Page 7 of The Scent of Intuition
“You could have eloped.”
Pippa cocked her head. “I’d never want to marry without you by my side.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Bea. The oculist had seen Pippa for who she was and had fixed her vision with mere spectacles. But he’d also magnified the Ton’s cruelty in Bea’s eyes. Nick was a contrast to those self-indulgent gentlemen who were anything but gentle in manners to Pippa.
Even though they were always kind to Bea, their hypocrisy was not lost on her. What if she had a double chin one day, grew round with a child, and developed frown lines on her forehead? She wanted a man who loved her for more than her appearance, not one who’d discard her if—or more likely, when—her beauty faded.
Especially not when she always had an outbreak of what Mother called “the beast” looming under her skin. Unexpected, hard to control, and unsightly. It was her fatal flaw, and no one knew about it. Instead, they only saw the beautiful Bea. They didn’t know that she often didn’t attend balls, not out of pettiness but because Mother made her hide until “the beast” subsided and her skin was once again flawless in others’ eyes.
“You could be so beautiful if you just controlled the red-hot beast within,” Mother had always said. Never—not once—had she offered help to soothe Bea’s itchy skin or suggested a hug to support her while she healed. It had always been a shameful affront to Mother’s social sensibilities to have a daughter who could be “so pretty if it weren’t for ‘the beast’.” But Bea had never learned how to control the beast and earn her mother’s affection.It just overcame her, and she didn’t even know when it loomed under her skin. For as long as she could think, she’d sometimes wake up, face reddened with bumps, and her hair looking like straw atop a feisty strawberry. And then her mother would lock her up in her bedchamber until the outbreak subsided. It usually took almost a fortnight.
Even before her debut season, missing so many social events was an inexcusable offense to Society, and her mother couldn’t bear the pain of watching “the beast wallow in self-pity,” so she joined her father on his diplomatic mission in Southeast Asia.
And Bea had lost all interest in the Ton.
She didn’t want to be the queen at a ball where guests considered shaming her beloved cousin a sport.
Nor did she want to dance with any of the men, first sons or not, who put a coat hanger by the door to look like a butler so that Pippa would take her leave from an object, in front of everyone. And never ever—Bea growled like an angry cat at the thought—would shemarryany of them.
“I have certain criteria for a husband; I won’t just pick anyone.” Bea plopped on her bed and folded her hands as if the decision had been made. She’d get married and she knew exactly what the groom would be like. The only question remained as to the identity of her future husband. Didn’t that make perfect sense?
Pippa crossed her arms and shook her head as if her veil were an extension of her long blond hair. “Pray tell me the criteria, please! I must hear them.”
“So, number one, he has to love me.”
“Aha!”
“This is non-negotiable,” Bea added for good measure, unsure what her cousin’s knowing smirk meant in response to this self-explanatory element. She’d grown up scalded by her mother and envied by everyone else’s mothers. Bea had neverhad love, the unconditional kind from the books and yet, that was what she wanted.
“What’s number two?” Pippa gave her such a stern look that Bea thought her mother was in the room.
“Number two, he mustn’t be an English aristocrat.”
“What?”
“Nick isn’t!”
“No, but he’s a doctor!”
Bea threw her arms in the air as if that said everything… but she truly hadn’t said much at all. Her determination not to marry an aristocrat stemmed from a deeper, more personal motive. She wanted to spite her mother and the other matrons who insisted that a good match was the only way she could have value in Society—as if she had nothing else to offer but her aristocratic womb. Her mother’s relentless pressure to conform to those expectations had fueled a deep resentment within Bea. Defying them on this point felt important.
“I’m afraid to ask number three now,” Pippa said.
“I want passion. Not just stolen kisses, flowers, and dances at balls with a beau of the Ton. I want toe-curling, hair-raising, scream-out-loud pleasure.” Bea swallowed and waited for Pippa’s reaction.
“Is this because of what Violet said Henry did to her?”
“No.”Yes, of course it is! How else could I know any of this?Their friend Violet, now the Countess of Langley, had told the two young debutantes about the benefits of matrimony. “That’s what I want—not the dull marriages where love is replaced by suitability, lust by companionship, and passion by quick releases. I want more than women of our station usually get.” She sighed.
Pippa nodded. “That’s the best of the three reasons.”
“It is?”
Pippa shrugged. “When you know, you know. It’ll take your breath away, make your heart race, your…ahem… toes curl. So, yes.”
“Do you have that with Nick?”
Pippa nodded and took the pins from her veil. Then she carefully removed it and held it between her hands. “And I hope you’ll find someone who can fulfill all of your criteria. When you do, this will be reserved for you.” Pippa held the veil to Bea’s hair and Bea gasped.
