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‘He is a... He is a wilful boy,’ Briggs said. ‘He is n
ot terribly affectionate. You may find him difficult.’
He felt disloyal saying such a thing, but it was true. If she was expecting an easy path to dealing with the void she felt over not being able to have children of her own, she was likely not going to find it filled in his house.
‘I do not have a perfect idea in my head of what it means to have a child,’ she said. ‘I was warned against fantasising about such things, and so I didn’t. I will not find it difficult to love who he is. There is no idea of him built up in my head as to what I feel he should be.’
Her words, just then, were a revelation. For wasn’t that the true enemy of happiness? Expectation that could not be met.
He was well familiar with it. Far too familiar.
He moved closer to her, and then behind, grabbing hold of the swing and pulling it back. His knuckles brushed her hair, soft and silken. And he could smell her skin. Rose water and something delicately feminine that he could not place.
Perhaps it was simply Beatrice.
He released the swing, and she floated gently forward, her hair streaming behind her. And when she came back, he caught her, holding her steady, lowering his head and whispering in her ear, ‘I think we will find a way, don’t you?’
He released his hold on her again. He could not decide if prior to this he would never have put himself in this position with his friend’s sister, never would’ve been alone with her, or if it would not have felt...weighted.
Because he had been somewhat isolated with Beatrice on any number of occasions. Here at the house, they had not been so formal. Kendal had trusted him, and he had never once moved to violate that trust. And would not have. But he was marrying her now, and whether or not it was to be a real marriage, it had shifted the positioning of their relationship. Had shifted the way he saw her.
Forced him to realise that she was a woman.
On that thought, she returned to him.
‘Will we?’ She turned to face him, and it brought her mouth perilously close to his. It was plump, and soft looking. In that moment, he felt an undeniable sense of the tragic. For it was possible that for her protection, no man would ever taste that mouth.
No man would ever be able to tap into that passion that existed beneath the surface of her skin, for it did. And that he had always known. It was perhaps why he had always favoured her. Why he had brought her sweets from London.
Why he had taken the extra time to talk to her. Because she was trapped here at the estate, and there was so much more to her than she would ever be able to express. She was right. Right then he could feel it. The storm beneath her skin that she was not allowed to let out. She was staring at him, her eyes filled with questions that were not his place to answer.
He could feel her fury. Her fury in the inability to get those answers.
Poor Beatrice.
‘I do not intend to make you miserable,’ he said.
‘But you will not take me to storm armies either, will you?’
‘The primary problem with that,’ he said, releasing hold of her again and letting her fly through the air, before bringing her back to him, ‘is that I do not know at present where there are any enemy armies, on my life.’
‘Surely you can find some, Briggs. I have great confidence in your abilities.’
‘In my ability to start a war?’
‘Yes.’
‘Should you like to be my Helen of Troy, Beatrice?’ he whispered, far too close to her ear, as he brought her back to his chest, her scent toying with him now. ‘Shall I launch a thousand ships for you?’
He pushed her forward again. ‘But I do not wish to sit at home,’ she said, looking back as she drew away from him. ‘I wish to fight.’
‘It is still the same result, is it not? A war, all for a woman.’
‘I imagine I nearly started a war between you and my brother.’
He continued to push her on the swing, allowing her to fly free before bringing her back. Only ever letting her so far. So high.
‘He believed me easily enough.’
