The Devil May Care Page 8

  She stared at him, as though unsure of whether or not he was teasing her and then gave an unsteady huff of laughter. “Well, I ... I would like to try very much.”

  “A deal then,” he said, grinning at her and holding out his hand. She stared at his outstretched palm for a moment, hesitating before placing her own hand within it. He clasped her tinier palm within his, but she withdrew hers after just a moment, looking away from him.

  “So what shall you do for entertainment down here?” she asked him suddenly, reaching out and turning her empty wine glass around in her fingers. “Is there some lovely widow languishing and awaiting you to call on her. You mustn't feel you have to stay and keep me amused you know. I'm quite used to entertaining myself, and Mrs Goodly and I can always play cards or something to pass the time.”

  He felt very much as though she had closed a door on him and was rather taken aback by her question. Disconcerted, he was at a loss for an immediate answer. Of course he had told her that nothing should change and he'd meant it. There was in fact a lady, not a widow, but married to a man far older than herself, who would welcome him if he chose to visit. That Milly had put the question to him, though, was somehow disturbing to him. It occurred to him suddenly that she had gently but firmly repulsed any move he made to be affectionate to her. Telling himself he was being ridiculous he cleared his throat and shrugged.

  “I haven't really had time to consider,” he said, staring at the glass. “There is such a lot to be done here that I think I shall be too occupied for the next week or so to worry about anything but the estate and the financial affairs to be dealt with.”

  He glanced up and found that she was smiling at him. “As you wish, Beau. But I made you a promise and I meant it. You mustn't worry about me you know. You see I'm perfectly used to being left alone, well with Mrs Goodly at all accounts. So you don't need to make your excuses. I shan't scold you for neglecting me I assure you,” she chuckled and then got to her feet. “Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to start yawning if I sit here any longer. Good night.”

  He stood and nodded to her, thinking it strange that his wife shouldn't at least kiss his cheek as she turned and left the room. Rexom appeared a few moments later, asking if there would be anything else but Beau shook his head and bid him goodnight before he made his way to his room. A strange, slightly uneasy sensation seemed to slide under his skin and whisper through his mind at odd moments during the day. But every time he tried to catch it, to see what it was that was making him feel a little off kilter it seemed to slip from his grasp. Dismissing it as being the strangeness of the past week and the shock of his father dying, he went to bed and spent a sleepless night staring at the ceiling.

  Chapter 9

  “Wherein our heroine finds her heart and mind challenged.”

  “No, no, look,” Milly said, pushing her spectacles up her nose with what Beau now recognised to be an impatient gesture. “This column here, it's wrong. This figure should have been carried across and it hasn't, that's why it doesn't add up!” she said, looking relieved to have figured it out.

  Beau groaned and put his head in his hands. A number of unsettling facts had been forcibly brought home to him over the course of the past week. Firstly, the estate wasn't bringing in anything like the yield it required to keep it afloat. Secondly, his father had not only been an evil bastard but a bloody hypocrite. He had been forever belittling Beau for the state of his finances when in fact he'd managed really rather well on the pittance his father had allowed him. In fact much of his income had come from his own skill with cards.

  Until recently he'd always won with surprising consistency. That appalling run of bad luck had mostly been due to being bored out of his mind by life in general. He had been utterly blue devilled and lacking concentration, which had led to playing far deeper than usual and such heavy losses had forced him to flee the country. Up until that point he'd really not done so badly. So now to find his father had been shockingly spendthrift whilst never investing a bloody penny into the estate was galling to say the least. Thirdly, however, was the realisation that his wife was a genius.

  He had watched with growing wonder as she had settled down and made the accounts into something that was legible to him. To say she was good with numbers was something of an understatement. She had a lightning quick mind which was frankly awe inspiring and just a little intimidating.

  He watched as she sat back in what had been his father's chair with a look of deep concern in her brown eyes.

  “The estate is in trouble,” she said, looking up at him.

  “Yes, even I got that part,” he said with a wry smile.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. She got to her feet and began to pace the room, her growing agitation obvious. “No you don't understand, Beau. If nothing changes, if it carries on like this you'll be bankrupt in four, maybe five years at most. You'll lose everything.”

  Her voice had become unsteady, the colour in her cheeks bright and her eyes feverish as she spoke and Beau leapt to his feet in alarm.

  “Milly!” he exclaimed, walking over to her and taking her hands. “Calm down, love. I know we need to make changes - that's why we're doing this.”

  “B-but it won't be enough, Beau. The repairs that are needed, the things that have to be done ... all your plans, they need finance. Money you don't have!”

  She snatched her hands away from his grasp, staring at him. “Y-you should divorce me.”

  “What?” He looked at her in astonishment. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  She put a trembling hand to her hair, swiping a stray strand from her face with irritation. “If you divorce me you could marry again. Someone with money. Perhaps someone in trade looking to marry into the nobility. I-it happens all the time.”

  “No, Milly!”

  He watched in alarm as she became increasingly agitated and tried to take her hands again, to reassure her, to stop her fretting, but she moved away from him.

  “It wouldn't be hard ... you could have your pick ...”

  “No! I won't divorce you. Stop talking such nonsense.”

  “Oh, Beau!” she cried, sounding really quite cross with him. “It isn't nonsense. You know it isn't. You should never have married me ... You know you don't want ...”

  “Stop this at once!” His voice rang out across the room and she froze, staring up at him with fear in her eyes.

  He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms despite her protests. “Whatever has come over you, little bird?” he demanded as she buried her face against his shoulder. Her breathing was erratic and she seemed on the verge of tears. “Come, love. Come and sit down.”

  He took her over to a wingback chair beside the fireplace and made her sit down and then went to pour her a small glass of brandy. He put it in her hands and then crouched down at her feet, looking up with concern. She took one sip and grimaced, putting it on the table beside her.

  “Have I made you very unhappy?” he asked, casting his mind back over the past week and wondering if he'd inadvertently said or done something to hurt her. He didn't know what he was doing wrong but he felt sure there was something.

  “No!” she said, and then buried her face in her hands. “Oh, no. How could you think it?”

  He didn't know what to say to her. He wanted to ask why the harder he tried to be kind to her, to treat her as a wife might expect to be treated, the further she seemed to withdraw from him. But he didn't dare. They'd had a deal after all and if she wanted to stick to the letter of it then he should respect that. But he'd imagined that there would be more ... warmth between them. Yet she still kept him at the same distance that she had when they had been only friends and nothing more. They still spoke as they always had and mealtimes seemed to him to be full of lively conversation. But after dinner he felt her withdraw from him and make excuses not to linger. It always left him feeling disappointed and slightly at a loss.

  “I don't know what to think when you speak in such a r
amshackle way, love,” he said, reaching up and taking her hands away from her face. Her glasses were slightly askew and he reached out and plucked them from her nose.

  “Don't,” she exclaimed, reaching to take them back. “Give them back please.”

  “I will,” he said, smiling at her in surprise. “I was only going to clean them. They're covered in finger marks. How you can see anything is beyond me. And I'm really not such a clumsy oaf you know,” he added, chuckling at her. He reached for the hem of her gown and carefully cleaned the fine glass, his eyes straying to the delicate ankle that he'd revealed in doing so. Surprised by the jolt of interest his body felt by the sight, he looked away and held the lenses up to the light so he could see if they were done. Frowning, he tilted the glass this way and that and held them closer to his eyes before looking back at Milly with a frown. “These are plain glass, Milly, love,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her.

  She blushed the most remarkable shade of red and looked mortified.

  “Well?” he asked, keeping his voice light and wondering what on earth would possess her to wear something that most ladies of his acquaintance would rather die before they admitted to needing. She didn't answer but stared stubbornly at her hands which were clasped in her lap. He frowned and considered the possibilities and came back with Brownlow.

  “Your cousin,” he said, looking at her intently. She still said nothing but he saw the tension in her shoulders, the white of her fingers as they gripped each other, and drew his own conclusions. Fear and fury battled for a place in his chest.

  “Milly,” he said, kneeling down close beside her and covering her clasped hands with his own. “Milly, love, did ... did Brownlow ...”

  She shook her head before he could make himself ask the question but there were tears running down her face. His heart seemed to constrict in his chest. “Talk to me, love,” he said, squeezing her hands. “Please talk to me.”

  But instead she leapt to her feet and ran from the room. Beau stood staring at the door. He wanted to hit something. Preferably Spencer Brownlow. With a curse he left the room and went in search of Mrs Goodly. With more luck than judgement he found her in the garden, cutting roses.

  “Mrs Goodly,” he called, as the woman raised her head, shielding her face from the sun. “Tell me about these.”

  She looked down at his outstretched hand and swallowed as she saw Milly's glasses. She placed the rose she was holding in the basket on her arm. “When Milly became a young woman, Mr Brownlow he ... he would look at her in such a way that--” She paused and looked up at Beau, her eyes imploring. “She's so frightened, your Grace. She's been frightened all her life. She's made it her business to be overlooked, to make sure no one saw her. The glasses, that dreadful hairstyle, her dress ... all of it.”

  Beau felt his throat grow tight and closed his fist around the glasses. “Did it work?” he demanded, his voice rough.

  “In some ways,” she said, nodding. “He ... he never looked at her in ... in that way again.”

  “But?”

  She nodded again. “But he hit her, belittled her. He would lock her in the cellar for days at a time with no food.” She began to sob, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I-I tried to h-help but if I did it just became worse ...”

  “Oh God,” he said, staring at his feet. “I'd guessed it was bad but ...”

  He looked up as Mrs Goodly clutched at his arm. “You saved her. You did that. And we are so grateful, both of us. You will never know how much.”

  Beau nodded and turned away, retracing his steps back to the house. One day he promised himself the pleasure of beating her bloody cousin to a pulp. The bastard. Poor, defenceless little Milly. She'd been trapped in that hellish place with no one but Mrs Goodly to give a damn whether she lived or died, let alone if she was happy or fed or unwell. He felt sick to his stomach.

  He knew, of course, that Milly was grateful to him, but was that all? Was that the only reason she'd married him? He'd thought that she was fond of him at least. No. That wasn't true. He'd felt, when they had first met that she was at least a little in love with him. Yet now if he so much as held her hand she would practically cross the room to get away from him. And why hadn't she thrown the glasses away? Did she still not feel safe, even now?

  It occurred to him, with a bleak feeling growing in his chest, that she was afraid he would change his mind about them being friends. She was afraid he would make advances to her that she clearly didn't want. That was why she was so keen for him to go and find himself a lover close by. Then she wouldn't feel so anxious to have him near her.

  He stepped back into the cool gloom of the house feeling unaccountably dejected. He cursed himself, wondering if he was really so damned shallow that his ego was bruised because there was one woman in the country who didn't want him. He snorted as he realised that wasn't it. It was true he'd never been rebuffed before but that wasn't the reason. The reason he was so bloody miffed was that the one woman who didn't want him was his own damned wife.

  Chapter 10

  “Wherein a well meant deceit brings its own pain.”

  Milly woke early and sat by the window of her bedroom watching the sun rise. Past the slightly unruly gardens the land dropped away from the house on the east side. Here the land became wetter and a little marshy and was dotted with a series of lakes connected by fast running streams. She'd had little time to investigate anything past the immediate vicinity of the house and hoped to be able to see more in the coming weeks.

  A gentle stir of air toyed with her hair, loose as it was and free around her shoulders. She closed her eyes and welcomed the breeze as it was already warm and promised a glorious summer's day. The sun glittered on the still water of the lake as it rose higher, filling them with molten gold and making the grounds look as though they were worth a king's ransom.

  If only that were true Milly thought with a bitter smile. She laid her head against the window frame, tracing her finger around the tiny leaded diamonds on the glass. They were trapped, both her and Beau. She should never have accepted his offer. Now he was trapped with a wife he didn't really want and was too honourable to get rid of her so he could find one with money enough to save him.

  She'd offered him the money that had been her bride price. The money left to her by her parents to be hers on the day of her marriage. It wasn't much, but it would have helped a little. His anger when she'd declined his refusal had shocked her rather. He had been adamant that the money was hers. He'd said once his show of anger was gone and with his easy smile, “If I can't afford to buy you the things you need then you must at least be able to purchase them yourself.”

  So here she was after a sleepless night, still racking her brain for a way to make enough money to help him. If she could use that money, find a way to create an income, then at least she would have done something of value to repay him for his kindness in tying himself to a woman who was worthless to him in any practical way.

  The cage she'd built for herself was another thing entirely. Hers was a cage where the object of her desire was always leaning against the gilded bars. She need only reach out her hand and there he was, sinfully beautiful and oh so very close. Her skin ached with his proximity, a constant yearning beneath her flesh that seemed only to grow no matter how she tried to contain it. She had even begun to avoid him, finding it harder and harder to be in his presence without giving herself away. It made her heart constrict to see the confusion in his eyes.

  She had thought that at least they could be friends but it was becoming so hard to keep up the pretence. So she avoided him during the day as far as she was able and put everything into maintaining the act in the times they were together. But then the evening would draw in, and once the servants had been dismissed, the room with just the two of them in became far too intimate.

  So she would plead a headache or that she was tired and pretend she knew he would rather be off visiting one of his cher amies than spending a dull evening with his wife. The words d
amn near choked her but there was no point in pretending he wouldn't find someone sooner or later. She had thought it was incredible that he hadn't already, but here in the countryside she assumed such things were a little more complicated. But she'd known that would change and she had best get used to the idea now.

  Except yesterday morning when he had said he wouldn't be home for dinner ... it had taken everything she'd had to smile at him and say she'd tell Mrs Buss.

  Images of her husband with another woman in his arms had filled her head from that moment to this, no matter that she tried to keep her mind occupied with their financial concerns. She closed her eyes and told herself not to be such a fool. Even if they'd married for love, most wives were expected to turn a blind eye to their husband's affairs. And he'd been abundantly clear about what he was offering her - and what he wasn't.

  She cursed her own idiocy and got to her feet. She needed to keep her brain busy, that was all. If she couldn't force it to come up with a solution to their financial problems the best she could do was read. With that in mind she slipped on her dressing gown and hurried out of her room and down the stairs.

  It could be barely five in the morning but already she could hear the servants going about their day below stairs. Running across the vast and chilly expanse of the great hall she slipped into Beau's study and ran to the book shelves.

  She didn't really care what it was that came to her hand but passed by several volumes of poetry with a frown. The last thing she needed was some heartbroken poet and his maudlin words to send her further into the dismals.

  In the end and in desperation she plucked A Guide to the Lakes by William Wordsworth and ran back to the door, hoping to avoid meeting with any startled servants before she could return to her room. She had just closed the door and turned to bolt when she was confronted with Beau, almost running into him.