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‘Yes,’ he said.
‘In the future if you wish to call on my wife, you will ensure I am present.’
‘He’s my friend,’ Beatrice said.
‘He is the man you intended to marry. And I’ll not be made a cuckold in my own home.’
‘If you cannot give any credit to my honour, at least give it to hers,’ James said.
Briggs looked at him, hard. ‘I have nothing to fear from you, do I?’
The side of James’s mouth kicked up. ‘No. I am leaving, though, so if you wish to have me arrested it will have to be quick.’
‘I am the last person on earth to have a man arrested for his inclinations.’
‘Ah. I did wonder.’ James turned to her. ‘Remember what we talked about. Be you, Beatrice. And if that’s not sweet, then don’t be sweet.’ He leaned in and kissed her cheek, and the feeling of affection that overwhelmed her nearly brought her to tears.
So few and far between were connections in her life.
‘I will see you again, when I return.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Come to dinner. Bring your friend.’
He left her there with a squeeze of her hand and when she turned to face Briggs, his eyes were like ice.
* * *
‘What were you thinking?’
Briggs couldn’t account for the rage that was currently pouring through his veins.
‘I was thinking that I would take tea with my friend, who came to sit with me. Which is more than you have done, Your Grace.’
He knew this side of her. He had seen it when she’d pushed at Hugh in her bedchamber. He had often admired her spirit, but he admired it much less now that she chose to use it against him.
‘If my household were not so loyal to me, the scandal you might have caused...’
She laughed. ‘Here I thought married women entertaining other men was de rigueur.’
The rage in his blood threatened to boil over. ‘Not in my house.’
His tone was hard, uncompromising, and he could see the way she responded to it. The way her cheeks lit up like a beacon on a hill, a signal to a man like him that she would melt like butter if he were to place his hand on the back of her neck now...
She would go to her knees willingly.
He shut that thought down with ruthless precision.
‘We are leaving for London in the morning,’ he said, ready for a change of subject.
He had been enraged seeing her in here with another man, regardless of the fact he was not a man who would be interested in her. Regardless of the fact he was not supposed to want her.
He was eager to get out of this house.
He had grown to see Maynard Park as his own. For some reason, though, the demons of his childhood felt close now. Perhaps because it was the very beginning of summer, with flowers beginning to bloom.
A reminder.
His father had died this time of year.
