Chapter 10

“Wherein the festive season weaves a little magic.”

26 th November 1820.

“You still going to church in the village, then?” Rachel asked sceptically as she helped Bea dress the next morning.

Bea nodded. She needed forgiveness for her stupidity the day before, and facing the gossip and whispers from her neighbours would be an act of penance. Until now, she had visited the tiny chapel on the estate on Sunday mornings, spending a few quiet moments in solitude before lighting a candle for her father. She had always meant to gather her courage and visit the church in Tenterden, but now it seemed something she must do in repentance for her hubris.

She had thought to ease the feelings that Justin had lived with for most of his life, but clearly, she had only hurt him and made things far worse. Her stomach roiled as she remembered the shock in his eyes. Rachel had it from John that he had not come home until after dark, despite the bitter temperature and the fact he had gone out with neither coat nor hat. She prayed he had not caught a chill.

“Well, I’ll send word to the stables, then,” Rachel said, gathering the dirty linens and bustling to the door. “Unless there’s anything else?”

“No, thank you, Rachel,” Bea said, giving her a wan smile before she sat at her dressing table. As she stared into the looking glass, her reflection showed a woman who had slept ill, filled with guilt and regret. Sighing, Bea pinched her cheeks hard and bit her lips, trying to gain a little colour. Then she selected a pair of diamond and pearl earbobs, attaching them carefully before considering the results. If people were going to stare at her, she would give them no reason to find fault with Rutherford’s new countess.

She made her way down the stairs, smiling at Morley as he greeted her.

“Good morning, my lady. It’s a fine bright day, but bitter cold.”

Bea nodded. “Thank you for the warning. I shall take my warmest cloak, if you would fetch it for me, please?”

Morley nodded, gesturing for a footman who hurried away. “I took the liberty of ordering a hot brick and told the footman to get it warmed again at the pub while he waited for you for the journey home.”

“Why, how thoughtful, Morley, thank you,” Bea said, touched by the man’s kindness.

Morley’s face lit up, a tinge of colour cresting his cheeks. “It is my pleasure,” he assured her, taking her cloak from the footman and settling it upon her shoulders.

Bea accepted her bonnet from the footman and stood before the mirror to tie the ribbons. Movement behind her caught her eye, and she startled as she saw Rutherford in the reflection. She spun around and then realised she could say nothing with Morley and the footmen present. So she just stood, gazing at him stupidly and hoping he knew how sorry she was.

Justin smiled at her and her heart eased a little, for there seemed to be no anger, no condemnation in his gaze. “I understand you are going to church in Tenterden this morning. Would you mind very much if I accompanied you? I shall understand if you prefer—”

“No!” Bea exclaimed, so loudly she winced. “No, my lord, I should be glad, very glad , for your company.”

Justin inclined his head, offering his arm and Bea took it, hoping he was only waiting, as she was, for them to be alone in the carriage before he said what was on his mind.

Justin escorted her out, handing her up into the carriage with all the solicitude he always showed her, and soon they were sitting side-by-side. The carriage moved off. Bea took a deep breath, and the words exploded from her.

“Justin, I’m so sorry, I had no right—”

“I pray you will forgive me—”

They both spoke at once and then stared at each other in bemusement.

“Forgive you for what?”

“What are you sorry for?”

Having done it a second time, they both laughed, realising how ridiculous they were being.

“Let me go first,” Bea begged him, getting the words out before he could. “I’ve been awake all night, regretting ever having mentioned those portraits, for having stirred up memories I ought to have realised could be nothing but painful, and then for my own conceit in believing I could ever say anything to ease that pain.”

“But you did,” Justin replied, stunning her into silence.

“I-I did?”

Justin was quiet for a long moment, but then he reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Do you mind?” he asked, carrying on when she shook her head. “There is something about you that steadies me, that makes me feel as if I am rooted somehow. I imagine that sounds foolish to you, but I have spent my life feeling as if I drifted like a leaf on the breeze, going where fate blew me. I believe, now that I have taken the time to consider such things, that I assumed if I left my fate in the hands of chance, the things that happened were not really my fault at all. The reasoning of a boy, I fear. A stupid, stupid boy.”

Bea held her tongue, determined not to make the same mistake again, though she longed to comfort him, even to make excuses for him when she had no right to do so. He had been appalling. If even half the stories about his behaviour were true, he deserved much of what had befallen him, and yet she still wished to protect him from it. In that moment, she realised just how hard was falling for him. Though she did not know exactly when or even why it had happened, she had made the fatal mistake of falling in love with her husband. He had the power to hurt her now, the power to make her utterly wretched, and yet with his large hand holding hers so warmly, she could not regret it. Not yet, at least.

“I told you my mother died when I was a baby and that I did not know my father, save for occasional glimpses of him. Well, he came home once. It was the summer holidays of the year I turned fifteen. He spent the entire summer with me. All day, every day, and I had never been happier. We were friends, I thought, and I knew no father in the world had ever been better than my own. We talked, and he spent the days teaching me everything he knew, some things I certainly needed to know, others that he ought never to have shown me, but I did not know, did not understand, that he was preparing me for a life he would never again play a part in. I was wretched when I returned to school, counting the days until the next holiday where I assumed I would see him again, for we were such great friends now, he could not possibly wish to be anywhere but by my side… so reasoned my fifteen-year-old self,” he said with a sorrowful smile.

Bea’s heart clenched, guessing what came next.

“I got the news two weeks later and was promptly ejected from school because the bill had not been paid in months and now never would be.”

“Justin,” Bea said helplessly, squeezing his fingers tightly but too afraid to utter words of sympathy, even though they burned in her throat and made tears prick at her eyes.

“The last thing my father said to me,” Justin said, his voice calm, almost peaceful as he returned the squeeze of her fingers, “was ‘Good luck, son. I pray you do better than I did.’ I did not realise at the time that he really meant it, that he prayed I would be better, happier than he had been.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Beatrice said, because she couldn’t not say it, couldn’t let him believe she was unmoved by his words when her heart was breaking for him.

“Beatrice, I’ve made a mess of everything,” he said, his head turned away from her, his gaze fixed on some distant place she could not see. “I set out to outdo my father. For I knew he was the best man in the world, I admired and loved him so fiercely in the childish manner of a boy worshiping a god. I would hear no criticism of him, and if I heard stories of his wickedness, I would seek to outdo him, so no one could think ill of him, for his son was far worse.” He shook his head and gave an unhappy huff of laughter.

“You were grieving,” Bea said, her voice unsteady. “Was there no one to offer you comfort?”

“Only mad old Aunt Sophronia, who told me I was a hell-born babe and would join my father soon enough. At the time, I prayed she was right. Other than that, a few servants remained, the ones I could afford to keep after paying off all my father’s debts.”

Bea tried to imagine what that must have been like for a grieving boy, alone in that great house, with only a few servants for company.

“My father had taught me to gamble that summer, and so began my career of wickedness,” he said, shaking his head. “By the time I was eighteen, I had won and lost another fortune, fought my first duel over a woman, and sunk so far that I knew I would never see the light again. And I didn’t. Not for years and years. Not until the night you walked into my life.”

Bea’s breath caught at his words, and she blinked, stunned, hardly able to believe she had heard them correctly. Had he really said that? Had he really meant that? But the carriage had pulled up beside the church where a throng of people gathered, starting to make their way inside.

A footman opened the door and Justin got out before she could stop him, before she could find something to say in reply. Then his hand was reaching for hers and she looked down into eyes of such blue, eyes that for once held no glimmer of a smile or wickedness. He looked tired, as though he were searching for something in her.

Bea held his gaze and took his hand, not looking away as she stepped down from the carriage. “Thank you,” she said, and hoped he understood she was thanking him for more than the simple act he’d performed.

Tension thrummed between them as she put her hand on his arm and Bea wished they did not need to go inside the church. She did not wish to break the spell that seemed to have been cast over them, the sense of intimacy she did not wish to lose but feared would vanish like a soap bubble if anyone else broke into their world.

Her fears were realised as she overheard whispers behind them. Bea stiffened as she heard the words— rake, libertine, no better than she ought to be.

“Ignore them,” Justin told her, placing his hand atop hers. “They know nothing of us nor our lives and, whatever the truth or the lies they speak, we should not care for them. It’s none of our business what they think or say, so we shall not let it trouble us.”

Bea opened her mouth to protest, to say that it was not that easy, but suddenly, staring into his eyes and seeing the certainty there, it was. So she smiled, and the smile that he returned to her seemed to settle in her heart, warming her from the inside out like fine brandy, delicious and every bit as potent. An odd kind of happiness bloomed with that smile, tentative, teetering on a knife’s edge, dangerously tempting, and though she knew better Bea grasped it, holding onto it as tightly as she could.

Justin could not remember the last time he’d set foot in a church. Perhaps the time one of his ne’er–do-well friends had married an opera dancer while out of his head on a mixture of brandy and opium. He wondered what had happened to the happy couple, trying to conjure up the fellow’s name and failing. Friends, or what passed for them, had come and gone back then, people passing in and out of his life without his paying much mind to them, or them to him. They were simply partners in crime whilst the fun lasted, and when it—or the money—ran out, they ran out too.

He turned, gazing at his wife’s lovely profile as she listened to the sermon. Light from the huge stained-glass window filtered down upon her face, giving her an ethereal, otherworldly beauty that made his breath catch. What benign force had sent her crashing into the terrible darkness of his existence, he could not imagine, could not begin to understand why he would be given such a chance, such a magnificent, extraordinary opportunity, but he was determined to spend the rest of his days proving himself worthy of the gift he’d been given. Beatrice would not leave when the fun ran out, and he would never again do anything to risk the fortune she had put in his hands. He would give her no reason to wish to be anywhere but at his side. He had thought at first that, if his years of flirting and debauchery had taught him anything, it was how to please a woman, but Beatrice was no bored widow looking for distraction, no misbehaving wife wanting to find the excitement her husband could not or would not supply. The rules he had learned so well did not apply to her, and so he had done as she asked and treated her as he might a friend, or a sister, and had been rewarded by discovering a woman he respected and liked so well he could not bear to be out of her company.

The vicar droned on, the words of the sermon passing Justin by, but he closed his eyes, sending his own private prayer to whomever might be listening.

Please, forgive me for being such a fool, for wasting my life on frivolity and pleasure seeking. Please, help me not to mess it up. Please.

Mrs Kershaw gave Justin a dubious glance as he set foot into her domain. He felt ridiculously as if he were trespassing by entering the kitchens, despite it being his house.

“Justin!”

His wife’s exclamation and her accompanying smile chased such feelings away, making him grin like a fool.

“Did you think I would forget?” he asked as she hurried to him, taking his hands.

“No, indeed, but I thought perhaps you might think it too silly,” she admitted.

He shook his head, finding he could not look away from her. Beatrice’s eyes were more hazel than green in this light, flecked with gold, and he wished Mrs Kershaw and her staff far away so he might lean down and press his mouth against hers. Her lips looked soft, rosy pink, and longing hit him like a fist, striking him square in the chest. “I’m happy with anything that promises good fortune, even though I think I’ve been so lucky in the past few weeks that I might be accused of greed.”

She flushed at his words, turning away from him in confusion. “Well, we are ready to begin. If you would like to wash your hands.” She gestured to where a bowl of water awaited him, with a cake of soap and a soft cloth.

Justin did as he was told, watching Beatrice as she helped Mrs Kershaw bring down jars filled with dried fruit. Once he was suitably prepared, Beatrice explained they needed to make up a mixture of dried fruit.

“This is my grandmother’s recipe,” she said, and instructed him to measure out a quantity of fat sultanas. He watched as Beatrice chopped up dates and figs and sticky prunes, adding the whole to a large pan with a mixture of orange and lemon juice. “And a splash of brandy,” she said with a grin.

Justin caught her hand as she added the brandy, tipping the bottle up again when she had finished. “A little drop more,” he whispered in her ear.

She tsked at him, shaking her head. “Stop misbehaving or I shan’t let you stir,” she said, pretending to be cross, though she was obviously trying not to laugh.

He felt ridiculously pleased with himself for the way she teased him. Justin wondered if she knew she was flirting with him and experienced a rush of tenderness when he remembered how innocent she was, how inexperienced. Longing hit him in the same moment, tinged by panic as he knew how easily he could mess things up. But perhaps he would be a better husband for knowing that. If he were young and foolish and knew no better, he might not realise the value of what was before him, might not understand how very precious this fragile thing that bloomed between them truly was. He was a very long way from innocent, had seen the darkest parts of life, of people, and knew he would protect this feeling, would protect her , with a ferocity he had felt for nothing in his life before.

He watched Beatrice and Mrs Kershaw, surprised by his own interest as they added softened butter and brown sugar, then put the pan on the range and brought the mixture to the boil.

“Now we mix the dry ingredients,” Beatrice said, once the pan had been set aside to cool.

They mixed flour, spices, and ground almonds before adding them to the fruit and stirring in the eggs.

“Now it’s your turn,” Beatrice said, handing him the spoon.

Justin took it from her, enveloped in the scent of spices rising from the warm, gooey mixture. “That’s all?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You can make a wish,” she said, her voice soft as she smiled at him.

He nodded and closed his eyes for a moment, stirring the stiff mixture with care, wondering if he would do this again with Beatrice next year, and the year after, and for all the years to come. Justin smiled then, knowing what his wish was.

Opening his eyes, he found her watching him.

“Your turn,” he said, relinquishing the spoon.

Beatrice took it, biting her lip as she gazed down at the sticky contents. She closed her eyes and stirred, and when she opened her eyes again and looked up at him, a blush staining her cheeks. What had she wished for, he wondered, knowing that if he were granted another turn, he would ask to have the answer revealed to him.

“And now we must cook it,” she said, smiling at him. “And feed it every week until just before Christmas, when we will cover it with marchpane and icing.”

“Feed it?” he asked with interest.

“Yes,” she replied, mischief dancing in her eyes. “With brandy.”

“I cannot wait for Christmas!” Justin exclaimed, making her laugh at him and shake her head. “Is there nothing to eat now? All this hard work has me famished,” he said, though the hunger he felt was not for food, but for her, for more of her, sweet and tart and in his arms, willingly, wanting him above all things.

Beatrice nodded, turning to the rather intimidating cook. “Mrs Kershaw, might we have tea and cake in my parlour, please?”

“Of course, my lady. I’ve a splendid ginger cake which I’ve been wanting you to try. I made it fresh this morning, and it’s my own recipe.”

“Oh, that sounds divine,” Beatrice said happily, washing her hands and taking off her apron. “Will you join me for tea, then, my lord?” she asked, and he wondered what she would do if she knew how thoroughly besotted he was, what he would do just to have another moment of her time.

“I will.”

She glanced up at him uncertainly, hearing something in his voice he had not meant for her to hear. He smiled at her reassuringly, reminding himself that he would behave himself if it killed him, though he suspected it might. Could one die of repressed desire? Having repressed nothing in his life before, he did not know, but feared it was all too possible.

Justin followed her to the cosy parlour and imagined spending his evenings with her here every night, imagined knowing that he could soon take her up to bed and make love to her. Images assaulted his hungry mind of his wife in his bed, their bodies entwined, her mouth upon his, her hands on his skin. Justin sucked in an unsteady breath as his body stirred, and he forced his wicked thoughts onto a safer path to get himself under control before he frightened or disgusted her and undid all the progress he’d made.

Though it was barely mid-afternoon, the light was already fading outside, and he watched as Beatrice moved around the room, lighting the lamps. Justin bent and added another log to the fire, watching sparks glitter up the chimney as the eager flames devoured it.

“Shall I draw the curtains?” she asked, peering outside into the gloom. “I think it’s raining.”

Justin went to stand beside her on the pretext of looking out too, when in truth he wanted to be near her. Though he feared he would overstep the mark, he could not resist the urge to put his hand on her waist as he looked out. “It is,” he agreed, looking down at her. “It is cold and wet and wintery, and here we are tucked up in the warm with the promise of tea and cake by the fire. How fortunate we are.”

His voice was low, intimate, and he knew he was no longer treating her like a sister, as she had asked of him, but he could not do it, not now, not with everything he felt bursting inside him like fireworks, desperate to be seen.

“Yes,” Beatrice said, gazing up at him, the word little more than a breath of sound. He stared down at her, willing her to give him a sign that he did not disgust her, that kissing him wasn’t something she could not bear to consider. The flush in her cheeks was encouraging, but then her gaze fell to his lips, settling there, and Justin could not wait a second longer.

He lowered his head, pressing his mouth against hers, keeping his touch light, trying to ensure he did not frighten her away from him, startled and delighted when she gasped against his lips. Her arms rose to coil around his neck, pulling him closer. The invitation was too delicious to refuse, though he feared she did not know how badly he desired her, how hard he had to fight to keep his hands at her waist instead of wandering and exploring as they longed to do.

She pulled away from him and though he was desperate for more, mad with the need to plunder and devour and taste every sweet inch of her skin, he let her go.

“The tea will be here any moment,” she said a little unsteadily, avoiding his gaze.

“Beatrice,” he said, reaching for her hand, praying he had not ruined things.

She allowed him to take hold of her fingers for a moment before offering him a shy smile. “I prefer Bea, if you don’t mind.”

“Bea,” he repeated, letting out a breath. “Anything you want, love.”

There was a quiet knock before a footman entered, carrying in the tea tray.

Bea thanked him and the footman left them alone once more. “Oh, this smells divine,” she said, cutting a slice of the ginger cake Mrs Kershaw had promised.

She put it on a plate and then broke a large piece off, popping it in her mouth and chewing with a soft sigh of pleasure that hit Justin like a glittering shaft of bright desire, piercing his good intentions. He sat down before he could do something unforgiveable and haul her into his arms, taking her mouth with all the passion he felt for her.

“May I try?” the words were out before he could stop them, old instincts kicking in when he knew, knew he was treading on thin ice.

She smiled at him and walked over, offering him what remained of the slice so he could break a piece off as she had done. Justin shook his head wordlessly, and she stilled, her gaze once more falling to his mouth. He waited, his heart thudding with anticipation as she hesitated. He watched, noticing the slight tremble of her fingers as she broke a piece off and offered it up to him, the look in her eyes that of a woman holding out a treat to something wild and dangerous that might devour her instead of the morsel she held. She wasn’t wrong.

He opened his mouth, an obedient creature hiding his fangs, pretending domesticity. No, not pretending, he amended silently: trying . Trying harder than he’d tried for anything in his life, but he was not an angel, not beyond tempting her a little, hoping desperately he was a temptation to her.

She popped the piece of cake into his mouth, her breath hitching as her fingers touched his lips. Before he could counsel himself into restraint, remind himself to go carefully, Justin reached for her, his hands settling on her hips. She gasped, surprised, but did not scurry away. Instead, she stared down at him, breathing hard as he pulled a little, allowing her the opportunity to run if she wished to. She didn’t run, and Justin pulled her harder, tumbling her down into his lap.

She gave a little squeak of surprise, almost drowned out by the delicious rustle of petticoats and skirts.

“I have wanted to do that since the first night I saw you. I do not know how I have restrained myself for this long,” he admitted, hearing his own words as something dark and decadent. He wished it were not so, but perhaps that wicked voice would always be a part of him, only now he would keep it for her alone, to delight his wife and bring her all the pleasures he had learnt during his fall from grace.

She swallowed, gazing up at him, her lovely eyes wide and guileless. “I think I have wanted you to do it for that long too,” she whispered, the admission striking deep in his heart, making his breath catch. “You looked like a beautiful monster, a fallen angel, and I knew I would need to keep you at a distance, or I should be caught in your toils, and here I am,” she added with a breathless laugh.

Justin paused, hearing the fear there and disliking it.

He reached out a hand, stroking her satiny cheek. “Foolish girl,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Have you still not realised that I am the one caught, held fast, your willing captive for as long as you wish to keep me beside you?”

She blinked up at him, breathing hard, tension thrumming through her.

“Always, Justin,” she said, making his heart soar.

He pulled her close, pressing his mouth to hers, kissing her harder than he had intended, forgetting his promise to go slowly, not to frighten her, but Bea was not afraid. Bea had never been afraid of him; she was braver and bolder than anyone he had ever known. Braver than he had ever been, and now she was putting her heart in his hands though she knew it was a risk or believed it to be so. Silently, he promised her he would never do her harm, gentling his kisses, softening the crushing embrace of his arms, teaching her the give and take and intimacy of kisses in a way he was uncertain he had ever learned himself. Not like this, not how it felt with her, as a melding of souls, not just mouths.

Justin held her there, kissing and kissing and content to do nothing more, though his body strained with desire. For her, he could wait, though it was a delicious torment to have her so near and not take everything he wanted. Yet he would wait willingly, giving of himself and his time as he had never been willing to do before.

The tea went cold, the fire dying by slow degrees until Justin heard the bell sound, announcing dinner would be ready in fifteen minutes.

Bea gasped, looking delightfully rumpled, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her hair all coming undone. “Dinner!” she exclaimed, staring at him as though he had cast some spell over her. “We’ve been here for… for hours.”

She blushed a glorious shade of pink that only made Justin want to fluster her still more thoroughly. Before he could do so, she wriggled out of his lap, doing terrible things to his equilibrium as her plump bottom squirmed against his groin.

“So we have,” he said, smiling lazily at her.

She glared at him and then made a spluttering sound, somewhere between a giggle and snort, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Oh,” she said crossly, though she did not look cross in the least. “You… You… devil!” With that, she shook her head, biting her lip and sending him one last look of amused exasperation. “We shall dine together tonight, don’t be late,” she called to him, before she hurried out and closed the door behind her.