by Millie Adams
She dreaded it. Dreaded sharing a meal with Briggs. Of course he never shared meals with her out at Maynard Park. So perhaps, he would not do so here.
She was escorted to her room and introduced to the maid, and a collection of dresses she had never seen before. She was wrapped in something lovely and soft, a beautiful mint-green gown that scooped low, with no fichu to provide coverage for her bosom.
Her hair was arranged in a complicated fashion, with a string of pearls draped around her head like a crown.
How lovely she looked to take dinner by herself.
She went downstairs, her heart thundering madly, and predictably found the dining room... Empty.
‘Might I take dinner in my bedchamber?’ she asked one of the attending servants.
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ the man said.
She went back upstairs, and there she sat, looking quite the prettiest she ever had, in solitude.
Dinner was beautiful. And far too extensive for only her, but she ate her way through each course all the same. Mackerel with fennel and mint, roasted game, and pickled vegetables. Followed by a lovely tray of colourful marzipan, which she found she overindulged in.
She did not stop eating until her stomach turned.
And then she had her maid undress her, take her hair down, and put the pearls back in their box. And she looked in the mirror and found that she had become Beatrice again. Just her usual self, with nothing of any great interest about her at all. And she felt exceedingly sorry for herself.
You should feel sorry for William.
She did not understand. But then, he was a child. It was likely he did not have the ability to connect the fact that the journey was what was going to take him to those places that he longed so to see. If he could not endure a journey such as this, how did he ever hope to reach Italy? But these were all things a seven-year-old could likely not reason, she told herself. But it did not make her less frustrated.
* * *
Nor did it help her sleep. Long after she should have extinguished her candle, she tried to read.
She tried to read Emma, but found she was too furious at the contents to enjoy it. And the illustrated compendium of birds was not compelling enough to hold her interest.
She paced the length of the room, practically wearing a hole in the floor. She looked out of the window, and felt compelled to escape. As she had done so many times at Bybee House.
If she could’ve crawled out of her own skin she would have done so, but failing that, she simply contented herself with fleeing the house.
And so, she did so here.
She opened the door to the bedchamber and quietly made her way down the stairs.
She did not know if there was a back garden, but she assumed so. And she was not disappointed. It was a lovely space, bathed in moonlight, with a massive fountain, surrounded by several statues.
Nude statues.
It was very Roman. William, she thought with grim humour, would likely find it quite interesting.
She found herself staring at a naked warrior, clothed only in a helmet, which she felt left him vulnerable in many other ways.
Briggs had asked her if she knew what made a man and a woman different.
Of course she knew. She was not an idiot.
He had said it was so they could... Fit together. Make a child. The idea made her flush all over. For imagining such an intimate part of herself fitted against...
Kiss him.
She swallowed hard.
Who gets to decide?
She circled the statue, examining the powerful thighs, the rather muscular-looking derrière. At least, this took her mind off the disastrous carriage ride. Yes. It was a very different sort of body. Though it was made of stone. Perhaps that was why it appeared so hard. She knew Briggs was solid though. Not like her at all.
A sound made her turn, and she saw Briggs, standing in the doorway. He was not dressed for bed, rather, he was dressed to go out. He was standing there, looking through the glass. And she felt inexplicably quite caught out.
She moved away from the statue, and waited to see what he might do. If he would turn away and continue on as he had intended to do, or if he would come out to her.
She did not have to wait long for her answer.
The door opened.
‘And are you trying to tempt brigands to scale my garden wall and kidnap you?’ he asked. The words were like the Briggs she’d known for much of her life. The tone was not.
‘I had no aspirations of such,’ she said, turning away from him.
‘You only wished to leer at my statuary?’
‘I was not leering. I was admiring the artistry.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How could I be so foolish? A lady such as yourself would never do anything half so...interesting.’
‘Briggs...’
‘I only came to check that you were well.’
‘I am not well,’ she said. ‘I fear that I made things incredibly difficult by pushing you to bring William on the trip, and I... I am deeply... Deeply sorry, and so very... I did not mean to upset him. Or you.’
‘But the end result is that you have,’ Briggs said. ‘And there is nothing to be done for that.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.
‘It clearly does.’
‘No. It does not. I made the decision in the end to bring him. It is done.’ He looked past her, into the darkness, then back at her. ‘Do not stray from the garden.’
‘I would not.’
‘You are in London, now, and you must take care. You will not leave the house without accompaniment. This garden being the exception.’
‘Yes. Sorry, I had quite forgotten that I was your ward, and in no way your equal.’
‘Even if you were my wife, you would not be my equal.’
She sucked in a sharp breath at the barb, that she had a feeling did not reflect what he thought about anything, but rather was designed to harm her. And it had. Why was she so fragile where he was concerned? It made no sense. And yet, he made her feel as if she was made of broken glass.
Why did he have this power over her?
It was something beyond friendship, for theirs was no easy companionship. She resented the way he avoided her when she should not care about it at all. His disdain hurt. She did not understand how they had got here.
It had changed since he had touched her by the fire in her brother’s study.
And again after he’d pushed her on the swing.
And most of all after they had married, after the carriage ride.
It should have worked, this arrangement. And yet nothing about it did.
‘Of course not.’
He turned away from her.
‘And where is it you are going?’ she asked.
‘I do not have to answer to you.’
‘That in and of itself is an answer. And such an answer,’ she said. ‘Why you do not simply wish to tell me...’
‘I am going to a brothel, Beatrice, are you familiar with the term?’
His face looked cruel now, and she hated this. This was not the man who had brought her sweets. This was a dark and furious stranger, the man who had compelled her to stare across the ballroom on that night, the man who captured her breath.
She knew that he was angry, but there was something in his cold, quiet fury that made her feel sick.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I... I don’t know what that means.’
Perhaps it pertained to his duties at the House of Lords. But judging by the expression on his face she knew that it did not.
For that would not hurt her. And right now, he wished to hurt her. She could feel it.
‘It is where a man goes when he wishes to purchase the company of a woman.’
‘Still confused?’ he asked, and his tone was unkind.
‘Stop it,’ she said, feeling angry now. ‘You are aware of the gap in my knowledge on certain things, given the cloistered life that I had led, and it is one thing to acknowledge them, but it is quite another to cruelly take pleasure in them.’
‘I cannot help what I cruelly take pleasure in, Beatrice. Perhaps I am a much crueller man than you have any idea of.’
‘I should hope not. For I am your ward. And what ward should like a cruel guardian?’
His lips curved. Beautiful. Painful. ‘I suspect you might enjoy my cruelty.’
‘I am not currently,’ she bit out. ‘As it happens.’
‘When I speak of female company, I mean shagging, Beatrice.’
She wanted to howl at him in frustration. ‘I don’t know what shagging is.’
‘It is what men and women do. And it is not for procreation. It is for pleasure. A man and his wife might engage in such acts for procreation, but there are a great many things that a person can do to pursue pleasure.’
Her head was pounding, her temples aching.
‘And you are... You are off to seek them with other women.’
‘I will not seek them with you.’
‘And so you go to a brothel to seek them out with other women. And you would throw it in my face while not giving me information on exactly what it entails. So if you wish to harm me, do so by speaking plainly, rather than speaking around the truth of the matter.’
‘I am off to screw my way to oblivion. To forget everything that happened this day. To forget that you are my wife. To forget that my son is here. That is what I intend to do. And if you should like a more graphic description of all that I shall do, I am sorry to disappoint you. I can see that you are quite interested in a man’s cock, judging by how closely you were studying the statue. Mine will be inside another woman tonight.’
It was so cool it took her breath away, and she still could not quite sort out why, except the idea of him sharing intimacies she was barely able to wrap her mind around made her want to vomit in the nearest shrub. And she knew that he wanted her to be hurt. That was the clearest and most obvious piece. What he was saying was designed to be harmful.
And he well knew it.
And before she could gather a response, he turned and walked away. She stood there, stunned for a moment, breathing in the sharp night air. And then she ran after him. Just in time to watch him walk out through the front door.
She stood there, feeling tender, hurt. She did not want him to touch another woman. She was beginning to piece it all together, of course. For these were all the mysterious acts that must follow kissing. She had never even partaken in such a thing, and...
Of course he would seek out other company. Even if she were his wife in truth he would likely find her boring, and her ignorance tiring.
She was tired of her ignorance.
She was tired. Tired of everyone else deciding what was best for her. Tired of her own limitations.
She was tired.
And still, she could not sleep.
She decided that she would wait up for him to arrive home. Even if it destroyed her to do it.
* * *
Usually, a visit to Madame Lissanne’s was like a visit to an old friend. The velvet brocade and access typically felt like a homecoming. But not tonight. Tonight, his stomach was acid. He was angry, and he had taken it out quite unfairly on Beatrice. Beyond that, he had been intentionally as crass and mean as possible, and it was not what he had promised Hugh that he would do as husband to his sister. Truly, the only piece of his word that he had kept was that he had not visited his desires upon her. No. He would do that here. If Pamela was available, he would see her. She was curvy and lush, and excelled in her submission. Her demure manner would be a welcome change to Beatrice’s sulky mouth.
Here, he was treated like a king. Here, he was given a glass of his preferred whisky, and ushered to a bedchamber to wait for a woman who suited his desires and was available. And indeed, it was Pamela. She offered him a shy smile, her eyes not meeting his.
And he waited. For a rising feeling of excitement. For desire. For something. He waited to feel what he should for a woman this beautiful. A woman he knew performed exceedingly well.
She made her way across the room, to where he sat, then dropped to her knees before him. She reached forward, making for the buttons on his trousers.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I did not tell you to touch me.’
Colour swept across her cheeks, and she looked away. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace.’
And for some reason, when she said those words, he thought only of Beatrice. And how the words sounded on her lips. And he felt... Guilt. Guilt that he was here when he had married Beatrice. Most of all, over the way that he had treated her prior to coming to the brothel.
‘Stand. Take your dress off.’
She complied, removing her gown, and revealing that she had nothing on underneath.
Her body was lovely, her mons waxed clean, and normally, he would be feeling some sense of desire or excitement. He felt nothing. And perversely, she looked absolutely aroused by his complete uninterest. If only his uninterest were feigned. But it was not.
He could obviously proceed. But he was too furious. And the woman he needed to be dealing with was not here.
‘I’m sorry.’ He stood, walked forward and grabbed hold of her chin. ‘I’m not in need of your services tonight. I will still issue payment.’
‘Have I done something wrong?’ Whether or not hers was a desire to truly please, or concern she was losing a valuable client, he did not know. But it didn’t matter either.
That she made it impossible to tell was why she was so good at what she did.
‘The problem is with me. And I must go and sort it out.’ The money would be put on his ledger, and he would settle the account later. There was no need for anything quite so common as for money to change hands then and there. He walked out of the den of iniquity and on to the far too busy streets. Then he began the journey home. And he called himself every foul name he could think of.
He tore through the front door of the town house, intent on taking himself up to his bedchamber. And he saw that she was still outside.
He could see that sweet, white nightgown, which she had been wearing the night that he had come upon her in the swing.
She turned, eyes wide. ‘Seems a rather short visit to a brothel,’ she said, but her face betrayed her shock.
‘You have no idea how long such matters should take.’
‘Perhaps not. But given the severity of your manner when you left, I expected it to be a rather long night.’
‘And here you are.’
‘Do not flatter yourself. If you are suggesting that you think I was waiting for you...’
‘I would never suggest such a thing,’ he said.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because,’ he said, taking a step towards her, ‘of you.’
‘What have I done?’
His blood was boiling now. And he knew that he should not move even one fraction of an inch towards her. But he did. He did, and as he did, his desire drew up tight inside him like a bow. And he was on the edge of control. Which did not happen to him. He was a man who prized control above all else. It was his linchpin. The most important thing to a man such as him. He could never afford to be out of control. Not ever.
‘Ask me your questions.’
‘I have no more questions for you. Except perhaps why you insist on treating me so poorly?’
‘You wish to know the secrets of the universe. You wish to inser
t yourself into my life. Do you wish for me to stop protecting you?’
He could see her running quick mental calculations. He could also see that she had no idea what he was asking. And it was not a kindness that he was doing it.
‘You wish to step into this role in William’s life. You wish to understand the world. You wish to be trusted to go to war. Then you tell me now. What is it you wish to learn?’
‘Everything,’ she said, the words exiting her mouth in a rush.
And then he reached the end of it. The end of everything.
And he took a step forward, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her up to his chest. He could feel her breasts pressed against him, lush and supple. And the way she looked up at him, her eyes full of wonder, did something to him that he could not adequately describe.
He could kiss her. But instead, he gave in to a much darker temptation. He put his hand on the back of her head, grabbed hold of the thick braid that hung down the centre of her back, and tugged, hard.
Chapter Ten
Beatrice’s heart was thundering like a galloping horse. The sharp pain that started at the base of her neck spread out over her skull, delightful prickles of sensation cascading over her, and uncomfortable warmth.
And she felt... Fortified. Strong. Held tight there in Briggs’s hold. And she could not understand why this was happening. Why he was now standing so close to her, why he was making her feel this way. And why he had the power to do so.
He had told her that for some pleasure and pain was one in the same. And the deep, curling sensation at her midsection made her feel he had been right. And more unsettling, she had a feeling he had known he would be right about her.
He was looking at her with a blazing heat that spoke only of confidence. He had known that he could do this. That she would not cry out or pull away from him. He had known that she would want to press herself more closely to him.
It was his certainty that rooted her to the spot.
It was his certainty that intrigued her.
That infuriated her.
The certainty of this... This man who was infinitely harder than the stone statues all around them.
