Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Christine Merrill

  ‘You don’t use your power that way,’ she said.

  He looked at her and he wanted to...he wanted to cup her chin and hold her steady, hold her gaze until she had to look away.

  He could use his power, his strength, to make her feel good.

  And just then he felt desperate to do that. It would ease the ache in him as well, this restless fury that had been building since he had brought her here.

  Perhaps it is her.

  Another reminder of all you once hoped for.

  All you can never have.

  He pushed that aside.

  He could not have her. Not like that. And he would not allow lingering memories of Serena, or of his father, to push him to violate his friendship with Hugh.

  To put Beatrice at risk.

  ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘I do not.’

  ‘What did your father...?’

  ‘My father liked to humiliate. He liked those around him to feel small. Undone. And he could do so with a few well-placed words.’ And actions. His father had not hesitated to take away whatever Briggs had found himself obsessed with.

  He would wait, though.

  Until he had invested time and himself into it. Would wait until the loss of it had an exacting, heavy cost.

  ‘Briggs, I...’

  ‘I am not an object to be pitied. My father is rotting in the ground and I am the Duke of Brigham.’ He smiled, and he knew it did not reach his eyes. ‘I may not be perfect in regard to William but what I want is for him to avoid shame.’

  ‘I believe you. I do know that you only have his best interests at heart. I...’

  ‘You just don’t trust me. Because you’re a foolish girl who has seen nothing of the world and yet is convinced she knows the right way of it.’

  He successfully cowed her then. But she rallied, and quickly. ‘Perhaps that is true. But my innocence has been forced upon me. I can learn. But what I see in William is not the product of inexperience. Quite the opposite. I recognise myself and it pains me.’

  ‘You see loneliness. Because it is what you felt. I did not feel lonely here.’

  ‘What did you feel?’

  He felt a slow smile spread over his face. ‘Rage.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Beatrice knew that she should be excited. They were headed to London just before the Season started, and Briggs had promised her new dresses.

  She was not feeling excited.

  Not after the way everything had happened between the two of them. She was still upset about William, and Briggs’s refusal to bring him. She was still upset about what had happened with James the day before, and still...

  Deeply confused by the conversation they’d had after.

  She was a jumble of feelings. None of which were sweet or strictly innocent.

  Kiss him.

  Her heart jolted. She did not wish to kiss him. She was angry at him.

  For his heavy-handed behaviour. For the way he made her feel.

  For what he made her want.

  She was still ruminating on that, standing at the entry of the home, when William, Alice, and several more bags came down the stairs. ‘What is this?’ she asked Briggs, as he appeared alongside her.

  ‘I thought about what you said,’ he returned, his voice clipped.

  ‘You thought about what I said?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And you changed your mind.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I changed my mind. William shall accompany us to London for the Season.’

  It was difficult to tell if the boy was pleased or not. But she very much hoped that he was. She hoped that he would enjoy his trip, and she even hoped that she could be the one to take him to some of those places he was so interested in. Places she had never been either.

  * * *

  It was a five-hour carriage ride to London, and William was alternatively fidgety, fussy, quiet, and extremely talkative. He spent a good hour of the trip telling Beatrice each and every fact he possessed about Italian architecture. And there were quite a lot of them. Later she realised that it was the same time in the afternoon that she had first arrived at Maynard Park. When William had been screaming inconsolably.

  They had to stop so that the little boy could relieve himself, and they paused the carriage, and rather than his governess accompanying him, it was Briggs who got out of the carriage.

  Alice made a study out of avoiding any sort of eye contact with Beatrice. Which she supposed was probably common enough, but she didn’t have anyone to talk to. She was older than governesses often were. She reminded Bea nothing of the little frothy blonde creatures her father had favoured putting her in the care of.

  Though she had a feeling her governesses had not been selected because of the care they might give her. A thought that made her skin feel coated in oil.

  She squirmed in her seat and thought about getting out simply to stretch her legs and get some distance between herself and the unfriendly woman.

  But a moment later she heard a great wail, and the governess immediately departed the carriage. Beatrice wasn’t far behind. William was on the ground, refusing to be moved. Briggs looked...grim, stone-faced, but determined.

  ‘William,’ he said, not raising his voice at all. ‘We must get back in the carriage now.’

  ‘I’m tired.’ William was flopped, utterly, limply across the ground.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re tired. You cannot sleep here. You may sleep in the carriage.’

  ‘I can’t sleep in the carriage. It’s too noisy.’

  ‘William.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.’

  And that began a period of long repetition. Denials and recriminations. The young boy thrashed on the ground like a fish, and refused to be settled. He ground his heels into the soft mud, kicking and flinging rocks into the air.

  Beatrice was frozen. She had no idea what to do, what to say. She felt useless.

  And for the first time she wished she were back at Bybee House. Where she was safe. Where she could not cause the harm that she had clearly caused here by begging Briggs to bring William.

  Finally, Briggs plucked him up from the ground and held him as close to his chest as possible while the boy squirmed.

  ‘Back in the carriage,’ he bit out to both Beatrice and the governess.

  The governess obeyed quickly, but Beatrice stood and stared at him.

  ‘Do you find there is something to gawk at?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’m not gawking.’

  ‘You do rather a good imitation of someone who is.’

  He moved past her, opening the carriage door and depositing William inside. William continued to howl unhappily.

  ‘Get inside,’ he said.

  And she obeyed.

  ‘William,’ she said, trying to keep her tone placating. ‘Didn’t you want to see things in London?’

  But he was simply screaming now, and there was nothing, seemingly nothing at all that could reach him. She did not know what to do, or how to proceed. And Briggs was only sitting there grim-faced, staring straight ahead.

  ‘William,’ she tried again, moving forward.

  And was met with a short slap on the hand, directly from William, who screamed again, ‘I can’t.’

  It didn’t hurt, his slap, but it shocked her, and she drew back, clutching her hand.

  Briggs leaned forward, plucked William up and held him in his arms, his hold firm, but not harming him in any way. ‘William,’ he said. ‘You may not hit. Ever.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t.’

  ‘William,’ Briggs said.

  ‘I’m not William.’

  And neither of them said anything after that. They simply let him scream. Until he tired himself out, with only thirty minu
tes to spare before they arrived in London. The town house was lovely. But she could barely take it in. Or the excitement of being in London. She was too enervated by everything that had occurred on the ride. By how badly she had miscalculated. No wonder Briggs was so protective of William. No wonder he had been concerned about taking this journey. It was not because he hadn’t wanted to take it on board. It was because it was devastating to watch William unravel in that fashion. And she hadn’t realised it. Of course she hadn’t. She had not listened.

  Not really.

  She had been so certain that she knew best, and she had been wrong.

  William had drifted to sleep by the time they got inside, and it was Briggs who carried the limp little boy up the stairs. He said nothing to Beatrice, and she could hardly blame him.

  ‘Your Grace.’ The housekeeper in London, Mrs Dinsdale, put her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder, as if sensing her distress.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said.

  ‘You will find a lady’s maid waiting for you. You may go and get freshened up for dinner.’

  She dreaded it. Dreaded sharing a meal with Briggs. Of course he never shared meals with her out at Maynard Park. So perhaps, he would not do so here.

  She was escorted to her room and introduced to the maid, and a collection of dresses she had never seen before. She was wrapped in something lovely and soft, a beautiful mint-green gown that scooped low, with no fichu to provide coverage for her bosom.

  Her hair was arranged in a complicated fashion, with a string of pearls draped around her head like a crown.

  How lovely she looked to take dinner by herself.

  She went downstairs, her heart thundering madly, and predictably found the dining room... Empty.

  ‘Might I take dinner in my bedchamber?’ she asked one of the attending servants.

  ‘Of course, Your Grace,’ the man said.

  She went back upstairs, and there she sat, looking quite the prettiest she ever had, in solitude.

  Dinner was beautiful. And far too extensive for only her, but she ate her way through each course all the same. Mackerel with fennel and mint, roasted game, and pickled vegetables. Followed by a lovely tray of colourful marzipan, which she found she overindulged in.

  She did not stop eating until her stomach turned.

  And then she had her maid undress her, take her hair down, and put the pearls back in their box. And she looked in the mirror and found that she had become Beatrice again. Just her usual self, with nothing of any great interest about her at all. And she felt exceedingly sorry for herself.

  You should feel sorry for William.

  She did not understand. But then, he was a child. It was likely he did not have the ability to connect the fact that the journey was what was going to take him to those places that he longed so to see. If he could not endure a journey such as this, how did he ever hope to reach Italy? But these were all things a seven-year-old could likely not reason, she told herself. But it did not make her less frustrated.

  * * *

  Nor did it help her sleep. Long after she should have extinguished her candle, she tried to read.

  She tried to read Emma, but found she was too furious at the contents to enjoy it. And the illustrated compendium of birds was not compelling enough to hold her interest.

  She paced the length of the room, practically wearing a hole in the floor. She looked out of the window, and felt compelled to escape. As she had done so many times at Bybee House.

  If she could’ve crawled out of her own skin she would have done so, but failing that, she simply contented herself with fleeing the house.

  And so, she did so here.

  She opened the door to the bedchamber and quietly made her way down the stairs.

  She did not know if there was a back garden, but she assumed so. And she was not disappointed. It was a lovely space, bathed in moonlight, with a massive fountain, surrounded by several statues.

  Nude statues.

  It was very Roman. William, she thought with grim humour, would likely find it quite interesting.

  She found herself staring at a naked warrior, clothed only in a helmet, which she felt left him vulnerable in many other ways.

  Briggs had asked her if she knew what made a man and a woman different.

  Of course she knew. She was not an idiot.

  He had said it was so they could... Fit together. Make a child. The idea made her flush all over. For imagining such an intimate part of herself fitted against...

  Kiss him.

  She swallowed hard.

  Who gets to decide?

  She circled the statue, examining the powerful thighs, the rather muscular-looking derrière. At least, this took her mind off the disastrous carriage ride. Yes. It was a very different sort of body. Though it was made of stone. Perhaps that was why it appeared so hard. She knew Briggs was solid though. Not like her at all.

  A sound made her turn, and she saw Briggs, standing in the doorway. He was not dressed for bed, rather, he was dressed to go out. He was standing there, looking through the glass. And she felt inexplicably quite caught out.

  She moved away from the statue, and waited to see what he might do. If he would turn away and continue on as he had intended to do, or if he would come out to her.

  She did not have to wait long for her answer.

  The door opened.

  ‘And are you trying to tempt brigands to scale my garden wall and kidnap you?’ he asked. The words were like the Briggs she’d known for much of her life. The tone was not.

  ‘I had no aspirations of such,’ she said, turning away from him.

  ‘You only wished to leer at my statuary?’

  ‘I was not leering. I was admiring the artistry.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How could I be so foolish? A lady such as yourself would never do anything half so...interesting.’

  ‘Briggs...’

  ‘I only came to check that you were well.’

  ‘I am not well,’ she said. ‘I fear that I made things incredibly difficult by pushing you to bring William on the trip, and I... I am deeply... Deeply sorry, and so very... I did not mean to upset him. Or you.’

  ‘But the end result is that you have,’ Briggs said. ‘And there is nothing to be done for that.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

  ‘It clearly does.’

  ‘No. It does not. I made the decision in the end to bring him. It is done.’ He looked past her, into the darkness, then back at her. ‘Do not stray from the garden.’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘You are in London, now, and you must take care. You will not leave the house without accompaniment. This garden being the exception.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, I had quite forgotten that I was your ward, and in no way your equal.’

  ‘Even if you were my wife, you would not be my equal.’

  She sucked in a sharp breath at the barb, that she had a feeling did not reflect what he thought about anything, but rather was designed to harm her. And it had. Why was she so fragile where he was concerned? It made no sense. And yet, he made her feel as if she was made of broken glass.

  Why did he have this power over her?

  It was something beyond friendship, for theirs was no easy companionship. She resented the way he avoided her when she should not care about it at all. His disdain hurt. She did not understand how they had got here.

  It had changed since he had touched her by the fire in her brother’s study.

  And again after he’d pushed her on the swing.

  And most of all after they had married, after the carriage ride.

  It should have worked, this arrangement. And yet nothing about it did.

  ‘Of course not.’

  He turned away from he
r.

  ‘And where is it you are going?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not have to answer to you.’

  ‘That in and of itself is an answer. And such an answer,’ she said. ‘Why you do not simply wish to tell me...’

  ‘I am going to a brothel, Beatrice, are you familiar with the term?’

  His face looked cruel now, and she hated this. This was not the man who had brought her sweets. This was a dark and furious stranger, the man who had compelled her to stare across the ballroom on that night, the man who captured her breath.

  She knew that he was angry, but there was something in his cold, quiet fury that made her feel sick.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I... I don’t know what that means.’

  Perhaps it pertained to his duties at the House of Lords. But judging by the expression on his face she knew that it did not.

  For that would not hurt her. And right now, he wished to hurt her. She could feel it.

  ‘It is where a man goes when he wishes to purchase the company of a woman.’

  That immediately brought to mind an image of Briggs sitting down to tea with a lady, and she was absolutely certain that was the wrong image to be in the middle of her head, and yet there it was.

  ‘Still confused?’ he asked, and his tone was unkind.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, feeling angry now. ‘You are aware of the gap in my knowledge on certain things, given the cloistered life that I had led, and it is one thing to acknowledge them, but it is quite another to cruelly take pleasure in them.’

  ‘I cannot help what I cruelly take pleasure in, Beatrice. Perhaps I am a much crueller man than you have any idea of.’

  ‘I should hope not. For I am your ward. And what ward should like a cruel guardian?’

  His lips curved. Beautiful. Painful. ‘I suspect you might enjoy my cruelty.’

  ‘I am not currently,’ she bit out. ‘As it happens.’

  ‘When I speak of female company, I mean shagging, Beatrice.’

  She wanted to howl at him in frustration. ‘I don’t know what shagging is.’

  ‘It is what men and women do. And it is not for procreation. It is for pleasure. A man and his wife might engage in such acts for procreation, but there are a great many things that a person can do to pursue pleasure.’