Chapter 25

The ceremony took about five minutes and was carried out, as was traditional, in the blacksmith’s shop over an anvil. Gil and Miss Carswile were their witnesses. Once Belle and Rufus had confirmed their names, their abodes, and that they were both single, acting of their own free will, and—theoretically—of sound mind, the blacksmith (or the anvil priest as he was locally known) filled out a marriage certificate, and pronounced them man and wife.

“I really don’t see why more people don’t get married this way,” said Belle as they stepped back outside. “It’s so much more convenient.”

It was only when Miss Carswile was offering them both congratulations that any of it began to feel even a little bit real to Rufus.

He was married.

He had married Arabella Tarleton.

Whatever his life had looked like before, it had irrevocably changed. So had Belle’s, even though she seemed utterly oblivious of the fact. For a moment or two, he was almost annoyed with her. After all, if you had wed someone, you at least wanted them to give some kind of mild damn about it.

But no, she was laughing with Gil and Miss Carswile, exactly as she had yesterday, and the day before that. Had she no qualms whatever? Not one single concern or shred of doubt? If that was the case, was it because she believed in him, or because he didn’t matter? Was he simply the key to a future she wanted? Someone she liked, and did not object to, but ultimately as irrelevant to her as he had always been.

“Rufus?” She was standing before him, peering up at him, in mild apprehension. “Are you quite well?”

“I am,” he lied. Because he did not know what the truth was , let alone how to tell it.

She smiled, in that enchanting/infuriating Tarleton way that usually augured some ill-conceived adventure, and, taking his hand, drew him slightly away from the others. “I have a wedding present for you.”

“What? How? I’m afraid I—”

“Please don’t be silly about it.” She pressed a heavy iron key into his hand. “Here.”

He stared at it in some confusion. “You have already decided we are to live apart?”

“Didn’t I just tell you not to be silly? Miss Carswile managed to rent a night in one of the currently unoccupied cottages. It will not be luxurious, but it will afford more privacy than a room at the inn.”

His confusion had not abated and had now been joined by distinct unease. “Are you intending to give the impression that you wish to murder me later?”

“I thought you might wish to spend the evening with Gil.”

“For God’s sake, Belle, I have already told you that he is not for me, nor I for him.”

“That is not how you look at each other.”

He tried a different tack. “This is my wedding night, and you are encouraging me into the arms of another man.”

“Well,” she pointed out remorselessly, “ours is not exactly a traditional wedding, is it? We should celebrate in our own way.”

“And you intend to celebrate with Miss Carswile?”

“I’m intending to celebrate with a large meal, a hot bath, and a deep, long slumber. You are welcome to join me for two of those if you’d prefer.”

“Do you believe I would feel cheated of a different kind of experience if I did?”

“I would hope not.” Belle flashed him one of those slightly too perceptive looks that always took him by surprise. “I would hope I could trust you to make decisions to your benefit and to neither of our harm.”

“Ah,” he said, because he did not entirely trust himself that way. Not that he would ever do anything to hurt Belle. But he had lived with the conviction of his own worthlessness for almost as long as he could remember.

Reaching up, she put her palm against his cheek—a gesture he was sure he ought to have found patronising, instead of oddly reassuring. “I’m beginning to understand better why you wished to marry a woman you believed could not accept you. I think perhaps it freed you from having to accept yourself. But I will never be that woman to you, Rufus. Stay with me. Go to Gil. It is your choice. I just urge you to choose truly if you can.”

“Is it not selfish of me to put the fulfilment of my basest instincts above you?”

“If I were in distress, if I was lonely, if I needed you, if I had some reason to ask you not to, then yes. But, as I’ve already said, I will be in the bath. With cheese, if available, and a book. I am looking forward to it.”

“And you”—Rufus tried to assay the query with even a hint of dignity—“you sincerely believe that Gil would wish to ... with me ... tonight?”

She stared at him. “Obviously, you stupid man. Why are you in charge of everything again?”

“I’m not?”

“But your subspecies is. No wonder the price of corn currently outstrips the price of bread.”

“I’ve also ...” Discovering fresh new layers of embarrassment with every word he uttered, Rufus turned away, making a stagily thorough production of knocking the mud from his boots against the scraper by the blacksmith’s door. “I’ve also never been menaced before, and I’m not sure how to ... to do it properly.”

Belle let out a long “ohhhhh” of a breath. “There’s very little mystique to it,” she said. “Make sure he uses oil and that you are fully aroused, as that will help you feel relaxed when the moment comes. And when it does, all you have to do is stay relaxed and bear down upon—”

“Belle. No.”

“What?”

“I have taken both parts, thank you very much. I simply question my capacity to play the role Gil needs.”

“Well.” Belle pondered this new conundrum. “I think that is for you to work out together, though of course you should not do anything that makes you the wrong kind of uncomfortable, nor should he want you to.”

“There is a right kind of uncomfortable?”

“Certainly. You will know it when you experience it.”

He huffed out a mortified sigh. “I have never before considered myself unproven in this arena. And yet you make me feel practically virginal.”

“How appropriate”—he could hear the mischief in her voice—“for your wedding night.”

“It is very helpful of you,” he said, “to mock me in my moments of weakness and uncertainty.”

“You have married me,” she reminded him, “so you are stuck with it.” But then she joined him by the boot scraper, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “I wish I had answers for you, Rufus, but I barely have answers for me. All I can say is that when I’m not sure what to do for myself, I’ve sometimes been able to take solace in doing something for someone else.”

“Very Christian of you.”

“Very funny.”

“Miss Carswile would approve.”

“I’ve given her other things to approve of.” Now it was her turn to address the boot scraper. “Do you remember when I was living with Bonny and Valentine? And I was so miserable and so desperate to fall in love?”

“I remember your wanting to fall in love. I don’t think I realised you were miserable.”

“You wouldn’t have. I’m rarely miserable when I’m with you, even if I’m miserable the rest of the time. I had convinced myself that if I could fall in love somehow, it would prove I wasn’t broken or monstrous or permanently maimed by the death of our parents.”

“Bellflower . . .”

“Don’t.” Her tone was brisk and not to be brooked. “I was being absurd. I would have pursued that absurdity, though, if it had not been for Peggy.”

“Did she talk some sense into you? She’s good at that.”

“No, she fell in love instead, and had an almighty crisis over it. I know she gives off a great impression of being so very sound, but she can drama with the best of us when it suits her.”

“And how did that help you?”

“Well,” Belle admitted, “it didn’t. At least not directly. But I did realise that I cared more about Peggy’s happiness than my own folly. And so I was the one, believe it or not, to talk sense into her . Which did end up making me feel better.”

“I’m not sure how that corresponds to letting a tiny bookseller do as he will with me.”

“You get to answer someone’s most profound and cherished fantasy. That is a great gift and a great responsibility, and a rare opportunity.”

“A rare opportunity to fuck up irredeemably, you mean.”

Belle became brisk again, which Rufus was discovering could be quite reassuring in its own way. “You will not fuck up, as long as you remain honest, and do not forget that fulfilling a fantasy is also a kind of fantasy. You are not there as a sacrifice to someone else’s desires.”

“And ... ah ... if I do find myself obliged to be honest?”

“Yes?”

“How do I ... do that?”

“How do you be honest?” repeated Belle, in horrified accents.

“In this context.” For some reason, the clarification did not seem especially clarifying. “How do I communicate my honesty?”

“With your mouth, in human words, is traditional.” Belle paused. “And by pre-arranged signal if you foresee your mouth being substantially occupied.”

“Go back to the first bit. Can you give me some examples?”

“ Please can you not or Can we take a break or I’m feeling uncomfortable ?” suggested Belle, a vague air of distress still clinging to her. “I am half-afraid to ask, but I fear I must: How have you negotiated such matters in the past?”

Rufus waved a hand insouciantly. “I have not, for it has not been necessary.” Once again, his attempt to salvage the situation was making things worse. “Don’t look at me like that. Most of my ... I hesitate to use the word lovers , have been extremely swift and utilitarian affairs. My longer-term prospects have had their own complications.”

“Like your priest?”

Damn Arabella Tarleton—or Lady Comewithers, as she was now—and her damned habit of paying attention. “What the hell do you know about my priest?”

“One hears things. Occasionally from you .”

“Then how about we dwell no further on my tendency to fall for unavailable men? I am merely pointing out that in either context, it was preferable, for my own purposes, not to offer anyone the opportunity to”—Rufus attempted another insouciant gesture and produced something absolutely not insouciant—“to disregard me.”

“I hope,” said Belle in a small, fierce voice, “in future you will feel differently.”

“Beggars cannot be choosers.”

“You are no beggar, Rufus. Go talk to Gil. If nothing else, he will prove me correct on that score.”

His heart churned in turmoil, and he hardly knew why. “The lengths you will go to in order to be right are quite extraordinary.”

She shrugged, unperturbed. “Verity and I will be taking supper in the Queen’s Head if you decide to join us. She’s leaving first thing tomorrow because her virtuousness extends to mornings.”

“What a lucky escape we had from each other.”

Belle dipped a curtsy. “Another example of my indisputable rightness.”

She gave his elbow an encouraging squeeze and went to join Miss Carswile and Gil, who had been politely, if awkwardly, maintaining a conversation with each other. With a few words Belle successfully extricated Miss Carswile, and, arm in arm, the two ladies continued on to the inn. That left Gil, standing at the roadside, managing to look everywhere except at Rufus. As he crossed the way to join him, Rufus belatedly realised he had once again become the subject—or the victim—of Tarletonian shenanigans.

“So,” he said.

“Hello,” said Gil.

“So,” said Rufus again.

“Indeed,” agreed Gil.

Having just gone to considerable trouble to scrape his boots, Rufus scuffed his toe into the dirt. While his most recent conversation with Belle had covered a substantial amount of ground, it had not, however, addressed the topic of how to initiate sodomy in broad daylight with a relative stranger. Rufus, of course, had his own methods, but they belonged to alleyways and docksides, and required a different sort of stranger.

“I understand,” he tried, “that you could potentially be interested in ... that is, you could potentially see me as a ... participant in a similar endeavour to that which you planned for your original correspondent.”

Gil pushed his glasses up his nose, his brow furrowing as he waded mentally through the mire of whatever it was Rufus had tried to say to him. Eventually he seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. “I’m sorry, but are you asking if I would like to menace you?”

It was hard to tell if it was worse or better to have the issue bluntly out there like the consequences of an undone breechclout. “Assuming that was something you were amenable to.”

“Amenable?”

“Not actively hostile to?”

“Rufus”—Gil met his gaze with astonishing ease and directness—“if I have left you in any doubt, I can only apologise. I thought I was being tremendously unsubtle on the subject.”

Doubt that he was amenable? Doubt that he was hostile? One of those was extremely bad. And the other was, now he stood at the brink of it, terrifying. “Which subject?”

“The subject of menacing you. For I am long past amenable. I am ardent .”

“Oh,” said Rufus, swallowing. “Well, that’s ... nice.”

“Does this mean you, too, could be amenable?”

For a second or two, Rufus had no idea how to answer, even though the answer was yes . Because the wrong kind of yes was an ugly, vulnerable, naked thing. Except then he remembered what Belle had told him about being someone’s fantasy. Of the power and humility in it. And, most of all, the need to be honest.

He smiled what he had lately come to think of as his Rufus smile, the one Belle had drawn from him. But he flavoured it with one of the Sir Horleys he had been for a while—a shameless, confident rogue.

“With a little help,” he murmured, “I could probably find my way to ardent .”

And was rewarded when Gil’s eyes lit up like stars.