by Hope Tarr
“Can I help you, miss?” the bespectacled barkeep and apparent postmaster inquired.
Bea nodded, resolved despite her hands’ trembling. “Yes, please. I need to send a wire to a gentleman in London.”
“London,” he echoed, scratching the side of his head. “Why, that’s a rare long way.”
“Is it?” she asked. Perhaps it was. She wouldn’t have thought so a week ago but then, a lot could happen in a week. A lot had happened in six days. Now nothing would ever again be the same, most especially not her.
“What is it you wish to say, miss? Mind ’tis six pence’s for the first ten words and a ha’penny for every word thereafter.”
Bea paused, not because she was uncertain of her message—indeed, she’d composed it several times on the trip into town and she was fairly certain it did not surpass ten words by much—but because once she sent it there would be no turning back.
Behind the barred box, a throat cleared. “Miss?”
Bea swallowed against her own thick-feeling throat. The previous night in Ralph’s arms had been the deciding factor, not the sex, tender though it had been, but the emotional intimacy afterward. As much as she hated to hurt the feelings of a fellow human being, she could see no other way.
She drew a bracing breath and began: “Mister HC Billingsby Knightsbridge London. Stop. Cannot marry you. Stop. Please forgive & forget me. Stop. Bea. Stop.”
BEA LEFT FOR TOWN after breakfast, her demeanor making it clear she wasn’t looking for company, at least not Ralph’s. From her vague reference to shopping, he surmised she might be going about wedding errands, perhaps even selecting a gift for her bridegroom. That thought acted like a lit match to his jealousy. Feeling at loose ends, he headed to the study hoping to find his friend within. Surely Rourke, newly returned from his trip, must require him to take down yet another letter, dispatch a telegram or perhaps help him go over another quarter’s profit figures? He heartily hoped so. It would be good to have some occupation, otherwise he would only waste the day brooding on the fact that he had but one more “lesson” with Beatrice. The previous night she’d as good as said she loved him and yet so far as he knew, her plans remained unchanged. Mr. Billingsby and the coveted security he presumably offered were proving formidable foes.
The clacking of typewriter keys alerted him that Lady Katherine was within. That she was back at work so soon was surprising. Then again, everyone had their own way of dealing with grief.
The door stood ajar. When his knock met with no answer, he announced his presence with a cough and stepped inside. “Forgive the disturbance. I was looking for Rourke.”
“He’s gone riding.”
“I see.” Hoping his disappointment didn’t show, he turned to go.
“Since you are here, pray take a seat, Ralph.”
Kate nodded toward the sole chair whose seat was unfettered by papers and books. Ordinarily a paragon of orderliness, she apparently made an exception when it came to her writing. By the look of it, she was in the thick of things.
Circumventing the dog lying sprawled in the center of the carpet, he made his way over to the chair and sat. “How may I be of service?”
Amber-colored eyes fixed on his face. “You and I started off on the wrong foot when I first came here as a bride, but I like to think we’ve become friends.”
Wondering at her point, Ralph nodded. “I believe we have, milady.”
“As a friend, I will speak frankly.”
Ralph had never known Kate to speak any other way but frankly, be it to a friend or foe, but he held his peace.
“My sister’s happiness was my primary concern nine months ago, and it remains so.” She halted, searching his face. “Back in London, it was I who arranged her introduction to Mr. Billingsby. At the time, I thought his mild-mannered nature might be the antidote to her impulsiveness. Now it occurs to me that I may have inadvertently pushed her into a marriage that may bring her no great distress but also little joy.”
Ralph reasoned he had nothing left to lose. “Have you considered that Beatrice possesses more sound sense than you credit her with? Perhaps you would both be better served by letting her decide her future for herself.”
He braced himself to be ordered first from the room and perhaps even the house. Instead, she drew a ragged breath. “Our mother died when Bea was but a few days old. I’ve been making decisions on her behalf as a mother might for twenty years. It is a difficult custom to break…but I will try.”
Ralph had never before known Rourke’s wife to willingly relinquish control. Flabbergasted, he could do little more than nod.
Kate drummed her fountain pen on the desktop. “But before I turn over any new leaves, I have a question to ask of you. It is a most important question, so I counsel you to think carefully before giving your answer.”
“And that is?”
She fixed her gaze on his face. “Are you a marrying man, Ralph?”
Her question took him aback. Recovering, he asked, “That depends. Do you have a bride in mind?”
Her face showed she was not amused. “Don’t play coy with me. I saw how you looked at my sister the other day in the stable and more to the point, I saw how she looked at you. Only last winter I would have judged you to be a scalawag and a philanderer. I did judge you as such, and truth be told I am not yet certain I am entirely mistaken.”
Ralph opened his mouth to defend himself, but her raised hand stayed him though he couldn’t think why. Lord knew, he’d never submitted to any authority before. But Lady Katherine wasn’t only Rourke’s wife. She was also the elder sister of the woman he loved. And judging from her very leading and intrusive question, he might just find an ally in her if he played his cards properly.
“But much can change in nine months,” Kate continued, lowering her hand. “People may change, myself included. And so I ask you for the final time, are you a marrying man?”
Ralph swallowed hard, his pride as well as his fear. Beatrice loved going to bed with him, that much was clear, but did she love him? “For the right woman, I could become one.”
“For my sister, you mean?”
He shook his head, all at once weary of women playing with him. “It is a moot point. She is affianced, is she not? She seems determined to go through with her marriage to this…Billingsby because he is…nice,” he ended, spitting out the word.
She shrugged. “She is not married to him yet. Not for a fortnight more. Beyond that, you’ve never struck me as a man who gives up easily.”
It was his turn to look her in the eye and ask the hard question. “Am I to understand that you would accept me as your brother-in-law? Unlike Rourke, I have no fortune to recommend me as a relation.”
She sat back in her seat with a sigh. “Admittedly, I used to care for such things greatly, too greatly. But if this past year has taught me anything, it is that a happy marriage is not reliant upon equity in station. Instead, the ingredients are mutual liking and respect, passion, and love. I’ve always known you liked Bea and this week it has become abundantly clear that you lust after her, as well. But do you love her?”
This time Ralph didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
He’d meant to tell Beatrice so the previous night before all her talk of safety and security had derailed him. And then afterward in bed, she’d suddenly seemed so sad he hadn’t thought it the proper time. Now he wondered if it wasn’t the timing, but his own courage that had failed him.
Exhaling heavily, Kate rested her folded hands upon her flat belly as if anticipating the coming swell. “I thought as much, but I had to hear it from your lips to be sure. Seeing you now, I cannot but believe you to be sincere.”
“I am.”
“If you won her, would you let me or my father or anyone else stand in your way?”
“Not on your bloody life,” he answered bluntly.
She smiled. “In that case, you have my blessing.”
“Thank you.” Judging that their heart-to-heart was at an e
nd, he rose to go.
“One final thing.” Kate’s voice stalled him in midstep.
He turned back. “Yes?”
Beneath the arch of one dark brown brow, she stared him down. “If you hurt her, I’ll see your cods cut off.”
WEARING ONLY A CORSET, garters and stockings, all black, Bea knelt on the floor in Ralph’s room. The silk blindfold, also black, made for a taut band about her head, the ticking of the wall clock her only means of tracking the time, the floor planks both bruising and cold beneath her bare knees. Her hands weren’t bound, but she’d folded them behind her, the right hand cuffing the left wrist just as he’d instructed. It hadn’t seemed so very bad at first. She’d supposed his latest lesson would involve him stepping into the outer chamber for five minutes, perhaps ten.
The clock’s chiming confirmed he’d been gone almost an hour.
In the course of waiting, the floor had come to feel cold and hard beneath her bare knees, uncomfortably so. Her bare backside felt goosefleshy. Surely her last lesson in submission, in pleasure, needn’t include contracting a fever. Had she known he meant to make her wait so very long, she would have asked for a cushion at the very least. But then she supposed creature comforts would detract from the edginess swiftly transforming to desperate impatience.
She’d never been a patient person. In point, she abhorred waiting. Ralph no doubt knew that just as he seemed to innately know nearly everything else about her.
She briefly considered yanking off the blindfold, rising and fetching a pillow from the bed to spare her knees, a blatant violation of the “rules” Ralph had set and to which she had agreed.
You are to hold this position, this very posture, until I return and release you. Until I do, you may not move, you may not rise, not to scratch your nose, not even to relieve yourself. If you do, I shall know of it. And Beatrice, my beautiful wicked Beatrice, I shall punish you.
The heat in his eyes when he’d pronounced “punish” had made her instantly wet. And throbbing. And shivery in a way that had nothing to do with kneeling near naked on a cold floor in a drafty room.
She reminded herself she was free to rise and leave at any time. Whenever she wished, she was at liberty to tug the blindfold free, put her clothes back on and walk out the door. Given that she was taking the train back to London on the morrow, she might quite possibly never look Ralph in the face again. All her scandalous explorations, all the deliciously dirty things they’d done together would be as good as erased.
Only she didn’t want any of it—him—erased. She didn’t really want to be free, not if free meant living apart from Ralph. The choice was hers. The only bond fettering her was her need.
The bald truth was she wasn’t submitting to anything at all. Nothing was being imposed upon her that she had not expressly consented to, that she didn’t dearly want. Searching one’s soul could be a “dodgy” thing or so Hattie might say. Certainly this latest lesson was forcing her to face yet another uncomfortable, inconvenient self-truth.
It satisfied some need within her personality to beg.
Deep within herself, she harbored some heretofore dark, secret need to subjugate herself to another’s will, to lose herself to the pleasure and the darkness, desires that must never ever see the light of day, desires which after this week, she must put away forever.
But not just anyone would do. Ralph, it must be Ralph. She liked giving him power over her, sexual power. Beyond that, she would have liked giving him everything, all of her, including her heart.
Complete submission, her last lesson in pleasure, promised to culminate in her greatest reward. But first, where was he?
RALPH PACED HIS SITTING AREA, glass of Scotch in hand. Under the guise of a “lesson,” he’d left Beatrice nearly naked, blindfolded and kneeling on the floor. The reality was he was working up the courage to tell her he loved her and to ask her to break off her engagement to Billingsby. He’d never felt more out of his depth in all his life. Once he took her blindfold off, he would have to look into her eyes, her beautiful eyes, and find the courage to say either “I love you” or “goodbye.” His hands shook so badly that a measure of Scotch lopped onto his knuckles, obliging him to set the glass aside.
Toenails clicking on the uncovered floorboards alerted him that he was no longer alone. He snapped up his head. His gaze aligned with that of his unanticipated visitor, and he released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Toby, how did you get in here?”
Toby, Rourke’s brindle-colored mastiff, loped up to him and sniffed at his pocket. The dog was nearly the size of a miniature pony but without any trace of equine grace. Since his master’s marriage, he’d lived as Kate’s shadow. The improbable pair could be seen making their rounds about the castle. And yet the beast seemed to have a canny knack for knowing when someone in the household was in distress.
“What are you looking at?” Ralph demanded, willing the animal to go away.
Only Toby didn’t appear inclined to go anywhere. He cocked his massive head to the side and nudged Ralph’s hand with his nose. The nudging ratcheted to full force bumping. Backing up, Ralph held up his hands.
“Bad Toby, stop that. Stop that at once.”
He couldn’t be sure, but he almost fancied the animal was deliberately pushing him toward the bedroom door. His back bumping up against the knob confirmed it.
Looking enormously pleased, Toby wagged his tail encouragingly, the thing lashing at Ralph’s legs like a whip cord. The bloody beast had him pinned against the bedroom door!
Ralph reached down, scratching the dog’s head to distract him even as he tried maneuvering himself around the massive and implacable body. “Move.”
He tried giving the dog a push back, but Toby wouldn’t budge. The dog seemed to be digging in his heels, all four of them. He fixed Ralph with a maddeningly determined look that made Ralph think of Kate, his mistress. Come to think of it, they did both have amber-colored eyes.
“Take care, Toby,” Ralph said, giving up the fight and reaching for the doorknob. “Sticking one’s nose in the romantic affairs of others brings the very devil to pay.”
BEA WOULD LATER REFLECT that she must have nodded off because the door’s opening sent her starting. Footfalls belonging to a male shod in slippers rather than boots or shoes made steady progress toward her.
“Ralph,” she called into the blackness, heart hitching.
Silence greeted her. Still, it must be Ralph, it must! If anyone else were to discover her as she was, there would be no further cause for fretting upon the future. There would be no cause for fretting about anything at all, for she would, she hoped, expire upon the spot.
Strong hands seized firm but gentle hold of her. “Ralph,” she said again, this time with a smile, for his scent of lemon and bay rum told her it was he as much as his touch.
“I’m so sorry. Dear Lord, Beatrice, I’m so very sorry.” Sliding an arm beneath her, he lifted her against him and buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder.
“It’s all right, Ralph.” Still blindfolded, she reached up to comfort him, her fingers finding his sandpapery cheek. “You came,” she breathed, winding her arms about his neck. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized, not fully, how very close she’d come to fearing he might not.
“Sorry, so sorry…” He repeated the regret as though it was a mantra.
He lifted her from the ground. Cocooned in a dark, weightless world with only Ralph to anchor her, Bea had never felt more safe or grounded in all her life. She rested her head against what must be his shoulder and absorbed his scent, his solidness and his warmth.
Halting, he lowered her. After an hour of kneeling on hardwood, his bed felt wondrously soft, like a cloud she alone occupied. Only she didn’t wish to be alone any longer, not tonight, not evermore.
“Ralph.” She stretched out her arms in appeal.
His hands slipped behind her head, tugging the blindfold free. “I love you.”
Not certain she’d heard him properly, Bea blinked and looked up at him. Hair mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it and gaze stark, he was hands-down the most beautiful sight she would ever behold.
“You love me?”
“I do.” He eased onto the bed beside her and then moved to cover her, trailing whisper-light kisses over her neck, her breasts and her belly. “I love you.” His stroking hand moved to the inside of her thigh, his palm warm and his touch both gentle and flawlessly knowing. Parting her thighs, he pressed soft kisses on the insides. “I love you.” He fitted a hand between and filled her with his fingers.
Happy tears filled her eyes. Both her heart and body felt poised to explode. She reached down, cinching a stalling hand about his wrist. “I love you, too,” she said again, this time freely and without fear. She briefly considered telling him about the broken off engagement, but stopped herself, not wanting to spoil the magic.
Resting back to rest on his heels, he regarded her. “I’m glad.”
Gorgeously engorged, his penis was thicker and longer than she’d ever before known him to be. Only looking up at him, she felt the throbbing intensify, the longing so stark, so raw it bordered on pain.
“I want you inside me. Please, Ralph,” she added, not because she needed to beg anymore, but because she simply liked saying the word along with his name.
He reached for the tin of French Letters setting out on his nightstand, took one out and began rolling it on.
“Oh, no, please, don’t,” she said, surprising them both. “I want you, just you.”