Cocky Baron: Regency Cocky Gents (Book 2) Read online

  Perhaps a little of both.

  “I believe the proper response would be thank you.”

  She glanced up. “Thank you.”

  Chase stared at her for a moment and then offered his arm. “We’ll eat in the formal dining room as my servants insist the occasion of our wedding must be observed with a special meal.” His hair was newly combed and his face freshly shaven, causing the purplish bruising to stand out even more than before.

  “Does it hurt?” Bethany peered up at it.

  He patted her hand. “Not at all.” He was lying, of course.

  “Which of them did it?”

  “Someone who was merely acting in your brother’s place.” He cleared his throat. “It was well-deserved.” He cleared his throat a second time and led her into the corridor.

  His arm was tense beneath hers, almost unnaturally so.

  “Are you anxious?” It was an odd question to ask him, she realized. He was never anxious about anything. Her brother used to complain to her about Chase’s unflappable nature. She avoided meeting his eyes, making a show of noticing the fine workmanship of the moldings along the wall and then the balustrade looping down the staircase.

  By the time they arrived on the main floor, he’d yet to have answered her question. She didn’t think it had been an impertinent one, after the conversation they’d had on the way from the church.

  Mr. Ingles opened one of two double doors for them, revealing a long room that exuded a welcoming aura of luxury and warmth.

  A chandelier hung above the long table; twelve candles flickered in it, creating intricate but geometrical shadows on the wall. A candelabra had been set at one end of the table where two settings were placed adjacent to one another. The silver cutlery reflected the flickering lights and a pale golden beverage sparkled from inside long-stemmed glasses.

  “Your home is beautiful.” She’d always considered the Westerley residences to be luxurious, but Byrde House was different. Understated craftsmanship fashioned a backdrop of longstanding affluence. The rugs, the walls, even the ceiling. Excepting her own chambers, that was.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.” He waved the footman away and assisted her into her chair before taking his own.

  The setting was terribly… romantic.

  “Are you?” she asked again. It was only fair he admit to it if he was. “Just so you know: I am not disapproving right now. I am, in fact, uneasy.” She ought to be talking about the weather or any of the masterful works of art hanging on the walls surrounding them.

  “To dine alone with me?” He evaded her question but leaned back in his chair, giving her his full attention. “We’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we?”

  Over the past several years, she’d only shared what must have seemed like meaningless conversation with him. They would not have been significant—to him. Bethany, however, had pretty much cataloged them all.

  The slightest brush of his hand had been significant to her.

  “We have.” But he did make her uneasy, although not in the way he imagined. She stared down at her setting. “I suppose it’s just that everything about our arrangement is new. We’re married. I haven’t met your mother yet. And tomorrow we’re expected to attend the Blackheart twins’ come-out.” In addition to all of that, I have no idea what to expect tonight.

  “I suppose that only makes sense.” He watched her, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. “But a lady ought not to be uncomfortable around her husband. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “No. Just… a little… tense. But as you’ve probably realized, that’s not all that out of the ordinary for me.“ And certainly not where he was concerned. Perhaps over the next few weeks, or months, or years, he’d cease to have that effect on her.

  “In answer to your earlier question, no. What would be the use? From my understanding, it’s a debilitating emotion. Fretting over something prevents a person from moving forward.”

  Bethany placed her napkin on her lap and thanked the manservant as he placed a bowl of soup and a plate with some sort of white fish before her. Both the plate and bowl were black and trimmed with a gold lace filigree.

  Had anxiety kept her from moving forward in life? It hadn’t stopped her from mingling or from participating in society. Had his mother’s condition shaped his opinion on this? One only needed to take one look at the chamber she’d decorated to realize the woman had been living in the past.

  A-n-x-i-e-t-y. Seven letters.

  “I’m glad you aren’t feeling disapproving this evening.” Chase covered her hand with his. “But I hope you won’t always be anxious with me.” He withdrew his hand and lifted his glass. Shadows danced over the contours of his face, lending him a mysterious air. “Shall we observe the occasion with a toast?”

  She lifted her own glass, the stem fragile and thin. “What shall we drink to?” she asked, feigning normalcy that she didn’t feel.

  “To the promise of this adventure.”

  Bethany met his eyes as she touched her glass to his. It was an apt toast. The drink tasted fruity and tart and tickled her throat. Champagne.

  “Do you always consider adventures promising, then?” She’d considered them more of something a person endured.

  Her hope that he wouldn’t merely endure this marriage taunted her. He was so very handsome. He could have any woman he wanted—even as a married man.

  “I do. Do you like it?” His gaze slid lazily to her glass.

  “I do. It’s lovely.”

  The footman appeared from behind her and filled the glass again.

  “How do you keep yourself from becoming anxious?” She swallowed another drink of the bubbly beverage.

  Chase wrinkled his brows. “Initially, I ran.”

  “You ran away?”

  “No. I simply ran. With my feet.” He was smiling now. “I was small for my age, as a boy. I didn’t become this fine specimen you see before you until I was nearly seven and ten.”

  She rolled her eyes at the vanity in his statement. Although she couldn’t help but agree that he was, indeed, a fine specimen. Cocksure gentleman that he was.

  “I attracted the worst of the bullies at school. It was something of a nightmare. I’d lay in my bed at night fearful of what they would do to me the next day. Would they steal my food, my clothes? Would they take turns beating me? Often the scenarios I created in my mind were far worse than reality.”

  He tipped his champagne glass to his lips and swallowed. “Although, not always. After a particularly brutal beating, I arrived at the conclusion that they couldn’t hurt me if they couldn’t catch me. So I took to running. And they still managed to catch me. But the chase wore them out. I was smaller and weaker than all of them, but eventually, they couldn’t capture me without using some sort of trick. I got faster and faster. I believe I became more trouble than I was worth. In time, I suppose, the running came to mean more to me than escape… It chased my fears away.”

  Bethany tilted her head, imagining a young boy running in order to save himself. “Chase. Even before your father passed, Westerley and the others called you Chase.”

  He lifted his glass and winked. “Clever girl.”

  “But you can’t run everywhere.”

  “I ran to our wedding.”

  Her heart hitched. “You were anxious?”

  “I was not.”

  She sighed, unable to imagine herself scampering hastily along the walkways of Mayfair. “We shall both have to run to this party tomorrow night and then around the ballroom in circles if I’m to make it through the evening.”

  “That would be a sight.” He chuckled softly.

  “Lady Ravensdale insists we must appear publicly together—as a married couple. She says it’s imperative we don’t hide.” The memory of all that had transpired behind the Willoughbys’ folly caused her stomach to leap. Her voice broke. “I can’t do it.”

  “You can, and you will.” It was different for men. But then he a
dded, “There are other ways to release your tension than running, you know.” He lifted his drink and flicked his gaze at it meaningfully, leaning back from the table.

  “I’m not good with spirits. I can’t imagine what would happen if I arrived at Heart Place foxed.” Already the champagne had her head floating and her feet tingling. “Or even half-sprung.”

  He grinned. “We’ll figure something out, Bethany Corbet.”

  The reminder that she had married him sent a weakness through her limbs, and she nearly dropped her spoon. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Do you play any instruments? There must be something that relaxes you? Reading? Singing?”

  “I like all of those. But…” She inhaled a deep breath and held up her hand. “I count the letters in words.”

  He rubbed his chin as though trying to work out a puzzle.

  Holding her hand up, she tapped each of her fingers to her thumb as she counted out loud. “L-e-t-t-e-r-s. Seven letters. It’s a particularly good one. “W-e-d-d-i-n-g. Another seven-letter one, not so bad after all.”

  “And this soothes you?”

  She nodded, suddenly embarrassed at her disclosure. Not so much at the counting, but at the fact that she’d told him she preferred the seven-letter words. For some reason, that information seemed more intimate.

  “I’ve noticed it before, and I wondered.”

  She nodded, keeping her head down until she realized he wasn’t watching her as though she was fit for Bedlam but finishing up his soup.

  She prevented her fingers from counting every word in her head by spooning sips of the savory liquid into her mouth.

  “Do you like any other numbers?” he asked as the footmen removed their empty dishes and replaced them with four small new plates. Ham. A fricassee of chicken and mushrooms. Sautéed lamb and thinly sliced carrots and asparagus arranged symmetrically.

  “I like five. I don’t particularly like six and eight.”

  “Of course not, they’ve just edged out number seven.” He snagged a bite of ham off his fork with his teeth, not showing the slightest humor at her confession.

  But a light danced in his eyes.

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  Chase finished chewing before answering. “Do I appear to be laughing at you?”

  “No.” She bit her lip. “Maybe.”

  “Not at all. It’s clever,” he said, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “A technique to distract yourself from whatever is bothering you at that time.” He held up one hand. “T-r-i-s-t-o-n. Seven letters. A good sign, wouldn’t you think?”

  Her breath caught but she nodded. Of course, she knew his name consisted of seven letters.

  “C-a-r-r-o-t-s. Seven. Chicken, as well. Does the rule apply to food?”

  She tilted her head.

  “Do you prefer foods that consist of seven letters?”

  “No. that would be silly.” She dropped her fork and stared at him. “But why is it that scandal is seven and disgrace is eight?” It bothered her and yet it made no sense at all. She’d longed for Chase to notice her for such a long time, but she never would have trapped him. From what Tabetha had said, she feared she would be judged for doing it just the same.

  He furrowed his brows and frowned. Rather than reassure her, his confusion fueled her distress. Surely, he’d wondered! If the rest of the world assumed it why wouldn’t he?

  “Don’t you resent all of this?” He must! “Aren’t you angry that you’ve had to sacrifice your freedom over one small thing?” She hadn’t meant to give in to this panic and temper but how could he sit here with her as though this was something he’d wanted? Did he pity her so much? Was he afraid she couldn’t handle knowing how he really felt?

  When he only stared at her, looking puzzled, she continued, “I didn’t do it on purpose! You have to believe me!”

  “Do what on purpose? And what reason would I have to resent you? I’m the idiot who threw you across my lap.”

  “I didn’t go out there in hopes that…” She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “My sister and my mother think I did it on purpose. Everyone is going to think I did it on purpose. But I did not. Surely, you can’t help but wonder. And that is why you must resent me. It’s likely why your mother didn’t want to join us for dinner… But I didn’t… I went outside to warn you.”

  “You came outside to warn me. From whom?”

  She was shaking her head. Having gone this far, she couldn’t stop. “It wouldn’t be right for me to tell you. I’m already ruined and Tabetha too. If others find out who set it up, then she, as well as her sis—others in her family will suffer as well. And it’s my fault… Already I’ve ruined too many lives.” The words poured out of her. She’d tried to keep them locked inside but he was being so nice…

  He was acting like this was a real marriage. And it was not!

  Unable to contain them a second longer, she burst into tears.

  “Forgive me.” She attempted to push her chair back, but it wouldn’t move. Drat and fiddlesticks, she couldn’t even make a proper escape.

  She threw all of her weight backward.

  Unfortunately, gravity, physics, or some such natural law was not going to cooperate with her either. The feet of the chair caught on the carpet and before she could catch herself, it tipped backward. No. No. No. No. No.

  Time slowed and then practically stood still as the wall slid away and the ceiling came into focus.

  A sickening thump and a flash of pain in her head, and everything went black.

  “Bethany?” Chase crouched down beside her, his heart in his throat. The calm, sturdy, dependable Bethany Fitzwilliam he’d always known, it seemed, had finally discovered her temper.

  The moment her chair began moving backward, he’d known precisely what was to come but had been unable to get to her in time. Not an auspicious beginning.

  He touched her forehead, his fingers in her hair and his thumb stroking her skin. “Bethany?”

  Both Collins and Bradford, the two footmen who’d been serving their meal, hovered over them.

  “Is she all right?” Collins asked, sounding as guilty as Chase felt. Collins had been standing behind her until just before she’d attempted to flee.

  “Call for the doctor.” Her head had missed catching the sideboard by inches but then it had slammed onto the wooden floor.

  “Wake up, sweetheart.” The tears she’d begun to shed glistened along her lashes and on her cheek. Even this close, her complexion was flawless. Pale, like a perfect English rose. “Come back sleepy-head.”

  A cracking feeling ebbed around the vicinity of his heart. What had he gotten himself into?

  Her lashes curled out when she squeezed her eyes and then sniffled. “I’ve done it again. Something stupid, that is.”

  Her heartbreaking words had him swallowing hard. “Your head hit the wood. Lie still a moment.”

  “You didn’t stand a chance when I decided to save you last night.” She tried to sit up, but it was easy enough for him to halt her effort. “I’m all right.”

  “We’ll let the doctor decide that.” He slid his fingers around to the back of her head, and both of them winced when he touched something warm and sticky. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Stupid. So stupid of me.”

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He ignored her protests and ran his fingers down her arm. Shapely ankles and calves showed where her gown had flipped up and, mindful of his servants, Chase drew the hem down to cover them.

  “No. Just my head. I can get up. We’ve barely begun the second course.”

  “To hell with the second course. Put your arm around my neck.” He wasn’t going to just stand about with her lying on the floor bleeding.

  Her lashes fluttered a few times and then she surprised him by obeying, and he managed to tuck one hand under her knees and lift her out of the toppled chair.

  “You can’t carry me. I’m too heavy.”

  He grunted and adjusted
her not unsubstantial weight in his arms. There was plenty of her to grab hold of, and curves to keep her from slipping, but he damn well was capable of carrying her. “I’ve got you. Hold on to me. I’m going to take you to your chamber.”

  “I can walk!” She made a mewling sound and buried her face into his neck, much the same as she’d done when he’d tried to protect her from the gossips.

  Her scent was perfectly suited for her. Subtle and secretly feminine. He didn’t mind carrying her at all.

  “Don’t be difficult.”

  “But—”

  “Hush.” Chase wasn’t angry with her. He was angry with himself. None of this would have happened if he’d kept his wits about him the night before. Within less than twenty-four hours, he’d ruined her, forced her to marry him, and now failed to convince her that none of it was her fault. She’d become so overset with the notion, by God, that she’d cut her head open.

  Calm, dependable, rational Bethany Fitzwilliam had all but given into a fit of vapors. It was about time.

  “I’m sorry.” She mumbled.

  “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

  Her only mistake had been caring enough to put herself in harm’s way so that she could warn him.

  She’d come outside to protect him, and he’d done all of this… to her. He was the one who was supposed to do the protecting!

  Chase carried her up the stairs. When he turned the corner, he found Polly holding the door to his mother’s chamber wide for them.

  Only it wasn’t his mother’s chamber. It belonged to his wife now.

  He carried her through the door and placed her on his mother’s bed.

  Hell and damnation, first thing tomorrow he’d order the room painted and refurnished. Completely remodeled.

  A man’s wife couldn’t sleep in a room he’d always associated with his mother.

  “A washcloth for her head, Polly.” Chase adjusted the pillow and felt sick when his hand came away covered with blood.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Bethany watched him through half-closed eyes. “Don’t look at it, and breathe through your nose.”

  “It’s not the blood,” he admitted. “It’s that this happened to you in my home—where you ought to be safe.”