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He looked up at her. ‘Is that true?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she said, using his title making her stomach tense. It should not. Only that there was a way he seemed to enjoy hearing it. And it was different, different to the way it was spoken in common conversation, where it was just an observation of his title, an expression of what was due to him. There was something else. Something deeper.
She went to her room, and her maid helped her dress for bed. She looked at herself in the mirror, and she wondered. If she was truly enough of a woman to entice him.
It had been one thing in the beautiful ball gown, with all those stars in her hair. She had been bewitched by her own reflection, so she imagined that she had a much better chance of bewitching Briggs in that state. But now... She just looked very much like herself.
The night that he had left the brothel, he had gone to engage in these activities, but had not done so. So no doubt that had played a part in his enticement towards her. That was why the nightgown had been sufficient then. But would it be enough now?
Would she be enough?
Or would she fall short?
No. You will not fall short. He trusts that you will not.
She looked at herself, and straightened her shoulders. He did not see her as an invalid. And she would not behave as if he should. This was what she had always wanted. For someone to see her as strong. As whole. Even recognising that he must... That he must behave differently with her... He was still not keeping himself from her entirely.
And that must be a testament to his desire. And to the way that he saw her.
And then the door opened. And he was here.
He was dressed fully for dinner, rather than in that state of partial undress that he’d been in when he had come into her room earlier today. For some reason, it gave him a look of unfettered authority, and that excited her all the more.
This man who seemed to be the embodiment of all she had ever wanted. It made her bold. If he was all she wanted, perhaps she could be all he wanted as well.
‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘all of my life, men have stood in authority over me. I suppose that is the fate of all women. Whether it be my father, my brother, or the physicians who attended me when I was ill, men have always dictated my fate. And so I cannot fathom why it is your authority that I find so beautiful.’
He paused, a muscle in his square jaw jumping. ‘There are two reasons. The first is that you know I will exert my authority in ways that will bring you pleasure. I take no joy in causing pain for the sake of it. Nor do I exert my will simply because I can. I was born with a title. I was born with authority. England is filled
with spineless men who have been given power because of the structure of the world. And women must subject to this authority because of how they were born. You... You willingly submit. And that is what gives me the power. That is what makes it mean something. And I will not abuse that. The second thing is related. Choice. You choose this. You choose it because it is something you want. And I granted it because I know it is something you can handle. It is not the de facto power a man has over his wife. Nor the power society gives a man over a woman. Rather this is something we choose. Something we make the rules to. Yes, in this bed, you give the power to me. But when it comes to the rules of the game, the ultimate power lies with us. Not what anyone tells us we might have. And that is intoxicating indeed.’
She shivered, absolutely and completely held captive by his words. For he was right.
This was power, the likes of which she had never known. For the fire inside him was stoked high, taken to a place that he was not in utter command of. She had command of his desire. He was here because he wanted her, and she did not doubt it. She did not need stars in her hair or a dress that flattered her bosom. She simply needed to be her.
The right fit to who and what he was. And that was innate inside her. The same as the illness that had threatened to take all the joy from her life. It made her grateful for herself. For strength, for the innate pieces of who she was. All that she could be.
Beatrice was enough for this moment. And after being wrong, not enough, not strong enough, according to all of the people that surrounded her, for so many years of her life, it was more than a revelation.
‘The first thing I think you are strong enough to handle, is learning to please me.’
He closed the distance between them, his gaze fierce. ‘Turn around.’
She obeyed, turning her back to him, and she flinched slightly when he wrapped his fingers around her braid. But he did not tug her hair, as he had done before. Instead, he gently released it from its fastenings and let it fall loose around her shoulders. His touch was gentle, and it made her shiver. Because it wasn’t gentle as if he was afraid she would break. It was gentle like a gift. The calm before a storm that she knew would rage and push them both to a breaking point.
Then he began to loosen the ties at the back of her nightgown, and it fell, slid down her body in a slither of silk, and pooled at her feet. Leaving her completely naked. His touch was gentle as his fingers skimmed down the line of her spine, down to her backside, where he squeezed her tightly, an echo of what had occurred in the library of her brother’s house, though so much more intentional. And with no barrier between them.
Tears stung her eyes.
There was nothing between them. Nothing except for his own clothes.
And she thought that perhaps she should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t.
Physicians had seen her nude from the time she was a child. It had been a necessity. Part of a life spent practically bedridden.
But he was not examining her body like a thing. Rather he touched her as if she mattered. As if she meant something. Rather he touched her as if she was both fragile and strong all at once. And beautiful.
She was not ashamed. Not embarrassed.
