by Fiona Faris
“I smile plenty!” Beatrice replied indignantly, though she knew her words were false. She had had no reason to smile since James died. Losing one’s partner had a way of removing the joy from any and all situations in life, leaving everything gray and murky where it had once been bright and colorful. Beatrice was listless without James; all she had left of him was his title, his inheritance, and that meant precious little without him there to steward it.
Helena did not respond to this. She merely raised an eyebrow at Beatrice, letting her friend know she didn’t believe a syllable of what she had just said.
Now feeling truly frustrated, Beatrice continued to pace, no doubt wearing a trail into the grass beneath her boots. They were outside on a patch of grass near the loch, enjoying an abnormally sunny day with a picnic lunch. Padraig was asleep on the blanket next to Helena, his sweet face scrunched up as though his dreams required the utmost concentration.
Beatrice looked down at the sleeping babe and felt a momentary lightness relieve the tension blooming in her back right between her shoulders. Padraig was such a calming presence; it was hard to stay focused on her frustration when she looked down at his prone form. Looking at him, she had the strongest urge to scoop him up into her arms and place kisses all over his soft head of red hair. Of course, if she did so, she would wake him up, and then he would screech and cry and beg to be held and fussed over.
Which would completely obliterate any hope we have of finishing our conversation, she realized. How perfect!
Stopping in front of the blanket, Beatrice took a step forward and began to lean down toward Padraig.
She was stopped, however, by Helena’s hand, which planted itself on her forehead.
“Don’t even think about it,” Helena growled, and Beatrice knew it was only half in jest. “You will not use my child and your godson to evade this conversation. Both because it is petty and because he barely slept at all last night, and I cannot bear any more screeching until after I’ve had my luncheon.”
“Fine. Let’s get this over with. I’m quite hungry as well.”
Helena nodded, her serious mien lingering a moment longer before it transformed into the gleeful look that always accompanied her meddling in Beatrice’s affairs.
“Now, please admit that my brother-in-law makes you feel like your insides are a-flutter.” She crossed her arms and gave Beatrice a wicked grin.
“Brodie Paterson makes me feel light and fluttery inside, like butterflies bursting in my veins.”
“Excellent!” Helena cried before looking aghast and glancing at Padraig, who continued to sleep despite her excitement.
“Now, if you can admit that, can you also admit that you are glad he is here, that you have another chance to get to know him?”
“Yes, I suppose I can,” Beatrice admitted. “But that is the frivolous, insouciant part of me. The rest of me knows it isn’t proper.”
“Oh, hang propriety! You’ve been proper all your life, Beatrice. You kept up appearances for your father, God rest his wretched soul. You took care of your house, found yourself a titled husband. And yes, you married James for love, but you took to the title of duchess with drive and dedication. You were and are the most perfect duchess I have ever known, and I do believe you are owed a break now that you have lost your husband, and your period of mourning is over. A chance to do something for yourself, to live for yourself. To take a page from Frances’ book, perhaps.”
Beatrice looked up, confused, but Helena held her hand up and explained, “I am not suggesting you suddenly turn into an insufferable idiot. But rather, think of how Frances lives his life for himself. He fulfills all his desires, does whatever he wants, and thinks nothing of the consequences. I think you ought to do the same.”
Beatrice did not respond right away. She knew there was truth in Helena’s words. She and James had been admirable in their efforts to maintain the great name of Kingwood. They had gone to as many balls as they could; she went to sewing circles and organized charitable endeavors with other women of her station. In the eyes of the ton, they were the picture of perfection. Why, she attended Lady Featherington’s Yuletide Ball two days after her first miscarriage for fear that her lack of attendance would start rumors from which she could not reasonably defend herself. James had argued against it, but she would not be swayed. She would not sully their good name on account of her body’s own treachery.
She also knew that she had not lived for anything other than James’ memory these last few years. She did her duty because it was her duty, not because she loved her title as duchess or the trappings that came along with it. Often, she fantasized about running away from it all and staring somewhere new, where no one knew her or her title. But that was impossible, of course.
And yet, her night with Brodie had felt like that fantasy, like she was getting a second chance to live her life, start over as the person she truly wanted to be, if she’d only had the chance. Her night with Brodie had made her feel alive in a whole new way. Of course, the logical, proper part of her had regretted it the moment she woke up, but another part of herself—the part where she stored her desires, needs, fantasies—so enjoyed what they had shared. It had been wonderful. Brodie was so much more attentive, so much more interested in what she needed and wanted than James had ever been.
These thoughts, however, made her feel traitorous, which was why she was loathed to begin something with Brodie that lasted beyond a night.
Turning toward her friend, Beatrice summarized these thoughts, staring pointedly at the spot between Helena’s thick, dark brows, fearing that if she saw the look of pity in her friend’s eyes, she would crumple into tears—as was her habit nowadays.
“Oh, Bea,” Helena breathed when Beatrice was finished speaking. “My poor dear.”
Leaning over, Helena put her hands over Beatrice’s, which were clasped tightly in her lap, her grip so tight her knuckles were beginning to turn white.
“You are not a traitor. It is possible to love two people, you know. It is possible to always love James, but also to find new, different love in someone else, whether that is Brodie or another man. It does not make you a traitor or anything of the sort. It makes you human, my dear.”
“But women of the ton are not allowed the same human feelings and emotions as the rest of the world,” Beatrice argued, frowning as her eyes filled with tears. She ignored them and went on, “Women like me are not meant to marry again. We are meant to wallow in anonymity, slowly fading into grey old spinsters who remain chaste until their deathbed.”
“Well, that is simply preposterous! I do not care what women of the ton are supposed to do, and you shouldn’t either. You have paid your dues, my dear Bea. You have given society what it believed it was owed by the duke and duchess of Kingwood. That time of your life is over. Move on. Be someone other than just a duchess. Don’t fade away. Live brightly! Colorfully! Improperly, if it makes you happy. Do anything if it makes you happy. I cannot stand to see you sad any longer, my friend. It breaks my heart,” Helena said in that sympathetic tone of hers, the one that always made Bea feel like collapsing into her friend’s arms and sobbing.
“I’m…” Beatrice started, a sob stopping the words in her throat. Helena squeezed her hand, silently encouraging her to go on.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Do you know, that is often a good sign. To feel fear when facing a crossroads generally means that our inclination towards one direction is the right one. I was terrified when Marcus proposed to me, you know.”
“I didn’t! You seemed so happy when you told me!” Beatrice remembered the day Helena had come skipping into her mourning room, bursting with the news.
“Well, yes, initially. But then I began to think, to fear. I would have to move to Scotland, hundreds of miles away from my family and you and everyone else I’d ever known. And though Marcus was lovely, we were so different. I was not sure our love would last. But I married him despite all this, and it was by far
the best decision I have ever made. I have everything I could ever want in life—a good home,” she said, waving her hands around the loch and back toward the castle. “A son,” she said, looking down at Padraig. “And a man I adore more with each passing day. The only thing I do not have is a best friend who as content as I, and that is now what I desire most of all.”
“Hmph,” was Beatrice's’ only response, though it was muttered with a smile in Helena’s direction. “That is rather a lot of pressure to place on a woman.”
“But I will help you! I will help you be happy. And I know you will think me saucy for saying so, but I do think Brodie could make you happy. He is such a wonderful man, Bea. Quiet, yes, and a little guarded, but kind and gentle and protective. He is the best of lairds, so good to his people, and you should see him with Padraig. It melts my heart to see how much he loves his nephew and godson.
“And it is not every day that a woman meets a man who can make you feel like Brodie did after only knowing each other a few hours. That happens quite rarely, actually.”
“Yes, I know. He is special. I knew it the moment I met him,” Beatrice confessed, earning a smile and a small jump of joy from Helena. “But, you forget one rather large detail.”
“And what is that?”
“He lives in Scotland, and I live in Yorkshire. On the estate I inherited. From my husband. An estate that has been in the Smythe family for five centuries. I cannot very well abandon it to run off with some Scot!”
“Oh, hang all that!” Helena sputtered. A small gurgle sounded from Padraig, and both women turned to find the baby rolling over onto his belly and snuffling happily into the blanket.
“Thank goodness,” Helena breathed. “I thought I had woken him! Anyway, stop making excuses. Think not of logic, but of the heart. Be Frances! Be brash and bold! Listen to your heart, not your head! What does your heart tell you?”
“It tells me…” She paused, turning to look out at the loch lapping gently at the grass only a few feet away. The sunshine made the loch appear an opaque, deep teal that was nearly intoxicating in its beauty and richness of color. It looked so much richer and more vibrant in color in the sunshine.
Beatrice realized that her heart was rather a lot like that loch. It appeared hard and unknowable at first glance, but she knew that if given a bit of sunshine and warmth, it would slowly reveal its depths. It was a terrifying thought, letting someone explore her in that way. Only James had ever done so, and he was gone. Beatrice was terrified of letting someone get to know her again, only for them to leave. She could hardly bear it once; twice would surely kill her.
“Bea?” Helena asked, pressing her for an answer.
Beatrice turned to open her mouth, but she was kept from answering by the appearance of Marcus and Brodie just ahead. They were riding toward the castle, away from the loch, and yet Brodie’s eyes were focused not on his destination, but on her.
Helena followed Beatrice’s line of sight.
“Ah,” she said. “Well, now we know.”
“Know what?” Beatrice tore her eyes away from the Scot to look down at her friend.
“What your heart wants. It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Heaven help me, but yes, it is,” she admitted.
“Excellent! Then go after him, my dear. Go and find your happiness,” she shouted, one hand over her heart and the other in the air, like the heroine from a Shakespearean romance.
This commotion finally woke Padraig up. He immediately began screeching and screaming, eliminating any further opportunity for meaningful conversation.
Chapter Sixteen
It was after dinner three nights later that Brodie decided it was time to take the lass aside and speak to her. For the last few days, he had seen her only in group settings, when the four of them went out for walks, horseback rides (excepting Helena, who Marcus forbid from strenuous exercise, much to her annoyance), and evening games of cards. During each of these occasions, there was a great deal of eye contact between them.
He had memorized the color of her eyes, so frequently had he looked at them. They had a ring of deepest violet around the irises. Inside were flecks of blue the exact shade of the ice that formed on the loch each winter. Surrounding them was a deep, pure sapphire blue.
He also knew her face well, particularly her lips, which he liked to watch as she spoke. Her lips were fuller than most lasses’ he’d seen, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top and jutting out slightly, making her look as though she were always pouting. The lips themselves were the color of ripe strawberries at the height of summer, and Brodie knew they tasted just as sweet.
Several times over the last few days, he’d had the urge to drag her into his arms across the table, or field, or horsebacks, and connect their mouths again. She was irresistible, especially in the gowns Helena gave her, which fit her like a glove. Rose and blush pink muslins and a deep red evening dress that made her skin glow, and the curves Brodie had held were set at best advantage with slim silhouettes that accentuated the graceful slope of her neck, the smooth line of her collarbones, and the gentle curves of her bosom and waist.
He longed to tell her how much he wanted her in his arms, his bed, even just in a chair in his chambers, telling him stories with that slightly raspy, Sassenach voice of hers. The words were practically bubbling over inside him, begging for release, but in three days, they had had no time alone together. Or rather, she had avoided any situations in which they might be found alone.
Brodie knew she wanted him. It was evident in the liquid look in her eyes as she stared at him, desire widening her pupils and lowering her lids. She often bit her lip as she stared at him, and though Brodie was sure this was involuntary, it felt like she was teasing him, baiting him, stiffening him until he and his cock could take no more.
Dinner that night had been pure torture. Beatrice’s dress had a low neckline that allowed Brodie to see directly down her bodice if she leaned over just right, as she seemed to find every occasion to do. By the end of the meal, it was all he could do not to crawl under the table, grab her by the legs, and drag her down to join him so he could ravish her right there on the carpet.
However, that was not how a gentleman behaved, at least not until he and the lass had come to some agreement about their amorous assignation. And so Brodie knew he needed to get Beatrice alone that evening and finally talk to her, rather than directly staring at her like a sexually starved adolescent.
He tried to pull her aside during the evening’s card game, asking her to help him pour the port for everyone.
“Oh, Beatrice, you wanted claret, did you not?” Helena enquired.
“Indeed, I believe I will have a glass of that instead. The port is wonderful, but I find I am in the mood for the sweetness of claret this evening.”
His plan dashed, Brodie tried again later that evening, offering to walk Beatrice to her room when they agreed to retire.
“I am going to say good night to Padraig first, so I will not need your arm.” Beatrice kept her eyes firmly on his chest as she spoke.
Brodie caught Marcus’ eye as they walked out of the drawing-room, and his brother gave him a shrug as if to say, “Women! Who can understand them?”
Indeed, Brodie thought as he walked toward his room. In truth, he had not been with a great many women, but those he had spent time with had been far easier to understand than Beatrice Smythe. Then again, those women had all been Scottish. Perhaps it was a trait of the Sassenachs, to play mouse to his cat.
Brodie tried to put the Sassenach out of his mind as he dressed for bed, but every brush of his hands on his body as he undressed made him think of her, of her soft palms caressing his stomach and shoulders, of her fingers pulling him close as he thrust inside her. Lately, it had felt like everything he did was stained with memories of her. It was maddening.
So maddening that after an hour of attempting to relax himself, including two bouts of pleasuring himself, did nothing to put Brodie’s mind to rest, h
e was forced to done his banyan and walk down to the library, where he knew there was a copy of King Lear that would hopefully bore him to sleep.
Closing his door quietly behind him and carrying his candle in his left hand, Brodie crept down the stairs he had walked up and down thousands of times throughout his life. He loved walking about the castle at night. It was so quiet one could hear the wind rustling in the trees outside, the occasional howl of this or that nocturnal creature. He had often paced the halls after his father’s death when he was new to the lairdship and always worried about living up to the family name.
Now, he looked back on the portraits that lined the stairwell and remembered staring at them, at his ancestors, and whispering pleas for advice. He had felt so alone back then, unprepared for the sudden influx of responsibility. Now, as he walked by this great-grandfather and that uncle, he felt them staring back at him proudly, pleased with who he had become.