the amethysts, and thrust the necklace into Beatrice’s hand. ‘You truly are a beast.’ She pulled at the pearl earrings, removing them, and putting them in Beatrice’s grasp as well. ‘But thank you for the dress. I look better in it than you anyway.’
Tilly reached into the wardrobe and took out a satchel, and thrust a few folded things into it. Then, leaving the wardrobe door open, she sauntered to the dressing table. She placed her brushes and scents into her case. ‘Do send my things to my mother’s house.’ She strolled across the room, Beatrice’s imported lavender perfume wafting behind her. The special blend.
Looking over her shoulder, Tilly stopped at the door. ‘And by the way, the night you threw the vase at your husband...’ her voice lowered to a throaty whisper ‘...I made it all better for him on the library sofa.’ The door clicked shut.
Beatrice shut her eyes. Riverton. The piece of tripe had been dead over two years and she still didn’t have him properly buried. He kept laughing at her from the grave.
She’d moved from the house and stayed with her brother to get Riverton’s memory to fade, but nothing worked.
Love. The biggest jest on earth. Marriage. A spiderweb of gigantic proportions to trap hearts and suck them dry.
She kept the jewellery in her left hand, then went to the wardrobe and looked inside. A stack of linens. She picked up a pair of gloves she remembered purchasing, but wasn’t certain she’d given Tilly. She slammed them back into the wardrobe. Tilly could have them with good wishes.
Beatrice shuffled through more things belonging to her companion, then she sat on Tilly’s bed. Looking around the room, she noticed the faded curtains. Those had once been in the sitting room and they’d been cut down. And the counterpane on the bed, it had once belonged— She supposed it had been on her bed, then later someone had altered it to make it smaller.
So Tilly thought she had a right to the discards—even Beatrice’s husband. She held up the amethysts. But these were not tossed out. She doubted she’d ever wear them again. She’d visit the jewellers and see if he might reset them into something more cheerful.
A tepid knock sounded at the door.
She supposed it was Tilly, wanting to beg for forgiveness—or a chance at the pearl earrings.
‘Enter.’
The maid opened the door, then took a step back. ‘My apologies, Lady Riverton. I came to tell Miss Tilly a note had arrived.’
Beatrice clenched the jewellery in one hand, and then held out the other, unfurling it forward, palm up.
The maid’s eyes showed her realisation that she had no choice. Slowly, she put the paper in Beatrice’s hand.
Beatrice gave a light nod, both thanking and dismissing the servant.
When the door closed, Beatrice sat alone with the amethysts, the memories, and the note. She’d worn the lace-sleeved dress on her wedding trip. She’d also worn it the day she’d pried Riverton from the screaming maid. Then she’d had to grasp scissors from his shaving kit to keep him from her own throat. It was a wonder he didn’t get blood on the cloth, but she’d only grazed him.
The nickname she’d received had infuriated her brother, the architect. Enraged him. No one dared mention it around him and he insisted she repair it. Although in truth, he was more likely to snap someone in two than she ever was.
The irony of it did not escape her. She was called the Beast and yet he was the one with the temper.
Her brother had hated Riverton’s indiscretions more than she had. Wilson had raged, feeling the need to protect his sister. She’d not wanted even more scandal, so she’d worked hard at keeping a happy, uncaring facade. She suspected her brother had thought of having Riverton killed, but neither of them had wanted to risk such tales getting about. She didn’t mind the stories about her family, as long as they were adventure-filled and showed her relatives in a dashing light. Except, she hadn’t done so well in keeping the on dits adventurous with the scissor incident. Memories of that day returned. Her husband would have strangled the servant—and the girl’s crime had been in not realising he was at home and taking the cleaned bedclothes into the room. He’d thought the maid some kind of burglar.
Riverton. Might he rest in pieces. Small ones. With jagged edges.
She opened the note.
Tilly,
I have procured the amethyst earrings you so desire. They can be in your hands on the morrow if you can convince Lord Andrew you are a retiring sort and deeply distressed because I have tossed you aside. But mostly you must be able to get him to console you and overcome his reluctance to enjoy all the treasures a man can have at his fingertips. Sadly, he has refrained from such joys in the past.
He will arrive at the servants’ entrance as the clock strikes midnight. If he stays until morning and you put a smile on his face, I’ll have the amethysts to you by next nightfall.
Sincerely,
F.
Beatrice flipped the paper over, saw no other markings, and then read it again.
A virgin? Lord Andrew? The name was familiar. Perhaps she’d heard it from her brother, but if so that meant he was the duke’s brother.
She folded the paper and tapped the edge against her bottom lip, a scent of masculine spice touching her nose. But he was too old, surely, to be a virgin.
Sniffing the paper, Beatrice remembered the curling warmth she’d first experienced in Riverton’s arms and how precious she’d felt. She grimaced. Those feelings had changed. Riverton had a gift for saying anything a woman wanted to hear, up to and including a marriage proposal.
When he’d told her that her lack of height made her even more beautiful, she’d not minded wearing the slippers with no heels. He’d even complimented the bit of imperfection of her nose being longish and the way her brown hair always curled and curled. He’d sworn sirens must have looked exactly the same to have been able to entrance so many men. Riverton knew exactly what she’d been unsure of and he’d fanned the insecurity away, pulling her into his web.
She’d never again be so daft. But no matter how much she wished otherwise, she’d loved the feeling of being cherished. Of course, she later discovered she’d have been better off falling in love with a maggot-infested rotting carcase. She was hard-pressed to tell the difference.
Now she was left with the memory of betrayal, and how much a man’s caresses could soothe and deceive. And the utter aloneness of being utterly alone. A man could visit a brothel and heads turned the other way, pretending to see nothing. Women, however, had no such meeting place.
She had no wish to court, or do anything to risk another marriage, but she longed to be held. Most widows could be free with their affections—but ones with the notoriety she had didn’t get many requests for late-night waltzes. She hadn’t really been aiming for Riverton’s private parts after he’d released the maid and turned on her instead, but he’d spread that tale from Seven Dials to Bond Street. He’d even claimed to have been asleep at the time.
What
