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‘I cannot help what I cruelly take pleasure in, Beatrice. Perhaps I am a much crueller man than you have any idea of.’
‘I should hope not. For I am your ward. And what ward should like a cruel guardian?’
His lips curved. Beautiful. Painful. ‘I suspect you might enjoy my cruelty.’
‘I am not currently,’ she bit out. ‘As it happens.’
‘When I speak of female company, I mean shagging, Beatrice.’
She wanted to howl at him in frustration. ‘I don’t know what shagging is.’
‘It is what men and women do. And it is not for procreation. It is for pleasure. A man and his wife might engage in such acts for procreation, but there are a great many things that a person can do to pursue pleasure.’
Her head was pounding, her temples aching.
‘And you are... You are off to seek them with other women.’
‘I will not seek them with you.’
‘And so you go to a brothel to seek them out with other women. And you would throw it in my face while not giving me information on exactly what it entails. So if you wish to harm me, do so by speaking plainly, rather than speaking around the truth of the matter.’
‘I am off to screw my way to oblivion. To forget everything that happened this day. To forget that you are my wife. To forget that my son is here. That is what I intend to do. And if you should like a more graphic description of all that I shall do, I am sorry to disappoint you. I can see that you are quite interested in a man’s cock, judging by how closely you were studying the statue. Mine will be inside another woman tonight.’
It was so cool it took her breath away, and she still could not quite sort out why, except the idea of him sharing intimacies she was barely able to wrap her mind around made her want to vomit in the nearest shrub. And she knew that he wanted her to be hurt. That was the clearest and most obvious piece. What he was saying was designed to be harmful.
And he well knew it.
And before she could gather a response, he turned and walked away. She stood there, stunned for a moment, breathing in the sharp night air. And then she ran after him. Just in time to watch him walk out through the front door.
She stood there, feeling tender, hurt. She did not want him to touch another woman. She was beginning to piece it all together, of course. For these were all the mysterious acts that must follow kissing. She had never even partaken in such a thing, and...
Of course he would seek out other company. Even if she were his wife in truth he would likely find her boring, and her ignorance tiring.
She was tired of her ignorance.
She was tired. Tired of everyone else deciding what was best for her. Tired of her own limitations.
She was tired.
And still, she could not sleep.
She decided that she would wait up for him to arrive home. Even if it destroyed her to do it.
* * *
Usually, a visit to Madame Lissanne’s was like a visit to an old friend. The velvet brocade and access typically felt like a homecoming. But not tonight. Tonight, his stomach was acid. He was angry, and he had taken it out quite unfairly on Beatrice. Beyond that, he had been intentionally as crass and mean as possible, and it was not what he had promised Hugh that he would do as husband to his sister. Truly, the only piece of his word that he had kept was that he had not visited his desires upon her. No. He would do that here. If Pamela was available, he would see her. She was curvy and lush, and excelled in her submission. Her demure manner would be a welcome change to Beatrice’s sulky mouth.
Here, he was treated like a king. Here, he was given a glass of his preferred whisky, and ushered to a bedchamber to wait for a woman who suited his desires and was available. And indeed, it was Pamela. She offered him a shy smile, her eyes not meeting his.
And he waited. For a rising feeling of excitement. For desire. For something. He waited to feel what he should for a woman this beautiful. A woman he knew performed exceedingly well.
She made her way across the room, to where he sat, then dropped to her knees before him. She reached forward, making for the buttons on his trousers.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I did not tell you to touch me.’
Colour swept across her cheeks, and she looked away. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace.’
And for some reason, when she said those words, he thought only of Beatrice. And how the words sounded on her lips. And he felt... Guilt. Guilt that he was here when he had married Beatrice. Most of all, over the way that he had treated her prior to coming to the brothel.
