by Hope Tarr
He paused, the prophylactic partway on. His eyes found hers in the semidarkness. “Are you sure?”
“I am.” Lest there be any doubt, she pushed up on her elbow and unfurled the condom herself.
Holding her gaze, Ralph shifted to straddle her. Bea held her breath, intuitively sensing that this time would be unlike any previous coupling. The lessons were over, the fantasies finished. This time they would be making love, not playacting parts. Reality had never been more gloriously welcome.
He entered her in one clean, beautiful thrust that had them both gasping. Bea felt her heart filling along with her channel. “Oh, Ralph, I’m so happy, so madly happy.” She anchored her legs to his hips and met him stroke for stroke.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. Stilling inside her, he reached down and caressed her cheek. “I want you to be happy. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
He moved inside her gently, so very gently, periodically pausing to touch her face or to look deeply, searchingly into her eyes. Smoothing a hand down her lover’s sweat-slick back, Bea gave herself up to the moment, letting herself feel not only the pleasure, but the love.
When they came, they did so together, crying out each other’s names. When later Ralph pulled the covers over them both, there was no mention of saying goodbye or parting ways for separate rooms. Folded into Ralph’s warmth like two stacked spoons, Bea let sleep carry her off, trusting—hoping—that with love on their side, the future would take care of itself.
STANDING ON THE THRESHOLD of the study the next morning, Ralph cleared his throat. “Sorry to be late. I…overslept.”
Bea had left his room for her own scarcely an hour ago. To his best knowledge, neither of them had bothered to appear at breakfast. Their mutual absence would stand as a stupid slip-up if he didn’t so dearly wish for them to be caught.
Rourke looked up from his open newspaper. “Nay matter. Kate and I had a leisurely breakfast.”
Ralph stepped up to the desk. Staring into his old friend’s face, he found himself at a loss as to how to begin.
Fortunately for him, Rourke was not one to endure long silences. “You’re the verra picture of a soberness, Sylvester. You also have the look of a man with something weighing on his mind.”
Ralph nodded. “Accurate on both counts, Patrick.” He’d always known his friend’s acumen wasn’t limited to business, but he’d never before been more cognizant of the other man’s canniness than he was now. “I’ve come to give you my notice.”
Rourke dropped the newspaper without folding it. “If this is your idea of a joke—”
“It’s no joke. You’ve been carrying me for years now. As much as I appreciate your friendship and of course, your largesse, it’s past time I struck out and made my own way.”
His own way—and Beatrice’s. He hadn’t proposed to her, not yet, but after last night, he couldn’t believe she still might mean to marry the milksop. Still, security was important to her, and he meant to provide for that and all her other needs to the very best of his ability. His position as Rourke’s private secretary was fine for a bachelor—his friend paid him embarrassingly well—but before long, he hoped to make Rourke his brother-in-law. Bosom friends though they were, still Ralph had his pride. He didn’t want to be seen as living off his future wife’s family. He had a little nest egg set aside, not much, but enough for a stake in some small business and a start for a new life, a new life with Beatrice.
Rourke brought his fist down hard on the desk, sending inkwell and paperweights jumping. “This is about my sister-in-law, isn’t it? That cursed girl is the bane of my existence.”
Friend or not, Ralph didn’t pause to properly consider his actions. The name of the woman he loved, yes, loved had just been impugned and there was nothing left to do but fight.
He launched himself at the desk and grabbed his friend by the collar points. “Take it back.”
Rourke glared up at him. The muscle ticking in his jaw told Ralph he was struggling to hold himself in check. “Be careful, Sylvester. Remember I spent time in the ring, and it was good reason they had for calling me The Bull.”
Before making his fortune, Rourke had made his way as a pugilist. His winnings had been his stake for purchasing the first railway shares that had transformed him from street tough to magnate. In a fist fight, Ralph would emerge as the loser—the pulverized, flesh-stripped loser—and yet he held on.
“Don’t ever speak so about Beatrice in my hearing. Don’t ever speak about her in that manner at all.”
Rourke nodded and Ralph let go. Shaking his head at Ralph, he lifted one ham-size hand to his neck and kneaded the raw, red spot that would soon turn into a bruise. “Good God, she’s gotten to you, hasn’t she? You love the lass.”
Brow perspiring, Ralph stepped back. “I do.”
Rourke knocked back his head and guffawed, so hard and long that Ralph was tempted to punch him if only to make him stop.
Swiping at his watery eyes, Rourke said, “Two scalawags like us ending up wed to earl’s daughters, sisters no less. Life takes some wondrous queer turns, aye Ralph?”
Ralph fell silent. “I haven’t proposed yet.”
“Why the devil not? If you’re waiting for the father’s blessing, you might as well wait for hell to freeze over. But for certain you’ll have Kate’s and mine.”
“Thank you, Patrick.”
Ralph hesitated. For the first time since they’d met at Johnnie Black’s flash house all those many years ago, Ralph found himself in the position of pupil. And a pupil’s shoes, he realized, made for exceedingly uncomfortable footwear in which to stand.
“What if I ask her and she still won’t break it off with Billingsby?”
“Och, man, find your balls. You’re one o’ Black’s boys, and the best of the bunch.” Rourke rose and rounded the desk. “Beyond that, you’re a born card sharp. Don’t tell me you’re afraid to take a chance on love?”
Ralph sank into a chair. “I have so little to offer her, Patrick.”
“Would it help to know you’re rich?”
Ralph snapped up his head. “That isn’t funny.”
“Do you remember some months back you gave me that one hundred pounds and asked me to invest it in that wee scheme o’ yours?’
Ralph did. He’d approached Rourke after reading an article in the financial section of The London Times touting the rage for traveling to the Orient. The new railway extending service from the present Orient Express into satellite terminuses had seemed his very favorite sort of wager: a long shot. He’d handed over the money to his friend to invest as though it was his. A self-made man in a society where class was mainly based on birth, Rourke was a living legend among working men and his “betters” both. Ralph had reasoned that having his railway magnate friend act as the front man would greatly increase the stock’s likelihood of success. Apparently, he’d been right. Still, that he was rich in his own right boggled his already boggled brain.
Rourke’s grin confirmed it. “The shares split, and then split again and then again. The wire came in early this morning.”
Reality hit. Ralph shot up from his chair. He gripped the edge of the desk and held on with white-knuckled hands. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I’m rich!”
Rourke nodded. “If you sell now while the price is at peak, you’ll be set for life with ample funds to provide for a wife.”
“Even if she’s an earl’s daughter?”
Rourke snorted. “I’m married to one, as well. Trust me, you’ll get used to it. They’re still women, Sylvester. Good women, with generous, loving hearts open to the man canny enough to see beyond the fuss and frills. Give Bea the chance to make you happy. From the looks of you, she has already.”
BEA WAS ON HER WAY to find Ralph and tell him about the telegraph she’d sent to Mr. Billingsby the day before. So far the sole person who knew about it was Hattie. She’d simply had to tell someone or burst. Jubilant, the housekeeper had urged her
to seek out Ralph straightaway. She came up on the study just as he was stepping out.
Smiling, he stepped back. “I’ve just given my resignation.” He reached out to embrace her.
Startled, she leaped back. “Ralph, why! Even were Rourke not your friend, this must be a very secure situation.”
His smile faded. “For a man such as me, you mean?” His gaze flickered over her face.
Bea acknowledged she’d framed her thoughts badly. “I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that if you and Rourke have quarreled, I’ll speak to Kate straightaway. I’m sure she can fix things and—”
His expression darkened. “I neither want nor need your sister to ‘fix things.’ I’ve made my decision.”
“I see.” She hesitated, waiting for him to say something more, something like “I love you. Marry me.” Instead he stayed silent and stared at her as though she’d just sprouted horns.
“You are resolved, then?” She winced at how small her voice sounded.
“I am.” Again she waited for him to say more, but instead he moved to step past her.
She started to reach for him, but stopped herself. Their lessons were over. This was real life, not fantasy, and despite last night’s “I love yous”, she needed to know whether or not he meant to spend that life with her.
“Where are you going?”
Turning back, he smiled thinly. “For the present, to pack.”
SECURITY, THERE WAS THAT word again. Deflated, Ralph walked back to his rooms. Beatrice hadn’t once asked about his plans. She hadn’t seemed to suppose he had any plans. Beyond that, she didn’t seem to trust him to take care of her. She’d yet to say anything to indicate she meant to break off her engagement. For all he knew, she might still mean to go through with marrying the milksop.
Stepping inside his rooms, he found Hattie waiting. He held in a groan. Just what he didn’t need: another uninvited woman invading his privacy.
Duster in hand, she advanced on him, her mien that of a soldier marching into battle. Stopping scarcely a foot away, she ran her stern-eyed gaze over him. “You’re a sorry sack.”
He drew the door closed behind him. “You’re looking splendid, too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pack. I’ve given my notice.”
He started to sidestep her but she shifted, putting herself directly in his path. “So you’re running away.”
He shrugged. “That’s what street boys do. We run.”
“Where will you go?”
His destination wasn’t her concern, but he supposed there was no harm in answering. “Back to London. It’s my home. I’ve been away too long. But please keep that bit of gossip to yourself until Lady Beatrice boards her train tomorrow.”
A shocked gasp greeted that directive. “You mean to say you’re letting her leave without you?”
So much for keeping secrets. Rather than put up a token denial, he shrugged. “It is hardly in my power to detain her even…even if I wished to. She is getting married or had you forgotten that niggling detail?”
She opened her mouth as if to reply, and then clamped it closed. Looking as though she might explode, she said, “Before anyone goes anywhere, you need to talk to her.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware I had anything more to say.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve money now, Ralph. You don’t have to play at being a proper gentleman anymore. You can be one.”
He started. “So you know about that, do you?” Recovering, he tsked. “Hattie, my darling, this listening at keyholes and reading wires meant for other persons simply must stop.”
She lowered her lids. “I might have had a glance at the master’s desktop, but only to dust it, of course.”
“Of course.” He bypassed her and walked over to pour himself a much needed Scotch.
She followed him, wrenching the glass from his hand. “The only reason you’ve for being miserable is because you fancy being so.”
Giving over the glass, he answered, “Money or not, I’m still too hard for someone so very fine.”
“Hard, is it?” She snorted. “If anything, I’d say you’ve gone soft…soft in the head, soft in the ballocks, too.” She lifted the glass and drained it in a single swallow that would have served a sailor proud. Handing it back to him, she said, “I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”
It was likely a mistake to ask and yet he’d made so many mistakes in his life already, what could one more signify. “What is that?”
She folded her arms across her chest and pinned him with her gaze. “You, Ralph Sylvester, are a coward.”
Ralph slammed the empty glass down upon the table. “Were you a man, you’d find yourself issuing your next insult from the floor.”
“Threaten all you like because I’m not leaving this room until you answer me. Do you love my girl or not?”
Ralph exhaled heavily, suddenly drained of the will to fight. “Of course I love her. I’ve loved her from the first moment I set eyes on her.”
Hattie stared at him with a misty gaze. “Then for Lord’s sake find her and ask her to marry you before that mealy-mouthed milksop coaxes her to come away with him.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I will. Thank you.” He turned to go. Halfway to the door, he turned back. “Of what milksop would we be speaking?”
She looked at him as though his wits were dim indeed. “Why, Mr. Billingsby, of course. He came direct from the train station a few minutes ago. He’s waiting for her in the library.”
7
Lesson Seven
“It sometimes happens that while gains are being sought for, or expected to be realized, only losses are the results of our efforts.”
—The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana
BEA HAD BEEN ON HER WAY back to her bedroom for a proper think and a cry when one of the parlor maids intercepted her to say that a gentleman from London awaited her in the library. The plain cream-colored vellum calling card confirmed it. Mr. Billingsby had arrived.
The library door stood ajar. Bea drew a bracing breath and stole a glance inside. Mr. Billingsby stood in profile by the fireplace, his gloved hands clenching the brim of a silk-banded bowler. She’d expected to have another full day, even two, before she needed to gird herself to face him, but the bewhiskered blond head and sloping shoulders showed it was not to be so.
She cleared her throat, opened the door fully, and stepped up to the threshold. He must be deep in thought indeed for he failed to turn about. She feigned a cough, louder this time. “Mr. Billingsby,” she said softly and, drawing a deep breath, started inside.
The Honorable Hamilton Conan Billingsby whipped about to face her. “Beatrice,” he said gravely. In the midst of her discomfiture she started, for until now the only person to call her by her full name was Ralph.
He walked toward her, dropping his hat upon the library rug. “Bother, it!”
Face flushed, he stooped to retrieve the hat as did she. Their foreheads cracked—painfully.
His mortified gaze crawled up to hers. He straightened. “I beg your pardon.”
“It’s quite all right.” Declining the hand he held out, Bea rose, rubbing her forehead. The latter would likely bear the brunt of a bruise before nightfall, the very least her very bad behavior deserved. This is not the best of beginnings, she allowed, and handed him the hat.
He took it, and she couldn’t help but see that his hands shook. Remembering how those trembling, fishy fingers had felt upon her flesh both firmed her resolve and sent her heart sinking. Were she to go through with marrying him, she’d likely find herself installed upon a pedestal for the remainder of her married days. At one time, being on the receiving end of a kind man’s blindly pampering adoration might have sufficed, but no more. Pedestals now struck her as cold and drafty places. Being with Ralph these past days had shown her she didn’t want to be treated as a china doll or admired as a trophy.
She wanted to be loved.
Straightening, Mr. Billingsby sent his pale blue eye
s traveling the length of her. Uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny, she waved him toward a chair, but he shook his head. “I should prefer to stand if you do not mind,” he answered.
Bea did not mind. Second to turning and running out the door, she preferred standing, as well.
“I am surprised to see you here, sir,” she said. “That is to say, I would not have expected you to come all this long way.”
His blinking stare put her in mind of an owl. “Did you not? Did you think once I received your wire I would simply go away?”
Bea didn’t answer, for what answer could she give that would not render further hurt? She had indeed thought he would, if not go away, accept her decision without confrontation. It seemed her fiancé—former fiancé— was fashioned of sterner stuff than she’d credited.
“Shall I ring for tea?” she asked, desperate for distraction. Taking his acquiescence for granted, she started toward the bell rope.
“I did not come for tea,” he said, his trembling voice stalling her in her steps. “I came for an explanation—and the chance to change your mind.”
She girded herself with a deep breath. “I am afraid my mind remains unchanged. I still find myself unable to marry you, sir.”
Ironic, really, that it had taken her and Ralph’s naughty games, their dirty lessons to bring her authentic self, her raw honesty to the surface. Now she was done with playacting, done with pleasing people for the sole sake of keeping the peace. Even though she’d hurt Mr. Billingsby—she was hurting him—she reckoned it far fairer to wound him lightly now than to inflict deeper wounds later on.
The cloud crossing his unremarkable features made him appear positively tragic. “You are resolved, then?”
She nodded, determined to make herself perfectly, painfully clear for both their sakes. “I am.”
“There is someone else, is there not?”
“We were never a match,” she said, more gently this time. “Surely I am not the only one of us to know this?”
