by Millie Adams
‘Out,’ Briggs said.
‘Briggs...’
‘Out,’ Briggs said, his tone clipped.
She looked at him, at his handsome, angry face, and her heart squeezed.
She did not understand this man. This complicated man who made her feel like she was flying every night, and then who left her to try to find a place to land all on her own. Who both satisfied and left her aching with desire all at once.
Briggs...
And now he was angry with her, because she had done something wrong, but he had not laid out expectations for this. And she didn’t know how he expected her to know exactly what he wanted her to do about everything if he did not tell her.
He could not be so picky if he wasn’t going to be explicit in his instructions.
‘The plants are very fragile,’ he said.
And she stopped. Because she realised that this wasn’t about William. It was about him. And it wasn’t even about protecting the plants, there was something else.
‘We will go,’ she said. ‘But you must take us on a walk, and you must entertain us,’ she said.
‘Must I?’
‘You owe us, for behaving the part of an ogre,’ she said. ‘We did nothing to deserve your wrath. You did not leave clear instructions for me, and I was not given to understand there was any part of the garden that might be off limits. Now you have been an utter brute, and you must make up for it.’
‘You are not an authority over me, Beatrice,’ he said.
‘Of course not, Your Grace,’ she said, looking at him from beneath her lashes and knowing it would inflame his desire. Her confidence had grown in that at least.
She was rewarded with a flare of heat in his dark gaze.
She had been correct. He liked that. Liked her deference, even when it was hardened with an edge of defiance.
And that was how she finally got Briggs to take her and William out again, and how she got William slightly more out of his shell than he’d been over the past few days.
She would have to talk to Briggs about that. About the way he had been affected by what happened in the park. And about what she suspected was Briggs’s part in it.
* * *
Afterward, they had dinner together, and then Briggs went, to his studies she presumed.
She had a letter from Hugh to read, and one from Eleanor as well. Both informing her that they were coming for the Season, and would be there in just a few days.
She knew that she should feel excited. To see her brother. See Eleanor. But... She felt selfishly upset that they were coming in and breaking up what was happening here.
She wondered how it would affect the way Briggs treated her. And what happened in her bedchamber at night.
She did not wish for that. She wanted to stay in her separate life, and she did not want Bybee House or her past to intrude.
She realised that was vile of her. But she could not help herself.
She waited for Briggs to come to her, but he did not. And finally, after becoming impatient, she went and looked in his study, but did not find him. And it was only intuition that led her down the stairs and out to the garden. Where she could see it. An amber light flickering back where she now knew the greenhouse was.
She had been right. She had been right, in her assessment of the fact that he had been trying to protect something when they had been in there earlier, but that it was not about the flowers.
This was him. There was a key here. A key to him. And she knew it. And so she stepped outside and followed the ambient glow of the light, and through the windows, she could see him. Inside, bent over one of the plants.
She pushed the door open. She did not knock, for fear that he would turn her away.
He might still turn her away, but she was already inside... He stiffened, then turned.
‘Is this where you are? When I don’t see you. I assumed you were in your study working away, but you’re here, aren’t you? William told me that there was a greenhouse in Maynard Park as well.’
‘Not always,’ he said.
‘Briggs, why haven’t you mentioned this?’
‘I learned a long time ago that there are things people do not wish to hear about. It is not a mark against them, it is simply up to me to learn what people are interested in, and stick to those topics.’
‘You like... You like flowers.’
‘Horticulture and botany,’ he said. ‘The more complicated the better. The less suited to the English atmosphere, the better. I find it diverting.’
‘For how long?’
He looked at her, his dark eyes intense. ‘As long as I can remember.’
‘These are your cards,’ she said softly. She looked around. ‘Briggs, do you not know that you’re very like William?’
‘He likes buildings. I like flowers. It is not the same.’
‘It is the same. And that’s why you reacted the way that you did when those boys were mean to him. People have been very unkind to you in the past, haven’t they?’
‘It is no matter.’
‘But it is,’ she said. ‘Your father was unkind to you, wasn’t he?’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘Can you imagine how useless a man like my father would find this?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I did not know your father. You will have to tell me.’
‘He hated this. He hated everything that I cared about. And I do not wish to speak further of it.’
‘Why?’
‘It will only bore you, and I reached my limit with how often I can possibly watch a person’s eyes glaze over with boredom while I speak of things that matter to me. I reached the limit with how often I can disgust someone with who I am. I do not wish to do it any more.’
‘I am not a child. I do not mock what I don’t understand. I... I never had the chance to have friends, not when I was young. Maybe I would’ve been your friend.’
‘No, Beatrice, if you had not lived a cloistered existence for you were forced to be different than others, you would not have been any different than the children that accosted William. For that is human nature. It is who we are.’
‘I find that very grim.’
‘Humanity is grim. There is no denying it.’
‘I’m not a child now, though. I can certainly understand about this if you want me to.’
‘I do not talk about myself. About...’
‘I want to know, Briggs,’ she said. ‘I want to know you. It matters to me. You matter to me. And what matters to you will mean something. I can understand. Please, give me a chance to understand.’
‘If I’ve learned one thing in this life it is that when you give too much of yourself away there will always be those standing by waiting to tear pieces from you. It is inevitable. My father...’
‘I’m not your father.’
‘Believe me, I did not confuse you with my father.’
‘What got you interested in this?’
‘Beatrice, this is not a wound that you can heal. I have learned to be different. I am content to see to my interests on my own time. It is not of any matter.’
‘I want to understand you. And if you would deny us...’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You want to understand me?’ He advanced towards her, and Beatrice shrank away. The intensity that radiated off him was confusing. For there was more happening inside him than she could fathom. There were things he was not saying. And it... It wounded her. Confronted her.
He grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her up against him. ‘Do you pity me, Beatrice?’
‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered.
‘You pity my son, I think.’
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t pity William. I care for him. He is a wonderful... Unique child. He is not like everyone else, and that... I know what that’s li
ke. It doesn’t matter whether it’s because of buildings, or an illness, it amounts to the same thing. You end up on the outside looking in. And sometimes the loneliness is so bitter that you can do nothing to combat it. No, I don’t pity him. And I don’t pity you.’
‘You might. If you knew the truth. About me.’
‘Tell me, then?’
‘My father wanted a son. He always wanted a son. When he had his son, his heir, his life was complete. And then he had his spare. The problem is, his heir died. His perfect, precious heir. And then he was left with... Well, they are spares for a reason.’
‘Briggs... I had no idea. I didn’t...’
‘My brother died when he was ten. I was two. I don’t remember him. But I already showed signs of lacking where he succeeded. In every way I was inferior to my brother. And my father took every opportunity to make sure that was known. My brother spoke in full sentences by his first birthday. I could not speak when I was four. I was lost in my own mind. Often turning over concepts and problems that I could not express. I became obsessed with small things. Knots for a while. Shoelaces. Small things. Eventually, I became entranced by gardens. Plants. I wished to know all about them, how they grew and where. So I learned. I became fixated on the orangery in my family home. And meanwhile, my father was trying to get me interested in other things. Trying to get me so that I could go to school and not be... Mocked brutally for the fact that I couldn’t converse about anything more complex than an orchid.’
‘But you...’
‘Yes. I do well now. I learned. A bad combination of isolation and my natural self, I believe, made it harder for me for longer than it might have. If not for your brother, I would never have found my way at school. I’m certain of that.
‘But it does not matter.’
‘It does matter. It hurts you still.’
‘My obsessiveness served me well in places in my life. In school, when it comes to managing the dukedom. With women.’
She flushed. She did not want to hear about him with women.
‘I might always be the spare in the eyes of my father, the son that meant less to him. That he loved less. But... I have found other ways to gain appreciation. He used to punish me. When I could not speak on the topics he wished me to.’
‘Oh,’ she said. And of course she thought of the way that he had punished her. Of course she thought of that. How could she not?
‘You feel out of control when you’re a child.’
‘You like to feel in control.’
‘Yes. And I also like rare flowers. They are complicated. And one must know just how to care for them. You must take great care to observe, take into account every aspect of the environment. It is not so different than what I do with women. Finding the perfect balance of pleasure and pain. Watching your breathing. Your eyes.’
He took another step towards her, and she took a step away, her bottom hitting one of the platforms that held all the plants. That section was empty, the surface clear.
‘You are like an orchid,’ he said. ‘You are in my care. And if I fail you, if you begin to lose your colour, the fault is with me.’
She could see. She could see it. He took total control, total responsibility, after a childhood spent feeling as if he had none. And she had felt... Insecure. Unsafe. She had wanted nothing more than to feel safe. As if she could trust all those in authority over her. But her father often acted in his own self-interest, her mother was distracted—even though it was her father’s fault—the doctors... She simply had to trust that their training was as good as they said.
And all the while, things were simply done to her, and none of it... None of it with her permission.
While Briggs made her feel safe, taken care of. When he put his hand on her, she knew that it would be with the right kind of care.
She was his orchid. And he the master gardener.
‘He said he wished I were dead,’ Briggs said, his mouth now nearly pressed against hers. ‘He said that he wished I were the one who had died.’
‘Briggs...’
‘And look at me, have I not done well? I’ve done better than him. It’s only a shame that he’s dead and he cannot see it.’
‘Briggs.’ She closed the distance between them and kissed him. Kissed him fiercely. And he wrapped his arms tightly around her, kissing her as if she were the source of all life. As if... ‘I want to know you,’ she said, moving her hands to his cravat and undoing it, pulling his shirt open. She knew that this was outside the realm of their games. That she was not permitted to take his clothes off. She was not directed to do anything of the sort, and if she was not directed to do it, she did not do it. But she was lost in this. And his kiss. In her desperate need for him.
She opened his shirt, pushed it down his shoulders, and he tore at the front of her dress, exposing her breasts and pinching her ruthlessly. She cried out, arching against him. She reached desperately for the falls on his breeches, bringing his cock out and wrapping her fingers around it. She squeezed him, an answering desperation building between her thighs. By now, she knew what she wanted. He would respond by pushing his fingers into her, but he never gave her what she wanted. What she craved.
She was not an innocent. Not any more. She knew exactly what she wanted from Briggs. She knew exactly what he could make her feel. And she needed it. She did not know how to reconcile all that they were with what they both had to have. His desire to protect her. Her desire to be free. The honour that he felt when it came to his relationship with Hugh, and her desperate need to comfort him. To be all that he could possibly desire and more.
He pushed her skirts up her thighs, his fingers going between her legs as he stroked her.
‘Please,’ she whimpered. ‘Please.’ She arched forward, and he set her up on that platform, her thighs spread wide. He pressed the head of his arousal to her slick folds, stroked her, made her mad with her need for him. He was teasing her with what she wanted. Him. Inside her. That thick, masculine part of him. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Inside me. Please.’
He didn’t. He was still.
And something stirred in her. A need.
His name.
She felt the head of him against her entrance, stretching her. He pushed in, a fraction of an inch and she gasped.
‘Please,’ she begged him. Because she was desperate. ‘Philip. I need you.’
He growled and surged forward, and she cried out, his strong hands gripping her hips in a bruising fashion, the hard length of him pulsing inside her.
Whatever remained of her maidenhead was torn away by his invasion, and she revelled in the pain.
This new pain. This new closeness. Him. Inside her. So deep she could scarcely breathe.
And when he began to move, it was not gentle. His thrusts were hard and wild, the platform she was on hitting dangerously against the glass walls, the sound mingling with their laboured breathing. With her gasps of pleasure. The surface of the table was rough, biting into the delicate skin of her thighs, and the sensation mingled with the feeling of him in her, and took her breath away. She was lost in this. In him. His every thrust electrifying that centralised source of her pleasure. He reached behind her, grabbed her hair and pulled as he thrust in hard, sending her over the edge, her release an endless wave that went on and on. Then he pulled away from her, stroking himself twice and finding his own release outside of her.
When it was through, he held her there, his breathing fractured. ‘That should not have happened,’ he growled.
She reached up and touched his cheek, a tender, swelling sensation overtaking her chest. ‘But it was always going to happen,’ she whispered. ‘There was never anything else. Briggs, I was always going to need you like that.’
‘It is not safe enough,’ he said.
‘You do not get to decide the level of risk I take with my life,’ she said.
> ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are mine.’
‘I am not an orchid,’ she said. ‘You do not get to keep me in a glass case. I am not that fragile.’
‘You were fine with the metaphor when it brought you pleasure,’ he bit out.
‘And it is a fine metaphor for pleasure,’ she said. ‘But not for my life. I ache for you. All night long. I want to be held by you, skin to skin. I wish to have you inside me. Are we not past these games? That I am an innocent and I must be protected from you. I am not an innocent. I cannot be a convenient release for your demons, and yet never receive any relief of mine.
‘Do not treat me like a child,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘Do you not see? This is not treating you like a child, this is treating you as if you are mine, as if you matter. When I was a child I was not treated with such care. My father destroyed the flowers I spent years on. Everything. I was thirteen. He delighted in destroying my obsessions, but only after I had put enough work into them that the loss would be deeply felt. Nothing in that house was mine. Not really. I would hear my name. Echoing off the halls with rage every time he decided I had fallen short.’
His name.
His flowers.
His father had made every part of him into something he hated.
She put her hand on his face. ‘I do not pity you because of the way your father treated you. I pity him. I pity that he did not know you. And what a great tragedy it would be if I did not know you either. Can you let someone know you? Just know you?’
‘He knew more than anyone.’
‘I should know more than anyone. I am your wife.’
‘That is not what being a wife is, little one,’ he said, touching her chin. Reflexively, she looked down. ‘Serena did not wish to know every aspect of who I was. She wished only to be kept comfortable, to have her child...’
‘You would deny me a child.’
‘I am not the one who is denying you.’
‘Can we not speak to physicians? Must we take the word of a man who has cared for me since I was a child, who made endless amounts of money from treating me? There must be someone else that we can speak to. At least try.’ Her eyes met his, and suddenly her stomach went tight. ‘Unless you do not wish to have a child with me.’
