Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

TO WISH UPON A STAR

W hen the door opened next, maids bustled inside, carrying trays of food, bringing with them the delicious aroma of a hearty meal. Beatrice stared as they set the table, lit candles and the fire in the hearth. There were steaming plates of succulent roast beef with fresh fruits, like apples and honeyed melons, and chunks of delectable cheese. Next to the savory dishes, freshly baked pastries, golden brown, with a crispy top and a sweet interior, were spread across the table.

"What do you think?" Charles asked as he stepped back into the chamber. "Smells good, doesn't it?"

Beatrice sighed, her stomach rumbling loudly. "It smells delicious."

Beckoning her forward, Charles pulled out a chair for her, then he seated himself across the table. Slowly, they ate, filling their plates with many different delicious bites. Beatrice was grateful for the food. Not only because her body yearned for nourishment, but also because it gave her hands something to do.

"What is your favorite food?" Charles asked, his gaze sweeping over the laden table.

Beatrice grinned at him. "Chocolate."

He laughed. "Chocolate? That's your favorite food?"

"You did not ask for a traditional meal," Beatrice pointed out with a stern expression. "You asked for my favorite food, and chocolate is most certainly food. After all, you can eat it, can you not?"

Charles regarded her curiously. "After that passionate speech, can I assume that in your opinion, there is nothing better in the world than chocolate?"

Beatrice laughed, half-choking on the grape she had plopped into her mouth. "You certainly can."

To Beatrice's delight, the evening continued like this, with light, teasing conversation as they slowly got to know one another, sharing bits and pieces about their past, about their lives.

"These days, all Lizzie wants is to see snow," Charles remarked when they had both stopped eating, still tempted to sample a few more bites but utterly unable. "These past few days, she stood with her nose pressed to the window, glaring at the skies, as though her fury could make it open up and give her what she desired." He heaved a deep sigh. "I pray she will not be disappointed." His gaze met hers, and Beatrice could see deepest sadness there. "I do not think she will ever be able to return to England. This may well be her only chance." He cast her a brief smile.

Without thinking, Beatrice reached out her hand and grasped his. "She's lucky to have you, all of you. You cannot tell me she is not a happy girl."

Charles laughed, and for a brief second, his gaze darted to her hand upon his. "No, I cannot. She has the most adorable laugh I have ever heard." His hand moved beneath hers until they lay palm to palm, his fingers holding onto hers. "And she laughs a lot. At least, when she's not pouting about not seeing snow."

Easy laughter echoed between them, and Beatrice realized she did not mind Charles holding her hand. Indeed, she was beginning to feel comfortable with him. Yes, friendship was a wonderful foundation for a life together. "Is there a place to call home down south? Or do you travel from place to place?"

"We travel a lot," Charles replied as they seated themselves by the fire. "My brother simply cannot remain in one place for too long, and quite frankly, it is fascinating to see the world. Still, sometimes I wish for a home." He met her gaze. "A true home."

Beatrice nodded. "I've never been much for travel, either. Yet I have an aunt in France I would love to visit. She is my mother's sister and married a Frenchman some time ago. We still write to one another, although I have not seen her in years."

"You have never been to see her?"

Beatrice shook her head. "No, there always seemed to be some sort of reason why I couldn't go. At first, I was too young, and then there were more important things to do. After all, my parents wanted me to make a good match." Beatrice sighed, angry at herself because for a moment she had forgotten those past turbulent weeks full of heartbreak and regret. She had lived in the moment, here, with Charles, laughing and joking, and it had felt wonderful.

Charles heaved a deep breath. Then he leaned forward, his gaze seeking hers once more, the light of the flames in the hearth dancing across his countenance. "I am sorry for your heartbreak," he murmured, not even a touch of accusation in his gaze. "I can only imagine what that must have felt like."

Beatrice swallowed hard. "It was my own fault. I acted like a fool. I placed my trust where I should not have."

Charles shook his head, his brown eyes warm and kind. "It is a sad world where promises cannot be trusted."

For a long moment, Beatrice held his gaze, seeing all that he was, all he had done for her so selflessly. "What if…?" She inhaled deeply, not wishing to ruin the moment, and yet she knew she would not have peace of mind if she did not ask this. "What if I have a boy?"

Beatrice still struggled to believe that the Whickertons did not care. If she were to have a boy, he would be Charles's heir. Another man's child would inherit the Whickerton title. How could they not care? All the world cared. If anyone knew, it would be an outrage, a scandal, ruinous for them all. Had Charles, in his haste to protect her, forgotten all about it?

Preparing herself to see an expression of shock come to his face, Beatrice held her breath. Yet what she saw was merely a shrug, the look upon his face as relaxed as before, not at all clouded by her words. "Then we'll have a son," he said simply.

Beatrice regarded him curiously. "But will you not regret your gallant act, then?"

Charles shook his head, absolute certainty in his gaze. "There's nothing more important in this world than love," he told her valiantly, and once again Beatrice thought of the gallant knight in shining armor, upholding what was right against all the odds. "My parents taught me that. It is what they believe, and it is why they did not object to our union."

Beatrice stared at her new husband, tears misting her eyes, her heart touched that such people truly existed. "My parents were first and foremost concerned with the possible scandal." She tapped a finger to the corner of her eye to wipe away the tears that lingered there. "My mother even asked me why it mattered who I wed so long as my reputation remained intact." For a moment, Beatrice thought she ought to feel a touch of shame at betraying her mother like this, yet she did not.

"When my parents were married, they swore their children would be allowed to marry for love, just like them."

Dread settled in Beatrice's belly for robbing him of his chance to follow in his parents' footsteps. "I'm sorry," she murmured, wishing there was something else she could do besides apologize. "I'm sorry you could not."

An odd look came to Charles's face at her words, and he looked at her in a way that chased a shiver down Beatrice's back. "But I did," he whispered, his brown eyes never leaving hers.

Staring at him, Beatrice swallowed hard. "You cannot mean that. You cannot…" She shook her head. "Do you mean to say that you…?" She had thought him a gentleman, compelled to come to her rescue because his honor demanded it, because his kind character demanded it. She had never once contemplated the notion that he—

"You need not worry," Charles told her gently. "I did not tell you this to put pressure on you. To love means to put another first, and I am prepared to do that with no regrets."

Beatrice was speechless. Never had she known people like him, like his family. If only she had known that he loved her. But if she had, would she have chosen differently?

Blinking her eyes, she regarded him thoughtfully. Did he truly love her? Or was he mistaking a short-lived infatuation for love? Not that Beatrice herself knew the difference. After all, her own experience was fairly limited and had ended worse than she had ever imagined it might.

Still, she could not bring herself to regret her choice. Indeed, she liked Charles and felt safe with him. He was the kindest, most selfless man she had ever met. And perhaps, one day, she could love him.

In that moment, Beatrice knew what to wish for upon the shooting star Francine had given her.

And so she did.