The earl’s business at the property north of Herron took longer to resolve than the quarrel at Herron had. The days, while the earl questioned, considered and berated his way to a decision, were long—Sebastian had little to do but attend the earl and listen to the tedious proceedings. But as slow as the days were, the nights, spent in a strange bed, were worse. Sebastian lay awake in the darkness, unable to stop thinking of Beatrice no matter how he tried to focus his mind elsewhere, his longing for her aching like a wound. Messengers came every day from Wednesfield, but they carried letters from the countess alone. Beatrice did not write, keeping silence as if she wished to punish him and make him suffer. A little voice in the back of his head whispered that she did not write because he did not. He silenced the voice every time he heard it. Even if it spoke the truth, he still could not write her, not while he still needed her.
Finally, after an interminable sennight, the earl announced at dinner that he was satisfied with the resolution of his business and that they would ride back to Herron the next day, Wednesfield the day after. Sebastian’s stomach clenched, whether from dread or excitement he could not tell. How would he face Beatrice after this parting? Matters between them had changed in the last few weeks—the long silence after those quick letters made that clear enough. Had they changed for the better—and if they had, what did it mean? He would only learn the truth when he saw her once more.
The journey to Herron and thence to Wednesfield was a journey from unfamiliarity to familiarity, and from anxiety to something like resignation as the land they rode became the hills and fields he knew. Whatever had happened between Beatrice and him in the past three weeks was done, the damage made and only repairs ahead of them. He had worn her down and won past the barriers of pain and distrust once already; surely he could do the same against a few weeks of distance. If he wanted to.
On the afternoon of the second day, they came to the places he knew almost as well as he knew Benbury. Here were the woods he had hunted in company with his father and the earl; here were the hills he and Beatrice’s brothers Jasper and John had ridden as soon as they were breeched. By the shape of the land, almost by the green of the hills and woods, he knew how close they drew to Wednesfield. And the closer they came, eagerness to see Beatrice grew. She was dangerous to him, he knew it, and yet he could not stop himself from wishing the horses would go faster.
Finally the towers and battlements of the castle appeared above the treetops, their stones silver-gilt in the gray light of a cloudy afternoon. The muscles in Sebastian’s shoulders tightened. So close, so close, only a few minutes’ ride, and then he would be face to face with Beatrice.
They turned into the lane that led through the gate in Wednesfield’s walls. Passing under the gate, they rode through darkness that rang with hooves on stone before passing into the weak sunshine and crowded clamor of the great courtyard. The muddy yard was a hurly-burly of horses, dogs, stable boys and grooms; it looked and sounded as if the whole household had turned out to greet the earl. The din of shouting voices, clattering hooves, and yapping, snarling dogs beat against Sebastian’s ears as the earl greeted grooms and ushers, signaled with his hand for largesse to be distributed and then leaped from his horse as lightly as a much younger man. Sebastian dismounted and followed the earl as he strode through the door of the great hall.
After the tumult of the courtyard, the hall was blessedly quiet, a world of calm and order. Informed by the man the earl had sent ahead to announce his return, the countess waited beneath the cloth of estate, women clustered around her. Sebastian looked for Beatrice in their midst and found her beside her mother, so close he wondered how he had failed to see her before. His heart lodged in his throat, hard as a green apple. Her hands were folded and her eyes downcast, and he could not tell if her aloofness was humility, pride or anger. She wore blue, the color he had said would please him, but if she did not look for him, what did it matter what color she wore?
Look at me. Please. Do not let me the only eager one.
As if she heard him, she raised her eyes, her gaze meeting his for a long, tense moment. Her eyes were shadowed and sad, her mouth a soft, straight line. Neither pride, humility nor anger, then—what he saw was hurt. He wanted to cross the floor and fold her in his arms, soothing whatever ailed her. He could not do it, held back as much by a hardness within himself as by the forms of courtesy. Her eyelids swept down, veiling her gaze, and she did not look at him again as her mother turned to greet him.
“How now, Sebastian. Welcome to Wednesfield.” The countess’s smile was both kind and cool, as if she was displeased with him yet understood the cause of his trespass.
Had Beatrice said anything to her mother? And if so, what? “I thank you for your kind welcome, my lady. I am pleased to return.”
The countess nodded and moved to greet another of the earl’s attendants, a nobleman’s stripling son fostered in the Wednesfield household. Freed, Sebastian stepped closer to Beatrice. She did not look up.
“How now, my lady.”
“My lord.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“Look at me.”
She looked up, giving him obedience if nothing else. “My lord?”
“Why do you not use my name?”
She blushed, her whole face washed in pink. “It is not seemly that I should do so here,” she said and glanced at her parents.
“Will you speak my name if I command you?”
Her eyes dropped, avoiding his. “I am bound to obey you.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Is it not enough?”
No.
But he could not speak plainly to this withdrawn, wary woman. “Do as you list. I will not compel you.”
Almost imperceptibly she stiffened and that tiny movement put distance between them as clearly as if she had taken a step away from him. He could think of nothing he might say or do to close the breach between them that did not also expose him and leave him vulnerable. He could not put himself in her power, but he wanted to draw her near, to have her smile at him as she had done before he left. A pox on his confusion, on the desires that pulled against one another, depriving him of peace and an easy mind.
Thankfully, the dance of courtesy and welcome parted them a moment later, delivering him from temptation. As he followed the moves required of him, he watched Beatrice. She smiled when she ought, curtsied when she ought, used all who met her with the proper degree of hauteur or humility. She followed the steps of the dance with grace and ease—how not, when she had been raised an earl’s daughter?
She glanced up and caught him staring, her eyes dark with distance. Color tinged her cheeks before she looked away, attending her mother with every appearance of interest. The countess glanced at him and then at Beatrice; she spoke and Beatrice left her side, moving toward him. She curtsied when she reached him.
“An it please you, my mother bids me take you to your chamber.”
Left to her own wishes, would she do this? And why did the question even occur to him? He did not want to know the answer.
“It pleases me well. Lead on, my lady.”
A quick glance flicked to his face as if to read it, but she said nothing, turning toward the stairs that led to the chamber he had occupied before. Would he sleep there tonight? Or would she let him return to her bed? With a vividness he had denied himself before this, he remembered how warm and sweet she had been in those two nights he had spent with her, opening her body and, he had thought, her heart to his touch. Now he was sure only of her body.
And that was enough to release desire into his blood. Perhaps his need had only been that of the flesh, an answer to her responsive eagerness. And what if she had missed lying with him as much as he had missed lying with her? He climbed the stairs behind her, watching the sway of her hips beneath her full skirts, his wayward imagination picturing the white flesh moving under yards of blue brocade. At the top of the stairs, he took her by the upper arm, spun her around and pulled her against him.
“Seba—”
His mouth came down on hers, sealing his name on her lips. For an instant, she stiffened as if she might resist him, then her body leaned into his as her mouth opened, yielding to him. He crushed her against him as the kiss deepened and grew hotter. He wanted to eat her alive; to judge by her soft, half-breathed moans and the heat of her kiss, she was as hungry for him. For an endless moment, he drowned in sensation, the kiss fusing them.
Bea, oh Bea.
A door banged far away and voices echoed in the stairwell, recalling Sebastian to an awareness of where they were. This was no place to kiss her, not when they could be so easily found. He straightened and eased away from the kiss, the ache of wanting her sharper than ever.
“I missed you,” he whispered, his mouth on her cheek. A chill passed over him. He had not meant to speak those words.
She pressed her face against his doublet, hiding from him. Her reaction dampened his ardor and his arms loosened. Did she not—? She spoke, her voice muffled by doublet and gown.
“What? I did not hear you.” He put his hand under her chin and tried to tilt her face up. She jerked her chin free.
“I said I missed you too.” She sounded impatient and she had grown tense. He let her go.
“But you did not write to me.” The words were out before he could stop them. If he was not careful, he would confess everything he meant to keep close.
She stepped back, distancing herself still further, and folded her hands before her waist, Beatrice armoring herself. “You did not write me when I confessed I missed you. How should I write you again?”
“You should have written.”
For a moment she faced him without the bulwark of her reserve, anger burning in her gaze, in the color in her cheeks. She looked as if words trembled on her tongue, words sharp enough to cut if she spoke them. Then her lips folded tight and she swallowed. Her gaze dropped and the Beatrice who might have cried hard truth was gone.
“How should I? I thought you were displeased with me,” she said.
No, you have pleased me too well, he thought, more words he could not say. Her plain refusal to be candid reinforced his determination not to speak. He would not expose himself if she remained hidden.
“I pray you, take me to my chamber as your mother bade you. I would not wish to displease her.”
She curtsied, sinking so low it was either mockery or profound deference. Either way, it was another sign of the barriers that had risen between them in the weeks he was away. Without looking at him or speaking to him, she led him back to the chamber he had occupied earlier. At the door, she curtsied again if, having delivered him, she intended to return to her mother. He put out his hand to stay her.
“Give me leave to come to you tonight.” The words were out before he considered them, their demand naked of flattery. Surely she would say him nay; he would not blame her if she marched away without answering him at all. And yet it was not to lie with her that he spoke. Somehow he could not help thinking that if they came together in the bed where they had been close, nearly defenseless, Beatrice would drop her guard against him, releasing him from the need to guard himself against her.
She looked up at him, her eyes examining his face as if she had not truly looked at him before now.
“Do you wish to?”
“I would not ask if I did not.” Do not make me beg. If she would not give him leave now, that would be the end of it. He could say nothing more.
She stepped nearer, still gazing at him, her movement closing more than the physical distance between them. “If you wish it, you have only to command me.”
“I will not force you.” He paused. “You know there is risk. I will not demand that you take it.”
Her eyes dropped, color seeping into her face. “I should like it if you came,” she whispered.
“Then I shall be there.”
She curtsied a third time. “I must return to my mother.”
Do not go, he thought, but he nodded. She had to leave; if she remained they would either talk or make love, each action carrying its own dangers.
She left without a backward glance. When he could no longer see even her shadow, he entered his chamber. It was unchanged—but why should it have been altered? He might feel as if he had been gone three years but his journey had only taken three weeks. Pushing his melancholy aside, he crossed to the window. It had begun to rain, drowning the greenery of the garden. The paths, endlessly curving upon themselves, reminded him of the times he had walked the garden in Beatrice’s company, wooing her as best he could.
How could things have gone so awry in the short time they had been apart? Before he had left, Beatrice had been open to him, yielding herself to him in heart as well as body. He had enjoyed her company but he had not needed her, he not been in danger of losing his head again.
The only mercy in his precarious situation was that she did not seem to know her power over him. She used no arts to draw him, did not cozen him with smiles and coy looks. Instead she stood stiff in his company as if she expected curses or blows, as if the mere act of being in his presence discomfited her.
“Blessed saints, what a garboil,” he muttered and flung open the window. The roar and splatter of hard rain filled the room, echoes drumming against the ceiling. Cool, sweet air washed over him, streaming past his face; rain splashed on the sill, wetting his fingers. Calm, a kind of peace, washed over him, as well. He would have to win her back and find a way at the same time to kill his need. It was as simple as that. He thought of all the risks he had taken at his uncle’s behest to refill the family coffers; surely he could risk his pride a little.
And in the end, if he was to live his whole life with Beatrice, what choice did he have?
Leaving Sebastian, Beatrice fled to her only sanctuary, the chapel. She had not expected that seeing him after his absence would hurt so much, had not prepared herself for the way pain dragged through her when he came around the screens at the bottom of the hall. It had been worse when he came to the dais. Instead of warmth and pleasure, there had been a kind of wary possessiveness in his eyes, as if she were something he owned but did not value. After that, she had barely heard a word he said.
Shoving the memory aside, she pushed open the chapel door and was surrounded by the smoky sweetness of incense, the fragrance enough to recall peace and a clean heart, but not enough to grant her either. She closed the door behind her, leaning against the panels as if she might bar her troubles from this place.
Of course she could not; wherever she went, whatever she did, her travails came with her. The latest one was her witless decision to admit Sebastian to her bed tonight despite the pain he caused her and the distance between them. Why had she done it? What madness had possessed her? On a wave of unexpected, unwanted heat, she felt his mouth on hers, his hard body pressed to hers, as if he kissed her now instead of moments ago. And in that surge of hunger she had her answer. Lust was the madness that possessed her. It its grip she could deny Sebastian nothing he might ask.
If she had any wit or will she would withdraw her consent—but she had neither. She went to kneel before the altar and with folded hands and bent head, she willed peace to come. Moments passed in tense stillness, waiting, waiting—but peace eluded her. In its place came an agitated fluttering, as if some panicked thing was trapped within her. Or was that panicked thing herself, frightened of what she had done and the pain it would cost her?
Her hands unfolded and covered her face. Why ask herself the question, when she already knew the answer? Oh, what a fool she was. She lowered her hands and lifted her head to stare at the quiet glow of the presence lamp. Who or what else could that panicked, frightened thing be but herself? Loving Sebastian put her squarely in his power; with a word he could hurt her more than Thomas had ever done. If she had been a fool not to recognize her own fear, she was not a fool to fear the pain Sebastian might bring her.
She sank down, her skirts rustling like wings in the quiet. What was she going to do? How could she protect herself against Sebastian and a broken heart?
You cannot.
The voice seemed to come from outside herself. Was it God? Or was it the Devil, tempting her for his own ends? Reflexively, she crossed herself and her head cleared. How could the Devil tempt her by reminding her that she could not guard herself from pain at Sebastian’s hands? Where was the blandishment in that?
At least Sebastian did not seem to take pleasure in hurting her as Thomas had. That was a great mercy and reason to be grateful. If he hurt her, would he not be remorseful? He had even regretted the pain he had given in taking her maidenhead, a pain that could not have been avoided.
Have faith.
Again the voice seemed to come from without but this time she did not question its source. If Sebastian did not love her, neither did he hate her. Two months ago she would have been grateful for it. Had her pride and greed grown so great that she could not be satisfied by so much now? Or was her nature such that no matter how much she had, she must have more? Please God it was not so, but if it was, let her learn gratitude and humility enough to value the blessings she had been given instead of pining for the gifts she had not.
Abruptly she remembered her prayer while he was gone. She had told herself not to pray for his love—it was too worldly a thing to ask of God. Instead she had asked for the strength and patience to bear whatever befell her. And here she was at the first test, whining because she had not been given what she ought not to have wanted in the first place.
In Sebastian she would have a kind husband; from Sebastian, she would have children and honor. She rose to her knees and crossed herself again. It was her pride and her greedy desire that hurt, nothing more, and she would not give either her attention. What she would do was give thanks for the blessings she had; they were great and she must not forget that. If her fool heart whispered of love, she would not listen; her duty to Sebastian and their marriage would not be onerous. That was gift enough.
Strangely, Sebastian made it easy to keep her promise to herself that night. They sat together at dinner and Sebastian set the tone of the meal by offering her the kind of flattery she might have expected from a courtier who had no designs on her. His compliments were of the sort he might offer any woman he found himself sitting beside and if she longed for him to say sweet things that were for her alone, she did not pay heed to the craving. It must be enough that he gave her kind words instead of curses.
They danced a pavanne together and she spoke to him as he had spoken to her, dredging her mind for innocuous, meaningless things to say. Once she thought she saw disappointment in his eyes, but when she looked more sharply at him, he offered her a pleasant, impersonal smile and she knew she had been mistaken. When she danced with her brother, Sebastian danced with her brother’s wife; tonight he would not stand on the side of the hall, his stare burning her. After that, they danced a bransle, lively and fast-paced. At the end, she stumbled and fell against him. Heat slammed her and she heard the hiss of his indrawn breath. For a moment they rested against one another and then he set her on her feet, asking her pardon. He left the dance a moment later. Bewildered and excited, she remained until the rowdy, laughing end.
Shortly after that, he left the hall. She watched him go, her hurt no doubt plain for all to see. John crossed the room to her as quickly as if she had cried out and pulled her into the dance that was forming, his brows knotted over his nose in an irritated scowl.
“Do not look so,” he said, squeezing her hand tightly enough to hurt.
She jerked her hand free. “That hurts.”
“To look at you, that is not the only thing.”
Blessedly, her temper ignited. “If I did not ask for your counsel, it is because I do not want it.”
“You will have it nevertheless.”
“And I will not heed it, so you might as well save your breath.”
As if to give her the perfect parting shot for once, the dance separated them. Buoyed by annoyance, she smiled at her partner, a boy with down still on his cheeks. He flushed and stumbled. When he recovered himself, he would not look at her again. The dance brought her back to her brother.
“You are a fool and a shrew,” he set as soon as they met.
“And you are proud and a braying ass.”
Laughter sparkled in his eyes and he grinned. “Your tongue is as sharp as ever. I feared time had dulled it.”
“Be careful lest it cut you,” she said, her anger crumbling a little under the force of his delight.
“I can guard myself.”
That was the worst of it—he could protect himself against anything she might do. The dance separated them again, leaving her with another partner, an older man who had long been part of her father’s household. He was used to her face; if he had ever found her beautiful it no longer affected him. He danced neatly and without flaw, returning her to her brother with her feathers smoothed, her anger almost dissipated.
“Has Sebastian hurt you?” John said without preamble.
It was her turn to stumble. “What makes you ask?” she said, buying time to think.
“Your face during dinner, the way you looked when he left.”
She looked at John and found both concern and a little belligerence in his gaze. What would he do to Sebastian if she said yes? Whatever it was, Sebastian would not deserve it. His only sin lay in not loving her.
“If he has hurt me, it is because I have wanted too much of him,” she said as calmly as she could. “He has done me no deliberate harm and if he knew he had done me accidental harm, he would be sorry for it.”
“What could you want that would be too much for him to give?”
His heart.
She could not say it; if she did, she would start crying, the composure granted by her temper crumbled to dust.
“Do not ask, John.”
He looked at her with narrowed eyes as if to gauge her conviction. She could almost hear him wondering if he should push her. Abruptly he nodded.
“I will not press you, chuck. But know that if you need an ear to speak into, mine is always available.”
Her throat ached. “Like confession?” she asked, striving for lightness.
He grinned. “Yes, but without the vow of celibacy or the need to set penance.”
They danced on in silence and amity until the music ended. John took her by the hand and began to draw her toward his wife, sitting beside their mother. She stopped, pulling him to a halt. He turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised in a question.
“I am weary and wish to retire. If you will, distract our mother. I do not wish to ask for leave and I do not wish her to see me go.”
“She will give you leave. She is not so unkind as that.”
“I know. It is asking...Please, John, help me in this.”
He frowned. “Very well. Sleep well. It will be better in the morning.”
“I pray so.”