Lord Ravensden's Marriage

Beatrice saw that her sister was not so indifferent as she pretended. Whether it was her heart or her pride that was most affected, it was equally painful for her.

“Well, we shall talk of this again,” she said. “Do not distress yourself, dearest. You will have no need to meet Lord Ravensden again, so you may forget him. One thing is certain, he will not dare to follow you here…”

Beatrice spent a restless night dreaming of dis-inherited heirs, pagan orgies and—inexplicably!—a man being boiled in oil. She woke early, feeling tired and uneasy. Which served her right for spending a great deal of the evening recounting stories of the wicked Marquis, making them as lurid as possible for her sister—who was clearly of a romantic disposition.

Had Olivia been other than she was, she might have settled for the comfort marriage to Lord Ravensden could provide, but she could not help her nature, and Beatrice could not but think she had made the right decision.

“Let me but get my hands on that creature,” muttered Beatrice.

Oh, he should pay, he should pay!

Olivia was certainly trying to settle to her new life, and had so far been very brave, but it was bound to be hard for her. They must all do whatever they could to lift her spirits in the coming months.

Such were Beatrice’s thoughts as she left her father’s house that morning, the day after her sister’s arrival. It was the beginning of November now and a little misty. Mindful of the cold, she had wrapped up well in her old grey cloak, which was long past its best.

She had decided to visit the vicarage, her intention to ask the Reverend Edward Hartwell and his wife to dine with them the next week. She would also send a message to Ghislaine, and beg her to come if she could. It was the best she could offer Olivia by way of entertainment, though obviously not what she was accustomed to…The sound of hooves pounding on the hard ground gave her a little start.

She paused, watching as horse and rider came towards her at a gentle canter. This was not the bruising rider who had almost knocked her down a week ago, but a stranger. She had never seen this gentleman in Abbot Giles or any of the four villages.

His clothes proclaimed him a man of fashion, even though he was dressed simply for riding. As he came nearer, she could see that he looked rather attractive, even handsome, his features striking. He had a straight nose, a firm, square chin, and what she thought must be called a noble bearing.

Beatrice realised the rider was stopping. He swept off his hat to her, revealing hair as thick and glossy as it was dark—almost as black as a raven’s wing. He wore it short, brushed carelessly forward in an artfully artless way that gave him a dashing air. He might have come straight from the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s poems, some noble creature of ancient lineage.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said, giving her a smile that was at the same time both sweet and unnerving in that it seemed to challenge. “I wonder if I could trouble you to ask for directions? I have lost my way in the mist.”

“Of course. If I can help, sir.” Beatrice glanced up into his eyes. So startlingly blue that she was mesmerised. Goodness! What a remarkable man he was to be sure. “Are you looking for somewhere in particular?”

“I do not know the name of the house,” he replied. “But I am looking for the Roade family of Abbot Giles…Miss Olivia Roade Burton in particular.”

An icy chill gripped Beatrice’s heart. Surely it was not possible? She had been so sure that Lord Ravensden would not dare to come here. Yet who else could it be? This man was handsome, his smile charming—and now she looked at him properly, she could see that he was arrogant, too sure of himself and proud. A despicable man. Indeed, she wondered that she had not noticed it immediately.

Why had he come here? Beatrice’s mind was racing frantically. If this was truly Olivia’s jilted suitor, he must not be allowed to take her sister by surprise.

“Ah yes,” she said. “I do know of the family—but I fear you are travelling in the wrong direction.”

“Is this not the village of Abbot Giles?”

“Has Ben turned the milestones round again? It really is too bad of him!” Beatrice said in a rallying tone. “He will do it, poor foolish fellow. It all comes from the bang on the head, but it is most confusing for visitors.”

“Pray tell me,” the stranger said, a gleam in those devastating blue eyes. “How did poor Ben come to receive such a damaging blow to the head?”

“It is a long story,” Beatrice said hastily. She pointed to the open gates of the Abbey grounds. “If you follow that road, the narrow lane there, then keep on past the lake and turn to your right near the ruined chapel, you will come to the village in time.”

“That sounds a little complicated…”

“It is a short cut, any other route would take you miles out of your way.”

“I see, then I shall follow your instructions. Thank you, ma’am.”