“I’m a selfish man, Beatrice. I will find a way to have what I want, eventually.”
“And what is that? A tumble with me like some dockside tavern wench?” she demanded angrily. “I’m not available for such and you are not free to offer anything else!”
“No, dammit! That isn’t what I want.”
“That is all we could ever have,” she stated with finality. “And I am not willing to settle for it. This cannot continue between us. Eventually, you will have to marry according to the needs of the estate and I cannot—” She stopped and drew a shuddering breath. “I cannot give you my body without giving you my heart, especially knowing that someday someone else will be your wife and bear your children.”
Graham threw his hands up in the air. “Why do you insist on placing obstacles in our path? The only person insisting I marry an heiress is you! Why? What possible reason could you have for thinking that?”
“Edmund has insisted for years that the estate is hovering on the brink of ruin—”
“Aye, and it is. It has been for nigh on a decade. This estate was always profitable until he took over the management of it. Once that is wrested from him, it will be again,” he replied.
“But an heiress—”
He laughed at her, but it wasn’t amusement. There was meanness in it. “What heiress would have me? I was born a gentleman, yes. But I’ve not lived like one. I’ve a crumbling estate, manners and bearing that belong to a laborer and a body so scarred most women would faint at the sight! I don’t want some weak-willed miss without a spine to call her own, even if her family coffers could fill the great hall!”
“You are Lord Blakemore, Graham, and there are responsibilities. You’re being unreasonable.”
“I bloody well am not,” he shouted. “And I don’t give a damn about being Lord Blakemore. I lived almost two decades of my life not knowing who I was beyond a first name. I can just as easily go back to it!”
“Then why did you come here?” she asked. “If it wasn’t to be Lord Blakemore and reclaim your position, why?
“Because I wanted to know where I belonged, where I’d come from, and because, God help me, in some twisted way I believe I was looking for you.”
Those words stung her to her soul, they offered a hope she dared not give wing to. “The people of this village, the tenants on this estate, need you. It isn’t about what you want.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s about what I need… what I crave. It’s about what I require to survive,” he said, the words coming out between clenched teeth. “I’ll marry you, Beatrice Marlowe, or I’ll not marry at all.”
She could not have been more stunned if he’d told her he was the Archbishop of Canterbury. Marriage had been discussed, but only in the context of him marrying someone else. He’d never made any statements regarding such intentions for her before. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
She asked the question, hating herself for it, but needing so desperately to know. “Do you love me?”
He looked at her, hands on his hips, his posture rigid with anger and his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Finally, he shook his head. “No. I don’t love you.”
Her heart stuttered in her chest. Was it guilt then? Some misguided sense of responsibility because she was a ward of the family and he had taken her innocence.
“Love is too tame a word for what I feel,” he continued. “Love is what sailors promise women in a dozen ports just so they’ll have a warm bed and a warmer body awaiting them. It’s trinkets and promises and silly dreams between people who don’t know how ugly the world can be.”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take in the enormity of what he was saying to her. Slowly, Beatrice sank onto the edge of the chair. But he was far from done.
“I crave you, every moment of every day. We’re entwined you and I, twisted up together in a way that we can never be fully taken apart… whether or not we are together, a part of you will always live inside me. And whether you like it or not, Beatrice, a part of me will live inside you. Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be there. And heaven help you if you ever dream to take another man to your bed, because my ghost will hover between you.”
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t hearts and flowers and odes written to the beauty of her eyes. Those things had always seemed silly to her anyway. What he professed was primal, instinctual, tinged with darkness and a bit of the brigand he’d confessed to having been. It spoke to the part of her that was wild and irresponsible. It called to the selfish child within her who wanted to have him regardless of the cost.
“Then you should ask me to marry you,” she said.
He laughed again, bitterly, and when he spoke, his voice held a wealth of warning. “So you can tell me no? I don’t think so, Beatrice. I’ll not ask again. When it’s time, I’ll simply toss you over my shoulder and cart you away. I’m done with asking.” He swooped in then, pulling her hard against him and kissing her so soundly it was all she could do to draw breath. He consumed her with that kiss, ravishing her completely, and she reveled in it.
When the kiss broke at last, she was weak from it, her knees quaking and her heart thundering in her chest. She looked up at him, but it wasn’t love or anything so tender she saw in his gaze. It was victory. That sparked her ire enough to alleviate the passion-fueled haze he’d created in her.
“I will find a way… I will find a way to save this estate and to have you. Mark my words!” he challenged.
Beatrice moved toward the door, but paused with her hand resting on it. She didn’t turn to look at him, but kept her head down as she spoke. Angry as she was, she wasn’t foolish enough to count on her own strength of will in that moment. “This isn’t a fairytale, Graham, where people get to have happy endings and marry those of their own choosing with no thought to the consequences. I had made peace with what I thought my lot in life was… to live here and care for Lady Agatha in her old age, to die a lonely spinster living off the charity of others. I’d accepted those things. And a part of me hates you for making me want more than that.”
*
In the hall, Beatrice finally drew a deep breath. It was as if she had to escape his presence in order for her lungs to expand. The weight of desire, of longing and regret, the taunting visions of all that might have been clamored in her mind. He was not for her, and she knew that whether he was willing to accept it or not.
She was not the only one struggling to make peace with her choice. The sound of breaking glass came from behind his closed door and a growl of what she could only assume was frustration. He had not yet accepted the truth of their situation, of his duty to Castle Black. But he would. In the short time he had been there, she’d seen him step more confidently into the role he had returned to claim.
Retreating to her room, she closed the door behind her and sank against it. Betsy was there, readying her things for bed. The maid looked up, took in her disheveled appearance and sighed.
“I hope no one else saw you like that,” Betsy said, her tone light. There was worry in her gaze, however, and Beatrice understood that only too well. She was worried for herself. He held too much sway over her—physically and emotionally.
“No one saw me,” she said. “Everyone else has gone to bed or, at the very least, has settled into their respective rooms for the night. I wish I knew what to do, Betsy.”
The maid approached the dressing table and picked up the brush, gesturing for Beatrice to take a seat there. She did so, sighing with relief as the pins were removed from her hair and the heavy mass was freed entirely. The monotonous rhythm of the brush working through the heavy strands eased her, offered a mindless relaxation that allowed her to recover from the charged atmosphere that existed between her and Graham.
“Some things,” Betsy said softly, “are just meant to be.”
“I don’t believe in fairy stories and happy endings, Betsy. I never have really. There is no good end for Graham and me,” Bea
trice replied.
“Never said it had to end well, Miss. Just said it had to be.”
Beatrice frowned at her in the mirror. “I cannot decipher such cryptic nonsense right now, Betsy!”
The maid sighed again and gave her a baleful stare as if she were being willfully obtuse. “You can fight against it all you want, but you both are tied to one another in a way that there’s just no getting away from. Others see it, feel it when they’re in your presence. The two of you could fair set a room on fire.”
Beatrice hung her head, letting her forehead rest atop the dressing table. “Is it really that obvious?”
Betsy picked up a heavy lock of hair and kept brushing that section as Beatrice bemoaned her fate. “No one is saying you’ve done anything improper. Nothing like that, Miss. It’s just that when two people have the kind of connection you and his lordship do, it shows.”
“What am I supposed to do, Betsy? I can’t let myself love him… not when I know I won’t be the woman who gets to keep him.”
“It’s a little late to stop that now, don’t you think? You already love him and, if you’re right, you’re going to lose him anyway. So why not take what you can for yourself in the meantime?”
Did she love him, Beatrice wondered? Not yet. But it was inevitable as Betsy had said. Every day she stepped closer and closer to that precipice. All the caution and circumspection in the world would not save her from her own heart.
“Should I go back then?”
Betsy smiled. “Now, Miss, I said it was inevitable. I didn’t say he didn’t need to work for it! It’ll happen in its own time. And in the meantime, you enjoy the chase. There are worse things in the world than having a handsome man after you.”
*
In the solitude of his room, Graham lay back on the bed and cursed her. He cursed her, himself, Castle Black and the bloody jib that had struck his head aboard ship and allowed him to remember where he belonged. Belonged. The truth was he didn’t belong anywhere. He’d never be a part of society because he didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to fit in with them. Even if he felt bothered to try, his manners would always be lacking, his speech would always be critiqued. Every person he encountered would look for telltale signs of his past, or the possibility that he was a fraud. He’d be as much out of place there as he had been with the rough-mannered and rough-spoken men he’d sailed with.
At every turn, Beatrice continued to torment him with the notion that he would have to find a wife in such hostile territory. He had little doubt that it would be difficult to set the estate to rights. It was clear to him that the funds the estate was producing were going somewhere, but they most assuredly were not going back into the estate.
It was easier to let his mind wander to those subjects than to lie there tormented with the idea that she was only a few rooms away, tucked into her virginal bed. The vision of her there, in a soft, white nightdress, with her glorious hair spilling about her shoulders and over the soft, supple skin of her back, haunted him. He wanted nothing more than to grasp her hair in his hands, to pull her head back and let the sound of her harsh cries wash over him as he took her.
Cursing again, Graham rose from the bed. His options were limited. He could lie there thinking of her and pining away. He could take himself in hand and stroke himself to a disappointing completion. Or he could find some enterprise that was useful.
With that in mind, he donned his one remaining shirt and left his chamber. There was no better time to go over the books in the study than when everyone else was abed. He could study them at his leisure and possibly determine, if not where the money had gone, at least how much was missing. Anything was preferable than being tormented by visions of her.
In the library, a room that had been claimed as Edmund’s domain, he poured himself a hefty snifter of brandy. It was of infinitely better quality than the swill that he’d been quaffing in his own chamber. No doubt, Edmund had instructed the servants not to waste the good spirits on someone who wouldn’t know the difference.
Taking the cut crystal snifter with him to the desk, he placed it on the carved mahogany surface before retrieving the account books from the shelf. He didn’t start with the most recent. Instead, he went further back, to a time before his father’s death. It would be the best way to understand what the estate ought to be earning.
Settling in and preparing himself for a long night, Graham sharpened his quill, pulled several pieces of paper from the drawer and hoped his rather rusty mathematical skills were up to the challenge. If ever there was a way to wither a stubborn erection, accounting was surely it.
Chapter Twelve
Beatrice entered the breakfast room with a serene expression that hid her inner turmoil. She’d slept little, haunted by dreams of Graham, by yearnings for things she did not even fully understand.
The room was full. Everyone was there, including Lady Agatha. Pale and wan, she’d nonetheless roused herself to join the others. Edmund was seated near her, Eloise at his side, looking rather ragged and tired. Whether it was a result of overindulgence in wine or a long evening spent in the arms of her lover was anyone’s guess. Christopher was his typically sullen self, lounging negligently in his chair and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Was it guilt over cuckolding his cousin right under the same roof?
Lady Agatha smiled at Beatrice. “Good morning, dear! I’m so glad you’ve come down for breakfast. Do tell Graham that I don’t need a doctor! I’m feeling perfectly fine now.”
“You are not,” Beatrice said and walked over to kiss the older woman’s cheek. “You’re still pale and weak, though you do look much better. As for this new doctor, I believe he is already en route, so it’s far too late to cancel and it would be impossibly rude to have him come all this way only to be shuffled off again.”
Lady Agatha waved her away. “Stop being so very logical. It’s an unappealing quality in young women.”
“How did you know the doctor was on his way?”
The question had come from Edmund, his tone ugly and suspicious. Beatrice realized immediately that she’d misspoken, alerting everyone to the fact that she’d had a private conversation with Graham before he’d informed anyone else.
“I was thrown from my horse last night. I sustained a cut and Beatrice was kind enough, along with her maid, to stitch the wound,” Graham answered. “You’ve a nasty turn of mind, Edmund.”
“Thrown from your horse?” Christopher sneered. “No gentleman worth his salt is ever thrown.”
“I’m not a gentleman… I was by birth but, by raising, I am a sailor and we do not mix well with horses,” Graham replied easily.
If Christopher had meant to offend, Beatrice thought he would need to work much harder. Graham, despite years of going through life without knowing his own name, seemed to be infinitely more certain about what manner of man he was than any gentleman of her acquaintance.
Still puzzling over that after filling her plate, and in deference of the charged atmosphere in the room, Beatrice seated herself near Lady Agatha and avoided speaking to any of the men present. Mindful of what Betsy had said about others being able to sense the connection between her and Graham, she felt it wise not to offer further ammunition than they already had. They had only one ally at that table and given Lady Agatha’s fragile state, it would be unwise to depend upon her to intervene should Edmund or Christopher begin tossing out accusations.
Is it an accusation if it’s true? The condemning voice of her own conscience, the very conscience that would not let her forget how he had kissed her and, even more importantly, how desperately she had kissed him in return, was an inconvenience at the moment and one she could ill afford.
“If you mean to run this estate, then perhaps you should attempt to acquaint yourself with it,” Edmund challenged. “But that would be difficult for a man who professes to have so little skill with riding. Many of the farms are only accessible by horseback… unless of course you wish to walk like a commoner.”
>
“I’d remind you that being common is not a crime,” Lady Agatha said. “You, but for the grace of my late husband and his very forgiving nature when it came to his brother, would be working as a vicar or a solicitor today, Edmund. A gentleman still, to be sure, but one with gainful employment.”
Edmund’s face purpled with suppressed rage, but he said nothing further. Instead, he focused on his plate as he stabbed a sausage far more forcefully than necessary.
“I’ve no problem with a man going into trade,” Eloise said. “Though I daresay solicitors and vicars would hardly be wealthy enough to catch my eye long enough to overlook such a flaw.”
“Do shut up, Eloise,” Edmund snapped.
“We’re rusticating here in the country! We could be in London, Edmund!” she replied, her voice rising sharply. “We could be attending parties and balls. Instead, we hide here in this drafty old place with nothing to entertain us!”
Beatrice choked on her tea. The sip she’d taken had been swallowed along with her gasp. Was it sheer boredom that had prompted Eloise’s dalliance with Christopher? She dared a glance in Graham’s direction to see him studying his cousin-in-law surreptitiously. Eloise was a puzzle to be sure.
After several moments of silence, Graham spoke, breaking the quiet like shattering a glass. “I shall acquaint myself with the estate, Edmund. You are correct. I will begin with the tenants in the village,” Graham said. “I mean to go there today and inquire about whether or not their needs are being adequately met.” In point of fact, he meant to ascertain whether the repairs that were recorded in the books had actually taken place. It was an easy enough way to siphon money from the estate.
“Their needs?” Edmund guffawed, but there was a nervousness in his response that could not be entirely hidden by his bravado and bluster. “You will bankrupt us all if you approach it that way.”
“By repairing dwellings and business that we own? Hardly,” Graham fired back. “But this is not a conversation to have over breakfast. We will discuss it privately.”
The Lost Lord of Black Castle (The Lost Lords Book 1) Page 13
