“She could do it,” Sara said. “She really could.”
Polly tucked Sara’s braid over her shoulder. “If she sees beauty in a wallowing pig, Sister mine, it’s because you showed her where to look.”
* * *
The trip to Portsmouth took the entire day, much of which Sara spent reading Mansfield Park to Beck on the wagon’s seat, while wishing she’d chosen a less judgmental tale.
As the day had progressed, she’d droned on with her book, not knowing how to manage a real topic of conversation. Her mind in the past week had been too divided, too busy—too worried. Now she had three nights with Beckman ahead of her, three days with him as well, and she wasn’t ready.
Judging from his increasingly silent mood, maybe he wasn’t either.
The inn was lovely, and Sara was made keenly aware Beckman—the male half of “Squire and Mrs. Sylvanus”—knew exactly how to manage himself there. He greeted the innkeeper with the perfect blend of cordiality and condescension to guarantee attentive service, and the suite of rooms they were shown to was comfortable, spotless, and possessed of an enormous bed. Tea and scones with jam and butter appeared within minutes of their baggage being brought up.
Sara glanced around the room, noting a fresh bouquet of roses on the sideboard and lace curtains on each window. “This is every bit as nice as Three Springs itself.”
“I would tolerate no lesser accommodation for you.” Beck eyed her across the little sitting room, and Sara understood clearly: The Subject Had Changed. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do, Sarabande Adagio. Will you allow me some privileges while we’re away from Three Springs?”
Her expression must have given her thoughts away, for Beck smiled.
“Not that,” he said. “Well, yes, that, soon and in all its glorious permutations, but we’ll settle in here first, bathe, have our meal, and enjoy some anticipation, if that’s acceptable to you.”
He was sophisticated enough to enjoy anticipation, while Sara experienced worry.
“That’s acceptable.” She swallowed, because five syllables had left her mouth dry. Beck sidled over to her, his walk predatory and just plain… erotic.
“Let me be your lady’s maid, Sarabande.” He leaned in and ran his nose along her jaw. “I want to take your hair down, and I don’t mean simply take the pins out to free your braid. I want to see it completely unbound, your hair in all its glory. The frustration of never having seen you thus, the anticipation of seeing you thus, has kept me up nights.”
The husky, intimate note in his voice made her insides flutter, but she didn’t move, didn’t glide over to their luggage, find her hairbrush, and set it into his waiting hand.
She’d never glided in her life.
“Beckman, I don’t know…” Beck’s fingers brushed along her nape.
“You don’t have to know.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her spine. “You just have to trust that I’ll know, and when the time comes, you’ll know too. Let me.” He got down to business, relieving her hair of pins with deft dispatch. He piled his finds neatly on the vanity then guided Sara by the shoulders to sit on the stool facing the folding mirror. He fished in her traveling bag, while Sara watched in silent alarm as he produced the hairbrush.
“I’ve ordered you a bath,” Beck said, his hands on her shoulders drawing her back against his thighs. “And I’ve a few things to see to while you soak, but the tub will be put in the bedroom, and if you shut the door, dinner can be set up out here. Will that suit?”
“Of course.” Good heavens, what did people talk about in situations like this?
“I want to make this weekend special, Sara.” Beck got her braid free, and it uncoiled down Sara’s back until he caught it in his hands and untied the ribbon at the end. “I realized as we approached the town that where you see the beauty of the place, I see only the many, many times I left my homeland from these shores, or came back to it, exhausted in body and spirit, wondering what the point was of the excursion.”
He paused as he unbraided three thick skeins of hair. “Sometimes, I wondered what the point of my entire excursion on earth was. Portsmouth was so pretty, so bright and busy, while I—”
He gathered her hair up in his hands. In the mirror, Sara watched as he buried his nose in bright, coppery tresses.
“While you?” She wanted to hear the rest of his recitation, wanted it badly enough to lose sight of her worry.
“My brother had found me in an opium den, doing my utmost to shuffle off this mortal coil. For much of the journey home, the drugs were leaving my system. At the time, I thought it fitting I should endure such an ordeal while at sea.”
This was important, also sad. “There is opium in Portsmouth, Beckman. There’s opium in any town with an apothecary, and many people believe a small amount has no untoward consequences.”
He dropped her hair, and in the mirror seemed to stand very tall behind her. “There was sunshine in Portsmouth, blinding sunshine, the gulls wheeling overhead, the hum and bustle of commerce on the dock. There was something of the essential goodness of an English town. I think sometimes I was saved by a delayed case of homesickness.”
“Saved?” She raised the question, because her heart would have said a part of Beckman, as competent, hale, and confident as he was, was still at sea.
Beck’s mouth tipped up in a wry smile. “Your hair should be a wonder of the modern world.” He resumed running his hands through the unbound mass of it. “It’s every bit as soft and silky as I imagined, and how other women must envy you its beauty.”
“It’s just hair.” Nowhere near as important as the words Beckman had given her regarding his past. She wanted to pry, to ask questions, to rant at him that doubting the gift of life was beneath him and a sin and something he must never do again.
Except she had entertained the same doubts herself.
“I used to brush out my little sisters’ hair,” Beck said, smoothing the brush through her locks. “Ethan was their favorite, since he was the oldest, but then he left, and Nick went a little crazy, so I became the consolation big brother. You can’t tease a sister as hard when you’ve braided her hair.”
“You probably can’t taunt a brother as hard when he’s braided your hair, either.”
“Verily.” Beck put the brush aside a few moments later and stroked his fingers through her hair. “I was brilliant and just didn’t know it. I spiked my sisters’ guns with a hairbrush.”
“Is Nick still a little crazy?”
His hands paused in her hair then resumed their slow caresses.
“Yes. I think maybe he is, but there’s hope, since he and Ethan are at least talking, and maybe when he sees Ethan survived his banishment, Nick can get on about his life.”
“Banishment?”
“Banishment.” Beck’s touch became more businesslike as he divided her hair into three thick sections. “My papa found it a useful tool with his sons, and I’ve been regularly banished myself—until Nick fetched me back from Paris.”
“Beckman?”
“Love?”
“Why did Nicholas fetch you back from Paris?”
“Ah.” He began to braid her hair. “I asked him once, because I wondered the same thing. Going to France was very risky, and the earl has two other legitimate sons, so I was clearly expendable. Nick simply did not agree with Papa’s assessment that I’d sort myself out in time. George had just left the schoolroom, and Dolph was still with his tutors. Nick was unwilling to carp at them to see to the succession. Hence, I needed to be retrieved.”
“Your brother fetched you home so you could remarry?” Sara could not keep her distaste for his brother’s motives from her voice. “Why couldn’t your idiot brother do his duty by the title? He’s the heir.”
“Since I went up to school, Nick has been hinting and warning and outright lecturing me he will not be having children. It’s most of the reason why I married. The spare’s purpose in life is to provide that service if the heir can�
�t. I gave it my best try, or so I tell him and Papa, and I failed. That’s where I leave the discussion, and now Nicholas is marrying, apparently, but the lectures haven’t stopped.”
“I would like to meet this somewhat crazy brother of yours,” Sara said. “I would tell him what I think of his selfishness.”
“Nick isn’t selfish, but his situation makes him seem so sometimes.” Beck sounded as if he were trying to convince himself of this. “When you finish your bath, don’t dress. We’ll serve ourselves, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.” Sara rose, relieved and a little surprised when Beck took her in his arms and just held her.
“My thanks.”
“For?” She wanted to glance up, assess his mood, but his chin was resting on her temple, contentment in his sigh.
“Letting me take down your hair, coming here with me, letting me hold you.”
Letting him?
“It might come as a surprise to you, Beckman Sylvanus Haddonfield, but you are a comely man, full of charm and clean about your person. Spending time with you like this is no hardship. No hardship at all.” Though it was a challenge. Moment by moment, whether he was sharing his past, taking down her hair, or merely holding her, it was a challenge.
“You’re so fierce.” Beck’s smile curved against her brow. “But your bath will be here soon, and I’d best be about my errands.” He patted her backside, a curiously endearing gesture, and stepped back. As he took his leave, a troop of maids and footmen brought in Sara’s bath and washing water, leaving her to soak in peace and to wonder what errands the Haddonfield spare was about.
Eleven
By the time Beckman had returned to their rooms, the tub was gone, a tea cart laden with dinner had been set up near the window, and Sara was beginning to fret a little at his absence.
“Miss me?” He set down some packages and crossed directly to wrap his arms around her. “Your fragrances are enough to drive me to distraction, Sarabande.”
“You’ve bathed as well.” Sara got a nice whiff of bergamot, citrus, and Beck. She buried her nose against his sternum and wondered when his embrace had come to feel like home and a private adventure rolled into one.
She tilted back to peer up at him. “Just how tall are you?”
“A bit shy of six and a half feet.” Beck peered right back at her. “I’m not the runt in my family—that honor belongs to George, who’s all of three or four inches shorter. Nick is taller.”
“God in heaven. The poor man, no wonder he’s somewhat crazy.”
“Why do you say that?” Beck slipped his arms from her and moved to shrug out of his jacket. Sara’s hands went to his shoulders, helping him out of his coat then turning him to unknot his cravat.
“A man that size will have little privacy,” Sara said. “He’s always visible, and people likely see only his size, like people see only my red hair. You are tall enough to know what that feels like, to be seen only as an oversized physical specimen. Even North is regarded by most as more brute than gentleman, at least until they hear him speak.”
Beck lifted his chin, suggesting to Sara that other women had assisted him out of his clothes. His cuff links came next, and then his waistcoat.
“Tell me, love,” Beck said as she started on the buttons of his shirt. “Are we to allow me any clothing during our meal?”
Sara dropped her hands and stepped back. “I beg your pardon. I wasn’t… Oh, dear…”
“Dear heart,” Beck said, pulling her into his embrace, “you may undress me any time. My dressing gown hangs on the back of the bedroom door, and then I’ll be at least as unclothed as you.”
She nodded, face flaming, and Beck sat to tug off his boots.
“Were you your husband’s valet?” Beck asked as Sara brought him his blue velvet dressing gown.
“I was not.” She took a surreptitious sniff of his fragrance from his dressing gown. “I liked sleeping in your dressing gown. It’s very warm and soft.” She sniffed again, crushing it to her nose. “And it bears your fragrance.”
Beck grinned, rose, and tugged his shirt off over his head. “Naughty, but flattering. And here I resent your dressing gown no end and can think of nothing other than getting you out of it.” His breeches, stockings, and smalls were gone, just like that, leaving him naked in the middle of the sitting room.
“Beckman…” Sara turned her face away, another blush gracing her cheeks. “You are shameless.” Also beautiful and desirable.
“So you be shameless too.” Beck padded to her side and took his dressing gown from her hands. “Enjoy a little peek, Sara. Get some ideas for how you want to spend the rest of the evening, hmm?” He shook out his dressing gown and shrugged into it, while Sara did, indeed, risk a glance at him before he belted it at his waist.
Dinner was simple but satisfying. They talked as they ate, about the book Sara had read, about their shopping itinerary for the next day, about the city of Portsmouth, which Beck seemed to know thoroughly. They also talked of sights on the Continent they’d both seen, finding on at least two occasions they’d stayed in the same inns, though not at the same time.
“Why didn’t you use London as your port of call?” Sara asked. “Portsmouth had to be a little remote, given your family lives in Kent.”
“When one wants anonymity about one’s comings and goings, London is not one’s first choice. Then too, I got in the habit of putting in at the smaller ports.”
He crossed his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “Shall we take in a little evening air?” He rose, not waiting for her answer but holding her chair for her and wrapping her hand in his. “It’s dark enough we’ll have privacy on the balcony.”
He was right on two counts. While they had talked and eaten and talked some more, night had fallen. Then too, their inn was on the edge of town and their room at the back. From their balcony, they could see the moon rising over the fields and pastures used by the inn’s dozens of coaching horses.
“Pretty night.” Beck settled his arms around Sara, holding her back to his chest. “And lucky me, I’m in the company of a pretty lady.” His lips grazed the side of Sara’s neck, and just like that, the pleasant meal with the congenial gentleman was over.
“Beckman, we need to talk.” She pulled away from his embrace, relieved he let her go without resistance.
“I’m listening.” He came to her side, where she stood against the railing, facing out toward the moonlit countryside. He didn’t try to touch her, but Sara was abundantly aware of him nonetheless.
“You asked earlier did I valet my husband,” Sara began. “And you let it drop when I answered in the negative.”
“I am bent on seduction, Sara.” Beck’s voice held a hint of humor. “What was I doing, bringing up the man you chose for your mate, and your intimate ease with the business of helping him undress? Not well done of me, but I was curious.”
“I never…” Sara glanced at him in the moonlight and saw his expression was cool, for all the humor in his tone. “That’s what we need to talk about. You need to understand the way I was married.”
“Unhappily,” Beck said. “I wish for you it could have been different, just as I’m sure you wish the same for me.” He didn’t want to belabor the subject, which sparked Sara’s curiosity regarding Beck’s brief and ill-fated marriage.
Sara crossed her arms over her chest and prepared to be more honest than she had thus far. “My marriage was not unhappy, Beckman, it was miserable, filled with bewilderment at first, and loathing, and then—thank God—a towering indifference to anything save the ways and degrees in which Reynard’s decisions impacted my survival, Polly’s, and Allie’s. He was my intimate enemy, by most lights.”
“You did not want to be performing on stage,” Beck concluded, and in the assurance of his tone, Sara understood that he was not merely being sympathetic. Beckman had been forced to perform somehow, perhaps solving the family problems, perhaps in his marriage.
Was he sti
ll being forced?
“I did not want to be performing on his terms, certainly,” Sara agreed. “And then Allie showed up, and it became perform or starve. I did not want to learn what desperate measures starvation might inspire in my husband.”
Beck tucked her braid over her shoulder. “That sounds ominous.”
Sara merely nodded, because the private performances were her most personal shame. Those and the things Polly had suffered because her sister could not protect her.
“I don’t like to think of it, though you need to know I do not come to this situation of ours with a great deal of experience.”
“Not with a great deal of good experience,” Beck said. “It can be my privilege to address that lack, if you’ll allow it.”
“I’m going to allow it.” The words were true, but they sounded far more confident than Sara felt. Far more calculating. “You have to understand, Beck, it’s… I’m selfish about this attraction between us. I’m indulging a curiosity, nothing more.”
He gazed out over the cool, silvery landscape. “You’re taking your pleasure from me, striking a blow at the weasel you were forced to support with your music. I understand.”
“You don’t.” Sara shook her head, amused at his words, sad though they were. Reynard’s teeth had been a trifle prominent. “But you aren’t wrong, either. You are a confection, Beckman. The male version of a woman’s dreams. Handsome, charming, kind, generous… It would be better for me did you scratch more in public, swear, have a fondness for cock fights, or put your muddy boots up on my tables.”
He turned so his backside rested against the balcony railing. “My sisters would skin me where I stood if I behaved like that. You deserve a man who is well mannered, clean, and considerate, Sara. Every woman does.”
“You aren’t simply well mannered, clean, and considerate. I think I’ve made my point as well as I’m able, particularly with you standing there in the moonlight in just your dressing gown.”
“Having trouble with rational discourse, are you?” Beck slipped an arm around her waist. “That’s a start.”
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