Rhys, Lord Vernon, walked in shock towards the stables, talking himself out of turning around at least ten times, mounted his horse, and rode at breakneck speed with no destination in mind. He eventually found himself riding toward London, only stopping at the Dog and Fox Inn for a fresh horse and a bottle of their finest whisky. His heart felt like it had been ripped from his chest, beaten to a pulp, and then shoved back in barely beating. How had things come to this? He had loved Beatrice from the day he first saw her eleven years ago. He always knew he would marry her, even though their fathers had later formalized the arrangement. They often jested about it, but Rhys would never have forced Beatrice to marry him without her consent. He was one of the few who rejoiced at his arranged marriage.
Rhys had finally tired of waiting for Beatrice to reciprocate his feelings, so he had tried to prompt her into showing some sign that she cared for him—in more than a brotherly way—by flirting with Elinor. But all that seemed to accomplish was turning her into a shrew. Or was she vulgar all along, and had he been too blind to notice her imperfections? He was sure she was not like that before her entrée to the haut ton, before her mother and her ilk got their claws into her, and before Nathaniel left. He had foolishly expected her to apologize and leave with him. He never anticipated blatant rejection. He shook his head out of his reverie and took another long swig from the bottle.
Why not be a bawdy house song come to life? he pondered as he belched. What had saving himself for Beatrice achieved? She obviously did not hold the same level of affection as he. It was too late for remonstrance. She had made her choice clear: she preferred exile to him. He took another swig and wiped the dribble away with his sleeve.
“Is my spinster aunt Mary a preferable choice to me?” He tried conversing with his horse. The horse snorted in reply. “I do not think so, either.”
Was he just supposed to walk away and get on with his life as if Beatrice was not a significant part of it? He shook his head. No. “Without so much as a by your leave.”
He would allow himself a mourning period of sorts, and then continue with his life. He needed a wife to have an heir, and he would make a decision based on logic. His heart belonged to one person, and she had toyed with it like a cat with a mouse. No more.
By the time Rhys made it back to London, the bottle was long gone, the horse was winded and he was numb to all feeling, including the freezing temperatures. He dismounted at his stables and gave the horse to a groom, but kept walking past the house, not ready to confront reality. He found himself wandering the streets in the dark, with nary a care if he was a prime target for thieves or pickpockets. He could not bring himself to care about anything but erasing the agony he felt and the cause of it.
His head pounding and the world spinning, Rhys meandered into the theatre district. He resolved to banish his principles and drown his sorrows in whisky and women. It seemed to work for others in his class, just like marriages of convenience. He shuddered with distaste. He had never had to consider a loveless relationship before. Perhaps it would be acceptable to like the person he married. He could not imagine sitting across the table every day for the rest of his life with someone he did not even esteem. Beatrice had always understood him. She even understood his absurd humour. He sighed. He must divert his thoughts elsewhere.
Rhys strolled past the theatre trying to find someone who would tempt him, but he felt nothing but repulsion at every female who propositioned him. He could not even be tempted to partake of the most popular courtesan in town when she approached. Beatrice’s face kept flashing before him, and the longing in his heart only seemed to worsen the longer he looked. He turned on his heel and walked away. He thrust his hands into his hair. What was the matter with him? Why could he not be like other men? He turned in the direction of his home and started to walk aimlessly. Perhaps more whisky would do the trick, but his aching head and churning stomach did not seem to agree.
He struggled up the steps into his town home, past his butler into his study and stumbled into the chair by the fire. He was becoming a maudlin drunk; he wanted nothing more than to weep. He was not prone to such emotions. Everywhere he looked he saw something that reminded him of her. He glanced at the picture hanging over the mantel that she had painted for him for his twenty-first birthday. It was a horrid painting, but he loved it, nevertheless. He stumbled out of his chair to his desk and rummaged through the drawers until he found the stack of letters she had written to him over the years. Each was tied with a dainty ribbon and smelled of lavender, her favourite scent. He took a deep sniff of the parchment and sat down in the chair and began to cry with his head in his hands.
He felt ridiculous; Beatrice would tell him he was being ridiculous were she here. He looked up through his fingers and saw the miniature of Beatrice on his desk. Her hazel eyes stared back at him.
“Must you mock me?” He thrust the portrait face down. He went back over to the decanter and poured another whisky, but could not drink it. He sat back down by the fire, letters in one hand, drink in the other, and stared at the flames, hoping they would provide some comfort.
Beatrice climbed into the carriage. Her father did not think she needed a chaperone or a maid where she was going. She had been dressed in her maid’s dress, so she would not be confused as to her new station in life. She fiddled with the letter and purse her father had sent with her. She could not bring herself to open either one. What value had her father placed on her journey north? Was the letter for her, or for the person she was to be meeting from the convent?
Beatrice set the items aside. She would have more than ample time to ponder them on her journey. She was more heartbroken at the loss of Rhys than anything else at the moment. She felt like she could tolerate anything else but that. She had taken for granted that he would always be there. He always had been, even when she was all arms and legs and big eyes. She thought they would have been married by now, but Rhys had distanced himself the last few months as if waiting for something. She had done everything her mother had instructed—flirting with others, acting coy, feigning indifference—to no avail. Despite the arrangement their fathers had made, they both had to agree as adults. Rhys had still not proposed.
When Elinor had arrived, and he began to flirt with her, Beatrice had come undone inside. He was supposed to do that with her and only her. It had always been only her. Then she had overheard her grandmother talking about Elinor being ruined, and the seed of hate began to grow within her until the weed overtook the garden. Her mother and Lady Lydia seemed to revel in the gossip, and she had enjoyed the thought of making Elly suffer as she did.
A bump jostled her out of her reflections, and if she were honest, she knew she deserved to be reprimanded. She even felt guilty. But to be thrown out of the house and sent to a convent hundreds of miles away? She had to think the punishment did not fit the crime. She had done nothing out of the ordinary in society, and was encouraged by her mother. Her brother had been welcomed back like the proverbial prodigal son that the vicar would preach about, fatted calf and all. She was not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her grovel or whine. She hardened her resolve and was determined to prove to everyone she was not the hateful, scheming, heartless Jezebel they all thought her.
The carriage pulled to an abrupt stop. The footman pulled open the door, handed her out, and then dropped her portmanteau at her feet. He then proceeded to jump back up onto the carriage that pulled away promptly. She watched the carriage roll down the lane, stunned. She looked around her trying to determine where she was. Perhaps it was time to open the letter and see.
Beatrice never imagined her father would have her deposited at a posting inn, but it appeared that was exactly what had occurred. This went against every tenet of propriety and behaviour that had been borne upon her; she could not reconcile it, regardless of her crimes. She heard someone yell for her to move away, and she barely missed being trampled by a coach, but not being splashed by mud. She shrieked and began to yell, then quickly realized she was the object of unkindly stares. She was no longer a Duke’s daughter or a fine lady. She was dressed as a lady’s maid or governess at best. Beatrice had never felt so invisible in her life. She shivered in the freezing temperatures, colder than ever since she was wet. Her shoulders sagged, and she made her way toward the inn to find a warm place to read the letter from her father, hoping he’d left her some direction. She could imagine him thinking it a valuable lesson for her to make her own way; this served to strengthen her resolve to prove him mistaken.
She strode purposefully in the door and looked around for someone to help her. She had only been in such a place once in her life, and they had been ushered into a private parlour immediately away from the commoners.
“Excuse me. Does anyone work here?” she called out to no one in particular.
None paid her any mind, save leers from some lecherous-looking men. Was there no one who would help her? She scanned the room again, trying not to make eye contact and spied a small table available on the side of the room. She walked tentatively toward the table, lugging her portmanteau, and sat down. She took a deep breath, then pulled out the letter. It was written by her father’s secretary, of course. Disappointed, she read:
Dear Lady Beatrice,
I took the liberty of providing some direction for you on your journey. Your father provided the purse and address. He only allowed you ten pounds for your journey, so you must practice economy. You may purchase a ticket from there for the stagecoach that will take you to London, where you can take the mail-coach straight through to Dumfries in Scotland. A letter has been sent forth already to inform your host of your arrival. Hopefully, there will be someone to meet you there. If not, I would enquire about transport when you arrive to the enclosed address.
Your obedient servant,
Henry Foster
Beatrice sat there, terrified, hands shaking. Scotland? And she was to travel on the stagecoach? She had heard nothing but horrors about travelling in such a way. The closest she had come was taking a hack in London, and there had never been anyone she did not know in there with her. She had never even been allowed in public without a servant accompanying her. She swallowed an unladylike gulp and tried to gather her wits about her. How did one purchase a ticket? She had never paid for anything in her life. What exactly was economizing? It sounded extremely unpleasant, whatever it was.
She glanced around the room and finally saw a man who looked as if he worked there. She nervously approached the man.
“Pardon me, sir. Would you be able to tell me where I might purchase a ticket for the…the stage?”
The man eyed her up and down, raising a sceptical eyebrow at her. Were she dressed as her normal self she would have given him a set-down for the impertinence. Her plain cambric muslin did not seem to impress him.
“Fallen down the ladder, have ye?” he said with an amused snaggle-toothed grin.
It took every ounce of restraint in her being not to stomp her foot. She remained silent. He finally took pity on her. “Over there.” He pointed his head in the other direction. “But ye better hurry or ye will miss the last one fer the day.”
Beatrice hastily made her way to purchase her ticket as she heard a loud horn blow. Most of the people who had been sitting in the inn made their way outdoors, scrambling to get into the approaching coach. She followed them out and watched as trunk after trunk and person after person were loaded into and onto the vehicle. She was going to be sick.
“Are ye comin’ or not, miss?” the coachman yelled to her. Her feet were glued to the ground as reality began to hit in full force. She nodded reluctantly and handed her bag to the man to be stowed with the others. Then she climbed into the coach, squeezed herself into the only remaining space and began to cry.
Nathaniel walked in to his father’s study after seeing Beatrice off. The Duke stared with solemnity into the empty space. Nathaniel did not bother to greet him. What was there to say anyway? The Duke’s secretary excused himself. In all likelihood, he did not want to have to witness any further drama from the family today. Wise man. The Duchess still had not left her room since she heard the Duke was sending her beloved Beatrice away.
Nathaniel thought the trip would be beneficial for Beatrice. The sister he’d left behind six years ago was not hateful and malicious. He suspected her behaviour was encouraged by his mother and not previously noted by his father. Nathaniel thought that once Beatrice saw life beyond the ton, it would open her eyes to what mattered. That was certainly the effect it had had on him.
“Nathaniel, thank God you are here. Please talk some sense into your father! Tell him to retrieve her at once!” the Duchess pronounced as she marched into the room.
“I suggested he send her away,” Nathaniel said calmly.
That brought on a new round of hysterics and the Duchess swooned onto the floor. Nathaniel walked over and picked her up and placed her on the settee. Barnes walked in with the smelling salts as if on cue.
“You have been away too long if you thought your mother could tolerate a reasonable discussion,” the Duke said as he observed the drama from his chair.
“Perhaps rusticating in Scotland would be beneficial to her as well,” Nathaniel said dryly.
“Ungrateful wretch! How dare you speak of your poor mother’s nerves in that manner.” The Duchess lifted her head and chastised her son. Nathaniel’s lips quivered. “Your father has ruined your sister by sending her away! Now everyone will wonder what she has done to be jilted. Jilted!” She threw her head back on the pillow.
“Vernon will not let them believe he jilted her. But let them wonder if she comes back reformed, Mother. She has the luxury of being the daughter of a Duke. The ton will look to you for guidance. If you act as though nothing occurred, I dare say they will also,” Nathaniel reasoned with her on her own terms.
This pacified the Duchess somewhat, for she could not argue with her son’s logic. She knew the ton’s ways better than anyone; it was what she lived for. “But without her maid!” she continued to argue.
“I am having her followed to ensure she makes it to Vernon’s safely. I imagine by now she has already learned several valuable lessons from travelling alone. No one will know who she is. I daresay, even Beatrice knows better than to advertise that fact.” The Duke was growing annoyed at being questioned.
“I still think it a wretched thing to do. She did nothing wrong as far as I am concerned.” The Duchess put her nose in the air.
“I assure you, your concerns are ignorant. Pray, don’t imagine I hold her at less fault than yourself. I know what I am about, Wilhelmina. This discussion is finished.”
This set-down was met with an indignant, “Well!” before the Duchess returned to the sanctum of her apartments to be consoled by her vinaigrette and hartshorn.