice made a sound in her throat, her face screwing up with anger.

“Calm down, hellcat. It’s fine,” he said softly.

“You were a child! No one should treat a child that way.”

“Remember, you hate me.”

Another tiny noise.

He tapped her nose, and she swiped his hand away.

He shrugged his hands into his pockets. To keep from touching her more. “My mother grew tired of it. And she could not make money. No one wanted the marquess’s mistress sewing their clothes. So she carted me up to the big house, knocked on the door, and announced to the butler that the marquess could take care of his Little Mistake himself. Then she left.”

“Right then and there?”

He nodded.

“Richard, I’m… that’s…” She exhaled a deep breath. “It’s all rather familiar.”

Was it? “How?” He needed to know. Immediately. Needed whatever small thread connected them.

“My mother was illegitimate. I would have been had my uncle not discovered my mother’s situation, my father’s intent to leave her with child and unmarried. He forced my father’s hand. But for my uncle, I’d inhabit the position you do in society. I think I still do. Spinsters, you know. Most would rather forget entirely that we exist. No one likes to be reminded of failure. My uncle has told me many times, however, that men and women must chart their own paths, and the path they chart alone is what we should judge them by. Not where they started the journey. That is out of their control.”

How had he not known any of that? What had they talked about seven years ago? They’d been so young and intoxicated with life, origin stories had hardly seemed to matter. There had been no past or future. Only the heady now .

Age had corrected that perception. Perhaps age could correct them, too.

“I wish,” Beatrice said, “your mother had been as astute as my uncle.”

He wanted her to understand, but he didn’t need her pity. “I had a home, food, a new brother who immediately took me as his own, a father who was rather proud to have sired me, oddly enough, and a new mother, too.” He scratched the back of his neck. She was less welcoming. Not ready to talk about her yet. Or ever.

“Have you thought about living elsewhere? Some place they do not know you?”

“No. I am who I am. No amount of running changes it. And why would I run from my family? From John and Evie, from Lucy and the twins. Besides, I built a house in that direction”—he pointed north—“on some land I bought from John that wasn’t entailed. It’s my home now.” Right next to everything he held dear.

“Oh… I didn’t know.” She fiddled with a ribbon at her sleeve as she shifted to her back and stared up into the branches. They cast shadowed striations across the curves of her face and darkened the green of her eyes. “I was eight when my mother died, and I remember leaving the house one morning to look for her. I knew she would never return, but it was a… compulsion. I had to look. My father had not been home for… I do not know how long. And I think I was afraid he’d died, too. I found out later he’d been gone for four days, had sent the staff home, too. He’d forgotten I even existed. Perhaps I left the house looking for food as well. I don’t… I do not remember all the details. They are murky.”

“God, Beatrice.” He moved to her side of the tree, resting his forearm next to her head and pressing his palm to the trunk on the other side of her body near her arm, close enough for his thumb to stroke her if he wished. If she needed it.

She hung her head, spoke to their feet. “My aunt is the one who realized something was wrong. She went to see me, found the door open, the house empty. Mm.” She was fiddling with the ribbon again, and he was just trying to block out the world, to let her know, feel in her bones, that here, with him, she was safe. “Mm. My father had recently moved us to a lodging house near the West Indies docks. Closer to his offices. Before my mother’s death, we’d lived in a little townhouse. I don’t know where in London. Closer to my uncle and aunt. I remember there was a lovely garden nearby, and I liked to watch the women walk by in beautiful dresses. But my father saw no use in, mm, what he called idle comforts. So, we moved to the lodging house. It was two rooms and loud and crowded, and there was no more garden or pretty dresses. But he could easily walk to the docks.”

She was silent so long Richard thought she might not finish the story. So he flicked his thumb out and stroked the few available inches of her arm. Soft. His skin stood out starkly against hers. They had always been a study in contrasts, their differences enticing, explosive. Their newfound similarities rocked him more deeply, made him want to curve around her and never give her up.

She swallowed and said, “A child could easily walk to the docks, as well. I did. I remember how crowded they were. And the smell.” Her nose wrinkled. “And I thought I saw my father on a boat. So I found this narrow little… plank… I was balancing on it, proud of myself, but a man on the boat… he didn’t see me. He stepped onto the plank. Shook it. I fell. I must have screamed, but I don’t remember anything but the water—cold and ugly tasting in my mouth.”

He rested his forehead against hers, hoping against all hope for a happy ending. Knowing no matter what she said next the happiest ending had already occurred—she’d survived.

“The man who’d made me fall—he saved me. He couldn’t find who I belonged to, and I couldn’t stop crying to tell him. And then I caught a fever. My aunt says my uncle found me. She’d told him I was missing, and my uncle asked about everywhere, including the docks, hoping my father had taken me with him, wherever he’d gone. I do not remember much. The fever broke when I was at my aunt’s. So I remember that—waking up in Selena’s bed.” She chuckled. “I do not recommend a dunk in the Thames. It’s not at all beneficial for your health.”

He chucked her under her chin, saw in her newly raised eyes a barely hidden sadness he wanted to ease, to banish. He pulled her off the tree and into his arms, hugging her. Just hugging her. And for a moment, she let him, melting into the embrace, digging her face into his chest, causing his heart to explode and wrap itself around her.

Then she stepped away and onto the path. “I tell you all this so you know we are even. Your story for mine. I owe you nothing else. And while I will not deny enjoying our… interlude the other day, it cannot happen again.”

He followed her out of the shade of the tree but not into the sun. It had disappeared behind rolling gray clouds. A shiver of a wind whipped through the garden. “Beatrice?—”

“No.” She rocked back a step, holding her hand out, palm flat, a wall. “I mean it, Mr. Clark. My body may”—she swallowed, trembled a bit—“desire your attentions, but I cannot forget your treatment of my cousin, your role in separating her from Mr. Fisher. She has been my sister since the day I woke up in her bed, her mother my only mother, her father my only protector. Any harm done to them is”—she shook her head—“entirely unacceptable, unforgivable.” She ran off, down the path and into the house, and perhaps out of his life forever.

Better that way, yes?

No, worse.

Because now he knew she did not care about his birth, didn’t care what her father thought, knew he had no say over who she wed or what she did with her life. She was the type of woman who could marry him, who would.

If she didn’t hate him.

And she’d made very clear, she did.