Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Christine Merrill

  And yet, the impression of her luscious roundness remained in his hands, and he had to confess if only to himself that it felt a bit like obscene where the sensation lingered.

  ‘Not,’ Kendal bit out, ‘with a lady.’

  ‘Beatrice is more than suitable to be my Duchess,’ Briggs said. ‘And I will not tolerate a bad word spoken about her, in society or this room.’

  He did not know why he defended her. Not in light of everything.

  Perhaps it was because of what she had done.

  It was foolish. Ridiculous. And exceedingly brave. She had risked much to defy her brother.

  Had she done it for love? The love of this... James?

  He looked at her, at the misery on her face.

  He did not think she had. She was not heartbroken now, but furious.

  She had done it to kick against Kendal, and for that he could only feel a grudging sort of respect.

  From infancy, there had been a clear path laid out for Briggs. All he had to do was marry and produce an heir, and the rest... It was his choice.

  Beatrice was beneath Kendal’s authority. And she had limited options when it came to opposing it. None of what her brother had was hers. Nothing would ever pass into her ownership. She would have to acquire a husband to ever change her circumstances, and Kendal had taken steps to ensure she could not do so.

  So she had defied him in the only way she could.

  Forced his hand.

  In truth, he was angrier at his friend than he was at her. In this, he understood her. The desire to have one’s own life. To make one’s own choices. All while being thoroughly misunderstood by those around you.

  In his case, actively despised.

  ‘A duchess?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be a duchess. I just want to marry James. I want to be free. And I want to have a life of my own. I didn’t want to stay here forever. I already made an entire life of these walls. And I could not take any more of it. You took everything from me, Hugh, when you said that you would not allow me to marry. When you withheld presenting me to court, having my Season. I... I did not have a choice. I told you then that I could not bear it and you did not listen. And now you cannot simply hand me off to Briggs...’

  ‘What I offer you is an honour,’ Briggs said, the reality of the situation not quite yet settling in. For it was too much to fathom. Beatrice. Beatrice as his wife. Him taking a wife a second time...

  He had never intended such a thing.

  Perhaps William needs a mother.

  William had a governess. William...

  Was the angriest, most difficult child he had ever known. He had terrors in the night, and destroyed all of his toys. He did not speak fluently, and he was volatile at the best of times. It was only because he had managed to secure a very esteemed governess that anything went as well as it was currently. She was a sturdy woman with a capable manner, and years of experience. She had informed him that she had known children like William before. It was her opinion that he would grow well enough, though would potentially always have a different sort of manner about him.

  The boy had support. He did not need a mother.

  William had had a mother, who had not cared enough about him to stay.

  Just as Briggs had had a father who had hated him.

  At least he loved his son.

  You leave him to his governess more often than not...

  But he did not scorn him.

  Surely that had to count for something.

  ‘I am preserving your reputation the best I possibly can,’ Briggs said. ‘And my own. You have given me no choice in the matter, Beatrice.’

  ‘I will secure a special licence,’ Kendal said.

  Briggs snorted. ‘I am more than capable of securing my own special licence, Kendal. Or do you forget that you do not outrank me?’

  He caught his friend’s gaze, and held it for a moment.

  He did wonder sometimes, if Hugh forgot. That they were not now schoolboys. That Briggs no longer required his protection, his guidance.

  ‘I have not agreed to marry you,’ Beatrice said.

  Briggs looked down at her, and saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Perhaps he had misread her.

  ‘Did you fancy yourself in love with James?’ Briggs asked. She said nothing, though her misery seemed to increase. He felt almost sorry for her. ‘You will recover.’

  ‘Get some sleep,’ Kendal said. ‘There will be a wedding to plan on the morrow. And we will have to inform Mother.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Beatrice was desolate. Everything was wrong. And worst of all, she didn’t even know who to speak to about it. Or if she could speak to anyone about it. That was how she found herself slumped in the morning room with nothing but cold meats and eggs for comfort.

  It was then that her mother came in.

  ‘Beatrice,’ she said softly.

  It was the softness that nearly broke her.

  But everyone was soft with her. Always. Except for Hugh last night. And Briggs had not looked particularly soft either.

  Her heart gave a great thud.

  Briggs. She was to marry Briggs. In three days’ time. And suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by all she did not know.

  About him. About the world. About what was to be between a husband and a wife.

  ‘You’re crying,’ her mother said.

  Beatrice touched her face. There were indeed tears on her cheeks. She had not realised.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ her mother said, drawing close to her. She reached out and put her hand on Beatrice’s. ‘Has he...forced you into anything? I will not consign you to an unhappy union, Beatrice. I know that your brother thinks that it’s best but if he...’

  Beatrice shook her head. ‘He did not hurt me.’ Hurt? Being held by Briggs had been the furthest thing from hurt. She had avoided thinking of that moment, but now it loomed large in her mind. ‘I am the one that ruined everything. I am the one that caused this.’

  Her mother looked at her closely. ‘How exactly did you cause it?’

  She explained her plan to her mother. Her ultimate rebellion against Hugh. ‘And I could not tell anyone because you would stop me. But I... I am not as weak as everyone thinks I am. I have... I have dreams. There is a purpose to why I survived my childhood. I nearly died so many times, but I did not. And if I’m simply to live out all my days here at Bybee House, I don’t know...’

  ‘Oh, Beatrice.’ Her mother put her hand over hers. ‘Hugh does not mean to hurt you in any way. It’s just that he worries for you.’

  Her mother loved her, and she knew that. She also knew her mother had spent years deep in the throes of a relationship with Beatrice’s father that had been anything but easy.

  In those years, her mother had often been withdrawn. When her father had flaunted his many infidelities, her mother disappeared into her chamber and did not emerge. Or worse, into laudanum.

  She had overheard her mother say to a visiting friend once that being married to the Duke would not have been so awful if she did not loathe him and desire him in equal measure.

  Beatrice had not understood what it meant. She still did not.

  But in the years since her father’s death, her mother had emerged much stronger. Much happier, and Beatrice had never wanted to do anything to disturb that.

  ‘I know it. But this was more than protection. And I had to do something about it.’

  ‘It is a good match,’ her mother said. ‘He is a duke. He is well liked in society...’

  ‘Yes.’

  She didn’t know why, but he also frightened her. On some deep level. As much as he drew her to him. And she had not intended to embroil him in this.

  ‘He deserves better. Than me.’

  He had lost a wife already. Beatrice did not know what ailment had taken his f
irst Duchess, but to be married to a woman who had been told she might not... Be strong. She had not intended to steal any chances from him and a happy life. She and James had an agreement. An understanding. Briggs had not been part of it, and he did not deserve this.

  ‘His honour will not allow him to let this all fall upon you, dear.’

  ‘But it should,’ Beatrice said. Then angrily disagreed with herself. ‘No. It should fall on Hugh. Because he is the one who forced me into this position. He is the one who made this untenable. And I... I’m just so sorry. I care quite a lot too much about Briggs for this to... For this to be his fate.’

  ‘Beatrice, we must speak. And you are getting married in three days and...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There are things that a married woman must do. There is... A duty in being a man’s wife.’

  Beatrice tried to imagine what duties that might entail when one was married to a duke who surely had a full household staff. Well, her mother saw to a great many domestic activities.

  ‘I must help run the household,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘Beatrice,’ her mother said. ‘I mean there is more than that. It is only that you will be expected to...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is the marriage bed.’ For a moment her mother’s face took on a distant quality, the expression in her eyes something fond and sad and angry all at once.

  And just when it became too sharp to bear, it eased.

  ‘What happens between a husband and wife in the bedchamber,’ her mother continued.

  Bedchambers. James had said they ought to be caught in a bedchamber. And then she thought of nymphs again.

  And of her governesses. All young and pretty and fluttery and more interested in her father than in her.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It is not so unpleasant. Your husband will...know what to do and he will take the lead.’

  ‘Like dancing?’ she asked.

  Though she had been given lessons in dance.

  Her mother looked relieved. ‘Yes. Like dancing. He will lead you, and he will ensure that all is well. As you said, he is a good man.’

  ‘What... What am I to do?’

  She wished she knew...anything. She felt like a great blank space was stretched before her and all she had were scattered images and ideas, and what she wanted to do was demand answers.

  What made a true marriage?

  What happened in bedchambers?

  Why were women so easily ruined?

  Why had she felt like she had when he’d held her?

  She had the sense these things connected, but she did not know how. And it was an endless frustration at what was denied her.

  She had been so protected here at Bybee House. She was never permitted to go to London. Her father had died when she was a girl and her brother remained unmarried. She had seen interactions between unrelated men and women only at the handful of balls her brother had given and even then it was like...

  Watching a pantomime.

  It gave only hints and ideas and just enough to be maddening.

  ‘You can think of other things,’ her mother said. ‘Pleasant things.’

  Think of other things. That was what she did when she was forced to engage in needlework. She thought of anything but the project she was currently involved in, as it was untenably boring.

  It simply did not sound like anything she might want a part in. And was another resounding point in favour of the facade marriage she had been planning with James.

  James.

  She would have to speak to James. He undoubtedly had heard.

  The door to the morning room opened, and their butler appeared. ‘His Grace the Duke of Brigham is here to call upon the Lady Beatrice.’

  Beatrice’s heart gave a start.

  ‘I suppose I should stay and offer to be your chaperon. But I feel it is a trifle too late. I will let you speak with him.’

  Beatrice wanted to call her mother back. Tell her no. Because she was terrified of being alone with Briggs at this current moment. Which was silly, because she had never been terrified before. But she doubted that today he would be bringing her sweets. She doubted it very much.

  He had been in her bedchamber last night, and apparently there was something scandalous in that. Last night she had been too upset to truly consider that.

  He swept into the room, somehow she could tell he was wearing a different coat than the night before, though this too was black. He looked like a storm. And everything in her went still. She couldn’t breathe.

  Her mother dipped her head. ‘Your Grace.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ he returned.

  And then she left them in there. Alone. And the doors closed firmly behind her.

  ‘Briggs...’

  ‘We must speak. About the reality of the situation that we find ourselves in.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I know that we do. I know that...’

  ‘You need not fear anything from me. I am aware of your condition.’

  ‘My condition?’

  ‘Your brother has informed me that you were not to bear children.’

  ‘I...’

  ‘I have an heir. Already. That will not be an issue.’

  That made her desperately sad, and she didn’t even know why. Presumably, she and James would not have had children. After all, theirs was to be a presumptive marriage in name only. Not a true marriage, he had said. She did not know exactly what that meant, but she did imagine that it precluded offspring.

  ‘You look distressed.’

  ‘James...’

  ‘Yes. Are you going to try to tell me that you loved him?’

  ‘And if I did?’

  ‘I would not believe you. For you threw yourself into my arms easily enough. You let me hold you. You did not seem to realise I wasn’t your beloved.’ He fixed her with his dark gaze. ‘You would know the arms of the man that you loved, Beatrice.’

  And she remembered the way he had held her again. The way his hand had slid down over her rear, and she felt horrible, scalding heat go through her body.

  Another clue, she felt.

  But he was not asking for a true marriage. He had an heir.

  It is not different than James, then.

  And yet it felt as if it was.

  ‘James is my friend,’ she said. ‘And the idea of marrying for convenient reasons suited him.’

  ‘Marriage is only ever convenience, if it is not, it is an inconvenience.’

  ‘Some people fall in love,’ she said.

  Except she had never known anyone who had. She was quite certain that Eleanor loved Hugh, but there was no reciprocation. And there would be no marriage.

  ‘That is very rare, Beatrice, and even if they do... It does not last.’

  She wondered, then, if he was speaking of his wife. Of course, it hadn’t lasted. She’d died. Beatrice had never known her. She had not seen Briggs at all during his brief marriage. They had been mainly in London. She had never met his son either.

  A strange, twisting sensation assaulted her stomach. His son.

  Would she be his mother?

  Everything was changing so quickly. She had an idea in her mind of what it would be like to marry James. He had said that he wished to travel abroad, and she was quite amenable to that. She had looked forward to seeing Paris, and Italy. To spending time in London. All things that she had never done. She had been cosseted. She had been kept to herself. With him, she knew that she would go to more social engagements. And together they would enjoy themselves. For she did enjoy his company very much. She liked Briggs. She always had. But it was different. It was simply different.

  Everything about him was different.

  One of the many things she had no name for.

  ‘Your brother
wishes us to marry here. In the church.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. That... That would be fine.’ She had not thought about where her wedding would take place. Not even when she had concocted all of this with James. She had not given further consideration to any of this. Not really. She had pictures in her mind of a life. But she had not truly thought about what all this might entail. Yes, she had thought that she had been prepared to face Hugh’s ire, and that was something. But there were so many other things along the way that she had not fully considered.

  She curled her fingers into fists, stabbing at her palms, as she bit the inside of her cheek, looking for that sort of grounding that occurred when she was able to overcome pain.

  But then, there was a strong grip on her chin and she found her face being tilted upwards. She met his eyes. Those dark, shockingly blue eyes, and she felt...

  Calm. Quiet.

  As if the storm inside her had been halted by the touch of his hand.

  ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Her breath was at a standstill, her heart suspended in her chest. And then he moved away, and the world began to move again.

  ‘You look frightened.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said.

  A lie.

  His gaze was cool, and filled with reproach. Unfamiliar. For she had seen Briggs largely in good humour throughout her acquaintance with him. But then, when would she have had occasion to see him otherwise? But she had not seen him look like this. She had known it was there, though. She had sensed it. For had she not seen the way that he drew people to him? That he commanded all the attention in the room.

  Authority. He wore it like other men wore overcoats.

  ‘You are lying to me,’ he said.

  And she wondered if he had been able to read her mind.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, lowering her head. ‘I did not mean to lie.’

  She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, and she saw something flash in his eyes. Something she had no name for, but that created a strange sensation low in her stomach. ‘You must tell me,’ he said. ‘You must tell me the truth, Beatrice. It is important.’