Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

B eatrice woke up gradually, tangled up in some delightful dream. It had been hazy, scarcely remembered, as most of the best dreams were. What had it been about again?

Stephen was there, she remembered that much, smirking down at her with those glowing green eyes, making it impossible to look away from his stupid, handsome face. The wanting that had coiled in Beatrice’s gut so insistently had transferred itself to her dreams, leaving her with breathless, intense feelings of desire, frustration, and yearning that made her wake up hot and sweating, aching for something just out of her reach.

It was not the best start to the day.

The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets neatly smoothed out, the pillows plumped, the mattress cool. It was clear that Stephen had been gone for some hours, and had left without waking her.

It shouldn’t bother me, she told herself while dressing briskly. He has been more than clear about what we are to each other. I understood it all before we were even married, and I have no right to complain now.

And yet… and yet she could not stop thinking about him, could not stop replaying the way he’d looked, the things he’d said, the way he touched her over and over in her mind.

The opera singer’s face returned to her mind often, too. Miss Cornelia Thompson. Beatrice had seen her likeness on countless papers and scandal sheets before, her fine features and enviable figure sketched out lovingly. Even the more austere and unyielding of matrons knew Miss Thompson’s name, and even they could not deny her talent, her beauty, her influence .

Unlike some opera singers, Miss Thompson did not boast about her patrons and conquests, which made her all the more alluring to titled, wealthy gentlemen who wanted a famous mistress but did not want the unpleasant publicity that came with it.

Gentlemen like Stephen, for example.

Beatrice closed her eyes momentarily. She could remember how Cornelia had looked at Stephen, her eyes alight with hope and anger, fixed so intensely on him. She was beautiful, far more beautiful than Beatrice could ever hope to be. Try as she might, Beatrice could not recall how Stephen had looked when Cornelia had appeared.

I imagine it was inconvenient if he’s thrown her off, Beatrice thought sullenly, piling her hair on top of her head and jamming pins into the mess haphazardly.

It looked ridiculous, so she took it all down again and opted for a neat, simple, demure knot at the back of her head.

I bet Miss Cornelia Thompson never wears her hair carelessly. I daresay nothing she does is ever careless, or sloppy. And even if it were, she’d still be the most beautiful woman alive.

Beatrice paused, eyeing her red face in the mirror, tangled locks of hair falling free from the knot.

Who, exactly, am I angry at? Is it Miss Thompson? Is it Stephen? Or perhaps I am simply angry at myself for being so phenomenally foolish as to start caring for the wretched Duke Blackheart. He warned me. Over and over again, he warned me. Everybody did. But, no, I would not listen, and now I am in a mess of my own making.

She dropped her hands with a sigh. The twisted knot at the back of her head slowly and grandly began to unravel.

Defeated, Beatrice got up, moved over to the bell pull in the corner, and tugged on it. She would need help to dress, after all.

Beatrice nearly tripped over her feet when she entered the dining room and found Theodosia at the breakfast table, docilely drinking tea.

“Oh, there you are, dearest. How did you sleep?”

Beatrice blinked. “I didn’t know you were coming for breakfast.”

Theodosia arched a perfect eyebrow. “Surely my darling daughter-in-law is not implying that I am not welcome in her home without notice?”

Beatrice snorted, shaking her head and plopping down in the seat opposite Theodosia. “How was the party last night?”

Theodosia beamed. “ Excellent . And I had a very enlightening conversation with my son last night. Have some of the scrambled eggs, they’re rather good this morning.”

Beatrice helped herself. She was suddenly ravenous. The business of Stephen and Cornelia and all the nonsense associated with it seemed rather small and paltry in the face of good, plain, old hunger. She was busy tucking in when she felt eyes on her face, and she glanced up to find Theodosia watching her.

The woman was swirling wine in her glass, the thin stem clutched between her fingertips. At this hour of the morning!

“You are fond of him, aren’t you?” Theodosia said, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. “You know who I mean.”

Beatrice did.

She swallowed hard, glancing down. “I… I am fond of him. He’s a good man. Many women have worse husbands.”

“It’s no good comparing yourself to others,” Theodosia said firmly. “I know many women—myself included—who believed that they could not complain about the hand they were dealt because somebody else was in a worse situation. Well, let me tell you that there is always somebody in a worse situation. Is there to be only one person in the whole wide world who truly suffers, and can therefore consider themself badly done by? I think not. That was not what I was asking, Beatrice.”

Beatrice bit her lip. This was the first reference, however oblique, to the suffering she knew Theodosia had gone through during her marriage. There was no pain on her face, no regret, no self-pity. It was a simple, plain, statement of fact.

“If I thought that my son, my beloved little boy, had grown up to be… to be like his father,” Theodosia continued, swallowing hard, “I don’t know what I would have done, or how I would have lived with myself.”

“He is not like his father,” Beatrice responded at once. “Not at all. Stephen can be cold, I won’t deny that. You already know it. But he’s a good man. He adores you, and… and I am fond of him.”

I am fond of him. It felt like a confession.

Theodosia’s gaze sharpened, just for an instant, and Beatrice wondered whether the older woman had read between the lines and knew what she really meant to say.

I am more than fond of him. I want him. I want his company, his conversation, his opinions. I want him. I think I love him.

This realization was accompanied by a generous surge of dread. Loving anyone, in Beatrice’s opinion, was a mistake and involved a significant amount of risk. Handing one’s fragile heart to another person was risky enough. They might drop it, and it would shatter like china.

It was even worse if the person did not realize that they were holding your heart.

She cleared her throat, trying not to think about Stephen. It wouldn’t help, really.

“He’s gone out, I assume?” Beatrice said, suddenly keen to change the subject. She had eventually managed to get to sleep the previous night, irritatingly once Stephen had arrived, but the exhaustion suddenly seemed to pile up on her shoulders, weighing her down. “I imagine that we won’t see him again for a few days, at least.”

“On the contrary, my dear wife.”

Both ladies flinched and spun around to see a familiar figure in the doorway.

It was plain that Stephen had gone riding. He was dressed for riding, his hair disheveled by the wind, and his face reddened from vigorous exercise. He had taken off his jacket at some point, and his shirt clung to his powerful frame, dampened by sweat. A smell of musk and petrichor rolled off him, a faint scent that drifted into the room, making Beatrice’s nostrils flare. To her horror, she felt desire tighten in her gut once again.

Keen to distract herself, she turned back to her breakfast plate, praying that her thumping heart would calm down.

“That was a long ride, dear,” Theodosia remarked, sounding faintly surprised. “You were gone for hours.”

“I had a great deal of energy to work off,” Stephen answered, flashing a wry smile.

He crossed the room, coming to stand behind Beatrice’s chair. She itched to turn around, itched to look up at him, but she kept her gaze on her plate as if nothing else mattered.

He was looking down at her, she knew he was, those cool, amused green eyes eyeing her and waiting for a response. She cleared her throat, demurely spearing a piece of tomato.

Slowly, Stephen leaned forward, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder, and reached past her to pick up a piece of toasted bread. Beatrice held her breath. He was looking down at her. She could feel it.

And then, just as slowly, Stephen pulled back. She heard the crunch of him biting into the toast.

“You’ll need more than that to refresh you after a long ride,” Theodosia remarked.

She had her eyes on her plate too, but more out of enjoyment of her meal. The older woman was clearly oblivious to what was going on, and Beatrice was more than a little relieved by that.

“I intend to have a bath. I instructed Mouse to draw me one,” Stephen drawled.

Beatrice could not keep her eyes down any longer. As if drawn by a magnetic thread, she found herself looking up at him, her heart hammering in her throat. The wanting coiled in her gut, a dull and insistent throb. He was looking back at her, his eyes shadowed and his expression unreadable.

Why did you leave me? Beatrice wanted to ask, wanted to scream right there at the breakfast table, within earshot of the servants and right in front of the unfortunate Theodosia. I woke up and you were gone. You insisted on sharing my bed with me and then left before I awoke. Why? Why?

She didn’t say any of that, of course.

Theodosia spoke, and the moment passed.

“Well, don’t just stand there, Stephen. If you need to pass the time before your bath, why don’t you eat something? Do not sit by me. I hope you haven’t left mud on the carpets, by the way. This house may not be mine anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in the place, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Mother,” Stephen responded, grinning.

With an easy movement, he hooked his ankle around a chair leg, the one directly beside Beatrice, and pulled it out from under the table. He sat down, his thighs falling open, his fingers laced behind his head. His eyes narrowed to slits, fixed on Beatrice.

She felt almost as though she were burning up from the inside. Clearing her throat, Beatrice reached forward to help herself to a kipper. It was difficult to have lustful thoughts when one was eating a kipper . It was not a very romantic food.

“I plan to visit Anna and Theodore later,” Stephen said abruptly, helping himself to another piece of toast. “I thought you might like to come with me.”

It took Beatrice a moment to realize that he was addressing her.

She blinked at him, a little taken aback. “You want to go together?”

He raised an eyebrow. “But of course. Anna would like to see you, I’m sure. Kitty frequently asks about Aunt Beatty, apparently. We could take the carriage, and perhaps a more scenic route back. What do you say?”

Beatrice eyed him, her insides fizzling. She considered asking him whether he had chosen a permanent room for himself, but the words simply wouldn’t come to her lips.

A more scenic route. What does that mean? Is it a euphemism, or is he implying that he has errands to run on the way home?

The thought of spending time alone in a carriage with Stephen—perhaps even in the same carriage where they had kissed and touched each other—made her shiver and swallow reflexively.

But that was not how Beatrice had intended to spend her day. She had plans. She was going to unearth secrets, once and for all, and the opportunity might not come again.

“I can’t,” she heard herself say.

Something flickered across Stephen’s face. Disappointment? Annoyance? She couldn’t place it.

“I see,” he responded neutrally. “Can I assume that you are spending time with my dear mother?”

“Not I,” Theodosia spoke up crisply, helping herself to another generous spoonful of scrambled eggs. “I am promenading this morning.”

Stephen’s eyes bored into the side of Beatrice’s face, clearly willing her to tell him what her mysterious plans were. For a moment, she was afraid he would decide to stay home, instead.

On cue, Mouse appeared in the doorway. “Your bath is ready, Your Grace.”

“Very well,” Stephen said, after a pause. “Enjoy your day, my dear wife.”