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‘He is... I cannot explain him. But please don’t tell Hugh about us.’
‘You are married,’ Eleanor said. ‘If he honestly thinks that he is going to control the way that you and Briggs are with one another now that you are... Now that you are married.’
‘Just please do not tell him. He wanted Briggs to act as his stand-in, but it is not... That is not how we are with one another. I am not his ward. I’m his wife. I do not know if I love him. I... He makes me feel as if my heart is being cut out of my chest sometimes. And like I might die if I can’t be near him.’
‘As I understand it,’ Eleanor said softly, ‘that is love.’
‘You are in love with my brother,’ Beatrice said.
Eleanor looked at her. ‘It is impossible.’
‘It is only impossible because you think it is, and there is nothing that can be done once my brother decides something. That is the only reason, and it is not a very good one.’
‘I should hope that you will tell him that. Maybe you can tell him while you proclaim your love for his best friend. And speak to him about your quest for a child.’
‘You know that I can’t. Once something is in his mind you cannot change it.’
‘Yes,’ Eleanor said. ‘I do know that.’
‘What is between Briggs and myself is very private. I think it is love,’ she said, suddenly feeling upset. Because she had imagined that love would be more like the novel she’d read, and not this bright, sharp thing that stole her breath and made her feel like she was dying.
There was no sweet romance when they were in his bedchamber. Or hers. Or the greenhouse. It was fraught and desperate. And it contained everything. Exultant joy, deep sadness, pleasure and pain. They were a collection of their most shameful, messy parts when they were together. On full display and with nothing to conceal their sharp, jagged parts. They were... They were not a couple anyone would wish to write a novel about. For it would be unseemly. Too dark. Too hard.
And yet, so much of her life had been dark and hard and she had never thought that anyone could possibly find a way to make the sting of it make sense. To make all that she’d been through into something real. Into something that mattered. But he had done it. He made her feel.
‘Maybe I will fall in love,’ Eleanor said. ‘With someone I can have. Maybe there will be a nice second son of an earl.’
‘You do not want a nice second son of an earl.’
‘
No. Not because he is the second son of an earl,’ Eleanor said. ‘Simply because I don’t know how to love someone other than... Other than His Grace.’
‘Since when do you call him that?’
‘I must. We are in London. And there is propriety to observe.’
‘Has he scolded you? Has he put you in your place?’
‘He is correct,’ Eleanor said, her cheeks going pink. ‘We are in society, and we must behave as if we are. I am not his sister.’ Beatrice looked hard at Eleanor, and tried to see if she... Had something happened?
Beatrice knew that Hugh would find that sort of connection to his ward appalling. There were several reasons that Eleanor could never be suitable for him. But she wondered...
Because one thing Beatrice had learned was that unsuitable or not, it did not matter. Not when you desired someone. Not when they desired you. Not when you fit together in ways you had not even known were possible.
Love was inconvenient. And if there was one thing that she could learn from Emma, she supposed it was that. But it was often the person who infuriated you. The person who you least wanted to need.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Beatrice said. ‘I only have William and Briggs to speak to, and it’s... I wanted someone to speak to. Really. I am sorry, I know that you... You are unmarried. But... Physical intimacy within marriage is wonderful,’ she said.
Eleanor laughed. Actually laughed. ‘I know about that,’ Eleanor said.
‘Eleanor!’
‘I mean, I have not... I understand though.’
Beatrice thought that Eleanor probably did not understand all of the things that she and Briggs did together. But then, she doubted many people would. But they did. She would never share the details. They were far too personal. Far too intimate.
‘I don’t think he loves me,’ Beatrice said. ‘Or it’s impossible to tell. He is...’
