Fire, excitement, licked along his veins. He could teach her. She would be a beautiful student. And she would...
No. No.
‘William and I were discussing going for a walk,’ she said.
‘I have plans for the day,’ Briggs said. ‘No engagement scheduled whatsoever, because I am intent upon taking William to see London.’
William looked up at him, and there was visible excitement in his eyes. William was not a bubbly child. He did not show exuberance in the same way other children did, and while Briggs did not have experience with other children, he could see the differences between them and his own son. But he had learned to accept the excitement that William felt. To treasure those moments. For they were rare and precious when his son put his joy on full display. And sometimes he pitied other fathers, for he felt the outward joy of their children was so cheap they might never learn to value it. Briggs on the other hand treated every smile like a piece of gold.
‘I have a complete list of what we might do today,’ Briggs said.
‘What time?’ William asked.
‘First it will be toast. And drinking chocolate. And then our day will begin.’
‘What time?’
And Briggs knew that he had to choose his answer very carefully. He checked his timepiece. ‘How about we leave the house at ten thirty?’
‘Yes,’ William agreed.
‘But you must wear shoes,’ Beatrice said, looking slightly triumphant.
‘I will wear shoes,’ William said, looking at Beatrice as if she had grown another head. And Briggs could only be amused by that.
‘Can I join you?’
‘For toast?’ William asked.
‘For the day?’ She directed that question at Briggs.
He was about to issue a denial, when William turned to look him in the face, which was so rare that Briggs could not help but be completely taken back by it.
‘She must come,’ he said.
‘I had thought,’ Briggs said, ‘that it would be just men.’
‘But that would be boring,’ William said. ‘Because Beatrice is not boring.’
‘Beatrice, is it?’ Briggs asked, wondering what the boy should call her, but certain it should not be her first name.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I asked him to call me Beatrice.’
‘Because we are friends,’ William said. ‘She calls me William.’
He could not argue with this unassailable logic. It was quite annoying.
‘Then of course Beatrice shall accompany us, but I will have hurt feelings that you think I’m boring.’
‘I did not say you were boring,’ William said. ‘I said Beatrice was not boring.’
And he could not argue with that either. Instead, he found himself going down to breakfast with them, where toast for William, and coffee and eggs and meat awaited the three.
‘I am pleased that we are going on an outing,’ Beatrice said.
‘I’m not an ogre,’ he said. ‘I would not bring William here and not take him to see the city.’
‘But you would bring me and have me not see it?’
‘You will see it in time. There will be balls...’
‘That is not the same,’ she said.
‘Have you not been to London?’
‘I have been to London once. I did not see the sites. I spent my days shut up in Hugh’s town house. And I was sent home early. For he had concerns regarding my well-being, and the quality of the air.’ She did not elaborate. But she looked like she might want to.
‘And?’
‘I had a fit with my breathing. It upset him greatly, it was the first time I had one in a very long time. And he sent me home.’
‘You find your breathing well now?’
Anger burned through him.
She should tell him these things. She should tell him it was dangerous for her to be in London.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I have not had the same sort of maladies that I had all those years ago. I was fourteen when that happened, and I have been quite well since. Please do not make this about my illness. I find that far too many things are.’
‘I will not worry, but you will tell me if you feel ill.’
‘I will.’
‘Are you sick?’ William asked, and he looked terribly concerned. ‘My mother was very sick.’
Beatrice’s face contorted with alarm.
‘No, William. I am not sick like that. I was very sick when I was a young child. That’s all.’ Except she had no real idea what kind of sick Serena was. But then, neither did William.
‘Good,’ William said decisively. ‘I do not wish for you to die.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Beatrice said.
He and Beatrice made eye contact, and her cheeks flushed again.
He looked at William, who was now absorbed in his toast, though he had a feeling that at exactly ten twenty-nine his son would emerge from wherever it was he went to let them know that they were in danger of running behind.
‘You slept well?’ he asked, where he was being provocative.
‘No,’ she responded. ‘I did not.’
There were a great many things he could say in response to that, but he decided that none of them would be in particular aid of the situation.
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘I was lonely.’
‘I could not have stayed,’ he said, hearing his voice go gruff.
She looked at him for a long while. A litany of questions was in her blue eyes and he did not wish to answer any of them. ‘Why?’
‘Do not ask questions you are not prepared to hear the answer to.’
‘Do not assume what I am prepared for. You, like everyone else, underestimate me.’
‘I do not underestimate you, but neither do I forget the reality of your health.’
‘Is it truly me you worry for? Or are you simply obeying my brother’s orders?’
He frowned. ‘I worry for you. And of course I respect what Kendal has asked of me...’
‘I know my brother made it clear you must watch out for me. But he is not here. And I am fine.’
‘I do not trust you to always make the best decision when it comes to your own needs,’ he said.
‘That is a shame,’ she said. ‘Because I do. And I should like it if even one person gave me the benefit of being treated like a woman. You have done so once,’ she said, her blue eyes meeting his, crackling with heat. ‘Is it not hypocritical to treat me only as a woman when it suits you, and to otherwise relegate me to the position of ward?’
‘Is it not hypocritical of you to ask for something and then attempt to use it against me?’
‘I have asked for one thing,’ she said. ‘With consistency. To be treated as if I know my own mind, and to be given the freedom that I feel I deserve. I did not act counter to those wishes last night. I did what I wanted.’
She wanted.
He knew exactly what she wanted.
He could give it to her.
‘It is time to go.’ Just as Briggs had known he would, William returned to them as if an internal timepiece had told him that they were nearing the moment Briggs had said they would leave.
He was grateful. Because he did not wish to continue this conversation. He felt perilously close to the edges of dreams he’d had years ago. That perhaps he was not so bent, he only had to find the woman who would decide to bend around him.
He could pay women to do so, but part of him had always desired...
The hunger he saw in Beatrice’s face.
And yet he could not. They could not.
* * *
With Alice and attendants, they got into the carriage.
It was not just the look of wonder on William’s face that Briggs found himself captivated by. But
Beatrice’s.
He had forgotten what it was like to look around the world and see anything new, but everything was new to her.
The sights, the sounds, they were significant to her. Special. And it filled him with a deep sense of pride to be the person to have shown her.
And of course, it was unavoidable, he could not help but compare it to the pleasure that she had been shown last night. In his arms, she had fallen apart, and he had prevented her from splintering. He wanted to know if she had ever felt that manner of pleasure before. If she had found it with her own hand. He enjoyed that image very much.
Beatrice, laying on her bed, her hand between her thighs...
He wanted to know so many things, and he wanted to show her so much more, and yet, he knew that it was impossible.
Why? You said so yourself, there are many things that can be done without producing a child.
It was true. However, while he enjoyed games of self-control, there were limits. And while he believed himself to be a man of extreme control, and in fact enjoyed that as an aspect to his bed sport, eventually, he would need to be inside a woman. That was just how it worked. He was not a man who could forgo being inside a woman forever. And if he were to play with her physically, it was possible she would be hurt by his need to take his fulfilment with other women. And it was just best, easiest, if these things remained separate.
Is it not too late for that?
It was not too late. Not if he determined in himself that it wasn’t.
* * *
They first stopped at Westminster, and walked around the outside, with William exclaiming about the architecture, and offering titbits about timelines in the construction.
They went to St James’s afterwards, and took a distant look around the grounds. He had no wish to be accosted by the Duke of Cumberland and forced to take part in the conversation he did not wish to have.
William took equal delight in all aspects of the way the city was put together. From the intricate network of roads to the different buildings, whether or not they were famous. Briggs knew that his son’s knowledge of architecture and infrastructure was astonishing, but he had truly had no idea of the breadth of it.
There were things that William knew about London that Briggs himself did not, and even if he had known it at some point, he would’ve forgotten it. William seemed to forget nothing. Particularly not if it involved numbers and dates.
‘I have learned so much,’ Beatrice said, beaming, tilting her head back and letting the sun wash over her face.
She was a rare beauty, was Beatrice.
If she had made a formal debut in society when she should have, she would have been a diamond of the first water. Would have been considered a triumph for any man. The sister of a duke, with a large dowry, incomparable innocence and extreme beauty. It was a farce that she should be limited as she was. An absolute injustice.
She seemed happy, though, and that pleased him. Right now, she was happy.
She could be happy with him. They did not have to be at odds. He thought of her as she’d been last night, furious with him, and then fire in his arms. No. There was no reason for them to play in extremes.
He could simply care for her. While he could no longer deny that he wanted her, there was a measure of satisfaction that stirred in him over the idea of simply...being with her.
Caring for her.
Showing her new sights, buying her new dresses.
‘Rome is best,’ William said matter-of-factly, with all the authority of a small boy who had only for the first time truly travelled away from home.
‘I should like to see Rome some day,’ Beatrice said, looking over at him.
‘I have a feeling I will be outnumbered in votes for this venture,’ Briggs said. ‘However, I am a duke, so I don’t know that I can truly be outnumbered.’
‘I don’t know,’ Beatrice said. ‘William is quite persuasive.’
‘At times.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘Isn’t that true of all of us? It is said that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but sometimes it is so satisfying to speak with vinegar, that whatever the result might be is sincerely worth the diminished returns.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. Anyway, being sweet eternally is terribly boring.’
‘How would you know? You have never been endlessly sweet or biddable.’
She looked surprised by that. Did she not realise he always took note of her?
‘Indeed not,’ Beatrice said. ‘Because I find the prospect so unappealing.’
‘You are a wretched minx, do you know that?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I quite like that. I shall take on the mantle of wretched minx for all of my days. For it is much more interesting than poor, sickly Beatrice.’
‘I doubt anyone has ever referred to you as poor, sickly Beatrice.’
‘Untrue,’ she said. ‘It is heavy in the tone of every servant in my brother’s house, and in the way my own mother looks at me. She is filled with sorrow on my behalf. I find it tiring. All I hear is how sweet I am, but what that means is that I do not fight with those around me all day every day. I have no choice in my life, and that I do not kick constantly against it has earned me the label of sweet.’
‘Beatrice,’ he said. ‘You’re not a thing to be pitied. There is much in life set before us that we are shown is the right thing, but...’ He looked down at William, who was focusing on the details carved into a parapet. And he allowed him. ‘I achieved everything that I was meant to by the time I was twenty-three. I had my wife, my heir. It did not produce happiness. I do not speak of William. William has brought me...’
He felt happiness was an insipid word, and not truly the correct one. Being a father was not an endless parade of smiling. He was a duke who could have staff members see to William the entirety of the time if he so chose, but it would not make a difference, as William was ever present on his mind, as were his concerns for him. And so he found it was best to spend time with his son. Perhaps much more time than most men in his position would. But seeing him, understanding him in this way, rather than in relayed messages from staff, was truly the only thing that actually made him feel like William would be fine. For when he saw him like this, out in the world and filled with joy, when he was able to hear about the things that sparked his son’s imagination, then they connected. And then, somehow, he had a glimmer of hope that all would be well.
Still, happiness was not...
‘William added depth to me. That was not there before. Being his father is perhaps the greatest challenge of my life. But it has made me a better man. Still, there is happiness outside of these prescribed roles. And sometimes there is little happiness to be found in them. My first marriage did not produce happiness.’
He needed her to understand this. Perhaps just now. As they were in public, as they were safe from it all becoming too intimate, even as he spoke of things he often left in the dark corners of his memory.
He was not being cruel for the sake of it.
It was clear to him Beatrice would welcome his touch. At least, as she understood it. But disquiet remained, in his soul.
For he had believed he had a connection with Serena, and he had been wrong.
For he had missed the signs that she was so deeply unhappy she no longer wanted to live. That she no longer loved him had been clear. But the rest...
He had not known.
And the feeling he had caused it, contributed to it, by telling her of his desires to be dominant with her in their bed, stuck in him.
They continued to stroll along the walk, the sun filtering over the grass, the flowers and the gold of the palace.
‘What of ours, Briggs? Is it to be more of what we had last night?’ She did not look at him when she asked the question.
She might not look at him, but he d
id look at her. Her bravery, her honesty, lit brilliantly by the sun, amazed him.
Shamed him.
‘An impossibility, I’m afraid.’
‘You regret it so?’
‘Beatrice...’
‘Only I’m just beginning to understand. Desire. Desiring another person, and what that means. Is it that you do not desire me?’
He curled his hands into fists, for if he did not he did not think he could resist touching her. ‘If I did not desire you, last night would not have occurred.’
‘I am your wife. Why should it be a complication for you to desire me?’
‘Because of the rules we must fulfil for each other. Because of the way that I have been tasked with protecting you, and you can be angry about it all you like, but it does not change the way of things. I care for your brother a great deal, and promises were made to him.’
‘It is not his life,’ she said. ‘It is mine.’
‘And I’m your husband. So your life is mine now.’
‘What a scintillating conclusion to have come to,’ she said.
‘You are mine, and that means I will care for you, as I said. I don’t think you understand truly what that means.’
Of course she did. She didn’t understand the deep... It was primal. The thing in him that demanded he care for that which was his. When he took a woman into his bed, her pleasure and her satisfaction, walking the line between pleasure and pain perfectly, was of the utmost importance to him. But even more, ensuring that Beatrice found happiness, that she was well-clothed and well fed, with her favourite foods...
Remember how you used to bring her sweets?
He stilled, locking his back teeth together.
And he refused to acknowledge that. The idea that all along he had been drawing her to him. Baiting her as if she were a small animal. Feeding her sweets.
None of what had happened between them was planned.
And when she threw herself at you in the library, and you slid your hand down to her arse, what exactly did you think you were doing?
He had known it was her.
Of course he had.
He was a man who paid great attention to detail.
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 33
