Page 8 of The Trials of Alaric
He bowed out with a smile. “I muffed it,” he said to his groaning supporters. “Eleanor’s still in though. Ten pounds says she can take Lord Lucas.”
In the next round, the three arrows the remaining pair shot were so close it was impossible to pick a winner. With an eye on the clock, and conscious that Sir Henry was not the only person who was becoming restless, Bea made the decision to declare them joint winners.
She would need to find another prize for the charades, she thought, as she presented a vase to Lady Eleanor and a silver goblet to Lord Lucas, both from the attics.
“Now to the drawing room for refreshments and then charades,” she said, trying to sound happy about the prospect. To think that this was just the introductory week. She and Papa had decided to give the suitors a week to decide whether or not to join the contests. What would it be like when the real trials began?
Chapter Four
The rain stoppedlate in the evening, and by the following morning the sky showed no trace of the storm. Bea woke early and scrambled into her riding habit. Normally, after a big storm, she would ride out with Papa and his steward to see what damage had been caused to the farms and the roads, but when she saw Papa in the stable yard, he shook his head. “Better stay with the house party, Beatrice. I shall probably be out most of the day.”
One of the grooms brought out Papa’s big stallion, and he mounted without another word, and rode off in the direction of the main gate. Out all day? In his condition?If I were male, would he have dismissed me so easily?
Bea walked off her feelings along the clifftop, from which she could see what remained of the wreck on the reef offshore. The garden, too, showed damage from the storm, with broken trees, flooded hollows, and several miniature landslides along the paths on the steeper slopes.
As she stopped to look up at one bank where soil had slumped, leaving the roots of a tree exposed, a male voice called her name. “Lady Beatrice!”
She suppressed a sigh. Could she not even have this quiet morning hour without having to entertain one of the suitors? Apparently not, for Mr. Howard was walking toward her with a pleasant smile.
“You are out early, Lady Beatrice.”
Mr. Howard had lost yesterday’s match with grace, she reminded herself. And he was certainly easy to look at, even if he did go walking in the morning before breakfast dressed as if he had stepped from the pages of Ackermann’s Repository. Perhaps she should take this opportunity to get to know him better. “I am surveying the damage from the storm,” she told him. “I suspect that tree will have to be brought down, and the upper path rerouted.”
He cast a cursory glance up the slope, and then his smile widened and turned patronizing.
“Such matters are best left to the gardeners, I am certain, my lady. I am sure your parents would not want you worrying your pretty head. Perhaps, if you were particularly fond of the tree, they will order another planted?”
Not worry my pretty head? Fond of the tree?Was the man a complete dunce? Bea understood from her cousins that her upbringing was unusual—she had been raised knowing that Claddach would be hers and taught what she would need to do to be a good steward of the land and people. She supposed she could not blame Mr. Howard for treating her like any other unmarried lady of his acquaintance. But did he speak to all ladies as if they were children? And witless, careless children at that?
Could the man adjust his attitude, though? “You misunderstand, Mr. Howard. As future Countess of Claddach, all this island is my concern, from the garden here at the castle to the crops in the fields of the meanest tenant farmer. I should be riding with my father as we speak. He will be gone all day, reviewing the storm damage across the island.” She sighed. “But it would be rude to our guests for both of us to desert them, and so here you see me. Carrying out the least of my duties by cataloguing tasks for the gardener.”
He was staring at her, uncomprehending. He blinked hard and gave his head a little shake. Clearly, it didn’t work to reorder his thinking, for he adjusted his expression to another empty smile and stepped closer to her than she liked, almost touching. “My dear Lady Beatrice, how delightful that you try to help your father. You must long to lay such unwomanly burdens on the shoulders of a husband. How fortunate that man who wins your favor.”
His voice dropped to a husky drawl on the last sentence, and he stepped even closer. She had only a brief moment to evade his hands as they came up, presumably to hold her shoulders.
She ducked away from them, stepping backward and sideways in time for the kiss intended for her lips to fall on empty air.
“I daresay food has been laid in the breakfast room, Mr. Howard,” she said, as she walked away, but the man hurried after her and had the temerity to take hold of her hand in such a firm grip she had to stop or engage in an undignified tugging match.
“Mr. Howard,” she began, crossly.
But Mr. Howard had a speech to deliver, and no intention of allowing her a word in edgewise until he had delivered it. “Lady Beatrice, from the moment I first saw you, I have been consumed by admiration and, dare I say it? Desire. Such beauty! Such poise! Such grace! I cannot believe I am alone in this passion. Say you feel it too, dearest, most glorious Beatrice. May I call you Beatrice? And you shall call me Ambrose, and your own.”
“No,” Bea said, decidedly, and tugged at her hand, hang how undignified it appeared.
The stupid, stupid man looked decidedly bewildered, but kept tight hold of her.
“But I esteem you,” he insisted. “Greatly.”
They both turned at the sound of slow clapping. “Yes, we heard,” said Mr. Redhaven, who was leaning against the concrete corner plinth at the bottom of a flight of steps, just a short distance away. “Such beauty. Such poise. Such lands and house. Do release Lady Beatrice’s hand, Mr. Howard. You are gripping it tightly enough to bruise.”
Bea was released so suddenly she fell back a step, and Mr. Howard curled his hands into fists. “Sir, I do not know who you are, but I beg leave to tell you that you are impertinent. Get you gone, sir.”
Mr. Redhaven inclined his head. “Alaric Redhaven, and it would be insincere, I fear, to say at your service. At Lady Beatrice’s service, however. May I escort you into breakfast, my lady?”
“You may,” Bea said, and was surprised to find that her voice was shaking.
“I will escort Lady Beatrice,” Mr. Howard insisted.
