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‘I had hoped to find, when I grew up, when I married, that the world was perhaps not so mystifying and unfair. That things were not quite so inequitable between men and women. I had hoped, that there would be a magical moment when all knowledge, and all things, might be open to me. But it is not to be, is it? I will always be... I will always have to live my life half in fantasy. And not even a good fantasy, because I don’t even know...’ She looked up at him, her blue eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘I do not even know what I want. All these desires with you and me will be half formed. Except for that one moment. That one moment in the garden.’
She went away from him then, and knelt down beside William. Who began to speak to her in an animated fashion.
And he felt...
He felt perhaps like being a duke was pointless. Because with his status and power, he was unable to give Beatrice what she wanted without breaking his vows to Hugh, and William...
Well, none of it bore thinking about, really. He had never been the kind of man to rail at fate. The world did not care. It simply unfolded, one step at a time, and you had to take it. Or die.
As his wife had chosen to do.
No. Serena was not his wife. Beatrice was his wife.
Beatrice was his wife, and that bore thinking about.
Chapter Twelve
On the second day in London, Beatrice had walked William endlessly around the little cluster of townhomes around Grosvenor Square. They had gone out to tea on the third day, though it was unfashionable to bring a child to such a venue.
He had not lasted long. He had become fractious and it had still been worth it, if only because they had left with cloth bags filled with scones.
Which she and William had elected to eat on the floor in his nursery.
Then she had gone to her bedchamber, to allow herself to be dressed to attend her very first ball as an actual lady.
Where she would dance.
But she would only be able to dance with Briggs, as he was her husband.
The partners did switch during many dances.
She had wanted this...
She had wanted it for a very long time.
All of her clothing fit perfectly, her measurements having gone to London ahead of her, the power of Briggs’s fortune and status evident in each stitch of her clothing. The gown her lady’s maid put her in was gold, with glittering beads stitched over a long, filmy skirt. The bodice was low-cut, with shimmering stars sewn around the neckline. Similar stars were fastened to her hair, which was arranged in beautiful, elaborate twists.
She felt beautiful. Truly beautiful. More so than she ever had in her life, with the exception of when Briggs had held her in his arms in the garden when her hair had been down in the simple braid, her body adorned in very little, and she had felt...
She had never thought about her own beauty. At first, she had always harboured anger against her body. For being weak. For failing her, and she had never much considered whether or not it was pleasing to look at. It just pleased her in its weakness, and that was what mattered. When she had found her secret strengths, the ways in which she endured pain...
She had begun to praise her body, for being stronger than all of the illnesses that had attempted to claim her.
A matter of perspective, she supposed. In the same way that being bled could have been nothing but an unendurable pain. She had allowed it to become something else. But this... This hurt, and not in a way that made her feel strong. Her throat ached as she stared at her reflection.
She was beautiful, and it did not matter. For she had a husband, and there would be no man that would look upon her and fall desperately in love. Least of all the man who had married her.
Briggs.
Her breath caught, sharp and hard, and she turned away from her reflection.
‘Thank you,’ she said to her lady’s maid. ‘I am ready.’
A beautiful, crimson-red pelisse was draped over her shoulders, and she walked out through the door of her bedchamber, at the same time Briggs walked out of his.
He was stunning. In black as ever, with breeches that moulded in a tantalising fashion to his body. She had so many more questions about that body than she had before. And such a great interest in what she might find beneath his clothes.
There was an intensity to his gaze when he looked at her, but just as quickly as she’d seen it, it vanished. Replaced by the cool detachment he preferred to treat her with.
