by Hope Tarr
“I’m sorry, too,” Beatrice said. “But were it not for you they would have not had these past nine months and that would have been a tragedy indeed.”
The way she was looking at him, he suddenly felt ten feet tall, a modern-day Hercules or better yet, an Atlas with the weight of the world upon his shoulders and happy to have it so as long as she, Beatrice, looked upon him as she did now. Could he have captured the glow of that gaze in a vial, he would mount it upon a chain and wear it about his throat for the rest of his days.
Feeling suddenly, improbably shy, he shifted the subject. “You care deeply about your sister.”
Beatrice did not deny it. “She has been both mother and sister to me. I have been turning to her for protection all my life.”
“Only not now?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure I comprehend your meaning.”
“You haven’t told her about the difficulty with your fiancé.” Topic aside, still he couldn’t bear to spoil the moment by mentioning that ridiculous name.
She shook her head, visibly tensing. “I shouldn’t wish to burden her.” She bit at her bottom lip and admitted, “And I am not certain she would understand.”
“Understand us?” he suggested. Us—how had he managed to miss the utter loveliness of that brief word?
“Oh, no!” she replied with unflattering swiftness and a cursory flick of one slender wrist. “I am afraid under the circumstances she would try, most forcefully, to talk me out of marrying Mr. Billingsby. She’s already hinted I may be marrying in haste.”
Emboldened, he asked, “Are you?”
She let out a long sigh. “Mr. Billingsby is not handsome nor is he of any particular wit. He has a comfortable income, but it is no great fortune. And as you know, he is not especially skilled as a lover.”
Why she should select a man so admittedly lacking for a mate stretched his imagination beyond its limits. Ere now, he’d assumed she must have some romantic inclination toward her future husband, otherwise why put herself to the risk and trouble of seducing him a fortnight before the wedding? Now it seemed that was not the case.
Heart pounding, Ralph found it impossible to resist asking any longer. “Then why wed him? You are young and beautiful, titled and talented. You could have any man you wished.” You could have me!
She regarded him seriously. “He is…nice.”
“Nice?” Ralph could do little more than stare.
She was throwing her future away for “nice”? Until now Ralph had prided himself on having a highly developed comprehension of human nature. As part of his thieving past, he’d made a study of strangers with the goal of quickly understanding their habits and weaknesses. But Beatrice’s declaration rendered him all but speechless. That niceness should suffice to win a price such as her quite literally boggled his mind.
She bobbed her head. “Yes, nice, as well as amiable and honorable and kind to people as well as horses and dogs. I have never seen him drink to excess or use strong language or indeed direct so much as an unkind word at anyone, be that person a peer or a peasant. And while admittedly he is possessed of but a small fortune, I have every confidence that fortune shall not founder, for he does not wager beyond what is sociable. With Mr. Billingsby as my husband, I can count upon a roof over my head. It will be a modest roof, but the deed to it will never wind up as collateral for a debt or as a marker on a gaming table. With Mr. Billingsby, I shall have devotion. I need never worry that he is leaving me at night to attend his mistress or that he will demean me or those dear to me in any manner.”
It was a pretty speech as well as a seemingly sincere one, and still Ralph couldn’t help but think there must be more to her decision. “That is…all?”
She fixed him with knowing blue eyes. Mayhap it was a trick of the turned down lamps, but she suddenly seemed far older than her not yet one-and-twenty years.
“That, Ralph, is everything.”
If that indeed summarized “everything,” then Ralph was fully prepared to provide her those things himself. He drew a breath and braced himself to make his declaration. “Beatrice, I—”
“My father,” Bea broke in, “is not a nice man. He is a drunkard and a gamester and a whoremonger. Were it not for Kate sitting as a photographer’s model to make ends meet these past years, I might well find myself in the workhouse for all that I’m an earl’s daughter. Despite all Kate’s successes at shielding me, still I have lived with uncertainty all my life, on tenterhooks waiting for the cocoon to be breached, the bubble to burst.”
So, she was willing to settle for a loveless and likely passionless marriage in exchange for security. He supposed he couldn’t fault her. Compared to the solid and upstanding Mr. Billingsby, a former card sharp and thief must seem a shaky proposition, indeed. And yet it wounded him that, on some level, she might be painting him with the same broad brush as her father.
He took a step toward her and demanded, “If Mr. Billingsby offers everything you desire, why are you here?”
It was a selfish question, perhaps even a cruel one, and yet he was just selfish enough and cruel enough to ask it. Beyond anything, he had to know.
She shifted her gaze to the side. “I wanted you to teach me about sex…so that I may better guide Mr. Billingsby.” Again, there was that telling pause.
Ralph drew closer. “And now?” He snagged her gaze with his and refused to release her. “Why are you here, Beatrice?” He slid yet another step toward her.
She shook her head, her gaze dipping. “Because…because I want to know what I shall be missing in the years to come. Because…I want to know what it means to be lovers with a man in the truest sense of the word.”
He closed the gap between them and lifted her downturned chin on the edge of his hand. “Is that the only reason?”
Eyes swimming in tears fought their way back up to his face. “Because I wish to know what it is to…engage in sexual intimacy with a man…with a man I might love.”
SOMETIME LATER, Ralph pulled the sheet over them both. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Bea let out a laugh. “I believe I’m doing it now…or rather recovering from doing it.”
She supposed she should be grateful he’d so far refrained from bringing up the embarrassing bit about her loving him. That he hadn’t made a like declaration wasn’t lost on her despite the tenderness of the sex they’d just shared. Not that she’d expected him to. Still, it would be nice.
“Come now, turnabout is fair play. The other evening I answered your question about my tattoo.” His teasing voice brought her back to the moment.
Rolling over on her side, she stared at him askance. “Since when have you cared about playing fair?” She congratulated herself on making a rather fine and irrefutable point.
“Touché,” he conceded with a slight nod. “Then in the spirit of fun rather than fairness, answer me this—what is the one thing about your history I could be counted upon never to guess?”
“Beyond growing up as an earl’s daughter wearing darned stockings and shivering for want of fuel?”
“Yes, beyond that.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Very well, I was a gluttonous, fat child.”
He drew back to look at her, his gaze scanning her sheet-sheathed body as though expecting her to suddenly inflate. “You were never fat!” Beneath the covers, he moved his hand over her belly. “You’re slender as a sylph.”
“I wasn’t then, I assure you. My sister, I believe, has the photographic proof stowed away somewhere.”
Food had been her solace, the resulting padding of extra flesh a sad little protection against hurt. Beyond a cursory pinching of plump cheeks or chucking of doubled chin, no one was particularly interested in fawning over the chubby child, no one save Kate. As curt as her sister could sometimes be, she’d always shown Bea a kind word and a soft hand.
For the first time it occurred to Bea that perhaps she and her father had something in common after all: weakness. He dr
ank to fill the void and fend off the monsters. She’d sought solace in the pantry. And always, always she’d longed to be more like Kate. Kate who never ate or drank to excess, who never seemed to question the correctness of her course, and who had sacrificed herself for the family, for Bea, for the better part of two decades without once uttering a word of resentment or reproach. Growing up as she had surrounded by all that loving perfection, how could such a flawed creature as she ever feel close to whole?
Instead, she’d put her energies into those traits of which she was already master: petulance and pettiness and a great many foolish fronts that gained her adult attention and a vague indulgence that might almost pass for love—almost.
He spoke at last. “Gluttony is accounted to be one of the seven deadly sins, but I’ve never considered it on par with the others.” He was making a joke, or trying to, but suddenly Bea found none of it funny.
Grimly aware he’d yet to say “I love you” in return, she stared up at the plasterwork ceiling. “You’re not the only one with a past. I’ve been spoiled and selfish, vain and weak. Befriending my brother-in-law’s former mistress and bringing her into my sister’s new home counts as a rather substantial sin, wouldn’t you say?”
“You had no way of knowing Felicity and Rourke had a prior liaison, let alone that she had designs on him still.”
The fierceness of his tone had her dragging her gaze back to his. He was making excuses for her. A part of her liked that. A lot. Ever since she could remember, she’d craved a champion, a knight-in-shining-armor who would wear her colors and take her part. And yet adulthood demanded she not let herself off the proverbial hook quite so easily.
“My bringing Felicity Drummond north last winter nearly cost Kate and Rourke their happiness. That they can bear to look at me let alone have me here as their guest is a testimony to how very good they are. Had I been in their place, I’m not at all sure I would be quite so forgiving.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Rather than argue, she turned away from him and onto her side. “You’re forever instructing me to ask for what I want in bed. Well, we are in bed now and I would very much like not to talk anymore.” Nor did she especially wish to get up, gather her clothes, and make her way through icy corridors and winding turret steps to her room.
His hand settled over the top of her shoulder. “Will there be any other directives or requests?” he asked, a smile in his voice.
Honesty was made easier by not having to look him in the eye. “I want to spend the night here, the whole night, with you. I want you to hold me, hold me as if we were lovers, true lovers, and not playing a part. I want you to hold me as though we have all the time together in the world instead of only a few more days. Will you do that for me, Ralph?”
Silent, Ralph wrapped his arms about her. He tucked her against him, his lean body molding to hers. Pressing a kiss into her hair, he settled her head at his sternum.
Closing her eyes, she cuddled closer. Having Ralph’s warm, strong body spooned against hers wasn’t only better. It was the very best feeling imaginable.
Drifting off to sleep, it struck her she hadn’t even had to say “please.”
KATE SAT PROPPED UP IN BED late that night, her manuscript pages lying in an untouched pile on the bedside table along with a mug of tea she kept forgetting to drink. Sprawled across the foot of the bed, Toby lifted his head from her now numb toes and turned to the knob twisting in the chamber door. Kate tensed, wondering who would enter her room at this late hour without bothering to knock. Seconds later her anxiety was allayed when a russet head poked inside.
“Patrick!” She greeted her husband with a wobbly smile and open arms. “I didn’t expect you home until tomorrow.”
“I came as soon as I could.” He dropped his attaché case by the door and bounded over to the bed, not stopping to remove his greatcoat or his boots. The latter were likely to be caked with mud, but Kate was altogether too happy to see him to care about that now.
He swooped down on the bed beside her and lifted her onto his lap. “Och, Katie Girl, I’m so verra sorry about Princess.”
“But how did you know?” She stopped herself. “Ralph telegraphed you, didn’t he? I forbade him to bother you and yet he did.”
Rather than deny it, Rourke snorted. “Dinna worry, my love. Sylvester takes orders from no one, not even me. And in this case he was in the right. I would have wanted to know. I’m so verra sorry about the horse, doubly sorry I wasna here to be of comfort to you.” He pressed a kiss against her temple, and Kate tightened her hold on his big, broad shoulders. No matter what befell her, be it a rejection letter for her manuscript or the loss of her precious Princess, her big, bluff Scotsman could always, always make it better just by being near.
She pulled back to frame his dear, blunt-featured face between her hands. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
She pressed a kiss onto the bridge of his bent nose and then buried her face against his solid shoulder, chafing her cheek against the scratchy folds of his tweed overcoat, inhaling the scents of peat smoke and single malt whiskey and the bay rum he used after shaving. She might have just experienced one of the saddest days of her adult life and yet she was a lucky woman indeed.
For a while they stayed as they were, with him gently rocking her and stroking her hair. But as always the passion between them flared to life in bad times as well as good. When his big hand brushed her breast, Kate had no thought of moving it aside. This was love, pure love, and losing a beloved family member, even if that family member was four-legged, begged not only for proper grieving, but also for celebrating life, including the new life growing inside her.
Features taut, he drew back. “Och, Katie, I meant only to hold you, but…”
She laid two fingers along his lips. “You are holding me.”
Beneath her fingers his mouth curved into a smile. Gently, very gently, he eased her back onto the mattress. Still wearing his coat, he found the hem of her nightgown and slid it up and off.
Laying her down, he pressed soft kisses over her still flat belly. “When I think how close we came to losing one another last year…” He looked up at her, his eyes filling.
It was difficult to fathom that nine months ago she’d asked him for a separation. It only went to demonstrate how two people who deeply loved one another could be led astray by a misunderstanding. Such was the circumstance with Bea and Ralph, she strongly suspected.
She opened her mouth to say so, but before she could form the words, Patrick’s head dipped lower. His beard-bristled cheeks brushed the insides of her thighs. His mouth moving over her mons had her gasping. Shutting her eyes, she ran her hand through his hair and gave herself up to the peace and the pleasure.
Some time later, Kate fought her way back from sleep to say, “I’m worried about Bea-Bea. I believe she may have feelings for Ralph for all that she insists on going through with marrying Mr. Billingsby.”
Beside her, Rourke shifted, lifting his leg to accommodate the dog sprawled at their feet. “I thought you wanted her to wed Mr. Billingsby?” Dark though it was with the lamps turned down, she could feel him rolling his eyes.
“That was before I saw how good she and Ralph are together. What I dismissed nine months ago as an infatuation seems to run far deeper.”
He blew out a heavy breath. “Your sister is a grown woman. It’s not our place to interfere.”
“You can’t really mean that.” She’d been “interfering” since Bea was in nappies and she saw no sense in giving up her maternal role now.
“I do. Remember the muddle nearly made of our marriage when others piped in with their advice giving and hold your tongue. You’ve enough to do managing Lucy and me, not to mention the bairn on the way and the wee book you’re writing.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said with a yawn, not because he was, but because she was too weary to argue, at least for the night.
“Katie, I know that tone of
yours. Consider yourself warned—leave it alone. It’s been more than a year since you’ve felt the flat of my hand on your backside but—”
“Patrick, you promised!” she broke in, lifting her head. “Besides that, I’m pregnant. And you love me. And…and I’ll turn Toby on you. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s my dog now.”
“I’ve noticed.” He cast a gimlet gaze downward to the snoring dog.
“Regardless, ours is a marriage of true minds, or so you swore. Or was quoting Shakespeare just a ploy to soften me?”
“Of course it wasna.” Voice mellowing, he patted his shoulder for her to lay her head. “I’ll never again put so much as a finger upon you in anger, though if memory serves me, you gave as good as you got.”
Hearing the smile in his voice, Kate kissed him and rolled onto her side, a luxury she’d have to relinquish in not so many more months. “I always do, my love. I always do.”
6
Lesson Six
“Congress having once commenced, passion alone gives birth to all the acts of the parties.”
—The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana
WHEN BEA ASKED TO BORROW the brougham and driver to go into Linlithgow the next morning, no one, not even Kate, thought to ask why. Her sister, still grieving her horse, was quite understandably holed up in her room.
Once there, Bea headed for the cobbled high street. From Hattie she knew there was a public house, the Stag and Tartan, from which mail, including telegrams, might be both dispatched and received. She supposed she might have sneaked the use of the castle telephone. Then again, given the grave importance of her message, likely she’d been right to send it in person.
She opened the door and ducked beneath the low frame. Pipe tobacco and peat smoke greeted her as she stepped within. Old-fashioned tallow candles filled the brackets on the whitewashed stucco walls. She followed the sound of voices and clanging cutlery and tankards into the taproom. Tavern tables lined three of the room’s four walls and most of the seats on the backless benches were taken for all that it was a workday and not yet time for tea. Making her way between the tables, ignoring the curious stares and occasional wink shot her way, she walked up to the caged bar beyond which mail bags mingled with tapped beer kegs and casks.
