She shivered at the thought. Surely he felt something for her?
They spent the rest of the carriage ride home in silence, and it was only when the carriage slowed before Blanchard House that she glanced out the window.
She leaned a little forward. “There’s another carriage blocking the way.”
“Is there?” Reynaud said absentmindedly, his eyes still closed.
“I wonder who it could be?” Beatrice mused. “Now a gentleman is getting out, and he’s handing down a very elegantly dressed lady. Oh, and there’s a small boy as well. Reynaud?”
She said the last because he’d suddenly sat up and twisted around to look out the window.
“Christ,” he breathed.
“Do you know them?”
“It’s Emeline,” he said. “It’s my sister.”
HE’D DREAMED OF this moment for nights on end during his captivity: the day when he’d finally see his family again. The day when he’d see Emeline.
Reynaud climbed slowly down from his carriage, turning to help Beatrice alight. Her face was excited, beaming with curiosity, wonder, and joy, as if she reflected all the many emotions he ought to be feeling right now. He hooked her hand through his elbow and approached the small group of people gathered on the top step of Blanchard House. The man was turned toward them with a face that looked impassive from this distance, but it was the woman Reynaud focused on. She’d only just now noticed their presence and was turning quickly. Her face went blank, and then an expression of rapturous joy spread over it.
“Reynaud!” she cried, and started down the steps. The man—it must be Hartley—caught her under the arm, slowing her, and for a moment Reynaud felt anger rise in his breast.
Until he saw why Hartley urged her to slow down.
“Oh, my,” Beatrice breathed.
Emeline was quite obviously enormously pregnant. Seven years ago, she’d been a young mother and a bride. Now she was married to a different man and was expecting her second child. He’d missed so much.
So much.
He and Beatrice reached the bottom of the steps just as Emeline and Hartley made the street. Emeline stopped suddenly, staring at him, then reached out a hand, touching his cheek in wonder.
“Reynaud,” she breathed. “Reynaud, is it you?”
He covered her fingers with his hand, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. “Yes, it’s me, Emmie.”
“Oh, Reynaud!” And suddenly she was in his arms, and he was awkwardly hugging her close around the bulk of her belly. She felt so sweet, his little sister, and he closed his eyes, simply holding her for a moment.
She pulled away at last and smiled, the same smile she’d had since the age of ten, and then frowned. “Oh, fustian! I’m going to cry. Samuel, I need to go inside.”
Hartley whisked her inside the town house, and Reynaud and Beatrice followed more sedately. The boy trailed his mother, but he darted glances over his shoulder at him. Reynaud remembered Daniel as an infant, hardly able to walk the last time he’d seen him. Now he was almost as tall as his mother.
Reynaud nodded at the boy. “I’m your uncle.”
“I know,” Daniel said, dropping back to walk beside them as they moved down the hall. “I’ve got a pair of your pistols.”
Reynaud’s eyebrows rose. “Do you?”
“Yes.” The boy looked a bit worried. “I say, can I keep them?”
Beside him, Beatrice smothered a giggle. Reynaud turned a quelling look on her before addressing the boy. “Yes, you may.”
They were in the sitting room now, and Beatrice left his side to order tea and some type of refreshments.
“Did the Indians draw those birds around your eye?” the boy asked.
“Daniel.” Hartley spoke for the first time, his voice even. He said nothing more, but the boy ducked his head.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Reynaud nodded and took a seat. “Yes, the Indians tattooed my face.”
Beatrice returned at that moment and met his gaze. Her eyes were filled with sympathy, and the sight warmed his chest. She sat down next to him and tucked her hand under his.
She cleared her throat. “I’m Beatrice Corning.”
He squeezed her hand in gratitude.
Emeline sat a little straighter, rather like a birding dog at the sight of a grouse. “Tante Cristelle said you were engaged to be married to my brother.”
Beatrice glanced at him and then said brightly, “Yes. We hope to have a small wedding soon. Miss Molyneux didn’t tell us you were coming. Were you expected?”
“Evidently not.” Emeline pursed her lips. “I wrote, of course, to say that we’d be coming, but the letter must’ve gone astray. Samuel has business to attend to in England, and I’d hoped to visit with Tante. As it was, we quite surprised her with our arrival in London, and then she startled us with her news that Reynaud was alive.”
“Wonderful news.” Beatrice smiled.
“Yes.” Emeline cast a quick, curious glance between him and Beatrice. “I’m sorry, but aren’t you related to the present Earl of Blanchard?”
“The usurper,” Reynaud growled.
“I’m his niece,” Beatrice said.
“And my soon-to-be wife,” he stated.
“Hmm. About that,” Emeline murmured. “Tante said you’d only been home for less than a month.”
Beatrice stirred beside him. “I’m afraid Reynaud swept me off my feet.”
Emeline was frowning now, which irritated Reynaud. Seven years apart and his baby sister thought she could tell him how to live his life? He opened his mouth but felt a sharp elbow in his side. Surprised, he glanced down at Beatrice, who was looking quite sternly at him.
As if by some feminine cue, the talk turned to lighter matters then. Hartley explained his business dealings in Boston and London, and Emeline told the story of how they’d met and what had happened since Reynaud’s absence, her news little different than that he’d heard from Tante Cristelle, but it was wonderful to hear her voice. Reynaud let the talk flow about him, content to simply sit and listen to his sister and Beatrice. This was his family now.
Finally, Emeline declared herself weary, and Hartley leaped to help her up from her seat.
As the ladies made their farewells, Hartley turned to Reynaud and said quietly, “I’m glad you made it home.”
Reynaud nodded. He was home now, wasn’t he? “I hear you ran through the woods to bring back the rescue party for those who were captured.”
Hartley shrugged. “It was all I could do. Had I known they’d taken you alive, I would’ve searched until I’d found you.”
It was an easy vow to make, seven years after the fact, but Hartley’s face was grave, his eyes serious and intent, and Reynaud knew the other man meant it.
“You didn’t know,” he said, and held out his hand.
Hartley grasped his hand and shook it firmly. “Welcome home.”
And Reynaud could only nod again and look away, lest he lose his composure entirely.
Reynaud escorted Emeline and her family to the front door, then returned to the sitting room to find Beatrice pouring herself another cup of tea. He paced to the mantel, paused to glance at a small shepherdess—had it been his mother’s?—then went to the windows. All the while, he felt Beatrice’s gaze on him.
She set her cup down on the table beside her and eyed him. “Are you feeling well?”
He scowled out the window. “Why do you think something is wrong?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Forgive me, but you seem restless.”
He inhaled, watching a carriage rumble by below. “I don’t know. I have Emeline back, my family back, but something’s still missing.”
“Perhaps you need time to adjust,” she said quietly. “You’ve been seven years away, lived a very different lifestyle. Perhaps you simply need to settle.”
“What I need is my title,” he growled, turning to her.
She looked at him thoughtfully. “And when you hav
e the title and all that goes with it, you’ll be content?”
“Are you suggesting otherwise?”
She glanced down at her teacup. “I’m suggesting that you might need more than a title and money to be happy.”
His head reared back as if struck. What was this? Why did she challenge him now? “You don’t know me,” he said as he strode to the door. “You don’t know what I need, so please refrain from speculating, madam.” And he left her there.
A WEEK LATER, Beatrice hid her trembling hands in the folds of her wedding dress. It was quite a smart frock. Lottie had said that just because she was having a hurried wedding didn’t mean she couldn’t have a new dress for it. So she wore a lovely shot silk that changed from green to blue as she moved. But despite the beauty of her new gown, she couldn’t control the trembling of her fingers.
Perhaps this was normal wedding-day nerves. She tried to pay attention to the bishop marrying her and Reynaud, but his words seemed to run together into a senseless stream of droning sound.
She very much hoped she wasn’t about to faint.
Was she doing the right thing? She still didn’t know even as she stood at the altar. Reynaud had promised to care for Uncle Reggie, had promised to let him live in Blanchard House no matter the outcome of the fight for the title. She’d made Uncle Reggie safe, and perhaps that was reason enough to marry this man, even if he didn’t love her.
He didn’t love her.
Beatrice frowned down at the posy of flowers in her hands. She’d wanted a man to love her for herself, but she was marrying a man out of cold calculation instead. Was that enough? She wasn’t sure. Reynaud might never soften his heart sufficiently to love her. In the last few weeks, he’d seemed harder than ever, more focused on his goal of attaining his title and the power that went with it. If he never came to love her, could she endure this marriage?
But then Reynaud turned to her and placed a simple gold ring on her finger and kissed her gently on the cheek. Suddenly the whole thing was over, and it was too late for second thoughts or regrets. Beatrice drew a deep breath and placed her hand on Reynaud’s elbow, holding more tightly than she normally might have.
He leaned his head closer to hers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Quite.” A wide smile seemed to be frozen on her face.
He glanced at her dubiously as he led her through the small crowd of well-wishers. “We’ll be home soon, and if you’d like, you can go lie down.”
“Oh, but we have the wedding breakfast!”
“And the wedding night,” he whispered in her ear. “I don’t want you too ill to enjoy that.”
She ducked her head at that to hide a pleased smile. The fact was, he hadn’t done more than kiss her chastely on the lips since their engagement, and a small part of her had begun to wonder if he’d already lost interest.
Evidently not.
He handed her into the carriage to the cheers of the crowds and then hastily entered. He smiled at her as the carriage pulled away. “Does it feel different, being married?”
“No.” She shook her head, then thought of something. “Although, I suppose I’ll have to get used to being Lady Hope, won’t I?”
He scowled. “It should be Lady Blanchard.” He looked out the window. “And it will be soon, too.”
There was nothing more to say to that, so they rode in silence until they came to the town house. Many of the guests had already arrived and were entering the town house as Beatrice descended the carriage. She mounted the steps of Blanchard House with Reynaud, feeling odd. This was still her uncle’s home, but very soon it would be hers and Reynaud’s only—if he won back his title. She would be reversing positions with Uncle Reggie, and the thought was not a comfortable one.
Inside, the dining room had been laid ready for a feast. Yards of frothy pink fabric lined the table, and for a moment Beatrice felt for how horrified Uncle Reggie would’ve been at the expense. He sat at the head of the table already, looking rather subdued and sad. He refused to meet her eyes.
Reynaud sat her next to Uncle Reggie as was proper and then was distracted by a guest. For a moment, Beatrice was quiet.
“It’s done, then,” Uncle Reggie said.
She looked up and smiled. “Yes.”
“Can’t back out now.”
“No.”
He sighed heavily. “I only want the best for you, m’dear. You know that.”
“Yes, I do, Uncle,” she said softly.
“The blighter seems to care for you.” He placed his hands on the table and looked at them as if he’d never seen the like before. “I’ve noticed how he watches you sometimes, as if you’re a jewel he’s afraid of losing. I hope he treats you right. I hope you’re very happy.”
“Thank you.” Beatrice felt silly tears—so close to the surface all day—start in her eyes.
“But if he doesn’t,” her uncle said, in a low voice, “you always have a place with me. We can move out of this damned house, find another by ourselves.”
“Oh, Uncle Reggie.” She caught her breath on a laugh that was almost a sob. Dear, dear Uncle Reggie, so disapproving of her choice yet unwilling to abandon her entirely.
She was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief when Reynaud took the chair next to her. He scowled at her. “What has he said to you?”
“Shh.” Beatrice glanced at Uncle Reggie, but he was talking to Tante Cristelle. “He’s been very nice.”
Reynaud grunted, not looking particularly convinced. “He’s an old blowhard.”
“He’s my uncle and I love him,” Beatrice said firmly.
Her new husband merely grunted.
The breakfast was long and sumptuous, and when it was finally over, Beatrice was ready for a nap. But she rose and prepared to say farewell to her guests.
Near the end of the line were Lord and Lady Vale. The viscount started talking to Reynaud, and for a moment Beatrice and Lady Vale were together alone.
“He’s very pleased with this union,” Lady Vale said quietly.
Beatrice looked at her, surprised. “Viscount Vale?”
The other woman nodded. “He’s been quite worried about Lord Hope. This whole business of your husband returning alive has been a shock to him—a good shock, of course, but a shock nonetheless.”
Beatrice raised her eyebrows.
“He’s worried about how Lord Hope has changed.”
“He’s darker,” Beatrice murmured.
Lady Vale nodded. “So Vale tells me. In any case, he was very happy that you consented to marry Lord Hope.”
Beatrice wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she merely nodded.
The viscountess hesitated a moment. “I wonder . . .”
Beatrice looked at her. “Yes?”
The other woman seemed a tad embarrassed. “I wonder if I might give you a rather unusual wedding present?”
“What is it?”
“It’s a job, actually, so if you don’t want it, please do say so, and I won’t be put out.”
Beatrice was intrigued now. “Tell me, please.”
“It’s a book,” Lady Vale replied. “I was told some time ago by a friend that you bound books as a hobby.”
“Yes?”
“Well, this has been something of a project of mine,” Lady Vale said almost shyly. “It’s a book of fairy tales that originally belonged to Lady Emeline—and your husband.”
Beatrice leaned forward. “It belonged to Reynaud?”
Lady Vale nodded. “Emeline found it last year, and she asked me to translate it—it was in German. Once I translated it, I had it transcribed by a friend, and I was wondering if you might like to bind it for me? Or rather for Emeline. I’d like to give it to her eventually so she can have it for her own children. Will you help me?”
“Of course,” Beatrice murmured, taking the other woman’s hands. She was filled with a kind of pleased delight, as if Lady Vale had somehow given her an entry into the St. Aubyn family. “I’ll be happy to.”
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* * *
“BEATRICE LOOKS LOVELY,” Nate said as he sidled up to Lottie after the wedding breakfast.
“Yes, she does,” Lottie replied without looking in his direction. “I hadn’t realized you were invited to the wedding.”
She stood just inside the front doors of Blanchard House, waiting for her carriage to be brought round. Even though she made sure not to glance at him, she was vividly aware of his deep blue coat and breeches, the white of his wig and neck cloth making him look very nice indeed. She was probably the only one aware that the cuff of that particular coat was fraying and needed mending. She’d forgotten to point it out to his valet before she’d left, and apparently no one else in the house had noticed.
His handsome face darkened. “Didn’t you? I could’ve sworn I saw you glancing my way at the church.”
She smiled tightly. “Perhaps you thought everyone was watching you? You are such an ambitious young member of parliament.”
Nathan’s lips tightened but he merely said, “It’s a good match. Beatrice seemed very happy.”
“Hmm. But then it’s only been three hours.”
“Your cynicism ill becomes you.”
“Oh, that’s right. You prefer a lady to pretend happiness,” she said sweetly.
“Actually, I prefer a lady who is happy in reality, not just pretense,” he said.
“Then perhaps you should’ve paid more attention to your lady,” she snapped.
“Is that it?” He moved closer to her, almost touching her shoulder with his chest, speaking low and intensely. “Would you come back if I promise a trip to the theater or ballet? Perhaps bring you sweets and flowers?”
“Don’t paint me a little child.”
“Then tell me what you want,” he hissed, his normally congenial face twisted with anger. “What did I do that was so wrong, Lottie? What’ll make you come back? Because the gossips are in a frenzy over your defection. My reputation—my career—can’t take much more of this.”