An Unexpected Bride Read online

  “Five years?” His voice remained polite and respectful but carried a tone of disbelief. “Has your brother not been acquainted with Arthur? Your boy cannot be older than four.”

  “No.” Her breathing had increased in rate, but she tried to appear nonchalant. “I have been living near the border of Scotland. It is quite a long journey back to Brighton.” She could not possibly tell Mr. Beaumont that the only reason she had not come fleeing back long ago was because her husband would not allow it. But he could not stop her now, and that was the only reason she was on this coach. Her heart pounded and she closed her eyes against a surge of nausea and unpleasant memories.

  When she opened her eyes again, she found Mr. Beaumont watching her carefully. He had the most curious stare she had ever encountered. She ought to have been uncomfortable with his intense study, but there was nothing menacing about it. Nothing unsettling or chilling. He simply watched her as if he was afraid she would faint or shrink or disappear at any moment. She dearly hoped he had no more questions for her.

  “Why did your husband not accompany you?” he asked. “How could he send his wife and son on such a long journey alone, and on a hired coach, no less?”

  Blast the man for all his questions. She exhaled sharply, smoothing her palm over Arthur’s arm. In her youth, she had been taught that honesty was a virtue to always uphold, no matter the circumstances. Her father had been an advocate of honesty and always spoke freely. But telling the truth now would result in unfathomable consequences. How great of lengths was she willing to take to protect Arthur? A lie danced on the tip of her tongue, and she had little choice but to set it free. “My husband was deterred with business, sir. He was so kind as to allow Arthur and I to take a trip while he was away so we would not be so bored at home in his absence.”

  She hoped Arthur did not fully understand her words. She knew his shy nature to be enough to keep him from contradicting her, but she did not want to teach him that lying was acceptable. At least not under normal circumstances. She and Arthur’s circumstances, of course, were far from normal.

  Mr. Beaumont gave a small nod. “I see. Aside from the recent storm, have your travels been comfortable?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “I am glad to hear that.”

  She heard the smile in his voice, warm and strangely comforting. She had forgotten what a kind voice sounded like. She did not have to cringe when she heard his inhale, as he drew air into his lungs to fuel his next statement. She did not have to cover Arthur’s ears against angry shouting and unholy words. She knew Henry Beaumont to be a respectable man, at least by his reputation. His brother, Lord Ramsbury, had been a notorious flirt, and had even flirted with Eleanor on more than one occasion. She had never taken it seriously. She was glad to pretend she was still married, if only to thwart unwelcome attention from gentlemen. If Henry Beaumont was anything like his older brother, then she was happy to lie and tell him her husband was alive. She wanted nothing to do with men ever again. The only man she could trust was her brother, Adam.

  The coachman led the horses down a narrow stone path, one that led directly to Mr. Beaumont’s front property. Eleanor paused to admire the house again, taking in the beauty of the architecture and cleanliness of the grounds. She almost sighed. She had missed the southern coast of England. The neat, orderly, and predictable environment brought her more comfort than anything else. She felt as if she were finally in control of something again.

  Now all she had to do was endure her meal with Mr. Beaumont, and she would be one step closer to home.

  Chapter 2

  When the coach stopped in the drive, Mr. Beaumont helped Eleanor and Arthur down. The coachman followed as they were led toward the front steps. The sky still held a hint of grey, but the storm had almost completely cleared, and the earth smelled fresh and cleansed, as if the sky had just granted it a new beginning. The grass was soggy and pliant beneath her boots. She could not possibly become wetter than she already was, so she didn’t mind it.

  As they walked through the front doors, the housekeeper, butler, and two footmen stood at attention.

  “What a lovely, home you have,” Mr. Fifett said, his voice echoing under the lofty ceiling of the entry hall.

  Mr. Beaumont thanked him before instructing the footmen to fetch Eleanor’s things from the coach. She had managed to fit both hers and Arthur’s possessions into one small trunk. She hoped she hadn’t forgotten anything of great importance in her hurry to leave Northumberland.

  Mr. Beaumont turned toward Eleanor, ushering a young maid forward. She curtsied.

  “Mary will show you a guest room where she will help you and Arthur change into dry clothing,” Mr. Beaumont said. “I will ask my cook to prepare a meal immediately.”

  Eleanor’s stomach grumbled in answer to his words, quiet enough to escape Mr. Beaumont’s notice, but not Arthur’s. He grinned up at her. “I’m hungry too, Mama.”

  She smiled. “Mr. Beaumont has been very kind to provide us with a meal.”

  Arthur looked up their host, eyeing him with skepticism. His smile faded even as Mr. Beaumont gave him a broad grin.

  The footmen returned with Eleanor’s trunk, and she took Arthur’s hand as they followed the young maid, Mary, up the stairs. Eleanor tried not to let her muddy skirts drag on the fine marble. It had been so long since she had been in such a lovely house. She swept her gaze over her surroundings, in awe over the fine architecture and decoration of the home.

  Mary worked quickly, washing and brushing through Eleanor’s tangled, muddy hair. She did the same for Arthur. After they were changed into dry, warm clothing, they met Mr. Beaumont downstairs, where he had started a fire in the drawing room.

  Mr. Beaumont offered Eleanor and Arthur each their own comfortable chair, and she sat down. Eleanor sighed as the warmth that radiated from the flames absorbed moisture off her face and hair. So enjoyable was the sensation, that she nearly forgot that Mr. Beaumont still sat beside her and Arthur, watching her with the same unabashed curiosity as before.

  “Are you feeling well?” he asked when she met his eyes.

  “Much better.”

  He smiled, the warmth emitting from the expression almost greater than the warmth from the fire. Eleanor sat back in her chair, sudden emotion clawing at her throat. How had she been away from kindness for so long that she had forgotten what it felt like to be a recipient of it? Arthur sat forward on his chair, extending his hands toward the flames to warm them. She did not know where Mr. Fifett had gone, but she wished he were in the room. Perhaps then Mr. Beaumont would not direct all of his attention at her.

  “You have a beautiful home,” she said. “When did you move away from Brighton?”

  Mr. Beaumont leaned his elbows on his knees, staring into the flames much like Arthur was doing. “When my father died four years ago, he was kind enough to leave me this estate. He left the estate in Brighton as well as the earldom to my elder brother, as expected.” A slight smile tugged on his lips. “He did threaten to disinherit my brother and hand over everything to me, but after seeing the effort my brother put forward to keep it, I am quite pleased with this arrangement.”

  Eleanor knew the brother he spoke of. “Your brother is Lord Ramsbury.” She did not have a high opinion of the man. She once had, but that was before she married Mr. Quinton, a close friend of Lord Ramsbury’s. What did it say about one’s character to be friends with such a despicable man?

  “He has taken on my father’s title now, Lord Coventry, though I simply call him Edward.” Mr. Beaumont smiled again, a twinkling that reached his eyes. Eleanor could see a stark resemblance between the brothers in their eyes, golden blond hair, and broad stature. But Mr. Beaumont’s countenance was softer somehow, more genuine and youthful, especially with the shadows and highlights of the nearby fire reflecting off his features. She noted the smoothness of his brow and cheek, finished with a solid jaw and straight nose. He had a remarkably handsome face, but above all, it was a kin
d face, and that was what made it the most remarkable.

  She realized how long she had been staring at him, quickly turning her gaze toward Arthur. “Your brother was—is a friend of my husband’s.”

  Mr. Beaumont nodded, slow and deliberate. “Yes. I believe Edward caused a quarrel between himself and your brother Adam when he kept your location secret after your marriage.”

  Her elopement had surely been the talk of Brighton once it had been discovered. Eleanor had not known that Mr. Quinton had confided in anyone about the elopement. Had he told his confidants that it was a kidnapping? She had not realized that Mr. Quinton’s friendship with Lord Ramsbury had run so deep. Mr. Quinton had demanded that she convince two of her own friends that she was happily eloping at Gretna Green, so as to give her family every reason to believe the truth of her letter that explained her happiness.

  She shook off the emotion that burned in her chest at the thought of the letter. She had read it over countless times, making corrections at Mr. Quinton’s demand. She pictured the fresh parchment, the wax seal, and the dirt on the edges where she had creased it and unfolded it again and again. It was a letter filled with lies.

  Dear Papa,

  There is little I can say to you in the way of apology, for I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, nor do I ask for it. I also do not ask for your understanding, but only that you receive this missive and know that I am alive, and I am happy. I write now as I ride to London, where I will marry Mr. William Quinton. I love Mr. Quinton, and I know he will bring me exceeding happiness. Knowing that you did not approve of him and would never endorse the match, I aspired to escape in secret. My reputation will be safe as well as the Claridge name, not to worry. Suspecting you or perhaps Adam may follow me to London, I was forced to keep my departure a secret, as was Mr. Quinton, until we had secured our marriage.

  I confided in but two trusted friends, Miss Darby and Miss Reed. Please do not blame them for fulfilling their promise of silence to me. Mr. Quinton confided in one man of the regiment, and another man of his acquaintance.

  I shall think of you and Adam often. Please do not come searching for me, for I do not wish to return to Brighton. I regret the worry and unease I have caused you, and wish you all the best in your recovery to good health. I cannot give you the address in which I will receive your letters, but I will promise to write you upon occasion.

  With love and sincerity,

  Eleanor

  “I hope your brother does not still harbor any ill feelings toward my brother,” Mr. Beaumont said, obstructing her thoughts. “Although if he does, I do not blame him for it.”

  Eleanor knew that her husband had not given Lord Ramsbury their true location, so it would not have helped even if he had told Adam the truth of where she was. After reading the letter she sent, Adam likely never came searching for her anyway. She could not help but feel that he hated her now. He believed that she had abandoned him and their father.

  Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that she would soon be able to explain it all to him.

  “I have not written to Adam in years, so I do not know his opinion of your brother.” Eleanor realized the mistake of her words the moment she spoke them—the moment she saw the crease in Mr. Beaumont’s brow.

  “What has stopped you from writing?”

  “Postage was an expense we simply could not afford.”

  Mr. Beaumont’s brow tightened further. His voice remained soft, but deeply inquisitive. “Yet you could afford such a long journey by hired coach?”

  She still feared she couldn’t afford to pay Mr. Fifett. Shifting in her chair, she told yet another lie. “Well, Mr. Quinton has been planning this trip for us for a long while and has set aside the needed funds.”

  Mr. Beaumont nodded, though she suspected he was not entirely convinced. Was she truly so terrible a liar? “I am glad you were able to take the trip,” he said. “Your brother will be very happy to see you after so long a time.”

  Mr. Beaumont moved his gaze to Arthur before shifting his chair abruptly closer. She instinctively clutched Arthur’s arm. Mr. Beaumont’s gaze flicked to hers with concern. Her grip loosened. What was she thinking? Mr. Beaumont was not threatening. He would not hurt her or Arthur. She allowed her heartbeat to slow as Mr. Beaumont reached into his jacket, withdrawing a tiny seashell. He slowly extended his hand to Arthur, offering the shell to him. “When I was a young boy, I collected seashells. To this day I cannot ignore a beautiful shell when I see it on the beach. I found this one this morning. Would you like to have it?”

  Eleanor craned her neck to see Arthur’s expression. He glanced at her for approval. She nodded toward the shell, smiling to give him courage. In one quick swipe, Arthur took the shell from Mr. Beaumont’s palm.

  He chuckled. “He is a shy one, isn’t he?”

  Eleanor laughed, but it came off weak. “He is, indeed.”

  A few minutes later, a maid came in the drawing room with several hot trays of food. Mr. Fifett joined them at the card table in a set of dry clothing, where they sat down to dine. Mr. Beaumont smiled. “I know this is a strange place to eat, but I did not wish to take you away from the warmth of the fire. I hope you find this arrangement comfortable enough.”

  “This is perfect, thank you.” Eleanor’s mouth watered at the aromas that wafted up from the silver platters. Fresh bread, butter, jam, and cheese were arranged on one tray, and the other held fruit and sliced ham. After arranging a plate for Arthur, she gathered food onto her own. As she ate, gratitude surged in her heart for the generosity of a near stranger.

  “Do you live alone here?” The coachman asked Mr. Beaumont. Eleanor had not thought to ask such a question. She had not seen any evidence of a wife or children, but she supposed they could be out visiting neighbors or in the nursery.

  “Yes, it is just me,” Mr. Beaumont said. “The neighborhood is very kind to call on me often, so I am not forced to always be in solitude. I visit my family in Brighton as frequently as I am able.”

  Mr. Fifett smiled. Eleanor watched with fascination as he managed to mix nearly every food item on the platter—grapes, jam, butter, ham, and cheese, placing it between two thick slices of bread. He took a large bite, chewing loudly. His eyebrows lifted in delight as he chewed. “Certainly they would not hesitate to call on such a generous and kind acquaintance.” Mr. Fifett’s voice came out muffled, jam oozing out the corners of his mouth.

  Eleanor could see the fascination and slight revulsion in Mr. Beaumont’s eyes as he watched the coachman eat his concoction. But he hid it well behind a friendly smile. “My neighbors have been very welcoming, yes.”

  Before he had swallowed the first, Mr. Fifett took a second bite. Mr. Beaumont’s eyes widened ever so slightly. For a man of such a slight frame, Eleanor was thoroughly surprised that the coachman could eat so much.

  The coachman gave a slow nod as he took yet another bite, his words entirely intelligible. “I imuffuff choo reciffs muffug foo fmuffle.”

  Henry’s eyes met Eleanor’s briefly, a smile dancing in them. She pressed down her own smile, glancing at Arthur, who stared at the coachman with his own fascination. She hoped he would not begin to imitate Mr. Fifett’s dining manners.

  “Pardon me?” Mr. Beaumont asked.

  With one forceful swallow, the coachman cleared his throat. “I imagine you receive many visitors just for the marvelous food you offer.” He licked his fingers before taking a swig from his goblet. “It is quite marvelous indeed.”

  Mr. Beaumont grinned, a wide smile that Eleanor guessed he had been suppressing for several minutes. “Even if that is their only reason for visiting, I am still happy to receive them. Better that than to be alone all of my days. I have lived here four years now.”

  "Why have you not married?”

  Eleanor was shocked by both the coachman’s prodding questions, and Henry’s calm reaction to them.

  “I hope to marry only for the most ardent love and affection. Such a thing is diffi
cult to find.”

  Eleanor studied his face. Mr. Beaumont would be searching forever if he hoped to find such a thing. She did not know men had such ambitions as love. Mr. Quinton certainly hadn’t.

  “Indeed, very difficult.” The coachman chuckled, finishing the enormous portion of what remained on his tray in one bite. Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on Mr. Beaumont’s face as he smiled again. He tipped his chin downward, as if hoping to hide the expression in the folds of his cravat.

  Mr. Fifett turned toward Eleanor. “I’m afraid my schedule will not allow for a long delay. We must be on the road again as soon as possible.”

  Eleanor nodded, catching Mr. Beaumont’s gaze. “Thank you very much for your hospitality.”

  He watched her stand, rising as well. “It was my pleasure, Mrs. Quinton.”

  She felt his gaze on her face for a long moment as she gathered Arthur into her arms. He was quite small for his age, so it was no trouble to carry him. She dreaded the day he became too heavy to carry. She feared letting him walk on his own feet and wander away from her side too often. Taking a deep breath, she cast Mr. Beaumont one last smile and nod before exiting through the drawing room door. She hoped he hadn’t suspected the truth of her situation. Had he been aware that she was lying?

  “Ah, what a delicious meal, that was,” the coachman said as they walked back to the coach and stepped inside.

  With what remained of the drive to Brighton, Eleanor heard those words on multiple occasions, and many other variations of praise over Mr. Beaumont’s meal. But all Eleanor could seem to recall of the event was Mr. Beaumont’s kindness and striking blue eyes.

  Arthur turned his new seashell over in his hands repeatedly as the coach moved smoothly down the road toward Brighton.

  Chapter 3

  The smell of Brighton was one Eleanor would always remember. She had lived near the sea all of her life, whether it was the sea on the northern tip of England, or the sea on the southern. The Brighton coast was different. It smelled of salt and mist and a fresh cleanliness that reminded her of peace and belonging. No matter what Mr. Quinton had tried to convince her to believe, she did not leave Brighton willingly. She never would have, and she never would again.