Chapter Five
Beatrice sat alone in the dining room, back so straight it ached, refusing to allow the chair to claim any part of her spine. She tapped her shoes against the wooden floor rhythmically and avoided looking at the grandfather clock in the corner.
She wouldn’t look again. She couldn’t. It had likely only been minutes since she last eyed it.
Her emerald skirts jostled as she shifted slightly, her corset pressed against her ribs but her Grandmother’s pearls caused her more discomfort than anything. Her mother never wore them, declaring them too heavy. They were beautiful, though, and Beatrice had wanted to look beautiful.
“Silly me.”
Beatrice’s gaze tracked back to the clock and she stared at it, watching the minute hand shudder forward.
She couldn’t believe it. Edward was late.
Really late.
And though she should have expected it given his past behavior, she had been certain tonight would be different. She’d seen the need in his eyes and recognized the offer of dinner for what it was—a genuine gesture of intent. He wanted them to come together. Properly.
Escaping to the graveyard was not the most mature of acts and she recognized that. Tonight she was going to make an effort. Be mature. This was going to be a reenactment of their early days of courtship and a place of neutral ground where maybe, just maybe, they could work out how to move forward.
Together.
She tapped her fingers against the dining table. Clearly, this was not meant to be.
The fire had been set too high, and the room wavered with the heat.
Beatrice dabbed her upper lip with a handkerchief, then tucked the linen away.
Another glance at the clock. The big hand had not moved, though the pendulum swung behind the glass.
Three hours past the time he’d said. Perhaps more.
Was it her, or was the room growing smaller, the walls inching closer in the orangey glow?
Mrs. Prewett entered slowly, carrying a silver tray. She inched around the door as though afraid to disturb her.
“Tea, my lady?”
“Set it down, please.” She kept her gaze on the crackling fire as Mrs. Prewett arranged the tray on a low table, the china clinking merrily against itself.
Beatrice didn’t want her pity.
The housekeeper hovered, hands clasped, gaze lingering on the unopened bottle of champagne Beatrice had requested. A peace offering of sorts. Beatrice could feel the woman’s gaze trying to read her posture. She hated it.
“Do take some tea, my lady.”
At the housekeeper’s insistence, Beatrice gestured for it to be poured and lifted the cup to her mouth and took a sip.
“Has Lord Edward sent word?” she asked, despite herself. She hated the needy tone to her voice.
“Not as yet, my lady.” A pause. “He was quite certain he’d be home tonight.”
“As you said,” Beatrice replied wearily.
Beatrice took another sip of the tea, allowing the warmth to slip down her throat.
Mrs. Prewett was still there, hands now folding and unfolding themselves.
“That will be all, thank you,” Beatrice said, fixing her gaze upon the teapot in front of her. If she looked at the housekeeper, she feared she might cry.
She heard the housekeeper withdraw, the door closing with a soft click.
The room was quiet, save for the clock’s insistent tick and the faint hiss of the fire.
Beatrice sipped again, then stared at the porcelain cup, turning it so the gold rim caught the firelight.
She tried to imagine what a woman in her position—beautifully dressed, surrounded by every comfort, married to a man admired by all—ought to feel in this moment.
Contentment, surely. Her mother would tell her as much.
But her mother tolerated much and expected little.
When Beatrice met Edward, she’d expected much. Companionship, mutual respect. And, heck, she might as well admit it to herself, maybe, just maybe…love.
Fool.
The hour crept onward. Beatrice rose and moved to the window, pulling aside the heavy brocade curtain.
Outside, the street was dark and empty and puddles from yesterday reflected the lamplight in smeared halos.
She saw no carriages, no pedestrians, no sign of Edward’s familiar silhouette.
The glass fogged as she breathed against it.
She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and sighed.
When the clock chimed the hour, Beatrice’s heart jarred against her ribs. It jolted her away from the window.
No. This would not do. History would not repeat itself.
Anything was better than sitting around waiting for an errant husband to return.
She opened the dining room door, strode to the hallway, her skirts swishing with every determined step and snatched up her coat—a heavy wool, deep blue in color and not appropriate for her eveningwear.
Just as she was fastening the second button, Mrs. Prewett came upon her. Beatrice bit down on her bottom lip. The woman meant well and she appreciated her kindness but she could do without her attention right now.
“My lady? Are you going out? At this hour?”
Beatrice smiled with every tooth. “Yes, Mrs. Prewett. I find I have an errand that cannot wait.”
“But…his lordship will return at any moment, I am sure! And the late hour—”
“I will be quite well.” She cinched the coat at her waist, the emerald silk pooling out below.
Mrs. Prewett fluttered closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “If it’s not my place, forgive me, but—if you simply wait, my lady—”
“I believe I have spent far too long waiting, I’m afraid, Mrs. Prewett.”
She turned on her heel and crossed the tiled vestibule to open the front door.
The cold rushed at her, offering to wipe away all her frustration and anger.
Beatrice hastened out into the gloom and strode purposefully down the road.
She didn’t hear the front door shut and imagined Mrs. Prewett watching her leave and pondering what to do.
The gates of the cemetery stood open, iron spears gleaming in the faint moonlight.
Beatrice moved with the assurance of one who had mapped every sorrowful inch, her gown dragging behind her.
If someone saw her, they would think her a mad, grieving widow perhaps.
Truth be told, she felt a little mad these past few months.
Something was amiss with Edward, yet he declared these late nights nothing more than work.
If he imagined he could continue lying to her like this, he was wrong.
As she moved quickly, keeping to the main path, the wind battled her, but she relished the bracing cold, the way it stung her throat and fingers. She pressed on as hairpins lost their grip to the breeze.
By the time she reached her father’s grave, she was trembling with cold and something else.
Fury, she reckoned. She couldn’t believe Edward had promised so much and delivered so little.
When the idea of marriage had first been suggested to her via her mother, she had not been shocked.
Their families were acquainted, but it went beyond that—there was an undeniable connection between her and Edward.
She didn’t want to admit it at the time but she was convinced it could spark into something greater.
“Well, Father, I think history might be repeating itself,” Beatrice said. “Do you think the women of our family are cursed?”
She half-expected an answer. When none came, she laughed and knelt to clear the leaves from the base of the monument. Wetness instantly soaked through her skirt but she didn’t care.
“I wish I didn’t love you,” she murmured. “I wish I didn’t feel something for…him,” Beatrice admitted.
A footstep. Beatrice rose in a single movement, hand at her neck, body coiled.
He emerged from the gloom. Edward—coat unbuttoned, scarf absent, hair windblown, jaw set in a determined expression. He saw her, hesitated, then closed the distance with three long strides.
“Beatrice,” he began, voice rough. “I—”
She cut him off with a raised hand. “You’re late.”
He looked at her and something in his gaze wavered. “I know.”
She refused to grant him the dignity of a reply. Instead, she turned away, staring at the grave and silently willing him to leave. He lingered behind her, not touching, barely breathing, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
“I returned home and found you gone,” he said.
“Because you were late.” The words were clipped.
“I was delayed. I—”
She spun to face him. “I’ve had enough of this, Edward. I’m tired.”
Edward’s lips thinned. “I’m trying, Beatrice. God knows, I’m trying—”
She laughed in his face. “Trying what? To be a husband? Because I see no effort on your behalf.”
He stepped forward, close enough she had to crane her neck to look at him properly.
“What do you want from me?”
She flinched as if struck, then straightened. “I want—” She faltered, caught off-guard by the rawness of her own voice. “I want honesty. I want to know where you go, and why you lie, and why—” She swallowed. “If there is another, I must know.”
Edward’s hands were balled at his sides. “You do not trust me.”
“How can I? Trust must be built but we have not built anything.”
“I want to build something, Beatrice. I do.”
“It’s too late.”
Any determination in his gaze vanished. “What do you mean?” His gaze narrowed. “There’s another?”
“No.” She almost laughed at the hypocrisy of his jealousy. “No, there is not. But I will not endure this any longer. I think perhaps we should do as our parents and grandparents did. We stay married in name only. Live separate lives. I should imagine that will please you anyway.”
“Please me?” He took her arms in his hands. “Please me to lose you? Like hell it would please me.”
She blinked at the coarseness of the declaration and the sensation of being so close to him.
“Then why do you behave so? Why take another woman—”
“There is no other woman.”
“You lie.”
Edward stared at her, his jaw working. Finally, he eased his grip and ran a hand through his hair. “I do.”
Beatrice almost sagged with relief. She was not addled in the mind.
“Who is she?”
“My half-sister.”
She let her mouth slip open. Gone were any emotional declarations of anger or upset. She didn’t know what to say.
“My father had a brief affair and fathered a child some sixteen years ago. Upon his deathbed, he revealed as much and pleaded for me to look after her and her mother.” He could barely look at her as he made his confession. “I have tried my best to stay true to my promise.”
“All this time…” She pressed her hands to her face, then let them drop. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Edward’s mouth twisted. “I knew what your father had done. The impact it had on you. I did not want the scandal to touch you, to make you think…” He sighed. “I did not want you to think badly of my father, nor of me.”
“For looking after your sister?”
“You might believe that I would be like my father.”
She snorted. “I didn’t until you started vanishing on me.”
For a moment neither spoke, the only sound the wind and the distant call of a bird.
Beatrice reached out, almost involuntarily, and brushed the lapel of his coat. Her hand trembled. “I’m angry with you,” she said.
He nodded, gaze fixed on hers. “You have every right to be.”
“I wish you had just told me.”
“I was afraid.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Of me?”
“Of losing you,” he whispered.
She opened her mouth to reply, but the words would not come.
They stood together in the cold, among the stones and the dead, and the wind curled around them, forcing them closer.
“I didn’t want to make you live with the consequences of a father who—” He hesitated, glanced at the grave. “A good man, in his own way. But weak. He never said no to anyone, least of all himself.”
Beatrice found herself unable to maintain her anger. The truth was too raw, too familiar. She let her gaze drift from Edward to the grave, then back. “I know about weak men,” she said quietly, gesturing at the headstone. “I loved one.”
Edward’s laugh was almost gentle. “I suppose we are well-matched, then.” He tugged her closer—so close that she could see the dark crescents under his eyes, the strain that this secret had taken. “I don’t want to live apart from you.”
Beatrice’s pulse thundered in her ears, but her body remained motionless. She was terrified—of being hurt, of not being hurt enough, of wanting more than she dared admit.
“If I promise to be honest from now on,” he said, “will you stay?”
She let herself lean into the space between them, just a fraction. “If you lie again,” she said, “I’ll kill you and bury you beside my father.”
Edward’s face cracked into the first true smile she’d seen in weeks, lopsided and bright. “Fair warning.”
She swallowed. “I mean it.”
“I know,” he said, and reached for her hand. His palm was cold and rough and trembling.
Edward bent his head, so close she felt his breath on his lips. For a heartbeat, he hovered there, letting her decide. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she could give of herself yet. Not after so many weeks of pain.
“Tell me about your sister,” she said, drawing back a little.
He covered his disappointment quickly but kept his fingers looped with hers. “I will. But let us return home first. I think this conversation could be conducted in the warm.”
“You don’t like the cemetery for fine conversation, my lord?” Beatrice teased.
“I really do not.”
“Then let us return home,” she agreed, responding to the squeeze of his fingers with a squeeze of her own.