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In fantasy.
Yet her decision to fling herself into James’s arms had been the first step away from that and into reality.
She had landed somewhere much...harder with Briggs.
In all the ways that could be taken.
Her foray into the real world was difficult and she felt as if she was shedding layers of down, her insulation against the harsher truths of life falling away.
She was not sure if she liked it.
But she could not help William if she turned away.
* * *
She was trying to sort out exactly how to broach the topic with Briggs, over a buttered roll with preserves, when Gates the butler walked into the room.
‘Your Grace, Sir James Prescott to see you. Shall I tell him you’re at home?’
Her heart lifted.
James.
The idea of seeing her friend made her almost giddy.
If Gates thought less of her because a man had come to call on her he did not show it. She had a feeling that had more to do with his sense of propriety regarding his position than it did with whether or not he actually judged her.
When James entered the room, it was as if the sun shone twice as bright on the pale blue and gold. And he was golden. Like the sun. She’d forgotten what it was like to have someone smile at her.
Gates nodded and left the room, leaving the doors open wide.
‘James,’ she said, ‘I am so, so pleased you’ve called. Sit and I’ll ring for tea.’
‘Thank you, Bea,’ he said, sitting and looking at her, his expression intent, and there was something about having her friend there, having someone who truly knew her and understood her look at her, when Briggs had been ignoring her, that made her eyes fill with tears. James’s expression became alarmed. ‘Are you well? He isn’t being an ogre?’
She blinked heavily, annoyed at herself. ‘He being my husband?’ She dashed at one rogue tear that had slid down her cheek.
‘Yes.’
‘Why would he be an ogre?’
‘You seem distressed.’
‘Yes, but why would it make you think he is...unkind to me?’
James hesitated. ‘There is a lot of talk about the Duke of Brigham. And his...proclivities. Though, I should not pay heed to gossip of that nature for clear reasons.’
Beatrice blinked, feeling as if she were missing a piece of the conversation again.
‘To be as delicate as possible, he is a man of exotic tastes. Some might say perverse, though I never would.’
Briggs? Perverse?
She did not have a clear idea of what that might mean, except it called to mind someone who was twisted and warped in some way. One thing she could not imagine was her brother being friends with someone that were true of.
Much less allow her to marry him.
You are a ward, not a wife...
