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CHAPTER THREE

CONFESSIONS IN THE MOONLIGHT

The tower grew colder as night fully claimed the sky.

Beatrice had come here countless times since Ira's return from Afghanistan approximately seven months ago, drawn to this forgotten place that held memories of a friendship long buried for reasons she cared not to explore.

She'd heard whispers about his injuries, his honourable discharge, how he'd changed and become withdrawn.

Though their estates shared boundaries, she had carefully avoided any chance encounter, even as she found herself tracing their childhood paths through the woods, lingering at places they once explored together.

Every rustle of leaves in the adjacent estate had made her heart quicken these past months.

Was it him riding past? Had he thought of their childhood too?

Would he even recognise the woman she'd become?

What bitter joke was fate playing, ensuring their first meeting after seven years would bind them together in this cursed tower?

"I heard you have come home recently from the Anglo-Afghan war," Beatrice said, breaking the contemplative silence.

When he spoke, darkness shadowed his voice.

"I was imprisoned in a tower like this. I climbed out the window using my bare hands. Fortunately, I have strong grip and the stones of the tower wall were larger and rugged."

For the first time since knowing him, she saw the tortured man behind the rakish facade.

"I'm so very sorry," she whispered.

His features hardened into an unrecognizable mask as memories claimed him. A haunted shadow crossed his face, surfacing from depths she dared not imagine. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly where they rested on his knee, the knuckles whitening.

Without thinking, Beatrice reached across the space between them and placed her hand over his, as she used to do when they were children. Her touch was gentle, instinctive – a moment of pure compassion unburdened by their complicated history.

The moment her fingers touched his, she felt him freeze, his breath catching audibly in the silence of the tower room. His hand was cold beneath hers, the skin rougher than she remembered.

It lasted only seconds before propriety and caution came rushing back. Beatrice withdrew her hand as though burned, her cheeks flushing. She busied herself adjusting her spectacles, desperate to conceal the momentary lapse in her carefully constructed defences.

But in that brief unguarded moment, a transformation occurred. Ira's expression shifted – softened – in a way that made her heart beat faster. The haunted air remained, but alongside it bloomed a quiet wonder, as though her small gesture had illuminated memories long forgotten.

He cleared his throat but betrayed nothing about her touch. Instead, his eyes found hers with unsettling intensity.

"You always bit the inside of your cheek when you were thinking deeply," he said quietly. "Even at nine years old, analysing whether snails preferred clover to dandelion leaves. Left side, just there." He gestured vaguely toward her face. "You're doing it now."

Beatrice's hand flew to her cheek in surprise. She hadn't realised – hadn't known anyone had ever noticed that particular habit. Certainly not Ira, who she'd always assumed had barely paid attention to her beyond opportunities for mockery.

"How could you possibly remember such a trivial thing after all these years?"

He didn't answer directly, merely shrugged one shoulder and turned his gaze back to the window. "The war teaches you which memories are worth holding onto."

The implication – that memories of her had sustained him through horrors she could scarcely imagine – hung in the air between them, neither acknowledged nor denied.

Beatrice returned to her notebook, but the pages remained blurred. Her thoughts, usually so ordered, found themselves thoroughly distracted by the puzzle of the man before her – and by the curious warmth that lingered.

"Beatrice,” he called softly.

Something in his voice made her nervous, made her want to avoid hearing what he wished to say.

She found herself saying, “If you wish to use the bedsheets to escape through the window, I could try to hold the bed steady. I’ll sit on it, and that should suffice, I think.

“Beatrice—”

“Of course I wouldn’t dare try it myself, what with my voluminous skirt and all.”

“Beatrice!” The hardness in his voice drew her thoughts into a sharp focus. She stared at Ira in stunned silence. When he spoke, his voice was a deep rumble.

"Breakfast..."

At the mention of the piglet, Beatrice stiffened, her entire body going rigid as painful memories flooded back.

"...the black piglet you bid on is alive and well."

Her eyes widened with disbelief, the hurt momentarily giving way to confusion.

"My sister Caroline named him Plato. I am aware of the irony." His voice softened. "She dotes on him. He developed quite a taste for French pastries, much to our chef's despair."

A complexity of emotions washed over her. The pig had survived – had thrived, even – but the public humiliation he'd inflicted upon her remained a wound that had never fully healed.

He met her gaze. "I may have been cruel to you, but I'm not quite the monster you imagine me to be."

The silence that followed was heavy with his revelation. Outside, a fox's cry echoed across the darkening fields.

"Why, then, would you give the impression that you were?" Her eyes searched his face now, her voice steadier than she expected.

"I was thoughtless," he said, his eyes fixed on some distant point.

"I assumed you would simply purchase another pig.

" He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful styling.

"It never occurred to me that it would matter so much, that the mockery would follow you.

I was unkind without considering the consequences. "

“Why mock me at all? We used to be friends.”

Ira dropped his head. His expression was unreadable. Beatrice waited while he gathered his thoughts. Finally, he spoke softly.

"Because you terrified me."

"I terrified you?" She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "The great Lord Ira, Terror of the Ton, afraid of me?"

"Yes." He shifted, and she heard him sit up fully.

"I was a boy playing at being a man. The second son, the spare.

The most interesting thing about me was the title I may inherit should two men die.

While you... you refused to be merely decorative.

You challenged the world, sought answers, demanded to be heard. You were extraordinary."

"I-I don’t understand," she whispered.

"I was trying to keep control the only way I knew how," he explained. "With what I thought was wit. Because if I didn't... if I let myself acknowledge my awe of you, then I would’ve had to accept how utterly ordinary I was." His laugh was bitter.

Beatrice's breath stilled as she steadied her heart with one hand on her chest. "Ira – "

"When I bought that pig," he continued, "it wasn't to mock you. Not at first. I was... fascinated by your ideas. I thought perhaps..."

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps I could put your theories into practice myself," he confessed, his voice dropping lower.

"I wanted to impress you by implementing the same training methods.

To show that – " he paused, struggling with the confession, " – that you weren't so far above me after all. That you were within reach."

"I don't understand," Beatrice murmured, though her expression suggested she was beginning to.

"You made me feel... inadequate," Ira confessed, meeting her eyes directly.

"Your mind, your certainty, your unwavering pursuit of knowledge.

I thought if I could elevate myself to your level by proving my intelligence, you might.

.." He swallowed hard. "You might accept me when I eventually found the courage to tell you how much I admired you.

That you wouldn't laugh at the empty-headed second son. "

Ira's confession resonated through Beatrice like the toll of a church bell, vibrating through every fibre of her being. Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly in astonishment as the meaning of his words took root. The notebook slipped from her fingers, forgotten.

"You wanted to be..." she began, then faltered, unable to complete the thought. A flush spread from her neck to her cheeks as seven years of hurt and confusion began to rearrange themselves into an entirely different picture.

She stood abruptly, turning toward the window to hide the storm of emotions crossing her face.

Her hands trembled as she adjusted her spectacles – a reflexive gesture that betrayed her agitation and uncertainty.

In the reflection of the darkened glass, she examined his face, searching for any sign of mockery or deceit, but found only raw vulnerability.

"All this time," she whispered, her voice unsteady, "I thought you found me ridiculous. That my interests were merely ammunition for your clever barbs." She pivoted to face him, courage gathering. "You never once indicated – "

"How could I?" The anguish in his voice silenced her. "You were brilliant and fearless, while I was..." He gestured helplessly. "I was terrified of being found wanting."

Hope, fragile and precious, unfurled in her chest – a sensation she had ruthlessly suppressed for years, the possibility that had lived in the shadowed corners of her heart, never acknowledged even to herself, stood illuminated between them.

"Ira," she whispered, "you were never wanting. Not to me."

The moment Beatrice's admission left her lips, she saw transformation ripple across Ira's features. His carefully guarded expression crumbled like a fortress whose foundations had suddenly given way. His eyes, which had been shadowed with regret, now illuminated with a dawning wonder.