Chapter Seven #3
She wrote a note to Fatima, asking for her help, and then went about her correspondence work.
There were several letters she had fallen behind on responses, including her chess match conducted via post. She updated her opponent’s move on her board and tried to think about her counter, but found she was merely staring at the checkered wood, not thinking about the pieces.
Her mind was on Beckett. The way his hair looked today, tousled by the wind as his hat was blown back, and he’d had to reseat it.
The twitch to his mouth when he said he’d accept the invitation.
Her mind was normally a loud, cacophonous place full of competing ideas, which ranged in concern for her household budget, the nonlinear progress of political thought, and how different art movements had thus progressed, and, when taking in the influences of music and literature, what the art world might next anticipate.
But now, all that prodigious brain power centered on Beckett, tearing him apart like a swarm of buzzards picking over his bones. “Enough!” she told herself aloud, getting to her feet.
This was the first time her mind hovered over a person.
Certainly, in the past she’d whipped herself into a frenzy over Monsieur Cobb, and then Mrs. Dove-Lyon, when she awaited word of her decision.
But this was something altogether different, as she analyzed the detail of his eyelashes (two crossed over themselves on his left lower lid, creating a pleasing diamond shape), to his earlobes (detached, which was her preference for beauty standards), to the strange, almost leonine tilt of his upper lip.
She could not say why it seemed to resemble a lion, only that the pinkish hue of his mouth, and the abrupt tilt of it somehow made it so.
Though her experience of lions was from a visit to the Royal Menagerie at the Tower, and illustrations from books that held very little resemblance to the actual animal.
An impish thought took her: She could abandon her work today and spend her afternoon indulging in thoughts of him.
It was a strange notion—giving up her correspondence?
Especially when she felt that gnaw of anxiety that she was not keeping up with her typical rigorous response.
But how delicious it seemed—more than any teacake he could have brought her to accompany their tasting.
And so she did. She sanded the ink on what pages she had, forewent a chess move, and put away her writing utensils and stationery as quickly as she could.
She curled up on her bed, shoes off, but stockings and all remained in situ. It wasn’t as if she were napping. And should anyone need her, she wanted to be able to bounce up and respond. But how lovely to feel her body bend around itself, cocooning her tender heart and appropriated mind.
That night, Beckett took himself in hand for the first time in months.
He had never been a man overpowered by carnal needs, but he found himself aching.
And the vision that he called up was so banal, he didn’t understand how it brought him off, but it did—the vision of Mrs. Reid, looking at him so squarely in the eye, reaching out to touch his face, and asking him to call her by name.
Letting him into her, not just in body, but in totality, so that it was never unclear that she belonged to him alone.
The next morning, he was stiff again, like a bare-faced youth, and feeling embarrassed at his own vigor, he splashed cold water on his face and neck until the ache subsided.
He couldn’t very well bring himself off thinking of her and then meeting up with her within the hour. It seemed wrong, somehow.
Even so, when he met her at the Hyde Park entrance on the dark, blustery morning, the tension and ache in his loins was palpable, which seemed impossible in the cold temperatures.
But she made so many impossible things work, why should she not influence him in this way as well?
They strode in companionable silence, or at least, what had once been companionable until he took to liking her more than he ought.
It struck him as odd though, since he was a grown man, of title and agency and power, that he felt he was trespassing some taboo for being attracted to her.
She was a widow, and he had no intention of giving up his bachelorhood.
It was a common for a man to woo a widow—they were called Merry Widows for a reason.
Especially one as young as Mrs. Reid. But there was something about her, like those frogs he’d read about in the vibrant green jungles on the banks of the Amazon, brightly colored like jewels, conspicuous only to warn predators.
She’d made her unavailability clear, had she not? Or maybe, rather, he’d only thought it because he’d felt that way about himself? But the frisson between them, surely that was real for her as it was for him?
A crow cawed in the tree they approached, as if telling him to stop being such a rotter, and then flew off.
It reminded him that, as a sworn bachelor, it was rather bad taste to lead a lady into believing he was interested in a romantic relationship.
Mrs. Reid was not a flirt, and not a woman who would consent to being a long-term mistress.
At least, he didn’t think so. And he wasn’t the sort to engage in that lifestyle either.
He had never had a mistress, and while most of his colleagues believed him to be most discreet, only Timothy knew the truth of his preferred celibacy.
If she was not the sort to be a mistress, and he wasn’t the sort to keep a mistress, why shouldn’t he marry her?
Because he’d determined long ago that he wouldn’t marry at all, that’s why.
And what had been his reasoning? He pondered that, reaching back across decades, trying to remember exactly what it was that had made him foreswear the institution.
It wasn’t marriage itself; it was the whole soulless business of raising an unloved child solely to pass along an inheritance.
To be with a woman for dynastic purposes, to birth a child for history—not for the child themselves, or even as the accidental product of desire.
It felt not immoral, but surely unethical.
His own childhood hadn’t been that bad, but it certainly hadn’t been good.
He didn’t want another to have to trifle through such an existence.
And since much of his life had not been optional for him but rather thrust upon him by the accident of his birth, he wanted to control that part.
The heirs part. To counteract the idea that family was about the control of wealth.
Settling the responsibility onto his sister’s shoulder seemed grand.
She had wanted children and seemed to like her spouse.
As much as he’d ever asked, anyway. Giving her sons the path to fortune divested himself of some of his burden, never believing he would ever change his mind about marriage and heirs.
Given the sort of high-bred ladies he crossed paths with, his surly, misanthropic manner was not found endearing, let alone endurable.
A lady might lie back and think of England for money and title, but not want to spend overly much time getting to know a dour man who might unwittingly insult her with his lack of cheer.
The frost crunched beneath his boot. It might be too early for some to declare winter arrived, but Beckett would put money down that there would be no warming up from this until spring.
He didn’t mind at all, as he rather liked winter, with its cinnamon- and nutmeg-spiced roasts and mulled cider by a fire after dinner.
The puddle that had yesterday had a delightful crust was now frozen all the way through.
As he mused on the changing states of water, Mrs. Reid lost her footing.
She slid on the ice, her arms windmilling.
Without a thought, he grabbed her. With one arm, he hauled her next to him and gripped his other arm about her waist. He clutched her to him, and the memories of his fantasy the night before rushed through his mind’s eye.
She turned her face towards him, her eyes wide and panic fleeing her expression as she understood her safety.
Their mouths were so close to one another.
Her lips appeared dark, no doubt the tint of blue visible in the cold, outlined in white skin.
The primitive urge in the dark recesses of his mind cried out for him to kiss her, drag her home, and claim her in front of a roaring fire.
Her hands fisted the lapels of his heavy woolen coat.
There were a million invisible threads that wove them together, as if an army of needle-brandishing fairies swarmed about, cinching them tighter and tighter.
All he had to do was bend his head down, and their lips would brush.
It would be such a small act to explore her feelings. To act on his own desires.
But the man he was knew that such an act was to declare an ownership that he had no intention of following through with. Another crow cawed at him, a jolting reminder of his moral obligations, and he released her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I hope you are unharmed.”
Her teeth chattered. She pulled her coat tighter around herself. “Thank you.”
They continued walking, and his sly glances at her revealed fluttering eyelashes.
Perhaps she was thinking through a particularly difficult topic.
And then his pride pricked. Should he not want her to be thinking about him?
After such a moment, with her bundled into his arms, held tightly to his own body, should she not be wondering what it would be like to kiss him in return? Was he so ineffectual?
Oh, he had to get a grip on himself. Even he couldn’t follow his own irrational flights of pride and fancy.
This was certainly something he could not inflict upon her.
He would have to think on this issue of Mrs. Reid.
His own priorities. For if she were willing, what harm would there be in pursuing a romantic entanglement?
Everyone did so. Marriage or not in the offering.
They finished their circuit of the park, neither of them speaking.
Beckett felt his heart hammering in his chest in a way that he couldn’t remember feeling since the first time he stood to speak in Parliament.
What was happening to him? She turned to face him, no doubt to issue their standard farewell, but he wasn’t ready to be done with her company for today.
“I received the invitation to the engagement party,” he blurted.
She nodded, her expression revealing nothing.
“I have already sent my acceptance. Would you like me to pick you up in my carriage before the dinner?”
“I would hate to trouble you,” she said, not meeting his eye.
“No trouble,” he assured her. It was his turn to pick at his gloves. Good Lord, he felt as if he were a child. “I shall gather you up, and we can arrive together.” He didn’t mean to, but he realized he was holding his breath, awaiting her response.
Thankfully, she nodded her assent. “Thank you, but I have already agreed to arrive with friends.”
“Of course,” Beckett said, exhaling fully. He thought about offering to drive them as well, but then wondered if she was merely using it as an excuse to turn him down.
They both nodded. Twiddled their fingers. Her manservant, Jacobs, who trailed them at a distance now rudely exhaled. It was not quite a sigh, but close enough. Beckett would have fired him. Instead, Beckett cleared his throat.
“Yes. Well. Until tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” she confirmed. And Jacobs, with his blunt impatience, stepped forward to escort her away. Beckett took a few steps backwards, and then turned on his heel. He had to get a handle on himself.
The road back to his townhome evaporated under his feet. He was dry mouthed but giddy, short of breath but remarkably alive. His fingertips tingled beneath his gloves, but it wasn’t the cold that made them do so.
While he was desperate for the next week to arrive, he was more desperate to talk to Timothy, to see what he’d found out about Mrs. Reid’s background.
It was a feeling akin to when he was researching the facts behind a Parliamentary bill.
Finding out the different sides of a problem, and whether or not the legal suggestions would solve it.
There was so much to discover, so many avenues to scrutinize, and he was aching.
To learn. The ache was for education, not anything else.