Page 150

S even weeks later…

G ulls soared overhead, their raucous cries blending with the creak of ship timbers and the shouts of dockworkers as the vessel eased into its berth.

Beatrice stood at the railing, her fingers wrapped tightly around the weathered wood as she watched the bustle of London's docks come into view.

Carts and carriages jostled for position along the quay, porters loading and unloading crates and trunks.

The stench of fish and tar clung to the briny sea air, making her nose wrinkle.

She wrapped her arms around herself, seeking some measure of comfort.

The weeks at sea had passed in a haze of stolen kisses and whispered confessions beneath the stars. But the land—London—felt like another world entirely. Here, reality awaited them in the form of duty, expectations, and the ever-watchful eyes of the ton .

She had been invisible once, standing at the edge of a glittering ballroom, overlooked and underestimated. Now, they would see her—but not as herself. As Lady Lorne. And she did not know which fate was worse.

Matthew's warm presence materialized beside her, his arm brushing against hers and sending shivers down her spine despite the layers between them. "Ready to face the wolves, my dear?"

She turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “I am not sure 'wolves' is the appropriate term for your family. Are they really so fearsome?"

His lips quirked in that infuriating yet beguiling half-smile. "Oh, they can certainly bare their teeth when they wish. But you need not worry. I will be right by your side to protect you from their snapping jaws."

Beatrice rolled her eyes, even as apprehension coiled in her belly. It was one thing to banter and spar with Matthew aboard ship, where the consequences felt distant and unreal. But now, stepping into the very heart of the ton , all her doubts and fears surged to the forefront.

Would his family hold a grudge against her?

Dislike and distrust her for her actions?

The hasty nature of their marriage was sure to raise eyebrows and set tongues wagging.

They would not find it easy to hide the truth.

Though they had come to love each other these past months at sea, the solidity of Matthew's feelings still felt tenuous and untested on land.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Matthew captured her hand in his, enfolding it in warmth and strength. His eyes, startling blue and earnest, held her gaze.

"Beatrice, I meant every word I said in our vows. You are my wife, and I will stand by you, come what may. Let them gossip and disapprove all they like - it matters not a whit to me. We will weather this together."

His unwavering conviction seeped into her very bones, steadying her.

She drew in a fortifying breath, the crisp air laced with promise and possibility.

"Together," she echoed, lacing her fingers through his.

Side by side, they descended the gangplank to greet their new life, London's energy thrumming all around them.

A sudden hush fell over the bustling docks, the air thickening with anticipation as an elegant carriage bearing the Everhart crest rolled to a stop before them.

Beatrice's heart lurched against her ribs, a caged bird desperate for freedom.

She tightened her grip on Matthew's hand, drawing strength from the unyielding pressure of his fingers twined with hers.

Lady Everhart emerged first, a vision of refined grace in a gown of deep plum silk.

Her sharp, assessing gaze swept over Beatrice, lingering on the protective bracket of Matthew's arm around her waist. "Welcome home, Matthew.” Her voice smooth as polished glass.

"I had wondered if we might ever see you again—though I must say, your choice of companion is…

unexpected." She shifted her gaze to Beatrice. “Lady Lorne."

The careful emphasis on Beatrice's new title rang hollow, a thinly veiled reminder of the role she now played. Beatrice dipped into a flawless curtsy, determined to meet the dowager countess on equal footing. "Indeed, it was, Lady Everhart. The weather was most obliging."

A sharp, derisive laugh cut through the charged atmosphere.

Edward Everhart, Matthew's uncle, unfolded his lanky frame from the carriage, disdain etched into every aristocratic line of his face.

"I see you've acquired an... unexpected prize, nephew.

Though I must wonder—did she win you fairly, or did she merely gamble on your better nature? "

Matthew stiffened, his jaw clenching with barely restrained fury. "You will speak of my wife with respect, Edward, or not at all."

The icy command in his tone sent a shiver racing down Beatrice's spine, even as a fierce surge of pride and affection bloomed in her chest. To be so staunchly defended, so unequivocally claimed before his family—it was a heady, intoxicating feeling.

Just then, a second carriage clattered to a halt beside the first. Charlotte, Beatrice's dearest friend, practically tumbled out in a whirl of lavender skirts, her face alight with joy. For one breathless moment, Beatrice could not move, her heart still hammering from the encounter with Matthew’s family.

"Beatrice! Oh, how I have missed you!” Charlotte called, her voice a balm to Beatrice’s raw nerves, and before she could react, Charlotte engulfed her in a warm, familiar embrace.

Charlotte's husband, the Duke of Ravenscroft, a tall, broad-shouldered man with kind eyes, clasped Matthew's hand in a hearty shake. "Congratulations, old chap. I always knew you would find a woman worthy of you."

The genuine acceptance in his words, the easy camaraderie between the two men, eased the tightness in Beatrice's chest. Perhaps, with allies like these, navigating the treacherous waters of London would not be quite so daunting.

As Matthew lead Beatrice toward the waiting carriages, she caught his eye, a wealth of unspoken understanding passing between them. They had weathered their first storm, emerging stronger, more united than ever before.

London, with all its glittering promise and lurking perils, beckoned, and together, they would meet it head-on, their love a shield against any tempest that dared to threaten their hard-won happiness.

The carriage lurched forward, the clatter of hooves against cobblestones a staccato beat that echoed the pounding of Beatrice's heart.

She peered out the window, drinking in the sights and sounds of London with a newfound joy.

The city's energy was palpable, a living, breathing entity that pulsed with the hopes and dreams of countless souls.

Beside her, Matthew lounged with an air of casual elegance, his long legs stretched out before him.

"I remember the first time I saw London," he mused, his voice a low, intimate rumble.

"I was just a boy, all gangly limbs and wide-eyed wonder.

I thought it was the most magnificent place in the world. "

Beatrice tore her gaze from the bustling streets to study her husband's face, marveling at the way his eyes softened with nostalgia. "And now?" she asked, curious to hear his perspective.

A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Now, I realize it is but a city. A grand, glorious one, to be sure, but still only a city. The true magnificence lies in the people who call it home." His gaze met hers, the intensity of his stare stealing her breath. "People like you, Bea."

A flush crept up her neck, her skin tingling under the weight of his regard. "Flatterer," she accused, but there was no heat in her words.

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “It is not flattery if it is true, my dear. You are, without a doubt, the most magnificent person I have ever met."

The carriage slowed to a halt, and Beatrice realized with a start that they had arrived at their destination. Her stomach fluttered with a mix of anticipation and trepidation as Matthew helped her alight, his hand a steady anchor at the small of her back.

Before them stood a towering townhouse, its facade a study in understated elegance. Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the graceful lines, the gleaming windows, the wrought-iron balustrades that curled like lace against the pale stone.

"Welcome home, Lady Lorne," Matthew murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

She turned to him, her eyes shining with emotion. “It is perfect, Matthew. Truly perfect."

As he led her up the steps and through the polished oak door, she felt a sense of rightness settle deep in her bones. This was where she belonged—by Matthew's side, in this house and in his heart.

The foyer was a marvel of marble and gilt, the chandelier overhead casting a warm, golden glow.

But it was the small, intimate touches that caught her attention.

The vase of fresh lilies, her favorite flower, on the console table, their delicate fragrance perfuming the air.

The pile of books stacked neatly beside a plush, inviting armchair.

The framed sketch that used to hang in her sitting room of rolling hills and craggy cliffs that brought a taste of her beloved countryside to the bustling oasis of London.

"How did you...?" she breathed, turning to Matthew in wonder.

He ducked his head, a boyish grin playing about his lips. "I wanted it to feel like home for you, Beatrice. I hoped that these little pieces of your life before might help ease the transition so I sent instructions ahead of our arrival."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked them back, determined not to dissolve into a watering pot. "You wonderful, thoughtful man," she whispered, lifting onto her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

His arms came around her, drawing her close. "Anything for you, my love. Anything at all."

All her life, she had lived in houses that never truly felt like home. Too grand, too cold, too filled with whispers behind closed doors. But this… this was different. This was hers. Theirs.

A sharp rap at the door shattered the tender moment, causing her to startle in Matthew's arms. He pressed a reassuring kiss to her forehead before striding to the parlor door, his footsteps echoing on the polished floors.

She followed, curiosity mingling with a touch of apprehension. Who could be calling so soon after their arrival? She smoothed her skirts, steeling herself for another encounter with the inscrutable dowager countess or the sneering Uncle Edward.

But it was neither. Instead, a liveried footman stood on the threshold, a silver tray laden with elegant envelopes balanced on his white-gloved hand. "Invitations for the Earl and Countess of Lorne," he intoned, bowing deeply.

Matthew accepted the tray with a nod, his gaze meeting Beatrice's over the gleaming papers. She swallowed hard, the reality of their new life crashing over her like a wave. Countess. She was the Countess of Lorne now, a title that carried with it a dizzying array of expectations and obligations.

She stared at the stack of envelopes, their embossed crests gleaming in the candlelight. The letters blurred before her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she wished she were still at sea, where love had been simpler, free of scrutiny.

As if sensing her rising panic, Matthew dismissed the footman and guided her to a settee, setting the tray on a nearby table. "Breathe, my darling," he murmured, taking her hands in his. "One step at a time, remember?”

She had prepared herself for whispers, for veiled insults hidden behind silk fans. But what if they did not merely whisper? What if they shunned her entirely? Could love alone be enough?

She drew in a shaky breath. "I just... I do not know if I am ready, Matthew. To be paraded around, judged and found wanting by people who have scarcely paid me any attention before."

"They will adore you," Matthew said fiercely, his eyes blazing with conviction. "Just as I do. And if they do not, well, then they are fools, the lot of them."

A laugh bubbled up in her throat, and Beatrice leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple." His fingers traced soothing circles on her back, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "We go together, hand in hand, and face whatever comes. I will be right there beside you, every step of the way."

She tilted her head back to look at him, marveling at the love and certainty she saw etched on his handsome face. In that moment, the fears that had gripped her seemed to recede, replaced by a growing sense of determination.

She had never been one to back down from a challenge. And with Matthew as her partner, her champion, she would take on the ton and all its glittering intrigues.

Beatrice reached for the tray of invitations, a smile playing about her lips. "Well then, husband mine," she said, her voice steady and clear. “Let us see what London has in store for us, shall we?"

Matthew grinned, his eyes sparkling with pride and anticipation. "As my lady commands.”