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They first stopped at Westminster, and walked around the outside, with William exclaiming about the architecture, and offering titbits about timelines in the construction.
They went to St James’s afterwards, and took a distant look around the grounds. He had no wish to be accosted by the Duke of Cumberland and forced to take part in the conversation he did not wish to have.
William took equal delight in all aspects of the way the city was put together. From the intricate network of roads to the different buildings, whether or not they were famous. Briggs knew that his son’s knowledge of architecture and infrastructure was astonishing, but he had truly had no idea of the breadth of it.
There were things that William knew about London that Briggs himself did not, and even if he had known it at some point, he would’ve forgotten it. William seemed to forget nothing. Particularly not if it involved numbers and dates.
‘I have learned so much,’ Beatrice said, beaming, tilting her head back and letting the sun wash over her face.
She was a rare beauty, was Beatrice.
If she had made a formal debut in society when she should have, she would have been a diamond of the first water. Would have been considered a triumph for any man. The sister of a duke, with a large dowry, incomparable innocence and extreme beauty. It was a farce that she should be limited as she was. An absolute injustice.
She seemed happy, though, and that pleased him. Right now, she was happy.
She could be happy with him. They did not have to be at odds. He thought of her as she’d been last night, furious with him, and then fire in his arms. No. There was no reason for them to play in extremes.
He could simply care for her. While he could no longer deny that he wanted her, there was a measure of satisfaction that stirred in him over the idea of simply...being with her.
Caring for her.
Showing her new sights, buying her new dresses.
‘Rome is best,’ William said matter-of-factly, with all the authority of a small boy who had only for the first time truly travelled away from home.
‘I should like to see Rome some day,’ Beatrice said, looking over at him.
‘I have a feeling I will be outnumbered in votes for this venture,’ Briggs said. ‘However, I am a duke, so I don’t know that I can truly be outnumbered.’
‘I don’t know,’ Beatrice said. ‘William is quite persuasive.’
‘At times.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘Isn’t that true of all of us? It is said that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but sometimes it is so satisfying to speak with vinegar, that whatever the result might be is sincerely worth the diminished returns.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. Anyway, being sweet eternally is terribly boring.’
‘How would you know? You have never been endlessly sweet or biddable.’
She looked surprised by that. Did she not realise he always took note of her?
‘Indeed not,’ Beatrice said. ‘Because I find the prospect so unappealing.’
‘You are a wretched minx, do you know that?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I quite like that. I shall take on the mantle of wretched minx for all of my days. For it is much more interesting than poor, sickly Beatrice.’
‘I doubt anyone has ever referred to you as poor, sickly Beatrice.’
‘Untrue,’ she said. ‘It is heavy in the tone of every servant in my brother’s house, and in the way my own mother looks at me. She is filled with sorrow on my behalf. I find it tiring. All I hear is how sweet I am, but what that means is that I do not fight with those around me all day every day. I have no choice in my life, and that I do not kick constantly against it has earned me the label of sweet.’
‘Beatrice,’ he said. ‘You’re not a thing to be pitied. There is much in life set before us that we are shown is the right thing, but...’ He looked down at William, who was focusing on the details carved into a parapet. And he allowed him. ‘I achieved everything that I was meant to by the time I was twenty-three. I had my wife, my heir. It did not produce happiness. I do not speak of William. William has brought me...’
He felt happiness was an insipid word, and not truly the correct one. Being a father was not an endless parade of smiling. He was a duke who could have staff members see to William the entirety of the time if he so chose, but it would not make a difference, as William was ever present on his mind, as were his concerns for him. And so he found it was best to spend time with his son. Perhaps much more time than most men in his position would. But seeing him, understanding him in this way, rather than in relayed messages from staff, was truly the only thing that actually made him feel like William would be fine. For when he saw him like this, out in the world and filled with joy, when he was able to hear about the things that sparked his son’s imagination, then they connected. And then, somehow, he had a glimmer of hope that all would be well.
