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He saw her as a sickly chil
d.
The thought made her very sad. Deeply so. And sometimes when that despair welled up inside her she...
Her chest felt heavy. And she ached. That clawing feeling that she couldn’t breathe overtook her and she worked hard at her trick. One she had cultivated on those long days spent ill. Was it her body denying her breath through restricted airways or fear making her think it was? If she slowed the moment, the world, she could find the truth. And so she did, relaxing her shoulders and breathing in deep. Then she dug her fingernails into her palm, the slight pain soothing.
Pain was an interesting thing.
At least, in Beatrice’s opinion. Some avoided it, and she supposed that was its purpose. To tell you to turn away from a path, to warn you of harm.
But she hadn’t had that choice. Pain was part of saving her life, part of the regimen doctors used on her body.
She’d had to forge a different way of relating to it.
It marked so many steps taken in her life. Good and bad. She had been bled as a child. Frequently. It had been excruciatingly painful. Many of the treatments she’d been subjected to had been. And then, as her health had begun to improve, she had taken what opportunity she could to sneak out and roam the estate. That was how she had met Penny. She had found her lost on the estate, having wandered too far from home.
Beatrice had been loath to let anyone know that she had been out, as she hated to reveal her secrets. But she had found a great deal of freedom and pain out in the world, when she had finally been able to explore nature. Bee stings and the sharp pain of falling and scraping your knee. Falling out of a tree.
All things that she never wanted her brother to know had occurred. But she had begun to associate it with her liberation.
And sometimes... There was a familiarity to it that hurt. It was not something she spoke of. Not ever. For it made little sense, even to herself. Yet as her nerves began to fray she found balance in the pain in her palm. A sort of grounding sensation.
A sense of strength.
A sense that she knew herself and that she could withstand far more than anyone believed. It was that sense that gave her confidence now.
She felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck, and she looked up, just in time to see Briggs walk in.
The Duke of Brigham.
When he walked in, a ripple went through the room. Briggs was the sort of man who attracted attention wherever he went. It was undeniable.
He was magnetic in a black coat, black waistcoat and white cravat. He wore buckskin breeches and black Hessians. In a room full of men dressed in similar fashion he should not be notable. But whether it was the fit of the clothing, or simply the quality of the man beneath, he was more than notable.
He was outstanding.
He was the most beautiful man Beatrice had ever seen. She was certain he was the most beautiful man anyone in this room had ever seen. And the reaction to him indicated that. But it was not just his appearance—though his dark hair, kept just long enough to carry a slight wave, and his piercing blue eyes were certainly the pinnacle of masculine attractiveness.
No. It was his bearing.
He carried an air of authority that was unquestionable. He was an entirely different man to her brother. Not one bound quite so tightly by honour. And yet. And yet there was never any doubt that he was in absolute control. Of himself.
The ton had an obsession with him, as did every marriage-minded mother. If he had a fault, it was that he was already in possession of an heir. But his marriage had been brief, and many years ago, so much so his bachelorhood was firmly re-established.
As was his reputation as a rake.
But he was also...kind. And she had always found him easy. Easy to talk to. Easy to befriend. She knew he did not think of her as a friend. She would be little more than a child to him, for as long as he’d known her. But she carried a deep well of affection inside herself for Briggs, and whether or not it was sensible or reasonable, it remained.
It was...
She felt sometimes as if the stars hung on his every word. And that the sun shone because of his every breath. She would not say that she carried a flame for him, not in the way that Eleanor did for Hugh. No. It wasn’t that. Briggs was beyond her. It was simply that she... That she could not imagine her life without him. And in that way, yet again he was like the sun or the stars. Unreachable, but it was unfathomable to imagine life without that warmth. That presence.
He did not acknowledge her. Not formally. In fact, he crossed the room and made his way to a group of ladies. Not debutantes.
Widows.
Men of his sort preferred widows. They did not have to observe the same strictures as young ladies. Beatrice could not pretend that she understood the nuance of that. She felt a strange prickling sensation though, watching him as he spoke to those women. And then he turned, only slightly, and his eyes met hers from across the room.
