Page 4 of A Scandalous Bargain
Chapter 1
Beatrix’s backside was beginning to ache. After perching so long on the tree branch, she adjusted her weight to ease the pain. She exhaled as blood flowed through her hip and thigh. Much better.
She returned her attention to the house next door to the tree in which she perched. More specifically, she looked into the window in the corner of the ground floor where the Duke of Ramsgate sat in a chair near the hearth, one hand clutching a glass of brandy and the other a newspaper.
His brown hair had lightened over the past fifteen years and was now a bit thin on the crown, but his features were the same—the familiar warm brown eyes, slightly hooked nose, and strong, dimpled chin. There were some lines, and he was heavier than he’d been before, but he was still the man she remembered. The father she loved.
Did he think of her at all?
He had to. There was no way he could have adored Beatrix’s mother and cared for Beatrix and then simply forgotten his daughter. He’d paid for Beatrix’s schooling after all.
He also never wrote or visited, and when you left the school, never made an effort to find you.
Beatrix argued with herself—how could she know if he’d made an effort or not? She and Selina had spent the years since Beatrix had left Mrs. Goodwin’s Ladies’ Seminary moving around and being generally difficult to find.
But now Beatrix was here in London, and soonshewould findhim. He would be shocked at first and then overjoyed when he saw how accomplished and well-regarded she’d become.
She’d mastered the accomplishment portion at the school he’d paid for and in the time since. The regard part was still in progress, and she wouldn’t reveal herself to him until there was no question that he’d be proud and thrilled to claim her as his own. Perhaps not publicly—Beatrix didn’t really expect that—but privately. She would have her father back.
A shriek followed by a crash from the house in whose tree Beatrix was currently sitting drew her startled attention to the first-story window. The figure of the woman who lived there moved behind the sheer curtains.
A moment later, the man who lived there—her husband—emerged on the small balcony. The railing was quite short, affording Beatrix a clear view of him. Her breath snagged. He wasn’t wearing a coat or a cravat, and she could clearly see the triangle of flesh exposed by the opening of his shirt above his waistcoat, which was unbuttoned. His dark hair was mussed, some of it standing up and some falling across his forehead. He was exceptionally handsome, with a square jaw and strong cheekbones. While Beatrix came to Lord Rockbourne’s garden to watch her father, seeing the viscount had become a welcome benefit.
He looked troubled tonight, but then he often did. It was apparent his marriage was not a happy one. As far as Beatrix could tell, Lady Rockbourne was a shrew, always screaming at the viscount. Last time Beatrix had been there, Lady Rockbourne had thrown something at him. Despite that, Beatrix rarely heard him raise his voice in response. That was probably just one of the reasons she was infatuated with him.
The others were his good looks, shallow as that was, and the way he sat in his ground-floor library and read, much like her father. It was silly, but it was just an incredibly domestic sight, or so it seemed to Beatrix. And nothing was more appealing to her than a home.
“Where did you go?” Lady Rockbourne’s shrill voice carried out to the garden. Beatrix glanced toward her father, but he never seemed to hear what was going on next door. But then, his window was closed.
The viscountess came out onto the balcony. Her pale blonde hair hung in loose waves past her shoulders. She was petite, shorter even than Beatrix’s five feet three inches, but she held her shoulders in such a way so as to appear larger, if that were possible.
Lord Rockbourne was much taller, probably six feet if Beatrix had to guess. He pivoted to face his wife, which put him in profile to Beatrix.
“How dare you threaten me?” she squealed at her husband.
“I didn’t threaten you,” he said calmly. Beatrix had to lean forward and strain to hear him. “I said your behavior would reflect poorly on you. That is a fact, not a threat.”
“No one cares—everyone has affairs. You’re angry that others will see you as a cuckold.” There was pride in her voice. Beatrix frowned at the woman. Why would she behave so horribly?
“Idon’t have affairs,” he said.
“Maybe you should!”
He ran his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “Aye, maybe I should.” They stared at each other, and Beatrix found herself holding her breath.
Rockbourne walked slowly toward his wife. There was something dangerous about his movements. They reminded Beatrix of a cat stalking a mouse.
“We are married, madam, and there is no changing that despite all of your transgressions. I suggest you find a way to make peace with that. Lord knows I try every damn day, and I will continue to do so, despite what you just told me, because I don’t have any other fucking choice.”
Lady Rockbourne’s face hardened just before she let out a garbled cry. She said something, but Beatrix couldn’t tell what. Then she launched herself at him, raising her hand. He turned to avoid her. She hit the railing, which barely came to her thigh. Her arms flailed, and something fell to the ground. Beatrix would never forget the look of horror etched into the woman’s pale features as she followed the object and tumbled to the cobbled stones below.
Too late, Beatrix clapped a hand over her mouth to block her cry of shock. The sound escaped anyway. Her gaze snapped back to the balcony, only to find Lord Rockbourne’s dark gaze fixed on her. Then he was gone, stalking quickly into the house.
Beatrix scrambled down from the tree. She should run. Instead, she dashed to the viscountess, sprawled awkwardly on her side, eyes open, her body still. Hands shaking, Beatrix crouched down and held her fingers in front of the woman’s nose and mouth. There was no breath.
“Careful, there’s blood.”
Beatrix whipped her head around and saw black boots shined to a nearly impossible sheen. Lifting her gaze over black breeches to a snow-white shirt cloaked in a burgundy waistcoat, then up to that arresting triangle of flesh, she finally settled on Lord Rockbourne’s impassive face.
