He picked her up and carried her over to the bed, where he settled against the headboard, and cradled her naked body across his hard thighs, smoothing his hand up and down her bare back.
‘You’ve done well,’ he said.
And she went limp, burying her head in his chest as she wept. Piteously and gloriously.
Somehow it was both of those things all at once. As she became both weak and strong in his arms.
‘Briggs,’ she whispered.
‘Sleep, Beatrice.’
‘Will you stay with me?’
‘Yes.’
And after that, she knew nothing more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Briggs did not have a restful sleep. He stayed on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed, with Beatrice curled safely beneath the blankets, nude still.
She had been beautiful. Accepting everything he had given with more strength than he had imagined possible. It was not just that she had withstood it, but she had enjoyed it. Had wholly and completely been his in that moment.
She had surrendered to the pain, and had found that glorious place where pleasure intersected with it. And her release had been brilliant.
And he had felt...
He had given her pieces of himself he had worked for years to hide. The truth of his childhood.
The truths of his needs.
Had she rejected them...
It would have been a rejection of each and every piece of who he was.
He had never shared that part of himself so completely with a woman who knew him. He had only ever come close with Serena. And Serena had been... She had been horrified. She had rejected his touch, his...
Desires. She had found them and him far too animalistic. She had never been one to give herself over entirely to the marital act, but when he had attempted to introduce more she had...
She never would have taken him in her mouth the way that Beatrice had done. And Beatrice had done so with an enthusiasm unmatched by any whore.
Though the whores he had consorted with certainly evinced a certain measure of enthusiasm, when one paid for the pleasure, one could hardly be certain as to whether or not it was authentic.
It had never mattered to him. One thing he liked about the transaction was that there was no rejection involved. There were no grey areas.
He never felt exposed in his dealings with prostitutes because it was simple. He asked for what he wanted, and if they did not wish to provide, they were under no obligation to, but they did not get their money.
With a wife it was different.
He had been young, and he had been naive, and he had been certain that they could forge a marriage much different than his parents. One that included trust and fidelity.
And that she could see to all his needs. Instead, she had found his needs appalling. After that day she had never shared his bed again, and of course, he had never pressed himself upon her. He never would have.
An essential piece of his desire was the willing supplication of the woman he wanted. He would not, and had not, touched his wife in a manner she had found distasteful.
But Beatrice had not found his needs appalling.
Beatrice stirred, soft and sleepy, and he reached out and touched her.
And the moment his fingertips connected with her hair, so silken and lovely, he imagined gripping her hips from behind, then tugging her hair back as he thrust into her from that position.
No. That was...
It would endanger her. There was a risk, even with precautions, and he could not take those risks. He would not even allow himself to think of it.
It created in him too large of a feeling, and he did not wish it to exist in him.
They had found plenty of pleasure with each other. They had found plenty of pleasure last night.
She turned and looked at him, a slow smile spreading across her face.
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
He could not help himself. And it was not often that he could not help himself. So... He simply gave in. And he kissed her. On those soft, luscious lips. Her cheeks turned pink, and she smiled. ‘It was not a dream.’
‘No,’ he said. His chest went tight. That she could find what had passed between them to be like a dream, rather than the waking nightmare his first wife had found it...
‘I was afraid that I would wake up and I would be alone. And I would still be Beatrice.’
He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The same Beatrice. The Beatrice I always am. The Beatrice who is always alone, and certainly has never been touched so by a man.’ She looked up at him. ‘You make me feel... Incredible.’
And his stomach went tense, only because he understood.
It was why he was not Philip.
It was why he was Briggs.
So he did not have to feel the same.
Her lips curved into a smile and his thoughts stopped.
He could only stare at her, marvel at the fact that she fit with him in a way he could never have quite imagined. Had it been before him all this time?
‘You astonish me,’ he said. ‘Innocence should not take to these acts with such fervour.’
‘Do I offend you with my fervour?’
She looked upset, and he did not want her upset. He resisted giving her yet more honesty, but she had been accepting of him so far. And he would hate to cause her distress simply because he was unwilling to speak of the past.
‘To the contrary. I find you exceptionally pleasing. It has just not been my experience.’
‘Oh,’ she said, looking away. ‘Your wife.’
‘I’m sorry. If it upsets you for me to speak of her...’
‘I believe I said that to you last time she was mentioned. It does not upset me.’
‘Are you jealous, Beatrice?’ Beatrice’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she looked away from him. He frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘She gave you things I cannot. She gave you a child and she...’
‘You give me things that she would not,’ he said. ‘And that to me means more.’
She seemed pleased by that. And he was glad that he had found some way to ease her concerns. He did not want her to be concerned. He wished for her to feel utterly and completely safe and cared for. He wished for her to feel completely satisfied in the aftermath of all they had shared.
‘We will go out today.’
‘Did you have obligations?’
‘Likely,’ he said. ‘But I am here in London with you and with William, and we should go again. To the park.’
‘I would like that,’ she said.
And he liked to see her smile.
* * *
They went their separate ways, dressing for the day, and he sought out William, and ensured that the boy ate his breakfast.
He also decided to give the governess the afternoon off.
‘We shall be together as a family today,’ he said to William.
William looked pleased in that way that he often did. A small smile to himself. And Briggs felt as if he was... As if he was actually doing better than his father. It bothered him that the feeling mattered. It bothered him that it existed inside him, this desire to best his old man. And yet it did. He had not been aware it was quite so strong until now.
* * *
They got in their carriage and made their way to Grosvenor Square. They had packed a picnic for the afternoon, and he found himself slightly bemused by the fact that Beatrice had found a way to get both he and William to willingly participate in something both had said they would not. She might belong to him, but she had done a fair amount of changing the way that he lived.
She was very small for a revolutionary, and yet, he could not help but think of her as one.
‘You are a warrior, Beatrice,’ he said.
<
br /> She looked at him, her eyes glowing. ‘I am?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘If I had to ride into battle, I would want you by my side.’
The flush of pleasure on her face pleased him immensely. And he was so focused on it, that he looked away from William for just a moment, and when he looked back, he was gone.
‘William,’ he said, looking around, trying to scan the group of children that were running about the edge of the water.
He spotted him finally, holding his deck of cards, and speaking seriously to three other boys. Something inside Briggs went tight. And he sat back, poised to act.
He would not intervene. Not if he wasn’t needed. It was up to William to speak to other children if he wished to. And he ought to. It was a good thing. An expected thing.
But then one of the boys took hold of William’s box, and flung it to the ground. And after the box, the cards.
‘You’re weird,’ the other boy said. ‘No one cares about Rome.’
‘You’re addled,’ said another boy, and gave William a shove, and Briggs mobilised.
‘You better find your governess,’ he said, moving forward, and the boy looked up, his eyes going wide, and Briggs knew enough to know that the boy must have a father in the peerage, because he clearly identified Briggs as a man of great authority, his entire face going pale.
‘I... I...’
‘Is your governess about? Because she should seek to teach you manners, as you clearly have none.’
A woman came fluttering across the field. ‘I am very sorry,’ she said.
‘You will do well to tell this boy’s father when you give an account for his day, that he insulted the son of the Duke of Brigham. I will not allow for such a thing.’
‘Sorry, Your Grace,’ she said, ‘so terribly sorry.’
He bent down and picked up the box, and all the cards, dumping them back in rather carelessly. And then he thrust them into William’s hands. ‘Take these.’
William was silent, his countenance dimmed.
They went back to the blanket where Beatrice was standing, looking outraged.
She knelt down. ‘William,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘He will be fine,’ Briggs said. ‘But you must...’
But then William shattered. He burst into tears, leaning against Beatrice as he wept.
‘William,’ she said, bringing him down to the blanket and holding him to her chest. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’
‘Don’t cry,’ Briggs said, his breath coming in shallow, angry bursts.
If the other children were to see William weeping, it would only make things more difficult for him later. He could not be remembered as that boy. And this was the exact thing he had feared. That he would find censure among other children, and it would be impossible for him to be known as anything else. And he might not be so lucky as to find a friend like Hugh who would come alongside him, who would be patient with him when he had outbursts. Who would...
‘If you do not wish for other children to pour scorn on you, then you must learn to speak only of things that they care about. You must listen to them, not speak endlessly about things that they do not care about.’
‘Briggs,’ she said. ‘He’s a boy, and he loves those cards. The other boys, they were the ones at fault.’
Beatrice was angry at him. This she could not understand.
This part of him.
And what he knew.
Because of course she could not. No one could understand him quite so deeply.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Briggs said. ‘It does not matter if they were at fault, and they were. They have the manners of jackals, and their fathers should beat them. But it does not change the fact that William’s tears will only make the children think less of him. It does not change the fact that... The children will do what they do. And if you are different in any way, they will exploit that difference. They will make you miserable. They will make you wish you had not been born. And so you must learn to conceal it.
‘We will finish our picnic,’ Briggs said.
William was still weeping piteously against Beatrice. ‘William,’ he said sharply. ‘We will finish our picnic.’
He had successfully startled his son into stopping his tears.
‘You cannot let them see that they have made you hurt.’
‘But it hurts,’ William said.
‘It does not matter. They do not deserve your tears. Remember that. Nor do they deserve to hear about your cards.’
They ate, but he took no pleasure in the taste of the food. Instead, he was consumed by his outrage, and the memories that it began to stir up inside him.
* * *
By the time the afternoon had worn on, everyone had left some of the incident behind. And he found some space to breathe around it.
But by the time they got back to the town house, he felt restless. And when William went to the nursery, he dragged Beatrice to her bedchamber, and unleashed more of the same on her from the night before. He took his pleasure, and she took hers, and when they were through, she laid her head on his lap, and spoke softly. ‘Surely you cannot mean to have William never mention the things that he loves to the other children. You made it sound as if it was something he should be ashamed of.’
‘It is not that he should be ashamed,’ Briggs said. ‘I am not ashamed of him. I’m not. But it does not matter if I am the proudest father in all the world, children will only see difference. And they will... Attack it like savages. It is who they are. It is what they do. They cannot help it, I suspect. It is innate. To make for the vulnerable, to make them wish they had not been born.’
He could remember being shoved to the ground by an older boy in the village when he’d been a lad. The boy’s mother had been horrified because of who Briggs was, not because of the violence itself.
But the other boy had not cared who he was.
Imbecile.
He’d spat the word at Briggs.
All because he had asked Briggs about the weather and Briggs had explained the ideal climate for orchids. On and on he’d talked until the other boy’s fist had hit his face.
It had connected in his head, the weather and the flowers. He understood now why it had not to the other boy. But not then. Then he had not understood at all.
‘Briggs...’
‘No, Beatrice, you must trust me. I know of what I speak.’
‘I’m sure that you do. You were right about the carriage ride, Briggs. You were. It was very hard for him. But look at how he has bloomed here in many ways. Exploring the city delights him, he adores the town house, his tantrums have slowed, the new environment is actually quite engaging for him, and it is clear he takes deep joy in it. So yes, you could’ve protected him from the carriage ride, but you would have also stopped him from experiencing all of this. And what a terrible tragedy it would’ve been. And think... If you would continue to protect me in all the ways my brother wished you to... We would’ve been protecting me from something that made me very happy.’
He shifted, his stomach going sour. ‘I do not know that I do you any favours.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You do. I feel... Connected. To my body. To you. I do not know if I can explain. I spent my childhood very much as an observer. I felt as if I was not part of my family. I was always at home. While Hugh was away at school, I was at home. While he was away in London for the Season, I was at home. I was like a ghost in that house. My parents often acted as if I weren’t there. Unless I was having some sort of episode.
‘Sometimes my mother went away for the Season. My father would bring mistresses into the house, under the guise of...them being governesses for me. He did not speak to me. He did not... He acted as if I wouldn’t tell. My mother wept outside my room often. Sometimes for me. Sometimes for herself. And I always felt as if I was
pressing at a glass box, outside of all of it, controlled by everyone around me, and yet somehow completely distant from them. Closed off.
‘Sometimes I would be left at home with only a governess, while they went to London for the Season, and the doctor said that my lungs would not be able to handle the city. And I learned to go places in my mind. I learned to dream. To read to find something happier than what I had in reality. But... Briggs, you must know that is such a miserable thing.
‘And with you, I feel everything. When we are not separate. We are not distant. It is a revelation. It makes me feel like myself. In a good way. Not in the way I said the other morning. That I did not wish to be Beatrice. You make me feel as if Beatrice is a good thing to be. And I am always astonished by that. And I should take this feeling over protection always. Again and again.’ She sighed heavily. ‘You are a man who enjoys pain, and if you enjoy giving it you know someone else must enjoy receiving it. It is a balance. It is...life. How do you not see that sometimes to reach beautiful things, you must endure pain?’
‘Because these are games, Beatrice. Games played in the bedroom, and they are not true to life.’
Her eyes were soft and filled with pity. ‘They are not just games. Not to me. There’s something so much more.’
‘Beatrice,’ he said. ‘I have learned how to... Be the man that I must be. I have learned that I cannot simply... That I cannot simply follow every whim inside myself. There are places where I can be all that I feel.’
‘Brothels,’ she said.
‘In the past that has been true. With women I have a transaction with, there is a certain expectation. I can meet them. And they meet mine. But I do not wonder about behaving this way to all and sundry.’
‘Quite apart from anything else it would be very shocking,’ she said.
‘Yes. You cannot control the way others will treat you. But you do not need to needlessly expose yourself.’
‘I do not wish to see William crushed.’
‘I do not wish to see William crushed at all,’ Briggs said. ‘I would see him protected. From anything and everything. The best way to do that is to teach him how to... How to look like everybody else.’
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 38
