Bound with Honor

by Megan Mulry

He turned slightly to face him. “Yes?”

  The other man shook his head sadly, but Archie merely grimaced. “There’s no need for any histrionics, old friend.” He secured the fastenings on his coat. “Selina’s made her choice, and I see I must learn how to live with it.”

  “Archie, no!” Christopher’s face was etched with rage, the gas streetlamps casting him in a demonic light. “You also have a choice in this matter. Don’t do this. Don’t discard her because she is—”

  “Discard her?” He nearly spit the words. “Me? Discard her? How could you possibly say such a thing? She just told me she is in love with someone else.” He broke after that. Came apart completely. His stomach was as tight as a fist; his spine felt as if it were disintegrating into a crumbling stack of vertebrae. He turned quickly to take hold of a nearby wrought iron fence that separated Devonshire House from the riffraff of Piccadilly, lest he slip to the ground like some actress with a touch of the vapors. Now he despised himself just as much as he despised all these hideous liars and cheats who’d called themselves friends.

  “I’m leaving,” he announced formally. “If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed coolly to Christopher, as if they’d only just met at Almack’s, then strode toward Camburton House. He could walk there far faster than any carriage could take him. He would change out of this preposterous costume and simply disappear.

  “Archie, don’t!” Christopher yelled, chasing after him. He realized he had never heard his friend raise his voice, not once in twenty years. Such a charming effect his wife had on everyone’s equilibrium.

  He scraped his palms over his face, but did not turn to look back. “God damn it, Christopher, I won’t share her. Not like that.”

  Christopher wheeled him around by the shoulders, forcing him to face Christopher. Without actually hurting him, he gave Christopher a rough shove, and strode away without a word. He reached Camburton House in less than a quarter of an hour. The two footmen in the hall would have plenty of gossip to share with the rest of the servants over breakfast tomorrow. The thought spurred him on even more. He ran up the stairs to his suite and began tearing off the infernal Greek toga.

  “May I assist you, my lord?” Reynolds was there. Of course he was.

  “No, you may not.” He no longer cared that he sounded rude.

  “My lord—”

  He turned on his valet and nearly struck him. “I am going to dress myself alone. And then I am going out into the city alone. If you care to have a position when I return, I suggest you leave this room at once.”

  Without a word, Reynolds bowed and turned to leave.

  “And don’t you ever bow to me again.”

  The door closed quietly. He knew he was destroying everything in his path, but he didn’t flinch. In fact, he welcomed the sensation. Destruction was so much swifter than creation, he realized. Let the viruses attack the innocents. Let the fields choke with weeds and lack of attention. Let Camburton Castle rot. He would make his way into the stews of the city, to the darkest corners with the most wretched wastrels, and he would remember why he was put on this earth. To help the poor. To heal the sick. Not to play bedroom games with an oversexed young woman who laughed at him while she pranced into the beds of others. He decided to forgo his watch and family ring, bringing only a pile of coin and paper money.

  He stormed out into the night and headed east. As he passed St. George’s Hanover Square, he was reminded of his dear sister Georgie. The last time he’d been here was to celebrate her marriage. Georgie had written from Cairo just last week to say that she and Trevor and James would be home by the New Year. He’d envisioned all sorts of harmonious scenarios, with shared parties at Camburton Castle, or Mayfield House, where Georgie would be living with Trevor Mayson and James Rushford. And he had envisioned his beautiful bride on his arm, and perhaps her beautiful friend as well.

  Alas.

  Archie was dead tired of alas. He wanted to kick alas in the throat.

  He began to walk farther east through the dark, snowy streets. Maybe if he walked long enough and far enough, he wouldn’t be a marquess anymore.

  He headed along Oxford Street, meandering through smaller streets where drunkards and louts emerged, laughing and raucous, from bawdy houses or gambling hells. Wending his way slowly through the fashionable parts of Russell Square, he saw housemaids and cooks about their predawn chores; he continued east for many miles. He ended up in Spa Fields and rested in the park as the winter dawn crept through the branches of the desiccated, bare boughs. One sad bird began to trill weakly and Archie let his chin fall to his chest. She could fall in love with a songbird, he thought miserably.

  He recalled that dismal morning at Rockingham, how the dawn had been so glorious. Even through his fury and hurt pride, he’d known that his reaction to seeing Selina with Constance Forrester was merely further proof of his passion. He’d known when he’d seen Selina’s eyes that night, with that corrupt villainess making love to her bosom, that Selina had been distraught. Still, it had seemed so much easier to default to convention and run. If she hadn’t been waiting for him in the foyer the next morning, he might have even been able to convince himself it was all for the best.

  But Selina had been waiting in the corridor. And she had come into his lab while Christopher was . . . God, she was right. He could barely say the word “fuck,” even to himself in his very unquiet mind.

  “Fuck,” he snapped.

  There were a few tramps and vagrants in the grim park around him. One of them looked at him askance upon hearing the word. Archie realized that even in his most unassuming clothes, he was a glimmering specimen in the midst of all this squalor and depredation. He took a coin out of his pocket and gave it to the desperate man, toothless and filthy, curled into his rags to stave off the cold wind as best he could.

  Disgusted with himself and his comparatively insignificant problems, he walked out of the park and headed south to the river. His mind continued down the self-flagellating path. At least at Rockingham, he’d been wrong. The thought made him laugh bitterly. Better to be wrong? What pathetic reasoning was this?

  This time he was dead right. And it certainly didn’t make him feel any better.

  As he walked, he decided that if he was going to traipse around the city like some wandering fool, he might as well collect a bit of research. Jenner had mentioned clusters of infection in certain parts of the city, and Archie wanted to see for himself how the disease was spreading. While many members of Parliament and the upper class felt that diseases spreading in the poor areas of the city were merely the result of moral corruption—a form of social justice, even—Archie knew better than to think the smallpox virus had any care for morality or justice. It was blind and direct, perfectly clear in its mission to infect and kill.

  He walked for hours, entering the most hideous streets and alleys. He was accosted several times, and usually a tossed coin and an autocratic word of warning sufficed.

  Unfortunately, there were one or two more aggressive types, and he was forced to retaliate, finally resorting to punching one man in the jaw. It was unfortunate, mainly because doing so gave him such a visceral pleasure. He wanted to fight. He wanted to feel his fist slam against human flesh and bone. What a hypocrite! Down to his bones he was a liar. Help the poor and heal the sick, indeed. He wanted to destroy . . . everything.

  He wandered into the next night and all through the following day. He purchased questionable food from mangy street vendors; occasionally he slept under a tree for a few hours, pulling his coat around him. He wasn’t sure about the day of the week after a few such dozes. It was quite possible he’d slept for minutes or hours, and it didn’t seem to matter in any case.

  When he had given away his last bit of money, he started walking west along the Thames. Apparently he looked grimy (or crazy) enough to be of no further interest to thieves, because no one came near him after that. By the time he realized where he was, he was standing in front of Christopher’s lodgings at the Alb
any. The wizened man who guarded the entrance took a cursory look at the marquess and immediately welcomed him as if he’d arrived atop his shining curricle, perfectly turned out in his finest silk neck cloth.

  “Lord Camburton.”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Joseph. Is he receiving?”

  “Allow me to check. It won’t be a moment.” The unflappable man sent a young lad running. A few moments later, the breathless messenger reported formally that Mr. Joseph was “at home.”

  Archie showed himself through the front courtyard and into the main part of the former royal residence. He got to the top of the stairs and saw Christopher standing casually in the doorway to his flat holding a glass of something brownish and likely alcoholic.

  “Have you taken to drinking in the morning?” Archie tried to appear relaxed as he walked down the corridor toward his friend. Finding himself indoors felt strange and confining, and he had to measure his steps to walk in a straight line.

  “It’s six o’clock in the evening—Wednesday evening—Lord Camburton.”

  “Is it? I must’ve lost track of the time.”

  Christopher pulled the door wider to allow him entrance. “I think you may have lost far more than that, my friend. Christmas was yesterday—”

  The room began to swim, and he reached out to steady himself. The last he remembered hearing was Christopher’s desperate plea, “Not the Etruscan vase—” before collapsing to the floor.

  Despite her confusion and sadness—or because of it—Selina found peace in Beatrix’s arms that first night of Archie’s disappearance. But when the gray light of day crept into the guestroom overlooking the bare trees of Grosvenor Square, her feelings of loss and misery about Archie crept right in along with it. She cocooned her body closer against Bea’s and tried to keep the desolation at bay.

  “Are you all right, love?” Bea whispered.

  “No.” She had never been able to lie, or even equivocate, with Bea, nor Bea to her. It was one of the things they most loved about each other.

  “Tell me what you love about him, why he is worth fighting for.” Bea gently stroked her shoulder.

  She lifted her chin and looked into Bea’s sleepy eyes. Bea’s dark-chestnut hair framed her strong face, and Selina was filled with a profound gratitude. “How can you be so wise?”

  Bea kissed her forehead. “I’m not wise. At least, I don’t think I am. I see you. I love you. I see you love this man. I want to know everything you feel. And why. He is struggling. You are struggling. For some reason, I don’t feel like I need to struggle when I am with you.”

  Selina hugged her close, loving the feel of their naked skin against skin—stomach against stomach, thighs against thighs, breasts against breasts. It wasn’t an erotic feeling, exactly, it was more of a grounding, anchoring feeling of humanity, of being part of all humanity, connected.

  “Oh, Bea. He is so good.” Selina rested her cheek against Bea’s shoulder. “He’s sincere and eager and brilliant and . . . in many ways he’s trapped in all sorts of conventional prisons. But he is his own gaoler.”

  “So you must free him.” Bea started to kiss Selina along her neck and then her shoulder.

  “Like you freed me?”

  “If you like . . .” Bea whispered near her ear, then bit her lobe playfully. “You were so full of rights and wrongs when I met you. So agitated. All fear and righteousness and adamancy.” She kissed along Selina’s neck. “Pushing every which way.”

  Selina pushed her hips against Bea’s. “I thought you liked that about me.”

  “Mmm,” Bea hummed as she nudged her onto her back and slowly pulled the sheet lower to reveal her breasts. Her nipples puckered immediately from the cool air in the bedroom and the nearness of Bea’s warm lips. Beatrix cupped one of her breasts and took the tip into her mouth, sucking gently and humming.

  Her back arched and her hips pressed up against Bea’s stomach. “And it is not all Archie’s fault either. You were right—I must have been equivocating in some way, afraid to tell him the true nature of what is between us.” She gasped. “You are distracting me . . .”

  Bea’s mouth came away, and she blew on Selina’s breast teasingly. “You are distracting me, darling. I can’t get enough of you. Archie will come back. And if you want to go speak with him alone, you should. Or if you want me to go with you, I will do that too. If you want me to make love to you while he watches, I will do that.”

  The thought sent a thrilling desire up her spine. “You would do that?” She was awash in a terrible combination of guilt and desire.

  “Mmm, I would love to show him how much I love you.”

  She arched into Bea’s touch and raked her hand through Bea’s long, dark hair. “Would you come to bed with both of us?”

  Beatrix exhaled gently, and her warm breath tickled Selina’s skin. “Oh, my love. When he was touching you the other night, the fire in your eyes was so beautiful. I want to touch you—kiss you here—” Bea pressed her hand against Selina’s mound “—while he touches you in that possessive way of his. You will simply combust, I know it. I want that for you.”

  “I love you.” Lifting her head from the pillow, Selina looked Bea in the eye as she touched her cheek and smiled. Her head fell back to the pillow. “And it seems I also love Archie.”

  “Tsk-tsk. Poor Selina has too much love in her heart,” Bea teased as she kissed the skin over Selina’s beating heart for emphasis. Then she returned her gaze, no longer teasing. “I revel in your happiness. Do you hear me? I want your happiness.”

  “Yes,” Selina replied, her throat tight. “I hear you and I love you and I want your happiness too.”

  Bea rested her cheek on Selina’s breast and sighed. “This is my happiness. You. And the freedom you give me to play my music and to come home to you when I can, with that glow of love in your eyes and no censure and the warmth and tenderness—”

  “Stop, you’re going to make me cry again.”

  “Cry all you want. I love your tears as much as your laughter. Do you know what I loved about being away? I loved being in Berlin or Milan and thinking, ‘Selina is here in my heart.’” She patted her own chest. “‘Selina loves me and I love her. I know Selina will be there when I get home.’ While I was gone, I realized that you had become a fact of my life. I see all these people running around, frantically searching for trust, for comfort. And I have it. I have it with you.”

  She wept quietly as Bea spoke, and replied haltingly. “That’s exactly how I feel.” She wiped her eyes. “I know now that I didn’t make that clear to Archie, that I was immature and selfish in my desire to just float through the wonders of our lovemaking without confessing the truth of my feelings for you. I knew deep down he would not approve, and I dreaded that. I think he must have assumed—probably logically on his part—that I would cast you aside or something like that, because he and I had fallen in love. But when he accepted you, I just assumed. Was there the seed of wary questioning in the back of my mind? Yes, I think all men dismiss the notion of passion among women because—” she choked out a bitter laugh “—where would that leave them?”

  Bea smiled up at her. “Well, it’s all out in the open now. He will come around. He must.” She leaned down and kissed the slight swell over Selina’s womb. “He must,” she repeated reverently, “for you and the babe.”

  “I know. But— Oh, but the look on his face last night!” She turned away from Bea and put her face into the pillow.

  “It’s all right, love. It’s all going to be all right.” Bea pulled the sheets and blankets over them as she settled in behind Selina and wrapped her body protectively around hers. “Shh, just try to sleep for now. He’ll be back today or tomorrow— I’m certain he’ll return before Christmas. We will make him see that I am not a threat to his happiness.”

  Somehow she was able to get a few more hours of sleep and then, when the butler informed them the marquess was still not at home, the two of them spent the rest of the morning walking
through the park. She continued to chastise herself for her lack of clarity with him, for not telling Archie directly that Beatrix was her lover in every sense of the word. But she knew now she had to make him see that this made their life much richer, rather than the other way round.

  That night after supper, when Archie had still not returned home, she began to worry about far more than their tangled love affairs. She wrote to Vanessa and Christopher, asking if they’d received word from him, and directed the messenger to wait for a reply. She wouldn’t hear back from Vanessa for several days, but perhaps Christopher would know where Archie had gone.

  “Is the marquess always so rash?” Bea asked the next morning.

  Selina laughed bitterly. “Never. Except when it comes to me, apparently. Then always.”

  She proceeded to tell Bea what had happened at Rockingham, everything about Constance, and Archie’s hasty, furtive departure the next morning.

  “I remember meeting Constance in Edinburgh a few years ago, before you and I had met. She was a bit overconfident for my taste. Sounds as if you handled her perfectly.”

  Selina shrugged. “I don’t know if I handled her at all. But it was satisfying to stand by the servant’s bellpull and know I was quite prepared to actually pull it.”

  Bea held her close in a one-armed hug. “Yes. That’s what I meant. You are your own mistress now.”

  Something fluttered in her chest when Bea said it in just that way, reminding her how Archie frequently called her his loving mistress when he was being tender. “I’m different when I’m with Archie. In bed, I mean.”

  Bea gave her a knowing look. “I should hope so.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  “Perhaps in time I will see for myself.” She smiled. “But yesterday morning, when I asked what you loved about him, I hadn’t meant to inquire after your lovemaking. I only meant . . .” Bea looked at the sparkling, snow-edged trees, and farther afield at the pale winter sunshine across Grosvenor Square. “I wanted to know your heart, if that makes sense. What you do in bed with Archie is private . . . between you and Archie. I don’t need to pry apart what you two have. I know what we have; I know what you like with me,” she added with a little bump of her hip against Selina’s as they walked.