Chapter 36

Belle’s mouth dropped open. “Is this because I cleaned a fireplace?”

“No.”

“Then why? Are you so soon regretting your decision to stay?”

Rising, with a faint wince, he moved restlessly to one of the windows. “It’s not that, Mrs. Tarleton.”

“I know you do not like to share yourself”—Belle rose, too, disappointed in spite of thinking she should probably have known better—“but I would appreciate it if you talked to me about this.”

He half turned, his mouth rueful, and a little sad. “Still trying to understand me?”

“That’s not a crime, you know.”

“Unlike my own actions.”

“Oh,” she said impatiently, “I did not mean it like that. I just meant, I am not trying to entrap you or claim power over you. It is not so terrible a thing, Mr. Smith, to allow yourself to be known sometimes.”

“A bastard is an embarrassment or a tool to be used. ‘Knowing me’”—his long fingers traced quotation marks around the phrase—“has never been a factor before.”

Pain rippled through her, like she was a puddle someone had stepped in. “I’m sorry for that,” she told him, hoping he would trust her sincerity. “And I’m sorry I can’t give you any of the things you said you wanted, like a house of your own, but there are things you can have here. Things that can be yours.”

“Like what?” He was looking down at the courtyard now, and his voice was harsh.

“Friends? Family? Purpose? A home?”

His hand came up, bracing him against the casement, knuckles turning white. “I don’t deserve that, though. I don’t deserve any of that.”

“Because you’re a bastard?”

“Because”—and here came one of those outbursts, a ferociously self-controlled man, coming apart at the seams—“I fucking stole from you.”

“And,” said Belle, pressing her point with all the gentleness she could muster, but also all the determination, “I still don’t know why.”

An unsteady breath gusted out of him, half sigh, half sob. “Because nobody cared, Belle. Because nobody has ever cared. And”—he made a desperate attempt to regain his composure—“please forgive my presumption in addressing you by your given name.”

“I don’t mind. I like it, in fact. What do I call you?”

Twisting round, he stared at her as though he didn’t understand the question.

“What’s your given name,” she asked.

“Oh. Ah. Francis?”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I sure?”

“You didn’t sound very sure.”

He shook his head, exasperated, almost amused, and very lost. “It is Francis.”

Feeling like a hunter in pursuit of the wildest, most impossible prey—a unicorn, perhaps—Belle crept closer to him. “Then what did you mean, Francis, when you said no-one cared?”

“As it sounds.” The emotion was draining from his voice again, word by word. “My father is a proud man. So proud, not even his bastard could elude his pride. He had me educated at Eton, then at Cambridge, separate, of course, from his legitimate sons, who went to Oxford. I’ve met him only once, as he took me from my home, took me from my mother, and left me at school. ‘Be worthy of me,’ he said.”

“Oh, Francis.” Having made it to his side, Belle let her head rest gently against his upper arm, and he did not shake her off.

“I have tried,” he went on. “All my life I have tried. To be worthy of him. To be worthy of anyone. But it does not matter. I can strive and excel and succeed beyond whatever expectations are set for me. Devote myself to worthy causes. Live a life of moderation and exquisite virtue. It will never be enough. Nobody will ever care.”

“And that is why you stole? Because you saw no merit anymore in being good?”

“It was the same pattern here. I worked hard, at first, and set about restoring the estate’s fortunes. But the duke I thought had hired me never noticed. He never visited. Never answered a single letter. And when I started taking—stealing—he didn’t notice that either.”

“This duke,” put in Belle, “is a notoriously oblivious man. I do not blame you for turning to iniquity in pure frustration. You are not the first person it has happened to.”

He blinked down at her, his lashes pale and pretty, almost invisible unless in motion. “It was not the duke. It was everything. And, in a moment of despair, I decided that, since doing right had brought me nothing, I might as well try doing wrong. But I failed to take into account one thing.”

“Which was?”

“That I cared,” he said shakily. “I care about the kind of man I am. I do not want to be a thief. I do not want to exploit others. I do not want to be unworthy of trust. I do not—”

Going on tiptoes, Belle put all four fingers directly upon his lips, shocking him into silence. “You are none of those things, Francis. You felt alone. You made a mistake. You must forgive yourself.”

He wrenched away from her. “I cannot. All these years knowing the world despised me, and all I have achieved is proving that correct.”

“Oh, you have not.” Belle stamped her foot. “If anyone is to despise you, surely that right lies with me? For I’m the person you stole from. And yet I do not.”

“You should,” he muttered.

“How could I? When you have had so much stacked against you, and no-one to take your part, or see what is true and precious in you, and yet here you are, this brilliant, thoughtful man with so much to offer and—”

“For the love of God, stop it. Please, I beg you. I cannot bear to hear this. You should not be defending me, Belle.”

“You have done nothing indefensible.”

“I am a thief. I should be punished, not rewarded and ... and ... indulged.”

There was a long silence, Belle’s mind whirling rapidly, as she tried to assemble the full picture of Mr. Francis Smith, the parts he had revealed to her, and the parts he had revealed inadvertently. Because she knew on her own account this welter of shame and guilt and helplessness. Knew it far too well. “Is that why you’re trying to leave?” she asked. “As punishment?”

One of his shoulders came up in a hopeless half shrug. “I don’t know. Possibly.”

“In which case,” she announced, “I have a better solution.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Would you like me to spank you?”

The room filled up, floor to ceiling, with silence as thick as water. When Francis finally spoke, it was cautiously, rather than with outrage. “Would I like you to what?”

“Spank you. If you wish.”

“Why would that be something I would wish?”

“Sometimes it can be quite cathartic.”

His eyes sparked a muted challenge at her. “You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Oh yes. I have gone out of my way to experience as much as possible.” She met his gaze calmly. “You have not said no.”

“I fear I may have lost my mind.”

“Why?”

“ Because I have not said no.”

She smiled at him then. “I do not know you well, Francis, but it is evident to me already that you are your own worst critic. I can see why you might consider, if not outright welcome, an opportunity to relieve yourself of that burden.”

“I ...,” he began, some combination of pride, need, and hope warring on his face.

“There are some rules, however,” Belle continued, suspecting he would benefit from a lack of opportunity to second-guess himself.

“I did not realise it would be so complicated for you to”—a stark flush painted the arch of his cheekbones—“strike me.”

“Spank you. It’s not the same.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Firstly, we must take care that this aspect of our relationship does not affect our day-to-day dealings. Do you think you can do that?”

He gave a swift nod.

“If at any point, you cannot, or I cannot, we will end this at once. You will always have a place here, irrespective of anything we do together.”

Another nod.

“And you must tell me immediately if I do something or say something and it becomes too much.”

He huffed out something that was almost a laugh. “I mean no disrespect, but you are ... five foot four at most. Do you truly believe you are capable of being too much for me?”

How useful it was, sometimes, to be under-estimated. “Even so. For my peace of mind. Simply say ‘No,’ or ‘Stop,’ or anything equivalent, and we will pause. If there comes a time when you find you want to say ‘No’ and ‘Stop’ and not have us pause, then we can discuss that when it becomes relevant.”

“You are speaking as though I am likely to”—he seemed uncertain how best to continue—“ allow this to happen more than once?”

Belle produced her most innocent smile. “Best to cover all eventualities, don’t you think?”

“I bow to your superior experience and agree to your terms.”

“There’s more.”

“I can no longer tell,” murmured Francis, “which aspects of this are the most absurd: that you want to do it in the first place, that I am willing to let you, or that you feel the need to discuss it in this much detail.”

“None of that is absurd.” And Belle gave such thoughts the dismissive hand wave they deserved. “My next rule is that this represents the end of your self-recrimination. Redress has been sought and given. That is the end of the matter.”

“I ...” Francis hesitated a moment. “I will do my best.”

“That is also a rule. That you may be as honest with me as you care to, and can be, and I shall never chastise you for that. But that you must also do your best to accept what I’m giving you, in the way I choose to give it to you.”

He made a gesture of bewildered indifference. “Fine.”

“Good. Now please go get my gloves. They are on the table in the entrance hall.”

For a long moment, he regarded her, his face set but conflict glittering in his eyes like tears. She waited, expecting a question, or perhaps a challenge, but then he turned and left the room, returning a few minutes later with her gloves.

“That was a test, wasn’t it?” he asked, passing them to her.

“Yes.”

“To see if I meant it when I said I’d follow your lead in this.”

“Yes.”

Again, his eyes were on hers, alive with whatever he was thinking, all traces of his previous sullenness gone. “I have miscalculated, haven’t I?”

“In what way?”

“The depth of your understanding.”

“Perhaps.” Belle drew on her gloves, flexing her fingers until they were comfortable. “But I am not your opponent in this. Now be so kind as to bend over the window seat for me. You can rest on your forearms.”

Finally Francis balked—though, Belle thought, not in deliberate rebellion. “I’m sorry. I ... I don’t think I can.”

“I think you can,” she said, encouraging but not pushing.

“It’s too . . .”

There were a lot of words she knew that could have fit— humiliating , exposing , frightening , overwhelming —so she did not give any of them time to settle. “Try,” she suggested. “And I will help.”

His look was sceptical, to say the least, but he did, after a second or two of further hesitation, lower himself towards the window seat. The moment she could reach, Belle put a hand upon the back of his neck and urged him down the rest of the way, feeling how tension and acquiescence thrummed in strange harmony through his body.

“Well,” he muttered. “This is assuredly the most mortifying thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Shh.” She stroked the nape of his neck lightly, this time rewarded by a long shudder of surprised pleasure. “You’re doing this because you need punishment. I’m doing this because I care.”

“Wait—what.”

He half rose again, and she pushed him firmly back into place. “Because I care. Because I believe you infinitely more capable of good than its opposite. And because, if you need me to, I will hold you to that.”

“Belle . . .”

“You promised me acceptance. You know how to stop this.”

He stilled, closing his lips upon a thready, miserable sound.

Reluctantly, Belle lifted her hand from his neck. She wanted to keep soothing him, for him to feel close to her, but she was a sadly bimanual creature. As she drew down his breeches and drawers, he buried his face in his forearms yet offered no further protest.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Almost certainly not,” he returned, a touch of dry humour in his voice. “But go ahead.”

“Remember, you asked for punishment. So, this will not be pleasant.”

“I think”—this time he sounded impatient—“I can handle a few—oh—oh God.”

Her first strike, which echoed crisply through the room, was harder than she had originally intended. He had, however, made it necessary for her to make the point. Her next few slaps, delivered in a flurry before he could fully catch his breath, were gentler, though not by much. They were too sharp and swift to be much of a warm-up, and yet a warm-up they were, even if he was too inexperienced to recognise the mercy.

“I,” he said, in the momentary break between her blows, “I—”

She returned her spare hand to the back of his neck. “Don’t try to talk.”

“Wh-what do I do?”

“Feel. Endure. Let go.” She ran her palm lightly over his upraised flesh. His arse was not generous, exactly, but it was firm and leanly muscled, yielding just a little as she slapped it. “This becomes you.”

“No,” he protested. “It cannot.”

She struck him again, increasing the intensity, keeping her palm and fingers flat. “You should probably learn not to argue with a woman when she’s spanking you.”

“Oh God.” His shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry.”

She hushed him again. “You’re doing wonderfully.”

“Please don’t.”

At that she paused. “You’ve had enough?”

“What? No. Not the—just the—I don’t know—the things you say.”

“That you’re good?” Another blow, aimed at the tender undercurve of his buttocks. “That you’re worthy?” A second, delivered to the same spot. “That I expect better things of you?” Now two to the opposite side and then more, alternating between. “That it matters what you do?”

The first true sound broke from his lips, a moan of surprised pain.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it,” said Belle, “the way the heat builds. I can feel it through my gloves too.”

“Fu—fuck.”

She set to work in earnest, covering his arse and the tops of his thighs with a rich red blanket. He was doing his best to remain still, because he wanted to obey, or he was stubborn, or he was clinging to misplaced notions of personal dignity. But occasionally, his resolve would falter, and he would toss his head back or stamp a foot in response to a particularly vicious blow. It was delightful. Everything about him was delightful. And she was delighting in being able to share this with him, the power and tenderness, and release of it.

“Belle”—his back bowed like a cat’s, as though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to get away from her or the opposite—“it ... hurts.”

She let her hand rest simply upon him, and even that inspired a low hiss. Definitely part cat, then. Apart from the fact a cat would surely be the one to deliver a spanking, were the option available. “I did mention that.”

“When does it stop?”

“When you tell me to. Or when I feel you’ve had enough.”

“When ... when will that be?” He sounded adorably plaintive.

“I’m afraid that’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

“Did you not also mention s-something about catharsis?”

“I did.”

“I would appreciate receiving some. Imminently would be appreciated.”

“Oh, look at you.” She pulled off her glove and dragged her nails across the glowing skin, and Francis actually yowled . “You poor boy. You think you have to fight the world. But right now, you’re only fighting yourself.”

The instant she drew back her hand, he arched half off the window seat. “Please—no. I ... I can’t.”

Very carefully she put her arm to her side. “Francis? How about when you need to stop you say my full name? Arabella. Can you do that?”

He twisted his head to look at her, his eyes stormy with unshed tears, and his mouth slack, sweetly dazed. “What?”

“You keep telling me to stop when I don’t think you want me to stop. Do you want me to stop?”

“N-no?” The word was vehement if slightly shocked. Perhaps he had not believed he was about to utter it. “I w-want ... I d-don’t know.”

“Say Arabella and I stop,” she repeated. “And know that I will be proud of you whether you say it or not, whatever you take for me today.”

His expression cleared for a moment. Replaced by something naked and hungry. “Proud?”

And there it was: the moment she had been drawing him towards, pain of the heart laid bare beneath pain of the body. “Yes,” she said, as she resumed spanking him, feeling the sting in her palm, even through gloves, the heat that flared between them, passed back and forth like a kiss. “Yes, I’m proud of you.”

She struck him again, for even her lighter blows made him shudder now. “Nobody should feel invisible. But it’s hard being visible as well.”

“Surely this”—a moan broke his sentence apart—“can’t be anything you’d wish to see.”

“Your vulnerability? Your strength? Your truths? Your hurt?” She gave him an admonishing tap upon the deepest of the burgeoning bruises. “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said yet. This is beautiful. You are beautiful. And it’s time for you to accept that.”

“I can’t . . . I—”

“It’s not up to you.” This time, she landed something far less forgiving than a tap. Francis made a shocked sound, half gasp, half howl, like he had no idea how to deal with the pain, as he half collapsed over the window seat. “You said you would accept whatever I gave, and I am giving you this.”

“Belle—”

“You are not in control, Francis. You need to accept that too.”

Despite having played upon both sides, she did not consider herself a particular aficionado of exchanges like these. Francis, though, she had trusted from the start, even when she’d had every reason not to. He was not like her, not exactly, but she understood him, his loneliness and restlessness, the self-recrimination, the fear of not mattering. So, while the thought that came upon her now was unexpected, perhaps somewhat audacious, it also clicked neatly into place. As if it, too, was finding its way home.

“You know,” she went on conversationally, “I’m beginning to think it isn’t quite right for you to call me Belle.”

Somehow, even with a distant fear in his eyes, he managed to sneer at her, impressive man that he was. “Mrs. Tarleton.”

“In this context”—she stroked him firmly, possessively even, and he took that more readily than her words—“try Daddy. I think it will suit us both.”

He went rigid. “Absolutely not.”

“Well,” said Belle cheerfully, “let me know if you change your mind. Or use my full name to call a halt.”

She went back to spanking him. They were light blows, but, by this stage, he reacted as though they were not, half trying to twist away and then impelled by his unfaltering sense of honour to steady himself for the next strike. It filled her heart to overflowing to see him like that, suffering and desperate, and almost ready to offer it all to her: the deepest, most wounded parts of him, given to her safekeeping, to be cherished until he could cherish them for himself.

“Please,” he tried. And it came out half a sob.

“Please what?”

To that he responded with something like a scream, fury and fear caught within it, fighting each other like the feral beasts they were.

“Say it”—Belle put all the gentleness her hands had surrendered into her voice—“and I’ll tell you when we’ll stop.”

“Fuck you.”

She was lifting her hand for a harsher blow when—to her relief because she would not have pushed him much further—he dissolved into helpless weeping. With her free hand upon the back of his neck for reassurance, she crouched down beside him, and was unexpectedly touched when he turned his tear-streaked face towards her, almost as if by instinct. She put her lips to his ear. “Say it.”

“Daddy,” he whispered.

“Tell me you know that Daddy is proud of you.”

“D-daddy’s proud of me.”

“Tell me you know that Daddy cares about you.”

“Daddy cares about—about me.”

“My precious, precious boy.” Sweat had darkened his hair to tarnished pewter. She smoothed a lock from where it had fallen into his eyes. “If you can allow it, Daddy will never let you get lost again. Now”—she rose again—“twenty more and we’re done.”

His mouth twisted tragically. “But you said—”

“I said I would tell you when we’re done.”

“Please don’t.”

“Take them for Daddy. Show me just how good you can be.”

He sobbed afresh, his hands curling and uncurling against the window seat. But all he said in the end was “Yes, Daddy.”

He cried through all twenty of Belle’s softest blows yet offered no resistance. Quite the opposite, in fact, his body limp and utterly surrendered, his responses coming less, she thought, from an extremity of pain than an inability to hold them back. Or, perhaps, a lack of desire to.

Afterwards, she sat on the floor, and he lay with his head in her lap, letting her stroke him and whisper to him—all the lovely things he needed to hear, and had been taught he did not deserve.

Eventually some shreds of coherence came back to him. “I ... I still don’t quite know what you just did to me.”

“Oh,” said Belle, “I spanked you? Didn’t you notice?”

“Amusing.” It was the voice of someone who did not find it amusing. Or rather, the voice of someone who secretly found it amusing and didn’t want you to realise. Belle had been the recipient of that voice a lot in her life. “But I think I made quite the spectacle of myself.”

“If by spectacle you mean magnificent vista I would gladly witness on many occasions , then yes.”

“I suspect I meant shameful display .”

“Oh, Francis.” She let her head fall back against the base of the window seat with a clunk. “My hand cannot take spanking you again straightaway. Let us not invest shame where it does not need to be.”

“But—”

She flicked his nose. “Listen to Daddy.”

An immediate blush set his face afire. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”

“Of course not. But for the sake of privacy, not because either of us have done anything embarrassing. Although,” Belle added quickly, “I should mention to my husband that our friendship has taken on a new dimension.”

“Good God, Mr. Tarleton. I did not even think—”

“Don’t worry. He will not mind.”

“I would mind, in his place.”

“You are different kinds of men with different kinds of ... interests, shall we say.”

He settled his head more comfortably against her leg, curling unselfconsciously into her. “I will take your word for it.”

“A practice you would save yourself considerable discomfort if you adopted with such alacrity in future.”

He was quiet a moment or two. “You speak as though you expect this to happen again.”

“Don’t you want it to?”

“Do you,” he countered, “believe me in such severe need of correction?”

“You already know I don’t. But I think you might wish to be reminded that you are seen and cared for. That Daddy is proud of you. And there to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“Perhaps ...” He hid his face beneath his arm. “Perhaps that would be”—he swallowed—“needed, yes.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Belle feathered her fingers through his hair, which fell between them as lightly as swansdown. “And an honour to have a little of your trust.”

“More than a little,” he whispered.

“Then I am more than honoured.”

Rather than being reassured, as she had hoped, he seemed to find some new avenue of concern. “In which case, if we are to possibly continue with this, I have to confess something.”

“I’m rapt.”

“While you were—while that was happening, I was ...” Finally, Francis looked at her. His blush had dissipated, but his eyes were anguished. “I entered a state of physical arousal.”

Belle blinked, trying very hard not to laugh. “If you imagine I was unaware of that, you do your member a disservice.”

“I have no idea what to say.”

It was hard to tell if she had gratified or appalled him, so she did her best to explain. “Because you were looking for punishment and catharsis, I felt it would be taking advantage of you to introduce elements of seduction. Was that wrong?”

“I ... ah ...” He gave an adorable little cough. “I’m flattered that elements of seduction were even a matter for consideration. But I’m honestly bewildered as to why such a thing might happen at such a time. I was humiliated and in considerable pain.”

“The body and the mind respond to all sorts of things.”

“Surely those are bad things to be responding to. Especially in such a fashion.”

“Maybe you were responding to a sense of safety or of being seen or of getting what you needed. Or maybe not. Maybe in the right context, when it’s something you have chosen for yourself, you enjoy a little humiliation, or a little pain. Many people do.”

“It did not seem like a little.”

“Such matters are relative. But there is no harm in what you experienced. If you wish, we could explore it further in a different setting.”

He pushed himself onto an elbow, his eyes seeking hers hopefully. “What do you mean?”

“Well”—she shrugged—“we have seen how you respond to pain and humiliation in the context of punishment. Perhaps we should also see how you respond to them in the context of pleasure?”

“Is that . . . is that . . . appropriate?”

“To whom?” she wondered, trying not to laugh at the question.

“Well”—he seemed to sense he was being ridiculous—“the matter of marriage vows.”

“For one thing, I was married at Gretna Green, so we barely exchanged any. For another, I would be fascinated to hear the service that included a spanking exemption under forsaking all others .”

“Belle.” He gasped out her name, utterly flustered. Then began to laugh, though even that carried a tremor of astonishment. “The things you say.”

“You are very lovely,” she whispered, more charmed by him than she had realised she might be, “when you’re shocked.”

“Then I must often be very lovely in your presence.”

“Am I such a source of consternation to you?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I like it very much. I would rather not, however, be a source of consternation for your husband. He is a formidable man.”

“Isn’t he?” said Belle, proudly.

“I thought him little more than a fop.”

“He is a fop and a formidable man.”

“Then you understand why I would prefer not to draw his ire.”

Intrigued, now the possibility of sensuality lay before them, Belle put her fingertips to the sculpted arch of his upper lip. “You will draw his ire only if you treat me badly.”

“I would not treat you badly, Belle, for fear of yours.”

And Belle lay back, pleased with his answer, anticipating what else she might find to be pleased with in future.

She did not, as it happened, have to wait long to find out, for Francis came to her that very night. And she put him over her lap, crooning to him and caressing him, filling him afresh with only the gentlest pain, for a languorous couple of hours. There was nothing, on this occasion, for either of them to overcome. There was simply the joy of giving, and they both gave freely, generously, completely. He writhed and moaned, and shed some lovely tears for her, and let tenderness strip him of shame as severity had earlier. Eventually passion mastered them both, and he pressed her onto her back amidst the pillows, entering her with care, and fucking her with facility. Such facility, in fact, that Belle lost her sweetness, and they found their climaxes in ferocity instead, her legs flung around his waist, and his tongue deep in her mouth, teeth marks on his neck, and claw marks on his back, both of them breathless, feral with exhilaration and the unforeseen discovery of the other.

This time, when their bodies fell apart, it was Belle who lay with her head on Francis’s chest, and he whose fingers idled in her hair.

“Well,” he said, “I seem to be learning rather a lot about myself.”

She twisted slightly so she could look at him. With his pale cheeks flushed and his fine hair hopelessly tangled, he was a study in exquisite debauchery. “I’m learning rather a lot about you too.”

He laughed. “I hope it is more to your satisfaction than your initial impression.”

“Oh”—she gave a luxurious stretch—“I am very satisfied, believe me, Francis.”

“I ... err. I truly had no notion I had it in me.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.” The slyest of smiles flickered upon his lips.

“Someone,” remarked Belle teasingly, “is proud of his performance.”

He gave one of his sweetly awkward little coughs. “Not very seemly of me, is it?”

“Nonsense. One should always celebrate one’s accomplishments.”

“It’s just I’ve always taken it for granted that I was not a particularly ...” Momentarily at a loss, he cast his gaze to the ceiling. “Not a particularly corporeal person. Nor particularly skilled in the physical arena.”

“But,” protested Belle, wide-eyed, “you have a double first from Cambridge.”

“They didn’t cover this, Belle.” Then he broke off with his second laugh in minutes, gratifying her with the unexpected generosity of his mirth. “Amusing.”

Giggling but relenting, she went on. “I think you could apply your talents to whatever arena you chose, Francis.”

“It never occurred to me to apply them to this one.” He flipped her onto her back and covered her, kissing her deeply, still as much wonderment as surety in his touch. “But what of you?”

“I think you’ve already felt the application of my talents.”

“No, I ...” A fresh blush crept across his cheeks. “I mean, I would like to learn about you too.”

“Oh.” And, just like that, a chill settled over her. Because this was how it started. With I want to know you , until it became why don’t you love me , and ended up what’s wrong with you .

“Did I over-step?” asked Francis, drawing back immediately.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Are you certain? I would not want you to think a few marks of favour and I have already forgotten my place.”

“Francis”—she reached up to touch his cheek—“your place in this house is whatever you wish it to be. And this is about me, not about you.”

“How so?”

“I ...” The truth lay inside her, heavy and inevitable, needing to be spoken, and yet—in that moment—impossible to speak. So, like a craven, she fell back on a different truth. “I’m afraid I will prove a disappointment.”

“Good God,” he murmured, his breath warm against her neck. “I am hard-pressed to imagine anyone being disappointed in you.”

“That’s because, as we are discussing, you do not know me.”

“And why you prefer that I don’t?”

She swallowed. “It’s complicated. But maybe.”

To her surprise, he did not react with impatience or irritation. He did not even turn away from her. “Do you need me to leave?” he asked.

“Do you need to?” Oh yes, she was nothing but cowardice tonight.

“No,” he told her simply. “I would like to stay.”

“It will not change anything.”

“On the contrary, it will make me extremely content to spend the night beside the lovely woman who has given me much and to whom, I think, I have given in return.”

“Francis,” she said, a little desperately, hoping against hope she would not embarrass herself by crying. “I can’t ... I don’t ... I’m so very tired of not being enough.”

“There are few fears in the world I understand so well as that one.” His hand found hers and twined their fingers together. “But I have wasted enough of my life lamenting what I do not have and would rather value what I do. Can you trust me on that? Just a little?”

She wanted to. She always wanted to. In the end, she managed a pathetic little nod, which Francis—perhaps out of kindness—seemed to accept. She knew she ought to tell him, but it seemed absurdly presumptuous to speak of love, even the impossibility of it, after a single encounter, no matter how mutually pleasing. Then again, if she said nothing, he might later believe himself deceived or led on in some way. And even if she could find some semi-reasonable way to raise the subject, whether it was now or on some other occasion, there was no guarantee of understanding. She could not count on everyone being like Miss Carswile. Indeed, until she had spent time with Miss Carswile, she would not have counted on anyone being like Miss Carswile. But that was the problem when someone was kind to you. It made it harder to bear when others were not.

And what a peculiar cruelty it was, a wasp sting from the world at large, to be someone who required explanation . It was this, in the end, the sheer weariness of it, that made her hold her tongue, while Francis drifted easily off to sleep beside her.