Beckman: Lord of Sins ll-4

by Grace Burrowes

  “Why weren’t you already soaking?” Beck asked as he waded in. The heat felt good, but it made him realize how tense he was, how primed for violence.

  “I come here to think.” North carefully negotiated the bank, and Beck could see well enough to realize the man was still moving gingerly. Very gingerly.

  “You idiot,” Beck chided, “what did you do while I was gone? Patch up the west boundary wall by yourself?”

  “You’ll see I did not when you ride out tomorrow and make sure the entire estate is exactly as you left it on Friday.” North eased one large foot into the water. “Now about this premature proposal you bungled so egregiously. I take it your manly charms were in adequate evidence to impress the lady?”

  Beck had to smile at North in an avuncular role, or perhaps at the fool who’d heed North’s advice. “You are going to diagnose my love life?”

  “Somebody had better. Sara is a sensible lady, and sensible women don’t turn down proposals from toothsome lordly pups like yourself.”

  “What are you?” Beck found the underwater ledge and lowered himself to it. “Five years my senior? Three?”

  “I am millennia your senior in experience, as is evident by my ability to perceive you rushed your fences.”

  “I married a woman I knew far less well than I do Sara.” Which did not refute North’s point.

  “And how did that turn out?” North asked, finding a seat several feet away, where the water would not be as hot.

  “Disastrously, for her, anyway.” And for him. In some ways, it turned out worse for him.

  “Maybe Sara doesn’t think she merits a man of your station. I, for one, am hesitant to ask any woman to shackle herself to me, and you must allow I am not the worst creature to crawl across Creation.”

  “Not quite. Our womenfolk like you, so you must have some endearing qualities. In deference to your sensitive nature, I will refrain from enumerating same, but minding your sore back is not one of them.”

  “A sore back will heal. A botched proposal will lie there, dying by inches, unless you revive it.”

  “Or put it out of its misery. I cannot fathom why she turned me down, North. I am a toothsome lordly pup, for all she knows, and the next thing to an earl’s heir.”

  North shifted to sink lower in the water. “You want to see a woman fidget, you ask her a question beginning with ‘Why did you…?’ Shuts her up faster than a loud fart in the churchyard.”

  He fell silent, while Beck began to think rather than simply rant.

  “I’m wealthy,” he said. “Not just comfortable, North. I’ve filthy, leaking pots of it, more than I could spend on three wives.”

  “And the great good taste to keep this vulgar state of affairs to yourself.” North grunted as he shifted under the water.

  “I’m not ugly.”

  North sighed, as if finding a more comfortable position—or tolerating another man’s brokenhearted maundering. “I will allow you your petty conceits regarding your appearance, which is passable.”

  “I have all my teeth.”

  No comment.

  “She’s says I’m kind, and I get on with Allie.”

  “Allie is a tolerant little soul. Witness: she likes me.”

  “Adores you and your horse, at least one of whom is passably good-looking.”

  “A female of discernment.”

  Beck swirled his hand through the steam rising from the pool. “I wonder if it’s not so much that Sara won’t marry me, and more that something impedes her from choosing freely.”

  North was silent for a few heartbeats. “Haddonfield, you have your moments of inspiration, few though they are in number. Did you bring your nancy soap?”

  “My future is imperiled here, and you want to scrub up?”

  “I fail to see how your love life, as you call some pretensions toward romping, will benefit by my eschewing a good wash. I can be both sympathetic and clean. How much do you know about Sara’s first marriage?”

  “I know Reynard was a cad who exploited her shamelessly,” Beck said slowly. “He was selfish in all the ways that matter—every one of them—and she hasn’t said it, but she was relieved when he died.” For which, Beck of all people did not blame her.

  North shrugged in the water, causing concentric ripples to fan away from him. “Maybe she’s just reluctant to remarry. Were you going to get that soap?”

  Beck rose in a shower of steaming water. “You don’t have to dissemble with me, your enfeebled lordship. I watched you try to navigate that bank.”

  “I don’t want to go sailing onto my arse when I’m naked as the day I was born, and have only you to lend assistance.”

  “Idiot.” Beck slogged to the bank, retrieved the soap, and lobbed it across the water at North. “Your back is killing you, and you are afraid if you fall, you won’t get up.”

  There was silence from the water, perhaps because North was as appalled as Beckman himself at this bald pronouncement.

  “Not killing me, precisely.” North put the soap to use on one muscular arm. “But muttering threats to that effect. I might have overdone it a bit riding into town on Saturday.”

  “On horseback,” Beck pressed, rejoining him in the water, “or did you for once show a little common sense and take the wagon?”

  Another silence.

  “If it wouldn’t threaten you with permanent lameness, I’d thrash the daylights out of you, North. What can you be thinking?”

  “Well… as to that.” North swished around in the water to rinse. “I wasn’t really thinking.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, I was not. Soap?”

  Beck swiped it out of his hand and began scrubbing vigorously. “Did something rob you of your feeble wits?”

  “Someone.” North’s teeth gleamed as he smiled wistfully in the dark.

  “Hauled your ashes, did she?” Beck paused to smile back at him, relieved at least somebody had enjoyed their weekend—more like two somebodies.

  “Not quite.” North’s smile faded. “But she appended a little lecture to our dealings, you see, and I was disconcerted to be told I needn’t be proposing, for she’d turn me down flat were I to wax inconveniently chivalrous. I’m well suited to a little rustic diversion, but not the kind of man who need offer marriage. I believe this rejection was offered in an attempt to encourage my dishonorable attentions on future occasions.”

  He shut Beck up for about five long seconds, because a speech of that length from North required pondering.

  “Sorry, North.” Beck pitched the soap onto the bank. “You didn’t even get to propose before she was handing you your boots.”

  “Rather puts your situation in perspective.”

  “Women.” It was said in unison, part prayer, part curse, and all bewilderment.

  * * *

  “I think North’s back is finally improving,” Sara said as she helped Polly with the last of the tidying up after supper.

  “It should have taken days, not weeks.” Polly blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “He is the most stubborn man I’ve ever met, and if it were getting cooler, not warmer, I doubt his back would be healing at even this rate. Shall we have a cup of tea?”

  “We shall not. I’m going to tuck Allie in, and then get the laundry handed around.”

  “Wasn’t Allie supposed to do that?”

  “She did the chickens for me instead. I don’t think she’s cut out to be a housekeeper. She will always choose the outdoor task over the indoor task.”

  “You’re outside plenty.” Polly rinsed out a washcloth, and started going over the counters one last time while Sara did the same with the table.

  “I am, but if I were keeping house in a less rural setting, say in Bath or York, I’d be a creature of the house, and the maids and footmen would be the ones beating the rugs and so on.”

  “And are you thinking Bath or York might bear consideration?”

  She was. With a third polite, ominous letter from Tremaine, Sara
was indeed thinking of housekeeping elsewhere. Sara glanced at Polly over her shoulder and saw her sister expected an answer.

  “When did you get so perceptive, little Polonaise?”

  “When I turned sixteen. I do not want to leave here, Sara. The place is just coming to life, and Allie is comfortable here.”

  “She doesn’t know any better.” Sara finished the table and draped her rag over the back of a chair. “Would you be as attached to Three Springs if North weren’t here?”

  “Would you be as anxious to leave if Beckman weren’t here?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes.” Polly wrung out her rag within an inch of its wet little life. “Ouch.”

  “I don’t think North will stay much longer, Polly.” Sara kept her tone gentle, though she hurt for her sister.

  “I’m counting on him leaving.” Polly crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “Not really counting on it, but assuming it will come to pass. I just hope…”

  “There was your first mistake.” Sara surveyed the kitchen tiredly. “No hoping, Polly, you’re less likely to be disappointed that way.”

  “What a cheerful lady you’ve become. Since your little visit to Portsmouth, you’ve been distracted, Sara.”

  “Since getting Tremaine’s first letter.”

  Polly studied the pots that hung from the rafters like so many weapons in an armory. “So answer the man. Don’t give him an excuse to come calling and start charming Allie away from all good sense.”

  “God in heaven.” Sara’s expression blanked with dismay. “You don’t think he’d follow in Reynard’s footsteps?”

  “If he follows in any of Reynard’s footsteps,” Polly rejoined darkly, “I’ll cook him a meal he won’t live to digest.”

  Polly took herself off to bed on that note, leaving Sara to deliver the various piles of clean laundry around the house. But Sara considered the prospect of trundling up and down several sets of steps, several times, and possibly running into Beckman—polite, friendly Beckman, whose eyes in the days since they’d been to Portsmouth always held a hint of a question—and decided Allie could handle that chore in the morning.

  Allie could not, however, write a reply letter to Tremaine St. Michael.

  Directing her steps to the library, Sara tried to draft the letter in her mind. She got out pen, paper, sand, and ink, and stared at the blank page, then managed, “Dear Tremaine.”

  Dear Tremaine? Dear?

  “I thought you’d be in bed by now.” Beckman stood at the door, looking tired, damp from his nightly soak, and wary.

  Sara gave him a tentative smile. “Trying to see to some correspondence. Do you need the desk?”

  “Just some ink.” Beck sidled into the room and propped a hip on the desk, surveying her. “So how fare you, Sara Hunt?”

  The question was there in his eyes, and a hint of concern too. Sara stared at the inkwell rather than look on either. “I’m tired. You?”

  “Tired as well. May I ask you a question?”

  She braced herself for some scathing inquiry, though his manner was not belligerent. “Of course.”

  “It’s been nearly two weeks since we returned from Portsmouth.” He picked up the inkwell, a once-elegant little silver bottle dented with age and use. “Was that single weekend to be the extent of your frolic with me, Sara?”

  Sara felt the civility of that question, the dispassion of it, start minute fractures in the region of her heart. “I told you we weren’t to attach significance to our dealings, Beckman. You knew that.”

  He set the inkwell down just out of her reach on the desk. “Sara, I’ve missed you.”

  The fractures cracked so abruptly Sara was surprised her pain wasn’t audible. “You see me at every meal. I see you.”

  “You look through me at every meal,” Beck said. “If you are not interested in continuing our liaison, then you have only to tell me. I will leave you in peace, if that’s what you want.”

  “What I want…” What she wanted was impossible, particularly with Tremaine’s threat hanging ever closer. She rose, that being necessary if she was to leave the room—and the man sharing it with her.

  “What do you want?” Beck prompted, closing the distance between them. “Tell me what you want, Sara, and I’ll do what I can to see you have it. I’ll leave if you like, though I’d as soon not abandon Three Springs yet.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.” She was positive—certain—of that much, but only that much.

  “Let me hold you.” Beck didn’t wait for her permission but took the last step between them and enfolded her in his arms. He urged her against his body, and Sara slipped her arms around him.

  God in heaven, she had missed him. More than she knew, more than was rational.

  “Better,” Beck murmured, his hands moving over her back. “Talk to me, Sara. Put your arms around me and talk to me.”

  Her tired brain started making a list: His bergamot scent, his heat, his strength, and the way he pitched his voice. His blue, blue eyes, the way firelight caught red highlights in his golden hair.

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  “What else? You missed me, but you’ve not wanted to let me know it, Sara. What else is going on in that busy mind of yours?”

  She shook her head and held him more tightly.

  “I have a few things for you.” Beck slid his fingers around her wrist. “Things I meant to give you in Portsmouth, but the moment never presented itself. Nothing of great value, but they aren’t items I can use or give to another.”

  She wavered, and he waited. He didn’t tug on her wrist, wheedle, or start in kissing, any one of which would have given her something to brace her resistance against. Instead, he held her with silent patience.

  Sara’s objections—she had them, surely she did—tossed down their weapons and limped off the field of common sense.

  He held her hand as they passed through the house.

  “This place is positively sparkling,” he said, “and the gardens and lawns have come along as well.”

  This was the cunning flattery of a man who knew that a woman kept house so that others might enjoy the results.

  She returned fire as best she could. “To say nothing of the acreage. You and North have been working miracles, but I never noticed North’s tendency to be contrary before you arrived. He delights in it.”

  “He’s not used to taking orders or having anybody to discuss his ideas with. We’re reaching accommodations, but it’s an education for us both.”

  Sara glanced around his sitting room and moved to light some more candles. “Because you are used to being listened to?”

  “Leave them.” Beck took the taper from her hand. “And yes, Sara Hunt, I am used to being listened to, at least when I’m on the earldom’s business. But you are my business now, and the silence between us is not comfortable. Come.”

  Beck led her by the wrist into his bedroom, then rummaged in his wardrobe to retrieve some packages. He put them on the bed, sat on the mattress himself and patted the place beside him.

  Such an innocent gesture, his big hand patting the quilt.

  When Sara sat, Beck passed her a paper-wrapped parcel. “These, I made myself. My brother calls them house Hessians, and they’re based on his design, with some improvements. Three weeks ago, the mornings were chilly, and… well. Open them, see what you think.”

  “I’ve never seen the like…” She withdrew a cross between a boot and a slipper, fleecy on the inside, suede on the outside, with a sturdy sole. “These are lovely and practical, and I wish I’d had them last winter.”

  “They do keep the feet warm, and though they get worn, they’ll last. This one next.” Beck passed her another parcel.

  A set of new brushes and combs, followed by a green velvet dressing gown and a flannel nightgown that would wrap her from nose to toes. The last package, though, contained a summer nightgown of soft, soft cotton. Flowers were embroidered along the neck and bodic
e in an intricate, colorful pattern of gold, green, and red that repeated around the hem.

  “This is too fine, Beckman.” Sara traced the exquisite needlework with a single fingertip. “You cannot give me something so costly.”

  So intimate.

  “I can’t exactly wear it myself, and you need new ones, Sara. You need a new wardrobe, in fact, and should let me take the lot of you up to Town to see to it once the hay comes off.”

  “Hush.” Sara leaned into him, gathering the nightgown to her nose and bringing his bergamot scent with it. When a man spoke for a woman’s wardrobe, that woman had better be his wife if she wanted to preserve her reputation—or her sanity.

  And Sara would not be Beckman’s wife. She’d made a joke of his proposal, and he’d let her. Bless him and confound him for letting that sorry moment remain unremarked.

  “Thank you, Beckman.”

  “You like them?”

  She nodded, her nose buried in the nightgown. His arms came around her, and she snuggled into him.

  “I almost bought you a violin,” he admitted. “I can leave mine here instead, and you’ll play it when you have some privacy, if you’ve a mind to.”

  “I won’t play it.” Sara sat up, feeling a queer hitch in her chest. She should not play Beckman’s violin. “But it’s a generous thought.”

  “I’d like to hear you play.” Beck smoothed her hair back. “Let’s put those brushes to some use, shall we?”

  He never issued her orders—he never had to. Sara set the nightgown aside. “I should tell you no.”

  “You’d be telling yourself no. Will you put the nightgown on for me?” Beck’s lips descended to the side of her neck, a brush of tenderness, heat, and bergamot. Sara cast around for the reasons why she should deny him—deny them both—and came up empty-handed.

  When she said nothing, Beck turned her by the shoulders. She felt his hands moving on the back of her dress, slowly exposing her skin, her laces, and her shift to him.

  “Let me.” He knelt before her and drew off her half boots, then untied her garters and rolled down her stockings. Sara’s hands of their own accord winnowed through his hair then slipped over his jaw before he sat back.