‘I did not say that either of you was weak.’
‘When you deny him the chance to fail, it reveals that is what you think.’
‘Beatrice, you have spent your life cloistered in the house. You do not have a child. You do not know what I have endured, what it has cost me to try to be the best father that I can be to him.’
‘I do not deny it,’ she said. ‘I am certain that you have...endured a great many difficult and painful things trying to parent him, but that does not... Maybe it is helpful for me to challenge you.’
‘You have spent a few hours of my son, you do not know him.’ And he felt guilt. Because he was not listening to her. And he did know it.
He was denying the strength he knew was in her, choosing instead to focus on her weakness, which was a petty and small thing to do.
But he had not asked for Beatrice to uproot his life, any more than he had asked for any of this. What he had done, he had done for her.
For her, or for yourself?
He pushed that to the side. It made no difference debating this with himself. She was here, she was his wife. And he would conduct their marriage, and raise his child in the way that he saw fit, and it was not for her to tell him otherwise.
‘You mean well, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘I know you do. You are a kind, sweet girl...’
‘You make it sound as though you are speaking of a kitten. Kind and sweet and well meaning. But you forget, Your Grace, that kittens have claws, and you have vastly underestimated mine.’
She turned to begin storming away from him, and he caught her by the arm.
The action shocked her, clearly it did; her eyes went wide, her cheeks pink. That was what he noticed first. Then after that, he noticed the way that her skin felt beneath his touch. Soft. Warm. And he was transported back to that garden. To that moment when he had realised just what a lovely woman she had become. And perhaps that was why it was so easy to dismiss her now. To turn all of this into a treatise on her inexperience. To write her off as a child, because as long as he could think of her as such, he had an easier time keeping his hands off her.
‘You may have claws, kitten,’ he said, his voice soft and stern. ‘But do not forget that I could pick you up with one hand if I so chose. I do not deny that you possess a certain amount of ferocity, but I have an iron hand, and you would do well to remember that.’
‘Threats?’
‘Not deadly threats,’ he said, pushing hard at the bonds of propriety that he had laid out for himself. ‘But perhaps you do require a punishment. For all that he has kept you hemmed in your entire life, Hugh is quite indulgent towards you.’
Her lips parted, her breasts quickening. ‘You do not know of what you speak.’
‘Perhaps not. But I know more about you than you might think.’
‘If you knew anything about me, you would not treat me as you do. You would not ignore me for days on end. I am little more than an antiquity to you, set up on a shelf in this house and left to gather dust.’
She jerked away from him. ‘You do not have the authority to punish an object.’
‘I have the authority to do whatever I wish.’
‘Perhaps. But where is the glory to be had in unchecked authority? Authority that must be taken.’
And her words tugged at his gut, because she had hit right against the very thing he knew deeply to be true. There was no joy in wielding authority when the supplicant was not willing. But this was not a game to be played in a bedroom. This was...
What was it? He didn’t seem to know.
Neither did she. That much was clear. Her eyes burned bright, with both rage and excitement. And he knew, he absolutely knew that she had no idea why this battle excited her. He knew all too well that it fired his blood. And he felt nothing but contempt for himself. Over his lack of control. Because he had attempted it at this moment. Brought it to this place. Not because it was an accident, because he was actually threatening to punish her, but because he wanted to tease the fire inside her. Because he wanted to push that limit and see how far it might go. She was not a simpering miss. He didn’t mind a simpering miss, particularly when she was playing a role. But he found he responded to the wilfulness in her. She liked to fight, did Beatrice. And that said more about her than she knew.
But she moved away from him, effectively placing herself in a safer spot. Smart girl. It was better that way. Better that she end this now.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘This is the first time I have seen you in your real life. And I thought that I knew you based on what I saw when you were in the presence of my brother. But I do not know you. I will not make commentary on you. However, I feel strongly about William.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I see myself in him. And you might find that silly, or you may not believe it, but I do. But it is true. Protection at what cost, Briggs?’
‘He does not...’
‘As you said, he does not always show it. I understand that everyone around me, everyone in my life, was simply trying to make things better for me. Perhaps not my father, but my mother and Hugh wanted only that I should be safe. But they wanted my safety so very much that they did not consider risk is part of living. But it must be. Because there is so much that I have not tasted, so much that I feel I have not done. Survival, breathing, cannot be the end of it. I am certain of that fact.’
‘But without at least that there is nothing,’ he said.
‘William isn’t going to die of a trip to London. He just might find it difficult.’
‘I only meant if we were speaking of you, Beatrice.’
‘Thank you for thinking of me,’ she said. ‘But I’m tired of it. I wish to think of more.’
And as he watched her leave, he could not escape the sensation that he was failing yet again. That he was not... It was not any better off with Beatrice than he had been with Serena. And worse, he wondered if Beatrice would be any happier.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Beatrice wondered if she would ever have a peaceful night’s sleep. She worried about William and listened for his cries while she should be sleeping.
She rarely saw Briggs.
And as each lonely day stretched on—with Alice the governess not warming to her, with most meals eaten alone and nights stretching on endlessly, she realised this was truly no different than Bybee House.
Except she did not have her mother. She had no one here who cared about her at all.
Except perhaps William, but it was very difficult to say. Some days with him were lovely. Others...
He often became angry and lashed out. Afternoons seemed very hard for him. Beatrice could understand why Briggs wanted to protect him, but he was so bright and brilliant, and seeing him sequestered in isolation—as she was—felt wrong.
When she had lived at Bybee House she had cocooned herself in her innocence. She had not wished to look too deeply at the world around her.
Choosing to look at the bright colours of the frescoes and not too closely at the chips and cracks in the paint.
Not searching herself deeply for the truths of her parents’ lives or their actions. She had instead focused on her own world. The one she created in the gardens alone. In her secret friendships.
In fantasy.
Yet her decision to fling herself into James’s arms had been the first step away from that and into reality.
She had landed somewhere much...harder with Briggs.
In all the ways that could be taken.
Her foray into the real world was difficult and she felt as if she was shedding layers of down, her insulation against the harsher truths of life falling away.
She was not sure if she liked it.
But she could not help William if she turned away.
* * *
She was trying to sort out exactly how to broach t
he topic with Briggs, over a buttered roll with preserves, when Gates the butler walked into the room.
‘Your Grace, Sir James Prescott to see you. Shall I tell him you’re at home?’
Her heart lifted.
James.
The idea of seeing her friend made her almost giddy.
If Gates thought less of her because a man had come to call on her he did not show it. She had a feeling that had more to do with his sense of propriety regarding his position than it did with whether or not he actually judged her.
When James entered the room, it was as if the sun shone twice as bright on the pale blue and gold. And he was golden. Like the sun. She’d forgotten what it was like to have someone smile at her.
Gates nodded and left the room, leaving the doors open wide.
‘James,’ she said, ‘I am so, so pleased you’ve called. Sit and I’ll ring for tea.’
‘Thank you, Bea,’ he said, sitting and looking at her, his expression intent, and there was something about having her friend there, having someone who truly knew her and understood her look at her, when Briggs had been ignoring her, that made her eyes fill with tears. James’s expression became alarmed. ‘Are you well? He isn’t being an ogre?’
She blinked heavily, annoyed at herself. ‘He being my husband?’ She dashed at one rogue tear that had slid down her cheek.
‘Yes.’
‘Why would he be an ogre?’
‘You seem distressed.’
‘Yes, but why would it make you think he is...unkind to me?’
James hesitated. ‘There is a lot of talk about the Duke of Brigham. And his...proclivities. Though, I should not pay heed to gossip of that nature for clear reasons.’
Beatrice blinked, feeling as if she were missing a piece of the conversation again.
‘To be as delicate as possible, he is a man of exotic tastes. Some might say perverse, though I never would.’
Briggs? Perverse?
She did not have a clear idea of what that might mean, except it called to mind someone who was twisted and warped in some way. One thing she could not imagine was her brother being friends with someone that were true of.
Much less allow her to marry him.
You are a ward, not a wife...
‘I’ve seen no proof of anything of the kind,’ she said, trying to smile.
‘Probably a good thing.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
James sighed and sat in the chair opposite her. ‘That you are sweet. And men like him are not.’
‘People keep saying I am sweet. Why is that? What have I done to suggest that I am?’
‘You...’
‘I am stupid, is what I am. I do not know enough people, I have not been educated broadly on enough topics, I have not done enough.’
‘You are not stupid,’ James said. ‘You are innocent.’
‘Well, I am tired of it.’
‘Do you wish for him to take your innocence?’
She suddenly felt that same warmth she’d felt in the carriage. She was embarrassed, but...but James had told her his secrets. Secrets that could see him jailed. What did she have to fear with her friend? This dear, lovely friend who had put his faith in her in such a real way. ‘I... It would be better if I knew what that meant.’
‘There is nothing to know. Beatrice, I knew what I was, what I wanted, before I knew details or specifics. You do not need to know the full list of things one might do, to know you wish them.’ She still felt confused, but she couldn’t be angry because his smile was so gentle. ‘The question is, do you want to be closer to him?’
‘I...’
‘Do you want to kiss him?’
Her face went hot. ‘I do... I...’
‘Then kiss him, Beatrice.’
‘He said...’
‘That has nothing to do with what he wants.’
Bea’s breathing became short, harsh, and she could feel her heart beating in her temples. ‘James, I cannot...’
‘Whatever he says, Beatrice, you are his wife.’
She let out a long breath. ‘Enough about me. Please. What are you doing?’
‘I came to tell you I’m leaving.’
‘Leaving?’
‘Yes, I...am travelling to Rome with a friend.’ The way he said friend was heavy.
‘Will you stay there?’
‘For a while at least.’ He smiled. ‘I’m happy, Beatrice.’
‘I am very glad for you, I...’
She felt him before she saw him and when she looked up, her husband was in the doorway with all the subtlety of a storm. ‘Your Grace,’ James said, standing quickly. ‘I came to say goodbye to your wife. I’m leaving the country.’
Briggs’s eyes flickered over him. ‘You must be James.’
He did not sound friendly, or impressed.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘In the future if you wish to call on my wife, you will ensure I am present.’
‘He’s my friend,’ Beatrice said.
‘He is the man you intended to marry. And I’ll not be made a cuckold in my own home.’
‘If you cannot give any credit to my honour, at least give it to hers,’ James said.
Briggs looked at him, hard. ‘I have nothing to fear from you, do I?’
The side of James’s mouth kicked up. ‘No. I am leaving, though, so if you wish to have me arrested it will have to be quick.’
‘I am the last person on earth to have a man arrested for his inclinations.’
‘Ah. I did wonder.’ James turned to her. ‘Remember what we talked about. Be you, Beatrice. And if that’s not sweet, then don’t be sweet.’ He leaned in and kissed her cheek, and the feeling of affection that overwhelmed her nearly brought her to tears.
So few and far between were connections in her life.
‘I will see you again, when I return.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Come to dinner. Bring your friend.’
He left her there with a squeeze of her hand and when she turned to face Briggs, his eyes were like ice.
* * *
‘What were you thinking?’
Briggs couldn’t account for the rage that was currently pouring through his veins.
‘I was thinking that I would take tea with my friend, who came to sit with me. Which is more than you have done, Your Grace.’
He knew this side of her. He had seen it when she’d pushed at Hugh in her bedchamber. He had often admired her spirit, but he admired it much less now that she chose to use it against him.
‘If my household were not so loyal to me, the scandal you might have caused...’
She laughed. ‘Here I thought married women entertaining other men was de rigueur.’
The rage in his blood threatened to boil over. ‘Not in my house.’
His tone was hard, uncompromising, and he could see the way she responded to it. The way her cheeks lit up like a beacon on a hill, a signal to a man like him that she would melt like butter if he were to place his hand on the back of her neck now...
She would go to her knees willingly.
He shut that thought down with ruthless precision.
‘We are leaving for London in the morning,’ he said, ready for a change of subject.
He had been enraged seeing her in here with another man, regardless of the fact he was not a man who would be interested in her. Regardless of the fact he was not supposed to want her.
He was eager to get out of this house.
He had grown to see Maynard Park as his own. For some reason, though, the demons of his childhood felt close now. Perhaps because it was the very beginning of summer, with flowers beginning to bloom.
A reminder.
His father had died this time of year.
Hi
s father had also destroyed everything Briggs had cared about in June, and humiliated him while he did it.
‘Briggs, I do wish you’d reconsider about William.’
The mention of William on the heels of the thoughts about his father brought him up short.
‘No,’ he said, his voice sharper than intended.
‘Didn’t your parents...?’
‘I went nowhere. I stayed here.’
‘Were you happy with that?’
Sometimes. Because it had meant living as he chose. Only doing what he enjoyed. Losing himself in his own world.
‘You want to make everything simple,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘It is not simple. You are angry that you’ve been protected all your life, but you can’t know whether or not that protection was necessary. You cannot know if you would have died without the intervention you were given.’
‘I...no. I don’t suppose I can know that.’
‘You resent it but it might be the very thing that saved you. William may be lonely, but being exposed to other children might not be the best thing for him. It would not have been for me. I...am angry at my father. But on that he might have been right.’ It cost him to say it, and to the end of his life he would not know why he had.
Except Beatrice was honest.
In all things.
And there was something about that honesty that seemed to demand it in return.
If there was one thing a man such as himself valued, it was the necessary balances in life.
She looked at him, her gaze far too insightful. ‘Why are you angry at your father?’
‘It is not important,’ he said, his jaw going tense.
‘It must be. For you to be angry after all this time.’
She was so guileless in her questions. As if she merely wished to know.
And it compelled him to answer.
‘My father was cruel. He enjoyed that. Enjoyed making others feel small. He wielded power and control over those weaker than himself. And do you know what that makes him?’
‘What?’ she asked, her voice shrunken to a whisper.
‘A coward. A real man, a man of honour, does not use his power in that way.’
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