Chapter 13 #2
Giovanni stepped back from her, pulling his hand away reluctantly.
Quickly, he pulled a fresh shirt out of his small trunk and tried not to look at her as he slipped behind the curtains, ensuring they were properly closed.
In the dark interior, he took a shaking breath.
How could it be that his desire was so strong, so powerful, even when he tried so ardently to suppress it?
Just touching her so lightly and softly drove him to distraction.
He stripped off his shirt quickly, pulling on the fresh, dry linen in relief.
Then he noticed that Beatrice had left her damp dress on the bed.
He couldn’t help himself. He scooped the fabric, still warm from her flesh, up in his arms and pressed his face into it.
It smelled like Beatrice—that soft, floral perfume she wore, the lavender soap she used to wash her long hair.
That indefinable scent of her body and sweat that was uniquely hers.
God, how he wanted her. Pulling her behind the curtain and kissing her into oblivion would certainly calm his racing thoughts and settle his mind, but he couldn’t.
Taking a shaky breath, he dropped the gown and buttoned his shirt. He didn’t know how he would cope with sharing a room with her, but before that, there was a dinner to get through.
“Gio? Are you ready?” Beatrice called through the curtains.
Giovanni didn’t think he would ever be ready for what the evening held, but he had no choice.
“Yes,” he said, redoing his stock and pulling his waistcoat back on. “Let’s go.”
“Are you enjoying the food, husband?” Beatrice asked him, looking up from her plate of beef Wellington.
“Yes,” Giovanni said, swallowing a mouthful and smiling tightly at her.
He hated how much his heart lurched to hear her casually use that word.
He tried to disguise it by staring down at his plate, but she could see something was wrong.
He had hoped that by eating in the public common room, there might be some space with lots of people talking and eating to distract him from Beatrice.
It was not the case. The room was practically empty.
“I understood that the inn was full,” Giovanni said to the little maid serving their wine. “Where are the other patrons?”
“There is a local ball,” the maid explained, smiling down at him. “Many of them won’t be back until the small hours of the morning, I expect. I think you are our only patrons not involved.”
Typical, Giovanni thought angrily. Typical that when I’m desperately trying not to seduce her, I’ve accidentally brought us to the most intimate place we could be!
“Are you all right?” Beatrice asked lightly, taking a sip of her wine.
“Of course,” Giovanni’s fingers tightened on his wine glass.
He had been hoping for a busy and bustling room that they would not even be able to talk to one another.
Now he had the opposite. The intimate conversation he had been trying to avoid by leaving Grosvenor Square had found him anyway. “Why should I not be?”
“Lord, Gio, will you please converse normally?” Beatrice snapped, rolling her eyes. “We can speak about the weather, if we must; just have a conversation with me.”
“Why do English people have such an affinity for any conversation about the weather?” Giovanni retorted. “Save me from English small talk.”
“You are perfectly insufferable,” Beatrice said in a cold, prim voice. “It is utterly surprising that so many women find you charming.”
“Are you saying you don’t?” Giovanni quipped, raising his eyebrows.
“Not at present.” Beatrice glared at him, stabbing her fork into her food emphatically. “Not since before...”
Before they had kissed for the first time. He knew that was what she meant. He felt it, too. Their relationship had shifted in a way neither of them could control.
“That is not my fault,” he whispered, glaring at her. What was she thinking about, bringing this up in public?
“Is it mine?” Beatrice stared at him. “You are so desperate not to appear as if you have feelings for me that you have stopped caring if you are kind or friendly.”
“You know I always care for you,” Giovanni protested.
“Do I?” Beatrice pushed her fork around the food on her plate. “How can I trust that when your kindness is so fickle?”
“Whatever my behavior is, my care is constant,” Giovanni retorted lowly, staring at her clenched hand on her fork, resisting the urge to grab it and shake some sense into her.
“Ever since you were a child, I have always been there for you.”
“You’ve been my friend, Gio.” Beatrice stopped playing with her food and set both of her palms on the table, leaning forward. “But now I don’t know what you are.”
Her words cut him. He never wanted Beatrice to feel unsure of who he was to her. He suddenly felt sorry for it. In all the pleasure of their intimacies and all the guilt of hiding his feelings from Silas, he had not realized how much he had to lose.
“Bea,” he reached his hands out to hers and squeezed them softly. “Whatever we are to one another, one thing that could never change is that I will always be there for you.”
“Do you promise?” Beatrice whispered, squeezing his hands back. “Do you swear?”
“Of course.” Giovanni couldn’t help but smile at her. He couldn’t help but feel himself relaxing under her touch. “Do you not remember my promise to you when we first came to England?”
“I do,” Beatrice smiled. He was relieved to see it. Everything was better when Beatrice smiled. “You were comforting me.”
“You had no love of England at first,” Giovanni shook his head gently, allowing himself to interlace his fingers with hers. “You were so upset when we left Europe and arrived in Dover.”
“It was cold and raining and the food was dull,” Beatrice pouted, still smiling slightly at the memory. “I cried for hours. Until you came into my room and told me my crying made Silas sad.”
“And that made you angry,” Giovanni laughed, remembering her furious face. “You told me I could not understand your feelings because you didn’t want to be a society lady anyway because it would not be any fun.”
“And you promised that you would be there every step of the way, making sure it was fun for me,” Beatrice finished, laughing with him. “You always made things fun for me, Gio.”
“Do I not anymore?” Giovanni asked playfully. He saw Beatrice’s smile fall slightly, but then she hitched it back up, trying to hide that moment of insecurity. But Giovanni saw it.
“You are certainly still capable of it,” Beatrice quipped. “No one can make me laugh as you do.”
It was a sweet comment and exactly the kind of thing Beatrice would say. It struck him to his core, and yet he couldn’t help the words that came out of his mouth: “Not even Lord Milton?”