by Millie Adams
Is it not too late for that?
It was not too late. Not if he determined in himself that it wasn’t.
* * *
They first stopped at Westminster, and walked around the outside, with William exclaiming about the architecture, and offering titbits about timelines in the construction.
They went to St James’s afterwards, and took a distant look around the grounds. He had no wish to be accosted by the Duke of Cumberland and forced to take part in the conversation he did not wish to have.
William took equal delight in all aspects of the way the city was put together. From the intricate network of roads to the different buildings, whether or not they were famous. Briggs knew that his son’s knowledge of architecture and infrastructure was astonishing, but he had truly had no idea of the breadth of it.
There were things that William knew about London that Briggs himself did not, and even if he had known it at some point, he would’ve forgotten it. William seemed to forget nothing. Particularly not if it involved numbers and dates.
‘I have learned so much,’ Beatrice said, beaming, tilting her head back and letting the sun wash over her face.
She was a rare beauty, was Beatrice.
If she had made a formal debut in society when she should have, she would have been a diamond of the first water. Would have been considered a triumph for any man. The sister of a duke, with a large dowry, incomparable innocence and extreme beauty. It was a farce that she should be limited as she was. An absolute injustice.
She seemed happy, though, and that pleased him. Right now, she was happy.
She could be happy with him. They did not have to be at odds. He thought of her as she’d been last night, furious with him, and then fire in his arms. No. There was no reason for them to play in extremes.
He could simply care for her. While he could no longer deny that he wanted her, there was a measure of satisfaction that stirred in him over the idea of simply...being with her.
Caring for her.
Showing her new sights, buying her new dresses.
‘Rome is best,’ William said matter-of-factly, with all the authority of a small boy who had only for the first time truly travelled away from home.
‘I should like to see Rome some day,’ Beatrice said, looking over at him.
‘I have a feeling I will be outnumbered in votes for this venture,’ Briggs said. ‘However, I am a duke, so I don’t know that I can truly be outnumbered.’
‘I don’t know,’ Beatrice said. ‘William is quite persuasive.’
‘At times.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘Isn’t that true of all of us? It is said that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but sometimes it is so satisfying to speak with vinegar, that whatever the result might be is sincerely worth the diminished returns.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. Anyway, being sweet eternally is terribly boring.’
‘How would you know? You have never been endlessly sweet or biddable.’
She looked surprised by that. Did she not realise he always took note of her?
‘Indeed not,’ Beatrice said. ‘Because I find the prospect so unappealing.’
‘You are a wretched minx, do you know that?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I quite like that. I shall take on the mantle of wretched minx for all of my days. For it is much more interesting than poor, sickly Beatrice.’
‘I doubt anyone has ever referred to you as poor, sickly Beatrice.’
‘Untrue,’ she said. ‘It is heavy in the tone of every servant in my brother’s house, and in the way my own mother looks at me. She is filled with sorrow on my behalf. I find it tiring. All I hear is how sweet I am, but what that means is that I do not fight with those around me all day every day. I have no choice in my life, and that I do not kick constantly against it has earned me the label of sweet.’
‘Beatrice,’ he said. ‘You’re not a thing to be pitied. There is much in life set before us that we are shown is the right thing, but...’ He looked down at William, who was focusing on the details carved into a parapet. And he allowed him. ‘I achieved everything that I was meant to by the time I was twenty-three. I had my wife, my heir. It did not produce happiness. I do not speak of William. William has brought me...’
He felt happiness was an insipid word, and not truly the correct one. Being a father was not an endless parade of smiling. He was a duke who could have staff members see to William the entirety of the time if he so chose, but it would not make a difference, as William was ever present on his mind, as were his concerns for him. And so he found it was best to spend time with his son. Perhaps much more time than most men in his position would. But seeing him, understanding him in this way, rather than in relayed messages from staff, was truly the only thing that actually made him feel like William would be fine. For when he saw him like this, out in the world and filled with joy, when he was able to hear about the things that sparked his son’s imagination, then they connected. And then, somehow, he had a glimmer of hope that all would be well.
Still, happiness was not...
‘William added depth to me. That was not there before. Being his father is perhaps the greatest challenge of my life. But it has made me a better man. Still, there is happiness outside of these prescribed roles. And sometimes there is little happiness to be found in them. My first marriage did not produce happiness.’
He needed her to understand this. Perhaps just now. As they were in public, as they were safe from it all becoming too intimate, even as he spoke of things he often left in the dark corners of his memory.
He was not being cruel for the sake of it.
It was clear to him Beatrice would welcome his touch. At least, as she understood it. But disquiet remained, in his soul.
For he had believed he had a connection with Serena, and he had been wrong.
For he had missed the signs that she was so deeply unhappy she no longer wanted to live. That she no longer loved him had been clear. But the rest...
He had not known.
And the feeling he had caused it, contributed to it, by telling her of his desires to be dominant with her in their bed, stuck in him.
They continued to stroll along the walk, the sun filtering over the grass, the flowers and the gold of the palace.
‘What of ours, Briggs? Is it to be more of what we had last night?’ She did not look at him when she asked the question.
She might not look at him, but he did look at her. Her bravery, her honesty, lit brilliantly by the sun, amazed him.
Shamed him.
‘An impossibility, I’m afraid.’
‘You regret it so?’
‘Beatrice...’
‘Only I’m just beginning to understand. Desire. Desiring another person, and what that means. Is it that you do not desire me?’
He curled his hands into fists, for if he did not he did not think he could resist touching her. ‘If I did not desire you, last night would not have occurred.’
‘I am your wife. Why should it be a complication for you to desire me?’
‘Because of the rules we must fulfil for each other. Because of the way that I have been tasked with protecting you, and you can be angry about it all you like, but it does not change the way of things. I care for your brother a great deal, and promises were made to him.’
‘It is not his life,’ she said. ‘It is mine.’
‘And I’m your husband. So your life is mine now.’
‘What a scintillating conclusion to have come to,’ she said.
‘You are mine, and that means I will care for you, as I said. I don’t think you understand truly what that means.’
Of course she did. She didn’t understand the deep... It was primal. The thing in him that demanded he care for that which was his. When he took a woman into hi
s bed, her pleasure and her satisfaction, walking the line between pleasure and pain perfectly, was of the utmost importance to him. But even more, ensuring that Beatrice found happiness, that she was well-clothed and well fed, with her favourite foods...
Remember how you used to bring her sweets?
He stilled, locking his back teeth together.
And he refused to acknowledge that. The idea that all along he had been drawing her to him. Baiting her as if she were a small animal. Feeding her sweets.
None of what had happened between them was planned.
And when she threw herself at you in the library, and you slid your hand down to her arse, what exactly did you think you were doing?
He had known it was her.
Of course he had.
He was a man who paid great attention to detail.
A man who had been consumed with the details of her from the moment he’d met her.
And no, he had not thought of her beauty when she had been a girl. It had been her resilience, her sadness, her wildness.
But he had known her.
And he had known her when she’d gone into his arms.
‘There is much you don’t know of the world. We will find happiness together in it. But you must trust me.’
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with scepticism. And he could not stop himself. He reached out and took hold of her chin, gripping it tightly between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You must trust me.’
She looked away. ‘I don’t think I can.’
‘If you cannot trust me in this, you would not have been able to trust me with more.’
Her eyes flashed up to his. ‘With...’
He released his hold on her. ‘Let us walk this way, William. You wish to see St James’s Park?’
‘Yes,’ William responded, never quicker with an answer than when everything was going his way.
That was not fair. It was not about getting his way, it was about being in this perfect space where there was no resistance being brought against him by the things that he found challenging in the world.
Briggs understood that. He remembered being a boy and finding peace only in books, and then in the hours spent seeing to the health of his orchids. He understood how engaging his own brain could be when it was occupied by things that were important to him.
And how difficult the world could feel when he did not connect with what was happening.
It was not a choice to be bad or misbehave, but a strange reordering of his brain, as if all of the pieces of his mind had been shoved into an overcrowded corner, leaving him in part overwhelmed and the other disconnected.
He had better control over these things now. But he still remembered when he was at the mercy of his emotions.
They turned and began to walk towards the park, Beatrice next to him, the wind now against her. And he did his best to ignore just how appealing she smelled to him. And it was nothing to do with the rose water she had likely placed just beneath her earlobes. And everything to do with the smell of her skin.
He had tasted her last night. She had been marvellous.
He would’ve thought that it would be the easiest thing in all the world to protect his best friend’s younger sister in this position. For he had no interest in a wife, and he’d seen Beatrice as a child...
Did you?
He did not like this insidious voice searching inside himself for truth. He was not interested in his truth. He was interested, rather, in maintaining things as they were. And not allowing them to deteriorate.
St James’s Park was filled with those intent on taking advantage of the sunshine, a veritable menu of societal elite, promenading so as to be seen by those who mattered. Briggs had never had the patience for such things. It was perhaps why he had married as quickly as he had done. For participating in the marriage mart, in these sorts of games, had not been his idea of intrigue at any point.
And now that he was back here, it was thankfully with a wife in tow, so as not to bring any marriage-minded mothers and their debutantes his way.
Beatrice herself looked delighted by the spectacle, and her delight only increased her beauty. He could feel the envious gazes of men around him.
Truly, these fashionable dresses with their boldly scooped necklines flattered Beatrice in an extreme fashion. Her tits were a glory. That he knew well, as he’d had them in his mouth.
Desire was like a raging beast in him, right here in the sunshine in the full view of so many people, with his son so near.
And that was something unfamiliar.
He separated these parts of his life. For him, sex and desire had nothing to do with what he did the rest of his days. It was disconnected. A service he bought. He had purposed that he would not expose himself again by sharing his desires with a woman who might not have the same needs.
Beatrice did.
She wanted the same things.
It was intoxicating.
It had been sufficient, keeping his intimate desires satisfied by whores. Beneficial for all involved.
But this was something he’d craved. Something he’d determined did not actually exist. The possibility of sharing his life with a woman who also wanted in the way he did.
It made him feel vulnerable.
It made him feel.
He didn’t like it.
And yet he did not know if he could deny himself either.
William ran through the grass, though he did not join any of the groups of children that were about.
‘Does he not like to be with other children?’
‘He does not have much experience of them,’ Briggs said. ‘Though... I feel that if he wished to play with children, he would say.’
‘He does not seem to long for inclusion.’
‘No. I recall... I recall often feeling that way when I was in school.’
‘When did you go to school?’
‘When I was fourteen. I was taught at home by my governess until then.’
‘Do you know why?’
He laughed. ‘One does not question the Duke of Brigham, Your Grace. By which I mean my father. One does not speak to him also. I don’t just mean now, because he is dead. He was ashamed of me, and he did not wish for me to be at school where I might reflect poorly on him.’
‘Surely he did not...’
‘He did. It was not until he died that my mother finally sent me.’
‘What a terrible...horrible man,’ she said.
‘He was not a good man.’
‘My father was the same.’ She grimaced. ‘Even if he was different with it. Though I do feel you must know a bit about the notorious Duke of Kendal, and all the ways in which Hugh has taken it upon himself to rehabilitate the name and title.’
‘I do know,’ Briggs said. ‘It is one reason that I knew I must marry you. For there is nothing more important to Hugh than reputation. The doing right.’
‘Right as society defines it.’
‘It is the only way that matters.’
‘Yes, so it would appear. But I wonder...’
‘It does not benefit us to wonder, Beatrice.’
‘But if it did.’
‘But it does not.’
‘But you said yourself...’ She looked at William, overjoyed in his solitude at the moment, even when surrounded by others. ‘That happiness is not always found there.’
‘No. But you know, it is not a question of whether or not you are doing everything society dictates, but whether or not you appear to be. There are thriving parts of London that operate outside of this... This fear. Where people are... More themselves.’
‘Really?’ She looked very keen.
‘Ladies do not go to them.’
‘Do they really not?’
‘Not if their husbands are responsible.’
Truth be told there were a number of ladies who went to the sort of clubs he frequented. Particularly widows. Either looking for a man in the market to satisfy them, or looking to buy a harlot themselves. Briggs found nothing particularly shocking in the gaming halls and brothels of London. But perhaps that was simply due to his own acceptance of his nature.
Of course, he had wondered, when he was young, if there was something terribly wrong with him.
That he felt equal desire to kiss a woman as he did to take a riding crop to her.
But it had not taken long for him to discover books and artwork that suggested he was not alone, and then brothels that confirmed he was not. His particular favourite memory was when he had been a young man of sixteen travelling on school holidays, and he had gone to a notorious brothel in Paris and been presented with a menu. There had been acts on it he had never even considered.
And he had tried most of them. He was a man with money and few hard limits, so there was little reason not to.
Brothels had provided the perfect venue for him to explore the darker facets of his desires, while providing him with rules.
Rules, he had learned, were essential for a man like him.
He knew the women enjoyed it too. It was why he had been so certain that Serena...
‘The issue, Beatrice, is that these places truly are dens of immorality.’
‘The kind of immorality I must be protected from because of my health?’
‘And mine,’ he said. ‘If your brother had any idea that I took you...’
‘To a brothel?’
Of course, it had been Hugh who’d accompanied him to the Parisian brothel all those years ago. He was becoming as annoyed with the hypocrisy of the world as Beatrice.
‘Must you say that here?’ he said, looking around. He knew William was not paying attention to them.
But others might be.
‘He would kill you,’ Beatrice said, sounding nearly cheerful. ‘That is a fact.’
