Nothing Denied (3 page)

Her friend gasped beside her and let go of her arm suddenly. “Why should anyone care about that?”

“Everyone
always
cares about that,” Beatrice said with a snort of laughter. “Please, you can do almost anything and get away with it if you are attractive. Especial y men.”

“That may be true most of the time,” Amelia huffed.

“But not in this case. My mama says a man like that wil
never
be accepted back into good Society. Not after what he did. It doesn’t matter how much money or beauty he brings out for everyone to see.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes as she looked once more at the specimen of a man who was moving across the floor. She couldn’t help it. She moved toward the entrance to the room to see him better. Now she could tel that his eyes were as dark as the aura that surrounded him.

People stepped back as he moved among them, cutting a swath through the room as if he were a pariah. Of course, he was, wasn’t he?

“Do you real y think he would never find acceptance in Society?” she murmured. “Even with al the benefits he could bring to the lady he courted?”

“Never,” Amelia hissed. “After al , everyone
knows
he murdered his wife.”

The vein in Gareth’s head was throbbing in time to the beat of the current song played by the orchestra.
One-
two-three, one-two-three,
it pounded, making his vision blur and his stomach turn. Would this horrible night never end?

He paced from the edge of the dance floor and three young women al but tripped over one another to escape him, as if he would mangle one if he got within reach of her. It had been like that al night. Not one person beyond Vincent had spoken to him. They only stared.

In short, it was a complete disaster. Certainly Gareth had not expected to find a match here in one night, but he had hoped for a better reaction. Perhaps a hint that he could overcome the gossip that surrounded him.

“This is terrible,” he murmured as Vincent returned from fetching drinks.

His friend pursed his lips. “I won’t lie and say that it is good. I think you might be able to make some inroads with the men at some point. A few seemed open to it in theory when I spoke to them throughout the night, but…”

“But the mamas and widows and chaperones are petrified,” Gareth finished when his friend trailed off.

“And the men might eventual y do business with me or share port, but they wouldn’t hand over their daughters. None of them wil ever look beyond what they believe they know.”

Vincent shrugged. “It wil take time.”

Gareth shut his eyes. If his friend was trying to be kind, it wasn’t working. He wasn’t daft. He could see that it would take more than time; it would take a miracle to overcome the rumors that he had kil ed his wife. And her family had only made those rumors worse. They blamed him publicly, and that only heightened the reaction of the mob.

“I need air,” he muttered, and turned toward the terrace. Before he walked away, though, he noticed a young woman standing beside the punch table. She was alone, which was rare enough at these gatherings, and she was staring at him.

Her expression was not the sidelong glance of those who were whispering about him. And it wasn’t one of the shuddering, sneaking looks of the debutantes who believed him to be a monster.

No, this young lady was casting him a look that was quite different. Interest, tempered by a little fear, yes. But mostly appraising.

“Who is that?” Gareth asked with a subtle motion of his hand in her direction. “The blonde lady who is watching me so careful y.”

To his surprise, it was his friend who shivered when he fol owed Gareth’s motion and looked upon the staring woman in question. “Beatrice Albright is her name. They cal her—”

“The shrew,” Gareth interrupted. “Yes, I recal her from the days before my marriage. She had quite the reputation for being a…” He stopped. Cursing in the middle of the bal would do him no good. “Wel , they say she is difficult.”

“There is another word for it, friend,” Vincent said as he downed his drink.

Gareth smiled and it felt good for the first time this long, horrible night. “And did she ever marry?” he asked, casting his attention to the young lady a second time.

“Good God, no!” his friend burst out. “Who would ever have her after al these years?”

Gareth tilted his head. Shrew or not, she was beautiful, there was no denying that. Her thick blond hair was bound up at the nape of her neck and interesting tendrils bounced down around her breasts from the pretty style. She was wearing a fine gown made from some kind of delicate blue silk that matched the cornflower paleness of her eyes. If one went by surface appearance alone, one would think her quite mal eable and pretty.

A deeper look, however, would correct that assumption. A haughty turn to her ful lips, a snap of stubbornness to her eyes, yes, it was clear that this was a woman who would never bend. Not unless broken properly. An unexpected thril coursed through him at the thought of doing just that. Turning her from shrew to mewling kitten.

Beatrice was stil staring and he caught her glance and held there, waiting for her to turn away. Instead she folded her arms and stared right back. He almost laughed out loud. She had no idea just how much she was taunting him. Just how dangerous she was making him feel.

Suddenly an older woman appeared at her elbow and Beatrice turned away to face her.

“Stil , she is beautiful,” Gareth muttered as he broke away from her siren’s spel and moved toward the terrace door.

“Trust me, friend,” Vincent said as he fol owed. “No one wants her.”

“Yes,” Gareth muttered. “Just as no one wants me.”

At a young age, Beatrice had learned to block out her mother’s never-ending chatter. Sometimes that ability was the only thing to keep her sane, especial y when her mother had turned al her attention on Beatrice and her drive to marry her to someone better than even her sisters had found.

Tonight, she silently cherished her ability to make her mother’s voice fade, as Dorthea Albright was wildly chattering about the bal they had just returned from at such a speed that it would have made Beatrice’s head spin if she actual y attended. Instead, she insulated herself in her own thoughts as she paced the floor of the parlor.

Tonight had been a disaster. Somehow, in her heart she had retained a little hope that, if she put some smal effort into her behavior, she could regain some of the interest of those around her. She had pictured, however vaguely, that the more stupid men of the
ton
, or the ones with few prospects, might forget her reputation if she simply forced a smile and batted her eyelashes.

It hadn’t worked and it was perfectly clear that bridges had not just been burned over the years, but obliterated by both her own behavior and her mother’s. No one would have her…and even if she found someone who would, wel , she shuddered at the kind of man he might be, to overlook the shortcomings that kept others away.

Shutting her eyes, Beatrice rested her forehead against the cold glass of the window before her. It eased the ache a fraction and she sighed as she relaxed a little. Her mind slowed and she found it conjuring other images from the evening’s gathering. Ones of the Marquis of Highcroft.

He might have been the only person at tonight’s bal to have a worse experience than she had. While people shunned her ever so subtly, with him it had been utter rejection—terror, even. It was rare that someone with wealth, position and such attractiveness could not have his sins overlooked, but it seemed the marquis had struck upon that odd combination that made al his advantages fade in comparison to the rumors that swirled around him.

In some ways, she and the marquis were the same. They were both utterly rejected, their hope of overcoming the past almost nonexistent.

Beatrice opened her eyes and stared out at the darkened street. Hadn’t she vowed she would pursue a man no one else wanted? Of course, she hadn’t been picturing a potential murderer when she made that vow to marry, and the consequences of her choice be damned.

She looked over her shoulder to find her mother stil speaking. Girding herself for what she was about to do, she faced her mother and interrupted.

“Mama, al the talk was of the Marquis of Highcroft this evening. I have not seen him out in company since his wife’s death.”

Her mother’s lips pursed. “Yes, dear, I was just speaking of the marquis. Were you not attending?”

Beatrice flinched. “Yes, of course, I only have a slight ache in my head, I was momentarily distracted.”

The lie appeased her mother, as al lies did, and Dorthea launched into another long string of sentences without drawing breath. “I was shocked Lady Wilkinshire invited him at al , what with his reputation, but I believe they may have had some kind of friendship in the past, so perhaps he traded on that connection. Scoundrel!”

Beatrice arched a brow. Even the most innocent debutante knew that Lady Wilkinshire was a wild thing, taking great pride in her affairs since she had gifted her elderly husband with his heir and two male spares. Beatrice could only imagine what kind of “friendship”

her ladyship might have once had with the handsome marquis. Perhaps even continued to have.

Her mother continued, “Either way, if he thought coming to her bal would make him acceptable, he was mistaken.”

“Yes, he was shunned with greater force than even I was,” Beatrice mused with a bitterness she could not cease.

Her mother’s frown deepened, but then she seemed to push aside whatever negative thoughts had passed her mind. “Everyone else’s sins fade in the face of his, my dear. The things he did!”

“His wife’s death, you mean,” Beatrice said, picturing the man again. He didn’t look like she would picture a murderer would. “Do you think those whispers are true?
Did
he kil her?”

She found herself holding her breath as her mother took a rare moment of quiet contemplation. Then she shrugged one shoulder. “In truth, no one knows. Speculations abound, though. And his wife’s family has been quite vocal in their accusations.”

Beatrice rol ed her eyes. The
ton
could speculate on anything! It didn’t make it true. She, herself, had started rumors that spun out of control. A little guilt tugged at her, but she pushed it away. There was no use dwel ing on al the things she had done. She had to focus on the future. On changing…at least enough to catch a man.

“Is there evidence that he might have done her a harm?” she asked.

Dorthea blinked. “Evidence? It is no secret they were not happy.”

Beatrice wrinkled her brow. Great God,
she
wasn’t happy. That didn’t mean she was about to go kil ing someone.

“But it isn’t certain,” she mused.

Her mother stared at her. “I suppose not. But why take the chance?”

For the first time in a long time, Beatrice looked at her mother with begrudging respect. Of course Dorthea was right. With so much rumor and innuendo about the man, a girl would be foolish to risk herself, especial y if she had any other prospects left. Certainly, Beatrice wasn’t so low that she had to pursue a potential kil er just to escape her mother’s influence. No, she would just continue her new plan. At the next bal , she would force herself to be kind and smile, and eventual y it
would
fool some man into paying her attention.

She crossed to the bel and rang for a servant. When a footman arrived, she snapped, “Fetch the invitations for the rest of the week.”

The footman actual y stepped back a long pace and his face paled slightly. “Miss, er, wel —”

Beatrice tilted her head. “What is it, man? Spit it out.

”

“There are no invitations,” the man said, his voice trembling.

Beatrice stared at him for a long moment before she spun on her mother. “
No invitations?
”

Her mother clutched her fingers before her, genuine distress fil ing her normal y vapid expression. “I had hoped a few would come tonight while we were out.”

Beatrice’s hands began to shake. “This cannot be true. We must have been invited to something in the next few days. A tea, a musicale, a bal . Something!”

Her mother shook her head. “It seems that now that Winifred is out of the house and Miranda and Penelope are in the countryside, there are no invitations.”

Beatrice’s stomach turned in one nauseating flop and it took everything in her not to scream. So this was it. A moment she had thought she had another year

…perhaps two…before she had to face it. But it was unexpectedly and awful y here.

Final y, al her worst behavior had come to its ultimate end, the one she could almost admit she deserved in the deepest parts of her soul. She had been utterly and completely shunned by Society. Her life as she knew it was over.

Chapter Three

B
eatrice smoothed her dress as she stepped out of Miranda and Ethan’s opera box into the crowd that swirled about during intermission. A few cast side glances at her as they stood in their insular groups, chatting about mundane topics, but it was clear that she no longer existed to most.

Desperation clawed at her as she ful y felt the consequences of al she had done over the years, but she shoved it down deep within her. Especial y now, there was no room in her life for such weakness. She was here for a purpose and she intended to complete it.

After
she got rid of her mother.

“Mama, is that not Lady Briarwood?” she whispered.

Her mother lifted on the bal s of her feet to peer over the crowd and her eyes lit up. “It is! I do wish to say hel o to my old friend.”

Beatrice tilted her head as pity rushed through her. Sometimes, in these little moments, she saw her mother without the blinders of her own frustration, and Dorthea Albright made a pathetic picture, indeed. A lady who had lost everything, including some smal part of her mind, and her mother had always been desperate to recapture some part of her youth. Beatrice could almost sympathize, even while she prayed she wouldn’t one day be just like the woman before her, anxious to recover what she had lost in any way possible.