Sebastian was waiting for her in her chamber, dressed in shirt, hose and nothing more. The light of a single candle spilled gold light and black shadows over his face, rendering it unreadable. She closed the door and stared at him, her breath shallow and quick. Without a word, he crossed to her and cupped her face in his hands. She had only a moment to see the bright light in his eyes before he bent his head and kissed her, the kiss hot and hungry.
A flood of desire spilled over her, swamping her fear and pain, and she groaned. Nothing else mattered but his mouth on hers, his hands on her body. She thrust her hands into his shirt, to feel his warm skin under her palms. He pushed her against the door, pressing her against its panels with his hips and thighs. Her head spun and sweat prickled along her scalp. The weeks without him reared up, sharpening the edge of her lust. Through her skirts, he insinuated his legs between hers, setting his groin against hers and thrusting against her. Pleasure licked through her and she cried out against his mouth.
He lifted head enough to whisper harshly, “I cannot wait.”
“Do not,” she replied, blinded by the need to feel him against her, inside her.
He lifted her up and carried her to the bed where he set her down crosswise, her hips on the edge of the bed.
A voice inside her head said, You are behaving like a wanton.
I do not care.
She wanted him too much to deny him, too much to insist on being wooed, on caresses and kisses and all the persuasion he could muster. If she could not have his love, his lust must suffice. When he pushed her skirts up, she helped him, their hands touching and clinging. He freed himself, gripped her hips and thrust into her.
The sweetness of it, for all its speed, was like a feast after a long fast. There was no tenderness, but she would not hold out for tenderness. She would take what he gave her, the furor of his need, the force of his movement. She moved in answer, her legs around his waist, her hands clutching his shoulders as he moved within her, driving her relentlessly toward release. She felt him pulse and the throb of it freed a cascade of pleasure that swept her under, drowning her. The room echoed with groans; she was dimly aware that they both cried out. Sebastian collapsed against her, his face buried in her neck.
The room was quiet with the kind of charged stillness that followed a great storm or terrible quarrel. She said nothing, afraid of what would be released if she spoke, of what she might start by speaking. Her headdress poked her scalp, her busk stabbed her, the pressure of Sebastian’s weight made her hip joints ache. She lay still, uncomplaining, unexpectedly desolate. They had come together as gracelessly as this before, but then there had been something like joy. There was nothing like that now.
Tension rose in Sebastian’s body; in another moment he would lift himself from her. Though the intimacy of their bodies only seemed to deepen her loneliness, she did not want him to go.
“You bewitch me,” he said quietly. There was no pleasure, no dalliance in his voice. He spoke as a man who had been cursed.
“Not by my will,” she whispered. She heard the despair in her own voice and wished she could unsay the words.
He grunted, the sound perhaps a laugh. “God help us both.”
“Why did you not write to me?”
She had not intended to ask the question, had not even known it lingered in her mind. Sebastian sighed and lifted himself, easing from her gently. She watched him push her skirts down and set his clothing to rights, all without looking her in the face. She wanted to unsay the words, to tell him not to answer, but something, some stubbornness, stayed her.
“Does it matter?” he asked, arranging his clothing.
“Yes.”
He tied the laces of his shirt and crossed the room to the chest where he had put his doublet. Standing in the shadows, he was only a gleam of white linen, a sheen of bright hair, his movements flinging darkness on the wall behind him. “You did not write to me either.”
“Will you not answer me?”
He came forward into the flickering light. “No.”
She rose from the bed, smoothing her skirts as if he had never lifted them.
“Then go. I do not wish you here.”
He looked at her for a long moment, as if to gauge her sincerity or her resolve. She lifted her chin, afraid that he would see how weak her will truly was. If he remained, she would end by pleading with him, begging for his love. It could only disgust him and shame her.
“As you will it,” he said and turned away.
Do not go! She bit her lips to keep from crying out, pushed her nails into her palms to keep from reaching for him. He did not look back, closing the door behind him with a soft, final thud.
She stared at the door’s panels for a long, long time, unable to believe that he was gone and that she had sent him away. The stillness had returned to the room, the kind of stillness that fell when someone had said something unforgivable. What had she done?
Nothing she could undo without chasing him through Wednesfield’s corridors. Numbly, she readied herself for bed as best she could without Nan. Plaiting her hair, she remembered the night in London when Ceci had said she was going back to her Court post.
I loved a man. I thought he loved me. I need to know the truth. I need to know how he feels. Beatrice heard her sister’s voice as clearly as if Ceci were in the room. How had she found the courage? Even now, the thought of it took Beatrice’s breath away. Where had the daring come from, that allowed Ceci to risk the pain of learning the man she loved did not love her?
If he does not love me, I must know.
With sudden, piercing clarity, she saw the answer. Without knowing how the man she loved felt, Ceci remained in limbo, unable to move forward with her life. With knowledge, however painful, she could move on, making decisions and ordering her life as best she could. Perhaps that was true for Beatrice, too. Was it not better to build her life on the truth? She thought of distant past, of the pride and doubt that had kept her from asking Sebastian if he intended to marry her when Thomas had made plain his interest in her. If either of them had spoken the truth then, how much might have been different.
I am sore afraid.
She had been afraid of Thomas and had survived him. She had been afraid of Sebastian’s anger and disgust and had overcome both. Pain passed as surely as happiness. The only thing that endured was the truth.
She finished plaiting her hair, put on her nightcap and tied its strings. In the morning, when there was daylight to fire her audacity, she would ask Sebastian if he loved her or not.
At dawn Sebastian rose from his bed, still dressed in his shirt and hose from the night before. He had not slept a minute of the long, slow night, his thoughts turning ’round and ’round like a mill wheel, moving and going nowhere. Last night had given him physical release but nothing more. His hope that somehow physical intimacy with Beatrice might lead to openness had been in vain—the act that had once shown promise of bringing them together had only driven them apart. Now he did not know what to do.
He picked up his doublet from the floor, where he had flung it the night before. While he pulled it on, he stared at the wall, trying to think of nothing. If he thought at all, he inevitably thought of last night and what was the point of that? He had worn a rut in his mind, going back and forth, and had come to no conclusion. Sighing, he crossed the room and opened his chamber door. On the floor, curled up like a hound on the hearth, his man Ned slept. Sebastian had dismissed him on his return from Beatrice's chamber, too wound up for company. Evidently Ned had not wished to go far. Sebastian stepped over him; even less than he had last night did he want Ned's company now.
In the distance, he heard voices, the early noise of a rising household. The doors would have been unbarred; he could escape the castle without occasioning remark. In the great hall, menservants were setting out trestle tables for the first meal, working with speed and certainty. Sebastian acknowledged them with a nod as he passed through to the garden.
Dew silvered the shrubbery, the damp glinting in the early sunlight. Standing outside the door at the place where the paths converged, Sebastian took a deep breath, held it and released it slowly. A little of the tension in his shoulders lifted, but how long would he have to stand here breathing to ease it all? The way he felt now, he would be in the same place come Judgment Day.
He moved onto one of the paths and as he walked, memories of Beatrice flooded him as if his mind had only been waiting for the opportunity to consider her. He had commenced his wooing here, certain that he could win her without being won himself. How wrong he had been—in trying to breach her defenses he had left himself undefended and she, who was to be overthrown, had overthrown him. What was he going to do?
The garden brought him no peace. He returned to his room and let Ned dress him, went to the chapel to hear Mass and to the hall afterwards to break his fast. Beatrice did not appear and he did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. At the very least, her absence put off their next meeting, at least for a little while.
Shortly after breakfast, a rider from his uncle arrived to announce that Master Isham would be at Wednesfield within the hour. Why was he here? Sebastian considered and then dismissed the question as pointless. What did it matter why Henry was here? Whatever his business, surely his arrival would distract Sebastian from all the things he did not want to think about. Most of all, his uncle would make it possible to stop thinking about Beatrice.
Beatrice opened her eyes and looked at the tester above her, faintly visible in the thin line of light threading through a gap in the bedcurtains. Her sleep had been dreamless and now she floated on the mattresses of her bed, the coverlet enclosing her in a soft warmth. She listened for Nan’s breathing but heard nothing; the room was still. Where was Nan? Frowning, she sat up and tugged at the bedcurtain. It opened, revealing the sunlight spilling in a stream of gold through the windows. Beatrice stared, shocked. She had thought it early, not much past dawn. To gauge by the sun’s height, it was at least the middle of the morning.
She swung her legs out of the bed and slid to the floor. The sun had warmed the boards; her feet relaxed in the heat. She padded to the table by the windows. A bowl and a ewer had been laid out on its top with a towel folded beside them. Beatrice poured water from the ewer into the bowl and washed her face and mouth, the water cool against her skin. The door creaked as she was drying herself. She turned to see who it was.
Only Nan. Her heart sank into her belly as if she had hoped for Sebastian. She turned away to hide her disappointment.
“Why did you let me sleep so late? It is nearly noon.” An exaggeration—it was only mid-morning.
“An it please you, my lady, when I tried to wake you, you bade me leave you be.” The door closed quietly.
She frowned at the bowl of water. “I do not remember.”
“No, my lady. I did not think you had wakened, but I did not wish to disobey you.”
Swallowing, she faced her maid. “It does not matter. I am awake now. Help me dress. I must find Lord Benbury.”
Nan came forward and pulled Beatrice’s nightrail over her head. “He is in his chamber, my lady.”
“Hurry, Nan.”
Why rush? Because she wanted to take the risk before her courage failed her. Her eagerness infected Nan, who hurried through all the steps necessary to turn her out as befit her station. Sooner than she would have thought possible, Beatrice was gowned and hooded as if they had lingered for hours.
“Bless you, Nan!” she said, staring at herself in the little silver mirror Nan held up.
Nan turned pink. “Shall I attend you?”
And hear Beatrice ask and Sebastian reply? “I shall be well enough alone. Attend me when I return.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Beatrice stepped into the corridor outside her chamber, her heart pounding in her throat, her ears hot, her stomach queasy. She had missed Mass and breakfast both and would have to act with neither to bolster her.
This can wait. Do it tonight, dread and doubt murmured in the depths of her mind.
She took two slow steps and stopped.
If you do not do it now, you will never do it. The voice was Ceci’s, the tone gentle. A wave of longing for her sister swept over her, followed by a wave of courage. If Ceci can do this, so can I.
Her resolution renewed, she moved through the castle toward Sebastian’s chamber, going quickly as if to outrun cowardice, her skirts swinging like a bell against her ankles. Her steps slowed again as she approached Sebastian’s door, her courage cooling. The door was half-open and through it she heard a male voice she did not recognize, murmuring something she could not hear clearly.
For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to flee. The force of that longing frightened her, as if it might carry her away before she could prevent it. She took three steps that brought her just outside the door and stopped, halted to collect herself.
She heard Sebastian. “It does well enough, Uncle.” He sounded annoyed, as if his uncle had asked a question he did not wish to answer. Caught by the sound of his voice, Beatrice moved closer to the door.
The other voice said, “Do you love your wife?”
In the depths of her mind, a tiny voice whispered, Say yes and her heart stood still, waiting.
“No,” Sebastian said. “I do not love her.”
Her heart started beating again, the beat uncertain, stumbling, and when she took a breath, when she remembered to breathe, it hurt, as if she had been stabbed. She had not hoped, she had been sure she knew this—why, then, did it hurt so much to hear it?
She turned and went blindly down the corridor to the stairs.
By the time she regained the haven of her chamber she had mastered the worst of her pain, though her heart lay heavy and sore against her ribs. She felt as if she dared not think, as if thinking could only jostle and reopen an agonizing wound.
As if waiting for her, Nan stood by the bed, small body and small face tense. “My lady, Sir George Conyers is here to see you.”
What?
For a moment, she did not understand what the words she heard meant, as if Nan had spoken the language of Muscovy or Cathay. And then understanding came and with it dismay, crowding out heartbreak.
Blessed Jesú. George, here? What other disasters would befall her today? She did not have the strength to face him yet she must somehow find it—after his persistence in sending her letters she did not answer, she suspected he would not be driven away by anything less than her insistence. Or Sebastian’s. The thought chilled her; the chill cleared her head and numbed her heart.
“Where is he, Nan?”
“He is below in the hall, my lady.”
“Go to him and bid him wait for me in the garden.”
“Yes, my lady.”
While she waited for Nan to return, Beatrice paced her chamber floor, skirts and petticoats whispering softly as they swirled around her ankles. Her thoughts moved with the same to-and-fro rhythm, a fretting voice crying, Why is he here? Go away.
Too quickly, Nan returned, her eyes bright with speculation. Wisely, she asked no questions and made no comment. “It is done, my lady.”
“Very well.”
The finery she had donned for Sebastian’s eyes now mocked her, too fair for a man she longer wished to seduce, but there was no time to change. She must see George and send him on his way before Sebastian discovered his arrival. She hurried down to the hall and through it into the garden.
George waited perhaps a dozen yards from the hall door on one of the branching paths, staring into the middle distance, his hands on his hips. He was as pleasing to the eye as he had been in her memory: broad-shouldered in his dust-covered doublet, his legs strong in his hose and boots. She remembered suddenly that it had not only been his pursuit of her that had led her to dally with him. Once the sight of that hard profile had been enough to make her stomach flutter. Now she was unmoved, her appreciation of his comeliness akin to the admiration she felt for a fine piece of horseflesh or a lovely length of cloth. She noticed something else with a jolt of surprise. He was not as tall as Sebastian, not as tall as she had remembered.
The path crunched underfoot when she stepped onto it. George spun on one heel, his quick movement betraying some nervousness. That calmed an apprehension she had not been aware of—no matter how coolly he behaved, she would know he was as unsettled by this meeting as she. Recovering himself, he came forward with his hands outstretched, dark eyes bright, mouth curved in the mocking, confident smile that had once excited her. She did not take his hands; his smile faltered and his hands dropped to his sides.
“How now, Beatrice,” he said softly.
“How now, my lord.”
His brows lifted. “How is this? You have called me George before now.”
She had forgotten his audacity, the way he could bend and twist her words and ideas until he had tied her in knots. If she let him deflect her from her purpose, she would be lost.
“Why are you here?”
“Are you not pleased to see me?”
“That does not answer my question. Why are you here?”
He stepped closer and raised his hand as if to touch her cheek. She stepped out of reach. He frowned.
“Tell me what constrains you, Beatrice.”
“Honor constrains me.”
“Your betrothal?”
“Yes.”
“That was fast work,” he said.
The edge in his tone sent heat into her cheeks. She lifted her chin, armoring herself in pride. “I will not discuss it with you. Tell me why you wished to see me or I shall leave.”
“I came to find out why you answered none of my letters before the last and why, after all we have been to one another, you bid me leave you be.”
“I have promised to marry Lord Benbury, that is why I bid you leave me in peace,” she said sharply. Tension was pinching her back, her neck; she could feel herself listening for Sebastian’s step, waiting for discovery. If he finds me in a garden with George again... Cold crawled over her skin.
“You loved me.”
“I was your leman.”
“You were more than that.”
“No, I was not.”
“I love you.”
“I do not believe you.”
He stepped forward and grabbed her hands, moving so quickly that he had her before she realized he intended to seize her. His grip was hard; she would have bruises by nightfall. She would not look at him, refusing to encourage him.
“I do not blame you for not believing me, Beatrice.” His hands loosened and slid to her wrists. “Look at me.”
“Say what you must and go,” she said. His doublet was a little worn, threads fraying along the shoulder.
“Beatrice, I will not go until you look at me.”
Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to his. They were gray, so dark with emotion that they looked black.
“I want to marry you.”
“I am promised to Lord Benbury. The betrothal cannot be broken.”
“I do not believe it.” His hands moved her shoulders. His grip was not hard but she did not doubt it would tighten if she tried to break free. She stared at him, fascinated and frozen by it, a rabbit bewitched by a snake, and all the while, she listened for Sebastian. “I love you, Beatrice and I believe you love me.”
“No.”
His hands were on her shoulders, his thumbs warm against the skin of her collarbone. His eyes had softened and there was something about the set of his mouth that made her think of how vulnerable she felt, faced with the knowledge that she loved Sebastian who did not love her. Unexpectedly, unwillingly, sympathy eased into her.
“Does Benbury love you?” George’s voice was gentler than it had ever been, but the question broke the spell he had cast. His hands loosened, nearly releasing her. She stepped out from under them and walked a few steps away from him.
He followed her. “He does not, does he?”
The wound was too raw to conceal. She could not compose herself nor make a mask of her face to hide her feelings. She heard him come closer.
“If he does not love you, why will you marry him?”
I have promised...marriages are not made for love...I have lain with him... Her thoughts tumbled, confused. “I must.”
“Why?” His murmur was soft, pleading.
She thought of Sebastian and his uncle.
Do you love her?
No, I do not.
“I will not be forsworn.”
“You can say you promised to marry me. He does not love you and your betrothal has not been announced. None need be the wiser.”
“I would know.”
“I will make you happy, I swear it.”
She stepped away. “You cannot.” Sighing, she turned to face him. “I do not love you, George. I will not marry you.”
Color darkened his face as if he were ashamed. “Is it because I am a knight and he is a baron? Do you disdain me because of my station?”
She spread her hands helplessly. “I had no thought of that. I am promised to Lord Benbury. That he does not love me means nothing. We do not marry to satisfy our passions, you know that as well as I. Even as we dallied, did you not pursue heiresses and widows to make a good marriage? I did not fault you for it then and I do not fault you for it now.”
“Please, Beatrice, I pray you...”
“No, George.”
“I need you, Beatrice,” he whispered. “Please, I beg you, marry me.”
“No,” she said, her voice as low as his. “I will not marry a man who loves me if I do not also love him. That is unkindness.”
“You will come to love me.”
She bent her head. She could not look at him when she spoke. “No. I love Sebastian. I have always loved Sebastian.”
“He will break your heart.”
“I know. I do not think that means I should break yours instead. And I will break it, George.”
“You will not.”
She turned to look at him, trying to put all that she knew and felt in her eyes for him to read. “I will. How can I not? You will grow tired of loving a woman who loves someone else and you will become angry because no matter what you do or how you try, she does not return your love. And then that love will turn to hate. I would not wish that on anyone.”
“What of you? Will you not feel the same?”
“It is not the same. You know I love Sebastian. I know that if Sebastian does not love me, he does not love anyone else.”
“For the last time, Beatrice, marry me.”
“For the last time, George, I will not.” She saw the hurt bloom in his eyes, saw it set his mouth in a hard line. “I will pray for your contentment,” she said, a small sop but all she had to offer.
“A pox on contentment.” He lunged and before she had time to read his intent, his mouth was on hers, hard and begging for response. Horrified and repelled, she jerked her mouth from his and pushed him away, freeing herself by dint of surprise. Glaring at him, she scrubbed her hand across her lips.
“Go and do not return. I will have none of you.”
She backed away from him, waiting for another leap to capture her. It did not come and she turned to hurry up the path toward the hall door. Sharp, unpleasant emotion roiled in her chest, pulled tight across her shoulders; with a start, she realized she was furious.
The doorway was dark and she blundered into someone standing in the passage. Hands grabbed her arms to steady her. She recognized the touch in the same instant she recognized the scent.
Sebastian.
All at once, her anger was gone. How much had he seen? What did he think? The center of her stomach was cold, as if she had swallowed ice.
“Is that who I think it is?” Sebastian said very softly. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim of the hallway; she could not read his expression.
“Sebastian—”
“Answer me. Is that Conyers?”
“I can explain—”
“I have no doubt you can. I do not wish to hear it from you. I had liefer hear it from Sir George.”
“What will you do?”
Her vision had cleared enough to see that his mouth was a tight line. “For whom do you fear?” he asked, looking down at her. “Me? Or Conyers?” He let her go. “Go within. I will find you when I have finished with Conyers.”
“Do not—” Do not what? She did not know what she feared, except the look in Sebastian’s eyes.
“Go, Beatrice. I will not ask again.”
“No.”
“Very well, then. Watch me. But do not interfere.”
She would not unless she thought he endangered himself. She did not care what he did to George so long as it did not cause him harm. He pushed past her and walked out into the sunlight. With one part of her mind she noticed the sun gleaming on his fair head, while another thought that if she had not seen his face and heard his voice, she would have known how angry he was just by the set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his neck. She followed him to the door, stopping when she could see George, hoping she could not be seen.
Sebastian stalked toward George, his hands half-curled as if they wanted to make fists. George folded his arms across his chest, his eyes narrowing and an unpleasant smile curling his mouth. He was afraid and she could not blame him. To judge by the tension in Sebastian’s body, he must look ready to do murder.
Do not hurt him, she thought. He is not worth it. He is not worth any of it. Make him go and I will do whatever you ask of me.