Married By May

cooked up a scheme to ruin me so I’d be forced to marry the baron to give him access to my dowry. Have I got it right?”
She could tell by his face, pale and drawn, that she’d gotten it exactly right.
“My God.” Her voice cracked and to her horror, the tears she’d been holding at bay began to fall.
“Beatrice, it’s not how it seems,” he said, stepping closer and overwhelming her.
Even now, she thought with disgust, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and pretend that none of this was happening.
“I changed my mind,” he blurted.
Her jaw dropped at his audacity.
“So you were going to help him ruin me, but then you changed your mind,” she repeated. “And what? Keep my dowry for yourself?”
“No,” he insisted.
Inside the assembly rooms the ball went on as if the world weren’t imploding, right here on the balcony.
“I never intended to marry you.”
She choked out a laugh, shocked that she had the capacity to feel more pain.
“You swine,” Natalia growled beside her. Bea had quiet forgotten her friend was there but then, someone was holding her up, she supposed.
Ewan muttered a black oath, dragging a hand through his hair.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “None of this was supposed to happen.”
“No, I suppose not,” she agreed, not even attempting to swipe at the tears. Let them come. Her dignity was in tatters anyway. “Someone like me was never supposed to find a love like this. Or what I thought this was.”
She couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. So she simply turned and walked away.

Chapter Eleven
Ewan was in Hell. Perhaps figuratively, but it felt real enough.
And the worst part was that it was of his own making.
It had only taken him a week to get back home to Scotland. He’d practically run his poor horse into the ground to get here.
Like the coward he was, he’d left the night of the ball.
When he’d returned to Edmund’s house to collect his belongings, his cousin had been nowhere in sight.
It was probably a good thing, too, because Ewan had never felt so murderous in his life. Every time he thought of Beatrice’s beautiful face ashen and tear streaked, he wanted to put a bullet straight through his cousin’s heart.
But he couldn’t possibly hate Edmund as much as he loathed himself.
He had no idea what he’d left behind. No idea if Beatrice’s good name and reputation were ruined. No idea if her cousin had left Edmund dead or alive.
Ewan had simply taken off as though the hounds of Hell were chasing him.
But there was no outrunning his own mind that constantly swirled with thoughts of Beatrice.
When he’d decided that he would tell her cousin the story, he knew he would suffer. But not like this.
This gnawing, gaping hole where his heart used to be was killing him. The memory of her face so filled with joy and tenderness, then shock and betrayal, was killing him.
The memory of that last, explosive kiss. The kiss that forced him to admit what he’d known for days; that he loved her to the depths of his very soul, was killing him.
He couldn’t fix things with Beatrice. Wouldn’t even know where to start trying.
So, he’d run. And he’d regretted it ever since.
The letter he’d left for her had probably been torn to shreds by now. What good could he have expected it to do, in any case? A letter! A few measly words to try to justify what he’d almost done to her. It was an insult.
Outside, dawn began to splinter the darkness of night. Ewan listened to the familiar sounds of his Scottish home coming awake.
The servants would rise soon and begin preparing the morning meal.
Ewan didn’t even know if the loyal staff was being paid. He hadn’t asked.
Arriving travel weary and heart sore just two nights past, he’d been relieved to see that thus far no henchmen had arrived on Edmund’s behalf to turn his parents out.
But his relief was short lived. The worrisome situation had aged his parents in ways that shocked Ewan and made him feel guilty for spending so much time away.
His mother’s face was lined, her hair greying, and her eyes, once the same clear blue as his own, were now dull and nervous looking.
And his father, whose health hadn’t been good for years, was worryingly sickly and pale.
Ewan hadn’t wanted to burden them with his failure to reason with Edmund. But they’d been so pleased to see him again, so sure that he would solve all their problems, that he’d found himself confessing the whole sorry affair.
His parents had, of course, insisted that he’d done the right thing in refusing to go along with Edmund’s scheme.
And his father, a proud Scotsman, insisted over and over again that the fault was his own and so must the solution be.
But this was just another way that Ewan had failed.
He loved three people in the world. One of them in a way that made it hard for him to breathe without her. And he’d let all three of them down.
Ewan knew what he needed to do, of course.
He needed to return to India, sell what he could, then come home to look after his mother and father.
He couldn’t rectify his father’s mistakes in time to save their home. And they were too old and too unwell to live out their days in India. The journey alone would be too much for his father.
But he could see them settled in a small cottage for the duration of his travels then return to sort out the mess.
It wasn’t ideal. And it wasn’t enough to save them from the indignity of losing everything. But he didn’t have much choice.
He could do all of this. He would do all of this. And yet, he dragged his feet.
Fool that he was, he was loathe to leave the country just yet.
What if Beatrice had been ruined? What if somehow Edmund had found a way to force her into