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Sebastian raised his eyebrows. Give control of Benbury into Beatrice’s hands if she outlived him? “No, my lord.”
“No? After I have given Herron for her dowry?”
For a moment Sebastian was tempted to tell the earl to keep Herron if that was its price. Another idea occurred to him. “Let her have Herron for her dower. No less, since it is such a rich property. And no more, so that my son can manage his lands even as she lives.”
The earl opened his mouth as if to argue and then grinned. “Herron it is.” He leaned forward, the grin deepening until he looked like a small boy contemplating a raid on the buttery. “Let us see if we can come to blows over the details.”
Three hours later, wrung out from the effort of keeping his wits sharp enough to bargain with the wily earl and then to keep the lawyers from further entangling a tangled agreement, Sebastian signed his name to his marriage contract. The settlement was not as bad as it might have been, had the earl been inclined to take advantage of the situation Sebastian found himself in. If the terms did nothing to ease his worries, at least they did nothing to worsen them.
“All that remains are the banns and the wedding,” the earl said in a satisfied voice. “Afterward—will you keep your post at Court? Shall I see what I may do to obtain some favors for Beatrice?”
Beatrice at Court, where she could attract admirers as venal as Conyers? No, Beatrice would spend the rest of her life safely locked away at Benbury, no matter how she wept and pled. As for him, if he never returned to Court he would die a happy man. His father had insisted the only way a man could make his fortune was to orbit the king as the sun orbited the earth. Perhaps that was true, but it was also true, that there were few swifter ways to lose a fortune. Had he loved the intrigue and glamour of Court, he would still leave it; he could not afford its demands.
“No, my lord. We shall live at Benbury.”
“You will lose many chances at preferment,” the earl said, his brows drawing together over his nose.
Sebastian looked down at his hands. The earl was right; Court was the only place to dip into the largesse that flowed from the king like a river. Perhaps with time, Beatrice…
…Beatrice, a honey pot that attracted the worst kind of flies.
He raised his head and met the earl’s eyes. “Court life eats up everything my lands produce. I cannot afford it.”
The earl’s eyebrows rose. “Not even now, when you will have Herron…”
“Every year it costs more to live. You called my father a fool for selling his land. He sold his land because his expenses were greater than his income. I will not make the same mistake.”
“So be it. For myself, I shall be glad to have a man of your good sense in the county.” The earl rose. “And I have no doubt that my lady wife will be pleased to have Beatrice so close. Come, let us find them both and give them the happy news.”
In the hall a servant told them the countess, her daughters and their women had gone into the garden to enjoy a break in the morning’s rain. At the end of the passageway that led to the garden, the door stood open, a rectangle of blue-and-green light that dazzled after the dimness of the hall and passage. Following the earl, Sebastian passed under the lintel into the damp, bright garden.
The wet leaves glittered and the stones of the pathway steamed gently in the sunshine. The smell of earth, brown and rich, rose to his nostrils. To his left, Ceci walked arm-in-arm with her mother, their maids trailing behind. On his right, Beatrice walked alone, twirling a rose in her hands, her head bent. He wished he might turn toward Ceci; after last night’s puzzling and difficult encounter with Beatrice, he was not sure he was ready to face her again.
He rolled his shoulders to loosen them and straightened his back. Only a coward would run from a woman and surely he could rein in his anger enough not to berate her again. He turned to the earl and asked leave to go to Beatrice. A wave of the earl’s hand dismissed him. Moving quickly to outstrip his worries, he strode down the path toward Beatrice.
She looked up as he approached, the rose in her hand no longer spinning. He stopped five feet away from her, halted by her wary, somber look. Violet smudges underneath her eyes turned them gray, the marks dark against her pale skin. She looked like a woman who had not slept in a year.
His jaw tightened and unnamable emotion moved in his chest. Did she hate the thought of marrying him so much? He smoothed the furred collar of his gown. Her happiness with the match did not, could not, matter. They were married, and had no choice but to make the best of it.
He said, “It is done.”
“How long?” she asked.
He frowned. “How long?” How long had it taken to come to an agreement? How long until they married? She could mean anything.
“How long until I must live with you as your wife?” she asked. In her hand, the rose shook and a petal dropped off, drifting against her skirt. He stepped closer.
“Two months. The wedding will be at Michaelmas.”
She nodded. “Ceci said it would be so.”
“She knew?”
“I do not believe she knew. I think she guessed or reasoned it out. I must show I do not bear Thomas Manners’s child.”
“Do you?” he asked. For the first time he wondered. What would befall them if she was with child?
“I carry no child, of that I am certain,” she replied, staring past him. Her tone was flat, yet full of meaning, meaning he could not begin to interpret.
More than any other woman he knew, she was a mystery to him. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes met his, a question in their depths. He held his breath until she found her answer. He could see, as clearly as if she spoke the words aloud, the moment when she decided not to tell him what she knew.
“I know as any woman does. My courses have not failed me.” She blushed as she spoke, but whether it was because she lied or because she was embarrassed to speak of such intimate matters to him, he could not tell. “But the truth does not matter. It is what men believe is the truth that counts.”
He thought of what he had once believed of her, and what he had learned. Conyers’s arms around her, Conyers’s hands on her breast… In defiance of his good intentions, his mingled hurt and anger spoke. “So a woman may betray her promises and it counts for nothing if no one knows.”
“Or a man,” she said sharply, anger flashing like lightning. And, like lightning, it was gone almost more quickly than his eye could see. She sighed and lowered her head. “Is this how you intend to use me? To remind me at every turn of my sins?” Her voice was weary and her mouth, half hidden by the turn of her head, curled down at the corner.
“No,” he said. “It is not what I intend.”
“Can we not make peace between us, Sebastian?” She raised her head and looked into his eyes. “I do not want to quarrel with you.”
“Nor I with you. But I do not see how we may avoid it.” Not when she said things that provoked him to unkindness, provoked his unruly, cutting tongue to mischief.
She lifted the rose to her face, brushing its petals against the tip of her nose, but he did not think she smelled its sweetness, not with the distance in her eyes.
“Ceci has courage,” she said.
“She does.” He frowned. On the face of it, her remark had nothing to do with his statement, but he did not think them unrelated. He waited for Beatrice to reveal the connection.
“She dares to do things I never dreamed,” she went on, “and in doing so, she fires my courage.”
Courage to do what? He wanted to ask, but something, some angel or demon, held his tongue still.
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. Once again, he saw the thoughts moving in her eyes, calculating, weighing him. When she looked away, he knew she had once more chosen to hide her thoughts from him. The morning, the afternoon, the rest of his life darkened; there would always be silence, things unspoken, between them.
“Forgive me, Sebastian.” Her voice was harsh, as if she forced the words out. His jaw clamped shut and his mouth tightened. What new game was this? What if it was not a game? He could not think, could not gauge her honesty. “Forgive me for Conyers and forgive me for betraying my husband by intention if not by action.”
Her offenses were not against him and not for him to pardon even if he could. The man who could pardon her lay in his tomb. “Do not ask this of me.”
“You cannot forgive me?” she cried, crumpling the rose in her hand. Its scent, heavy and piercingly sweet, clogged the air.
He spoke through teeth that would not unclench. “I have nothing to forgive. You did me no harm.”
“If I did you no harm, then why are you so angry with me? Why do you hate me so?” Her face between the dark folds of her hood was stark pale, whiter than it had been before, her lips colorless.
“I do not hate you,” he said.
“Liar,” she said softly. Her mouth trembled as though she might start crying, but her eyes were cold, colder than he had ever seen them. Their chill bit through him.
“I do not hate you,” he said again. He was angry with her, angrier than he had yet been, and he did not know why. “I despise you.”
The words hung in the air; he could not snatch them back. She caught her breath and then nodded. “So.” She opened her hand and rose petals fell to the ground like snow. “We are good company, after all. You cannot despise me as much as I despise myself.”
Without curtsying, without asking for leave, she turned and walked away.
“Beatrice.” He had not meant to say he despised her; that was too simple a name for what he felt.
He did not know what had driven her attempted apology—did she try to cozen him, or had she simply wanted to have done with her past?—but in spurning it he had also refused the chance to alter their demeanor toward one another. And he had spurned it in the harshest manner he knew how.
If he had simply accepted her apology, could he have put an end to their endless quarreling? He did not know, but perhaps it was not too late.
There was only one way to find out. “Beatrice!”
Chapter Six
H urrying down the path toward the river’s edge, Beatrice clenched her fists, trying by force of will to stop trembling. She did not know if she shook with anger, fear or hurt; it was all the same to her. Emotion caught her up and carried her away, a flood smashing through the barriers she had built to protect her heart.
“Oh, God, what shall I do?” she whispered. Her hard-won control was gone.
She had tried to make peace between them, but Sebastian had wanted none of it, throwing her effort to ease his fury back in her face. If he would not make peace with her, she could see no help for them. They would live and die at odds.
When Thomas had died, she had felt as if the walls of her prison had fallen down, releasing her from darkness into the light of day. She had not cared how she would live the rest of her life, only glad she would never again wait with one ear cocked for the sound of his curses, one eye open for his oncoming fist. Then, just as she was ready to begin considering the rest of her life, John had come home and this new disaster had overtaken her.
“Beatrice!” Sebastian shouted.
She knew she ought to turn—no doubt he would be angry if she did not—but she could not make herself stop and face him. Not while she fought to calm her turbulent soul.
“Beatrice!”
A few of the men working in the beds along the riverbank straightened and stared. Behind her, she heard swift footsteps on the path. A hand grabbed her arm and swung her around.
“Beatrice, did—”
She flinched, head jerking back, muscles tensing as she braced herself, arm flying up to protect her face. It happened so quickly, she did not have time to stop herself.
Sebastian’s fingers on her arm loosened but did not let go. “Beatrice!”
She lowered her arm, her cheeks hot. Why had she reacted so? She knew Thomas was dead, his senseless blows in the grave with him. She had nothing to fear while in her father’s house, so why had she revealed so much to Sebastian?
“Did you think I would strike you?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, her breath shallow. She could not speak of this, not to Sebastian. I will master myself.
“No, I did not,” she gasped, unable to catch her breath. All the air in England, sweet and foul alike, would not be enough to fill her.
“I do not believe you,” he said, drawing his brows together.
Her head spun.
“You flinched. I saw it,” he said gently.
Darkness swirled before her eyes. In the dimness she saw Sebastian’s lips move and heard his voice, but she understood nothing. I am going to swoon, she thought, and grabbed Sebastian’s sleeve to slow her fall.
Serpent-quick, his free arm shot around her waist, dragging her against him to support her weight. “Breathe slowly,” he said.
She rested against his strength, aware of his forearm pressing against the small of her back, his legs and hips pushing her skirt and underskirt against her. The feel of him ought to dismay her. Instead her breath calmed, the whirling blackness in her head cleared; her heart quieted. And all her tumult settled into something warm and dark.
For a moment she rested against him.
“Beatrice.” Sebastian’s voice was low, soft against her ears like the touch of velvet.
She looked up and met his eyes. The garden around her, the murmuring river at its edge, the chatter of the workmen, her father’s booming laugh all faded, obscured by the darkened blue of Sebastian’s eyes. His arm shifted, pulling her more tightly against him. Surely he could feel her tremble. Curiously she did not mind.
“Why did you flinch?”
“I—” Her voice deserted her and she could not catch her breath. How could she have forgotten how long and curly his eyelashes were or how gold their ends? “I did—” She could not tell him she had not heard him. Through her stiff skirts the strength in his long legs was unmistakable. This moment had to end; she wanted it to last forever. Longing stirred, strangely welcome. “I did not see you clearly.”
He looked at her for a long moment as if waiting for her to say more, to offer further explanation. She thought, I shall tell him everything, everything about Thomas. But her lips would not part, the words clogged somewhere in her throat. Sebastian despised her; how could she leave her soul naked to his scorn?
“I see,” he said, and released her. When he stepped away, it was like being thrust out of a warm, well-lit room into the dark, cold night. She clasped her hands at her waist. Worse, it was like stepping into the night because she feared what would befall her in the room. If she had not lied, he would still hold her. What a fool she was.
“I misspoke when I told you I despise you,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
She looked away. “Why should you not despise me, Sebastian? I did not lie to you when I said I despise myself.” If she could not tell him about Thomas, she could confess this much.
Silence answered her. She looked up to find Sebastian staring down at her through narrowed eyes. She waited for him to speak or to look away. He did neither, watching her as if trying to value what he saw.
Goaded by his silence and the pressure of his stare, she cried, “Do you not believe me?”
He looked at her for a moment longer and shook his head. “No. I believe you. But I do not know why.”
“How should I not scorn myself?” she cried. “I have done things that shame me.”
“You said yourself you have done penance for your sins,” he said irritably, unfolding his arms and planting fists on hips. He was tall and strong, his shoulders broad against the sunny summer sky.
Longing stirred again, making her aware of her body, her skin suddenly alive to the brush of sleeves and skirts, the constraint of her pair-of-bodies, the breeze lifting the lappets of her hood to tickle the back of her neck. And her distress, the moil of emotion churning in her heart, only heightened her awareness, made its tooth sharper. If he had not held her, would she feel this now? It did not matter.
“I am still ashamed,” she said. The more shamed now because she had not let George Conyers handle and caress and kiss her out of desire for him. No, wearying of Thomas’s accusations of infidelity, she had finally given in to the impulse to be as black as her husband painted her, to taste the pleasure of sin since she got no pleasure from goodness. In the end, she had not found pleasure anywhere.
“I cannot help you,” Sebastian said.
“I do not ask it of you.”
“My lady Manners!” An usher trotted along the path toward her, a square of white in his hand. Joining them, he bowed and offered her the square. “This arrived for you.”
Beatrice took it and turned it over, revealing the crest pressed into the wax sealing it closed. The Manners arms. The last time she had seen the ring that made this mark, it had been on Thomas’s hand. She shivered. Oh, for the day when she would be shut of the whole house of Manners.
