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CHAPTER FIVE

Arthur stood on the walk outside of Viscount Allenbye’s Townhouse, not moving, not speaking, immobile and immovable as a bronze statue. Echoes of his earlier conversation with Beatrice’s father still flew through his mind like swarming wasps.

After depositing Beatrice back at her home, he’d followed through on his promise to meet with the viscount and request her hand.

Buoyed by his love and Beatrice’s joy, he’d gone into the meeting rather optimistic.

As soon as the word “marriage” left his lips, however, storm clouds had gathered behind her father’s cold eyes.

It mattered not what Arthur offered or how he bargained, the man refused to hear any of it, citing Arthur’s reputation as evidence of his unsuitability as a match for his daughter.

Upon quitting the home, rage and frustration clouded his vision. Three deep breaths, however, gave him a new perspective.

He didn’t care if Beatrice’s family didn’t approve—-that his suit had been declined despite his social standing and wealth—-he wanted her.

For better or worse, he needed to have her.

He was certain he could not continue to exist in this world if she was not a part of it.

If he had to stand outside her home for days or weeks, then he would do so until his feet bled and his body melded with nature.

He would press his silent suit until her family realized just how serious and devoted he was.

Was it selfish to believe that she would be unscathed by his reputation? Undoubtedly.

Was he confident that the two of them could weather anything so long as love was at the heart of their relationship? Absolutely.

And he would dedicate his life to proving this to Beatrice and her family, woe to anyone who stood in his way.

Meanwhile, Beatrice was fighting her own battle within the walls of her home.

Days passed with all the speed of treacle and, despite her best intentions, her usual determined optimism began to waver.

She’d wanted to believe Arthur’s promises, but she had yet to receive word or see him since they’d parted.

At first, her heart ached with longing, but that slowly transformed into the throbbing pain of a wound prodded with each passing day of silence.

Even if her parents had been the kind of people in whom she might confide, they seemed to be avoiding her.

Their conversations halted upon her entrance into a room and then often dismissed her with barely a word upon her entrance into a space.

So uncomfortable in her own home, Beatrice had taken to spending a great deal of her time staring out the window of her rear-facing bedchamber.

Normally, the view of the well-kept garden cheered her.

Now, it seemed flat and washed in dreary tones.

She missed Arthur’s laughter, his smile, his unexpected kindness, the shocked flicker in his piercing eyes when she noticed him in ways no one else ever had. He’d become so dear to her in such a short amount of time.

The ping of a small pebbled against the window frame jolted her from her melancholic train of thought—so much so that she nearly fell from the window seat in a tangle of limbs and skirts.

A second pebble met its mark.

She quickly unlatched the pane and swung it outwards, leaning out and peering down as far as she could. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that all she could hear was its panicked thump. Could it be?

She squinted into the early evening light and searched for any sign of golden hair.

Instead, she found a slim form with dark hair standing from a crouched position behind a shrub. Clara .

Her friend frantically waved her down and Beatrice held up one finger to indicate that she would be there presently. She slipped from her room, past her parents, and out the kitchens to the garden. Clara quickly snagged her arm and pulled her to sit with her on the small bench tucked into a corner.

“Where have you been?” Clara asked, concern painting her words and widening her eyes. “Why haven’t you responded to any of my notes?” she went on to demand.

“What notes?” She hadn’t received anything since the day of the market.

Clara released a rather colorful curse for a young woman of her good breeding and then squeezed Beatrice’s hands. “I was worried that might happen; your parents likely intercepted them all.”

“Clara, what are you saying?” Her alarm was growing by the heartbeat.

Clara’s full lips drew into a fine line before she spoke. “I have written to you twice per day since we parted,” she explained. “London is in quite the tizzy. About you.”

“Me?” Beatrice reared back. “Why?”

Clara leaned in and hissed conspiratorially, “Because of the duke…” Her heart leaped into her throat, nearly choking her at the mention of him .

Clara continued, “The two of you have been connected quite formally. All anyone can talk about is how the notorious bachelor duke has decided to overthrow his ways for the love of a debutante.”

“W—What?—”

“And how he asked your parents’ permission to marry you, even going so far as to waive his right to your dowry and pay them a handsome settlement instead when they…” Clara drifted off uncomfortably.

She could hardly breathe. “When they what?” Beatrice croaked out.

“When they emphatically declined his offer and forbade him from returning.” Clara’s eyes were downcast, as if she were ashamed to spread such gossip. “Surely, you knew this…?”

She could only shake her head, slowly, as if she were deep beneath the surface of the stormy ocean, the pressure slowly crushing her ribs and making her entire body heavy and sore.

Then, a shaft of golden light sliced through the tempest.

He had come for her. He had told the truth about his desire to marry her.

And he’d been turned away.

It was her turn to clutch Clara’s hands. “When did this happen?” she asked with a gasp as if she’d just come up for air.

“Three days ago. What’s more, all anyone can talk about is how he has taken up watch across the street since then, barely leaving to eat or sleep unless Lord Prestwich forces him. He’s vowed to stay until—where are you going?”

Beatrice launched herself to her feet and wrenched open the back garden gate. Though she slipped and skidded on the slick cobbles of the mews and then the alley, she maintained her pace.

“Please, please, please,” she prayed aloud.

Please let him still be there. Please let him forgive her for her family’s prejudices.

Please let him still love her despite her unintentionally making him wait for days.

Why hadn’t she looked out the front windows?

Her favorite rooms in the Townhouse were situated in the back with better lighting; the few times her parents had requested she leave them to a private conversation was when they’d been in the front parlor…

They’d known what they’d been doing, and she wasn’t sure she could ever forgive them for it—not only for keeping the two of them apart, but for allowing a reputation to stand in the way of her chance at love, for taking social pressures more seriously than asking their daughter how she might feel.

Beatrice was gasping for air by the time she rounded the front of the house, the hem of her petal-pink dress hopelessly stained, but she didn’t care.

There, standing in the shade of the gnarled oak on the edge of the park, was Arthur .

The lines bracketing his grim mouth were deep, as were the bruises of exhaustion beneath his bloodshot eyes.

His hair was mussed as if he’d run his fingers through it one too many times.

And he was beautiful…the most welcome sight in her life.

“Arthur…” she whispered. It wasn’t possible for him to have heard her over the low din of the street, but he straightened and turned, his eyes finding hers as surely as if they’d been drawn by an invisible string.

His mouth formed the shape of her name and she was off.

She launched herself across the street and into his waiting arms. Caring not one bit who saw them, she slammed her mouth over his, savoring his now familiar flavor.

“Gretna Green?” She murmured against his lips, and she felt his fingers tighten at her waist. She nearly laughed at his expression when she leaned back. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about marrying me?”

His eyes narrowed, finally revealing the mischievous gleam she’d missed so keenly.

“Never.” And he bent his head to hers once more, returning her kiss in full view of the street, her home, and a dark-haired young lady clapping, quietly cheering, and bouncing on her toes in the shadows of a nearby alleyway.