She arrived finally at the door of her father's study; she could hear the crackle of its fireplace. The sound triggered memories; her pulse pounded harder, and she imagined his body, strong and nude, so close to hers; his tongue pleasing her as she begged for him never to stop, as they shared quiet words of love and devotion and emotion, words she had never dared say to any man for fear of what he might try to take from her. She hadn't felt that with Marshall; she had found in him a spirit she thought would reject her or use her.
Dread filled her stomach at the thought that he had just been another man... that her worst fears had been true, that all men had the same wicked thoughts and feelings in their head. She took a deep breath and pushed her way into her father's study. He sat in the armchair, swirling a glass in his hand; a piece of parchment grasped in the other, lost in thought. He didn't even notice her at first, something that... rather startled her, and so she began to speak to catch his attention.
"I heard Lord Beckham left last evening? Has he sent word of a safe arrival? The bandits in the moors tend to be ruthless in the evenings," she asked, her words shaky, as she tried so hard to maintain the confidence her father knew her for.
"He's made it back, I'm certain," Lord Havenshire murmured absentmindedly.
"Are you certain? The bandits..." her voice trailed.
"Nadia, I wanted to... to congratulate you - you've found a husband," her ailing father said. "It's a day for celebration. You should be proud."
"Wh... what?" Nadia blinked. "A husband?" She stormed towards her father, her expression stern. "What manner of trickery is this, father?"
"Trickery? There's... no trickery. I've thought on it all evening, and I've signed the contract. Lord Beckham authored this, and he... he told me, it's what you wanted. What would be best for the both of you," he said. He handed the document gripped in his fingers to her, and she snatched at it with a slow, nervous rage building in her chest, the pressure pushing out the love and replacing it with terror. Her eyes pored over the words and with each sentence she felt the urge to scream; she felt pain filter into her, and she nearly collapsed as she finished reading.
Marriage of convenience. Marital freedom. No obligations. She felt... used. As if he'd relieved his guilt over his sister - his guilt over his manhood in a system that favored him - by writing out a silly contract and dismissing her. She had given him something so important, something she had never given any man - something she didn't want to give to any other man, but him. Not just her body, not just the most sacred of covenants; but her love, something she'd never felt.
Now whatever scars he bore had ruined all that and it made her feel... broken. She had felt rage, she had felt bitterness; but now, all she wanted was simply to shrivel away as a flower blustered by a harsh winter.
"I only... wanted to see your face happy, some day, Nadia. I had hoped it could be with him... he seemed to understand you, like no other suitor," Lord Havenshire lamented sadly.
"Father, I... I don't know, why he would do this, our day... together, we..." she huffed, exhaling sharply. "I don't understand this. It doesn't make sense! Why would he want..." she held her fists tight, shaking. "I... I can't... Egan!" she shouted through the doorway.
"Nadia, please, as much as it pains me, at least let me have the opportunity of giving you a wedding," Lord Havenshire pleaded.
"I'm preparing a carriage," she said in a flurry," destined for his manor. We're going to discuss this. I'm... I'm sure it's simply a misunderstanding," she murmured. "...Certainly."
But had it been? As she stormed through the halls, barking for Egan to prepare a carriage, she thought on darker things. Had Mary been right? If the man who had her had claimed her virginity and simply left her afterwards, not to speak to her again...
How could you be so stupid? Lady Havenshire asked her, swallowing hard. She had been sweet-talked right into the place that he had wanted her. He had gotten what he wanted - and now he had left.
No. He couldn't have. She would get to the bottom of this.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"Has something happened between you and Lord Beckham, m'lady?" Egan asked, breaking his little, jaunty whistle of his favorite tune. It was a bad time to ask such a question of Lady Havenshire, who had spent hours now as a nervous disaster; she had boarded the carriage with breath heavy and heart throbbing, full of fear and full of rage about the pithy contract that the man she had fallen in love with left behind to be signed. A marriage of convenience. Loveless. Hardly a marriage at all. She found it odd, the more she thought on it, that she had ever thought of such an arrangement as attractive at all! Who would enter into bonds so deeply-held, without love to bind it together? She couldn't believe that he would do such a thing! Hadn't he fallen in love with her, just the same as she had fallen for him? Hadn't he felt that spark, like the flash of flint and tinder against the dried wood, erupt into a heart-gripping fire, just as she had? Hadn't he said those adoring words to her by the light of the raging flames, as thunder cracked and rumbled in the distance, rattling the windows to the cabin?
He'd promised her everything. He'd called her a goddess, and he worshiped her just the same. And now he proposed a loveless marriage, simply for the inheritance of name and title? Her heart hurt, and she fought away tears, spurred on by Egan's poorly-timed question. He glanced back as the carriage pulled through the mountains and rocky pathways leading up the hills towards the Berrewithe estate; seeing redness staining her eyes and flowing along her cheeks, he took sudden alarm.
"M'lady, has something happened? Should we turn around?" he queried, full of worry.
"No! No," she shouted insistent, her voice wracked and ragged from the warbling of her angry, melancholy voice. "We've got to see Lord Beckham. He needs to speak with me, to answer for... for this," she said, voice harsh and shrill, waving the contract - she'd taken it with her, if only to throw it into his face as she cried at the loss of love.
"M'lady—he's asked for your hand in marriage, hasn't he?" Egan questioned curiously.
"It's not that simple, Egan. To him, I'm just a convenient excuse for his guilty conscience, for taking advantage of his sister - and this... this contract, it's just him relieving himself of guilt for taking advantage of me," she shouted.
"M'lady, I'm... isn't that what you... wanted? To have a man in marriage, but not to stifle your life?" Egan questioned. She swallowed hard; her throat hurt from the shouting, and the tears, but she had to say it; if only to hear herself say the words aloud.
"I... I don't want that, Egan. I love him," she said, quivering. Surprise in the portly porter's face, he turned to the horses, coaxing them along the roadway faster.
"We'll get you to the manor, m'lady," Egan called back to her, the horses picking up pace until they practically bounded forward, along the hills and rocky roadways, the carriage bouncing wildly along the path. The vehicle came to an abrupt stop as Egan called out to the creatures who whinnied loudly, the creaking wheels spinning their last as the hasty chauffeur unlatched the carriage door.
"Tell him that, m'lady," Egan pleaded. "Tell him. Any lord who would turn down true love - he doesn't deserve you, Nadia. Tell him." She nodded to Egan, who bowed; the doors swung open, and Ms. Cauthfield emerged from the manor; when she saw Nadia, a wanting sympathy filled the old woman's face as she dashed across the yard.
"Lady Havenshire, Lord Beckham has..." Ms. Cauthfield sniffled. "He... he thought you would come to see him, but he's requested... no visitors, at this time. He's had a difficult time—"
"HE'S had a difficult time?" Nadia exclaimed, the tears still staining her eyes red. Ms. Cauthfield, face full of regret, full of worry for her master, shook her head.
"Has he not told you about Anna? About his wedding, in the Delshire Moors? About..." Ms. Cauthfield appeared broken, fearful. "I told him... he needed to get past it. I told him, but he never did. And now he hates himself, and won't have a word with you, Nadia."
"Ms. Cauthfield, I love him," Nadia urged. "
I... I truly do love him." Ms. Cauthfield's face lit up when she heard Nadia's exclamation; she smiled, even as tears began to stream from the old woman's face.
"He shall have my head for this, but... I'm not going to stop you from speaking with him," Ms. Cauthfield said, sniffling. "Go, please... talk to him. Try to break him from this spell that's driven him to despair... please," she muttered. Nadia pressed past the old woman and to the front door, pull it open with a flourish, a sudden spark of hope glimmering in her eye. They could talk; he would be reasonable, wouldn't he? After all... she loved him.
"Nadia, I should have expected you'd come, and that... Ms. Cauthfield, bless her, would think it best if I saw you, in spite of my wishes," Lord Beckham announced, standing at the stairwell of his grand foyer. He sighed, his voice not that booming, enthralling baritone she had so enjoyed in their first meetings. No, now it felt like a simple shell, a show of false-authoritativeness put on to convince listeners of his sincerity. "M'lady, I don't think... we have much to speak about. Has your father given you the contract? I do believe he... signed it, after I left," Lord Beckham asked. A sea of maidservants and house staff stood at the base of the steps, pretending to work; in truth few of them could pay attention to their duties, as their attention slipped away to the exchange between the nobles instead.
"Lord Beckham, I don't understand—we need to speak about this... contract," she said, the word slithering with venom.
"What's not to understand?" he said, brooding, watching farmers and ranchers and workers out on the moors beyond through his window. "I thought this was... well, precisely what you and your father have been looking for. Your freedom... the freedom you deserve as a grown woman. A freedom from the cage you were unfortunately born in to. Your father agreed. It'd be for the best."
"My father agreed? My father agreed because he's an ailing old man! He wants me to be happy, and this isn't happiness!" Nadia shouted.
"It's precisely everything you wanted - and you won't have to deal with me at all. No men to control you - not even I can do that, with the terms I've written here. And I don't want to cage you. I don't expect that of you, or any woman. I'm not worth that," Lord Beckham scoffed dismissively.
"You're not worth... I love you!" Nadia exclaimed angrily. A quiet murmur sounded from the maidservants, who all watched with rapt eyes. "Have you in your stubborn, stupid mind forgotten the things we said together? The feelings that we felt? Was it a lie?"
"I..." Lord Beckham hesitated; he saw the pain he'd wrought, and began to reconsider... if only for a second. His expression vexed, brow furrowed, he turned away. "I can't do that."
"All I am is a convenient excuse for you, then? A way to ease your guilty conscience?" Nadia asked accusingly. "Is that what matters to you, more than my love? To ease the painful memory of your sister, estranged from you over this sordid mess of an estate? To ease the pain you feel about your past?"
"You are not an excuse," Lord Beckham began to grow angrily resenting at the accusations. "I've done this for you. For your own good. For everything you want. I'm not what you think I am; I'm not what you want," he roared.
"You've spent so much time convincing yourself of that that even love can't break this disgusting self-loathing!" Nadia shouted, storming up the stairs towards him. "I'll not let it happen. This contract - here! I'll not be a party to your self-destruction, Marshall," her voice raised higher and hotter, and with all eyes on her she threw it at his feet. "You lied to me. You used me!"
"I did not use you!" he retorted, turning to face her, his expression torn, shredded by hatred. She could see pain beneath, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
"You took my virginity! Is that all I was meant to do for you?" The revelation sent a wave of shocked gasps through the assembled crowd of maidservants, their eyes wide. "Is that what you had searched for? And now that you've gotten it, you're quite content, aren't you? That's all you needed," she sneered.
"That had nothing to do with... with any of this, though I... I regret taking you, in that manner," he admitted painfully. "It was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened, and I shouldn't have let it happen. I'll never be good enough for—"
"For what? For me? I said I love you! Am I not the person to make the determination of who is good enough, and who is not?!" Nadia shouted, stamping her shoe's heel into the contract. "I can choose whomever I wish to be good enough for me! Or perhaps you're just like the other men, thinking yourself above a woman? Thinking yourself better equipped to make her decisions for her?"
"And with every word you speak you only prove to me that I made the right decision with that contract - that I've failed you, just as I failed before, and just as I will always fail," he rumbled.
"Why have you set yourself so stringently on this path, Marshall? Why?" Nadia pleaded, tears flowing freely along her cheeks now. "You feel it inevitable that you will fail. Any trouble that befalls you is evidence of that failure; any good fortune is simply luck, or happenstance. You've dedicated yourself so completely to this lie that you'd break my heart for it," she sobbed.
"It's not my choice, Nadia. It's my destiny to fail the ones I love, and I can't put you through that," he lamented. "Please. Let me at least do some good, for you. Some small amount of good. Let me save your father's heart; let me give to you what he wants for you."
"My father wanted me to be happy. Did he not tell you that? The estate—all of it. He cared more for my heart, for love - than he did for title or peerage," Nadia exclaimed. Lord Beckham struggled, his hands shaking; so close to that precipice or seeing reality, of seeing the heart breaking in Nadia's chest.
"He's a good man... and he will understand me in making this decision," Lord Beckham said, turning his shoulder to the woman as she cried.
"...That's it, then? Ms. Cauthfield... she had hope of saving you. I suppose I did, too. I had hoped, from that first night, that our hearts could find one another. It was only a glimmer of hope, a whisper of it, but I held on to it. The morning we rode together... I had never felt any sort of joy or excitement for so simple, so dull a task. But with you, I saw something. I saw the sun. And you've stifled it; choked the life from it. I loved you."
"This is how it has to be, Nadia. I'm deeply sorry," Lord Beckham insisted. "Please... go back to your estate. Make your father happy. He's a good man. He would like to spend what time he has left with you, I'm certain. We will resolve matters of title, and then you shant need to see me in your life ever again. You'll be happy, Nadia. That I promise you."
"No, I won't," she spat bitterly as she stormed down the stairs, giving him one last searing look. "You don't have to fail again, and again... but you will, because you insist upon it," she said, and with that she threw open the doors and left the estate, her heart heavy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The door to Lord Beckham's bedchamber flung open, he retreated to the only place he knew he could; the only refuge he had from the memories; from the pain. The only place no one could force him to face reality. From the window he watched her leave the manor's front door; she stormed towards her family's carriage, and she tried so firmly to appear angry; but as she reached the vehicle he watched what lay beneath. He watched her fall to her knees and begin to weep; he could hear her sobs, even at his window, carrying cries of sorrow soaring over the moors. He looked away, swallowing hard, his expression canted towards the carpet; trying to drown out the pain with something, anything; any thoughts.
But everything in his mind came back to her.
He pulled the curtains shut; the sight had only reaffirmed precisely what he had gotten into his head. He would fail; he would always fail. Just as Anna had fled him, racing up the stairs with tears in her eyes. Good, he thought to himself; she had to learn eventually. Nadia would have found herself hating him; it was the only natural consequence, just as it had been before.
He closed his eyes. He felt his own chest welling with emotion; he, too, wished to weep, looking upon another failure. You'll never be th
e sort of man a woman will ever want. He heard her voice calling to him; from the rafters of his bedchamber, shrieking through his dreams, like a ghost he could never escape; a doom he could never hope to outrun. He closed his eyes, but even then he saw her; now, he saw Nadia, too, her face crossed with tears, stained a blushing red, another ghoulish failure of his past. He heard her berate him, just as he had heard Anna. You only fail because you insist upon it!
He threw himself upon the chair to his writing desk, fighting back the tears and the rage; his hands balled into fists he grasped at his liquor shelf, squat with a door of glass, pulling it open. He thought it the only way of forgetting the dreams; the dreams of failure, dreams that soon would bear home to a new haunting memory, one of the beautiful woman he had taken to the cabin; the beautiful, free-spirited firebrand of a woman whose innocence he had claimed so shamelessly.
He swallowed hard; through flames of tears and rage swelling his eyes and blotting his sight Lord Beckham grasped a bottle of muddy-brown liquor, stoppered with a simple cork. He slammed it upon his desk and took in a deep breath, trying to still his shaking hands and cool the flow of emotion pouring from within him. He examined the glass; examined his hand. He closed his eyes, and she hadn't left him yet; he saw her nude, wriggling in the warmth of the fire, whispering to him just how much she wanted him.
If only she had known.
Trembling he grasped the bottle. He pulled the stopper from its mouth, overpowering and heady scent striking his nostrils. He lifted the foul decanter to his lips, taking a deep and unsteady breath.
Knock knock knock! A pounding upon the door shook him from his destruction and spite-filled reverie, and he gulped loudly as a brief, gleaming sunbeam of reality poured into his widened, melancholy-stricken eyes.
The Duke's Headstrong Woman: True Love In London (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 2) Page 13
