Chapter Eight
Edward offered his arm for Bea to hold as he led her out of the office and down the stairs, past his workers and out of the building, into the street.
He wanted to keep her as close as etiquette would allow.
The rain had stopped and he was relieved to see George was still waiting.
Perhaps he wouldn’t throttle the man just yet—after all, he would like to make it home sooner rather than later.
He wanted to take his wife to bed, to explore her delectable body again.
He would have to send his footmen back for his horse, for he was not about to let Bea out of his sight.
He was as hard as one of the drills in his mill, straining against the material of his breeches.
He couldn’t believe he’d almost taken Bea on his desk, in his factory.
If anyone had come in and seen them like that…
Damn. It was as if he couldn’t think straight when she was around. His desire clouded his judgement.
He helped her up into the carriage and she lowered herself into the seat opposite him. She was so beautiful. Her hair was a little dishevelled and her freckled cheeks still stained pink, and when he smiled at her knowingly, she glanced away, as if she was suddenly shy.
As George set off for Longwood, the knowledge of what was to happen when they arrived home hung heavily in the air between them, like an unspoken promise. Bea had told him she wanted him and there was no going back from that now.
Suddenly, she smiled.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You have a little oil on your face,’ she said. She leaned forward and brought her hand up to wipe it from his chin. He raised his hand to keep hers in place and turned his head to place a kiss on the inside of her gloved palm. ‘You are too far away. Come here.’
He pulled her down into the seat beside him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, and it felt good to have her in his embrace again, to smell her intoxicating lavender scent.
His hand found her jaw and he drew her face towards him, so he could kiss her again, his fingers trailing along her slender neck, to the pulse at the base of her throat.
He moved his hand lower, to curve over her breast.
‘Edward,’ she breathed.
‘No one can see,’ he said, as his hand slipped beneath the material of her gown, his hand curving over the soft swell.
He was greedy to see her. He tugged the material down and her breast sprang free, and he caught her in the palm of his hand, feeling her weight, teasing the tip as he rolled her nipple beneath his fingers.
Dazed eyes stared up at him, before he lowered his mouth to nip down the column of her throat, and lower, to take the taut rosy peak into his mouth. Bea gasped, arching into him, holding his head in place as he tasted her. She was going to be his. And soon.
When the carriage finally came to a halt, breaking them apart, he realised they’d missed the entire journey. He barely registered George say they’d arrived at Longwood. He helped Bea cover herself back up and took her hand in his.
Once they were through the front door, checking no one was around, he pulled her to him in serious, savage urgency. Their mouths clung and their touch became more frantic, his desperate hands suddenly all over her. He wasn’t sure he would make it to his room. He needed her now.
Taking her hand in his, he tugged her up the stairs, stopping to gather her to him and kiss her at every turn, the sound of her laughter and urgent gasps driving him wild.
‘Lord Harrington, is that you?’
They both froze.
‘Lord Harrington?’ His heart sank. ‘You must come quick, it’s your father.’
His pulse stopped dead.
He broke away from Bea and sent her a look laced with a silent apology.
He didn’t want this to end. He wanted to lose himself between her legs, inside her body.
He had been planning to spend the rest of the day in bed with his new bride, rediscovering her body again, wanting to give her endless pleasure.
Frustration and disappointment ripped through him, but they both knew this would now have to wait.
He didn’t want to deal with the reality of the words drifting up the stairs towards him, yet he knew that he must.
Was his father all right? A cold claw of fear gripped his chest.
He straightened his clothes and went to the landing, bracing his hands on the banister. He looked down at Mrs Potter in the hallway.
‘Thank God you are home, my lord. The Duke has taken a turn for the worse.’
Dread swept through him.
‘He is in the morning room. I cannot move him. Please, come quick.’
Concern chased along his blood. He turned to look at Bea, pressed up against the wall, worrying her lip. ‘Go,’ she whispered.
He descended the stairs, trying to focus, righting his garments. He steeled himself for what he might find when he entered the morning room.
The scene was one of chaos. His father had obviously fallen.
Broken china and spilt tea lay scattered across the floor and staff huddled round as he lay on the ground, breathless.
He looked pale, his cheeks hollow. He was demanding no one touch him and yet it was obvious he could not move by himself.
Edward felt the ground shifting beneath his feet.
To see a man who had always been so strong, so powerful—someone he’d lived in fear of his whole life—look so frail, it made him falter, as though he’d been struck by a sudden gale.
It was as if their roles had suddenly reversed and he had become the adult; the caregiver, but he wasn’t sure his proud father would want his help.
‘Have you called for the doctor?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Mrs Potter said.
‘Then let us get the Duke to his bed and make him comfortable till the physician arrives.’
‘You are not to touch me!’ his father spat.
Edward found it exasperating that the man was still trying to manage perceptions, due to his stubborn pride, even while his body was failing him. Coming down on his haunches beside him, Edward tried to appease him.
‘Do you want the doctor to see you like this? He will suppose your condition is more dire than it is. You are going to have to let me help you.’
He managed to get his hands beneath his father’s back and thighs and lifted him.
Much to the old man’s outrage, Edward carried him out of the room.
The Duke ranted at him the entire way, hurling every insult he could think of at him.
About the shame of his son owning a mill.
About him not living up to his brother. About his choice of wife.
Edward passed Bea in the hallway and their eyes collided.
‘Can I do anything?’ she whispered.
‘No.’ He didn’t want her help, not with this. In fact, he wanted to send her as far away as possible from this situation, especially his father’s raging words. He was worried what else the man might say. He did not want Bea knowing the full, shameful details of their family.
‘Your own mother changed after she had you. You were the cause of her anguish.’
His heart clenched. He might have always sensed his father’s resentment, but the man had never vocalised that before. He faltered. The doctor had once mentioned the change in his mother after having him, and he had often wondered if he was to blame. Was he?
Bea reached out to touch his arm and he shook his head, emotion threatening to choke him. ‘Stay away,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t need to see or hear this.’
He was instantly reminded that the people who should care for him were not reliable, perhaps because he wasn’t good enough, maybe even unlovable.
He continued to his father’s chamber.
What was he doing trying to get closer to Bea? He should be trying to protect himself from any more pain, not attempting to win her over. He needed to keep up his guard, no matter how much his desire for her threatened to smash down his protective barriers.
‘He is in the later stages of his illness,’ the doctor said, after examining his father. ‘I am sorry, Edward. He does not have long to live.’
The grief that had been choking him since William had died tightened in Edward’s throat. His mother had left him. Then his brother. Now his father.
Would Bea too?
Edward hated to watch his father suffer. To see the man who had always been so strong start to fade. He was suddenly excruciatingly aware just how fleeting life could be.
He would soon be Duke and the burden weighed heavy on his heart. William had spent his whole life preparing for the role, but Edward had had just a few short months to get his head round the idea. Was he worthy of such a title?
He went to his chambers and bathed, washing off the dirt of the day.
He roughly dried himself with the linen cloth, pulled on his breeches and headed back into his room.
When he saw Bea sitting there, on his bed, dressed for the ball in a soft white tulle gown, her hair braided and styled into an elegant updo, she stole his breath away.
He stopped in the doorway and she stood awkwardly when he entered.
‘I came to see if you were all right,’ she said, twisting her hands. ‘Mrs Potter showed me to your room. I hope you don’t mind.’
He inclined his head, throwing the cloth down on the chair. ‘Of course not.’
‘Your father—is he…?’
‘It will not be long now. A week. Maybe two.’
Her hand came up over her chest. ‘I’m so sorry, Edward.’ Bea came towards him. She reached out and took his hand, surprising him. ‘You don’t have to do this on your own.’
He stared down into her eyes. He really wanted to believe her.
‘I always felt the pressure to be perfect. The need to please him. For my entire life, I have tried to meet his expectations, but I fear now, it is too late. It is never going to happen.’
Bea squeezed his fingers gently. ‘Your worth isn’t determined by your father’s approval, Edward. Heaven forbid if it was, I should think I have no worth at all!’