Page 52 of Fair as a Star

“I’m not going to argue with you.”

“I don’t want you to argue. I want you to listen.” Beryl looked into his eyes, so similar to Mark’s. “You’ve had to exercise such control since your father died. And you’ve made a great success of everything here at the Park. We all of us are so very proud of you. But sometimes—sometimes, Henry, you hold onto things too tightly.”

“I’m not holding onto that horse. Quite the opposite. I’m sending him back to the sales this very week.”

“I don’t mean the horse,” she said.

Henry looked at her. Really looked at her. “My God,” he said at last, “this isn’t about that infernal horse, is it? This is about my brother.”

She willed herself not to blush. “It’s about everything. The horse and…our engagement.”

His brows lowered. “What about our engagement?”

There was time enough for that. She refused to be distracted from her purpose. “Is it true that you’re asking five hundred pounds for Vesper?”

“It’s the amount I’m likely to get for him at the sales,” Henry answered, frowning. “Beryl, what do you mean—”

“Very well.” Snapping open her reticule, she withdrew a wad of folded bank notes. “I’d like to buy him.”

Henry’s face went ashen. “Where did you get that money?”

“It’s mine,” she said. “Do you accept my offer?”

“Did your aunt give you that?”

“Does it matter? It’s not borrowed or stolen. It’s mine absolutely, and I’m offering it to you now to purchase Vesper for my sister.” She extended it to him. “Don’t say you won’t accept it.”

“I can’t accept it. Not until I know where it came from.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I mean it, Beryl.”

She reluctantly returned the bank notes to her reticule. “If you must know, it came from Malvern’s Emporium. I sold something to Mr. Malvern just before I came here.”

“For five hundred pounds?”

“You needn’t sound so shocked.”

“What in the world—”

“My wedding dress,” she said. The reality was only now beginning to sink in. With it came a giddy feeling of freedom. “I sold my Worth wedding dress.”

Beryl closed the drawstring opening of her reticule, conscious of Henry’s gaze fixed on her face. He appeared stunned. She didn’t blame him. She still felt a little stunned herself.

When she’d visited Malvern’s Emporium, she hadn’t been at all confident of getting the sum she required. Granted, Aunt Hortensia had spent a small fortune on the wedding dress from Worth and Bobergh. It was a creamy white satin, stitched with tulle and swansdown, and trimmed in glass pearls and crystal beading. A dress that made Beryl look as regal as the European royalty who patronized Mr. Worth’s shop.

In Paris, his designs commanded figures well over five hundred pounds. But Shepton Worthy was a long way from the continent.

“You can take it apart,” Beryl had suggested to Mr. Malvern. “Learn how it was made, so that you can recreate similar styles.”

“I shan’t do that, Miss Burnham.” Mr. Malvern had examined the wedding dress in fine detail, his attention riveted by every stitch and seam. “If this gown were mine, I’d display it in the front window. People would come for miles.” He’d looked up at her, then, his eyes glittering with excitement. “Five hundred pounds, did you say?”

Beryl had felt as though she’d achieved something insurmountable. In one stroke, she’d solved both Winnifred’s problem and her own.

“You sold your wedding dress,” Henry said in an odd, flat voice. “Am I to take some meaning from that?”

“Yes. I wish to put an end to our betrothal.”