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‘Perhaps not. But I know more about you than you might think.’
‘If you knew anything about me, you would not treat me as you do. You would not ignore me for days on end. I am little more than an antiquity to you, set up on a shelf in this house and left to gather dust.’
She jerked away from him. ‘You do not have the authority to punish an object.’
‘I have the authority to do whatever I wish.’
‘Perhaps. But where is the glory to be had in unchecked authority? Authority that must be taken.’
And her words tugged at his gut, because she had hit right against the very thing he knew deeply to be true. There was no joy in wielding authority when the supplicant was not willing. But this was not a game to be played in a bedroom. This was...
What was it? He didn’t seem to know.
Neither did she. That much was clear. Her eyes burned bright, with both rage and excitement. And he knew, he absolutely knew that she had no idea why this battle excited her. He knew all too well that it fired his blood. And he felt nothing but contempt for himself. Over his lack of control. Because he had attempted it at this moment. Brought it to this place. Not because it was an accident, because he was actually threatening to punish her, but because he wanted to tease the fire inside her. Because he wanted to push that limit and see how far it might go. She was not a simpering miss. He didn’t mind a simpering miss, particularly when she was playing a role. But he found he responded to the wilfulness in her. She liked to fight, did Beatrice. And that said more about her than she knew.
But she moved away from him, effectively placing herself in a safer spot. Smart girl. It was better that way. Better that she end this now.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘This is the first time I have seen you in your real life. And I thought that I knew you based on what I saw when you were in the presence of my brother. But I do not know you. I will not make commentary on you. However, I feel strongly about William.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I see myself in him. And you might find that silly, or you may not believe it, but I do. But it is true. Protection at what cost, Briggs?’
‘He does not...’
‘As you said, he does not always show it. I understand that everyone around me, everyone in my life, was simply trying to make things better for me. Perhaps not my father, but my mother and Hugh wanted only that I should be safe. But they wanted my safety so very much that they did not consider risk is part of living. But it must be. Because there is so much that I have not tasted, so much that I feel I have not done. Survival, breathing, cannot be the end of it. I am certain of that fact.’
‘But without at least that there is nothing,’ he said.
‘William isn’t going to die of a trip to London. He just might find it difficult.’
‘I only meant if we were speaking of you, Beatrice.’
‘Thank you for thinking of me,’ she said. ‘But I’m tired of it. I wish to think of more.’
And as he watched her leave, he could not escape the sensation that he was failing yet again. That he was not... It was not any better off with Beatrice than he had been with Serena. And worse, he wondered if Beatrice would be any happier.
Chapter Eight
Beatrice wondered if she would ever have a peaceful night’s sleep. She worried about William and listened for his cries while she should be sleeping.
She rarely saw Briggs.
And as each lonely day stretched on—with Alice the governess not warming to her, with most meals eaten alone and nights stretching on endlessly, she realised this was truly no different than Bybee House.
Except she did not have her mother. She had no one here who cared about her at all.
Except perhaps William, but it was very difficult to say. Some days with him were lovely. Others...
He often became angry and lashed out. Afternoons seemed very hard for him. Beatrice could understand why Briggs wanted to protect him
, but he was so bright and brilliant, and seeing him sequestered in isolation—as she was—felt wrong.
When she had lived at Bybee House she had cocooned herself in her innocence. She had not wished to look too deeply at the world around her.
Choosing to look at the bright colours of the frescoes and not too closely at the chips and cracks in the paint.
Not searching herself deeply for the truths of her parents’ lives or their actions. She had instead focused on her own world. The one she created in the gardens alone. In her secret friendships.
