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Page 31 of When the Marquess Needed Me (The Rake Chronicles #4)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

W hen Beatrice awoke, she was alone.

She startled.

She had expected to find Leith next to her.

He had been so tender and open with her.

He had told her, she remembered, with a jolt, that he loved her.

His words had surprised her.

Shocked her, really.

She wasn’t even sure that she believed him.

It occurred to her that they could just be the words of a man overcome by erotic sensation. She did not want to invest too much meaning into what, for him, may just be bedsport.

And now he had vanished.

Waking alone in a cold bed did not exactly support taking his declaration seriously.

And did she even want to take his declaration seriously?

She wasn’t sure.

She cared deeply for the man—she knew that.

And it gratified her to think that she could inspire such strong feelings in him.

But she wasn’t even sure if she could trust him. He was still the man who was paying her to be his mistress. Men like him discarded women like her, after declarations of love, every day.

The door to the chamber opened and Leith came through it. He was dressed already and looked remarkably crisp—as he always did—for a man who was used to being attended by his valet.

“Preston and Charles are readying the carriage. I know you will want to make haste.”

“Yes,” she said, ashamed to admit to herself that his declaration had chased the drama of Mr. Gordstone from her mind. That was very bad indeed. “Of course.”

“The serving maid will be bringing up breakfast as soon as it is made. You must eat before our journey. It will be a long day in the coach if we are to reach Somerset the day after tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It is very kind of you to see to everything.”

He shook his head. “It is nothing. Nothing that I am not happy to do, anyway.”

She saw, for just a moment, a plain flash of vulnerability on his face.

Then a knock sounded on the door. He turned and opened it. A cheerful-looking serving maid bustled in with a tray, which Leith took from her with one hand and pressed a coin on her with another.

He passed her the tray and seated himself on the bed beside her.

Beatrice felt, unaccountably, shy, so she focused on her chocolate.

“I know that you have many cares weighing on your mind,” he said, softly. “But I did want to address what I said last night.”

She found, still, that she could not look at him.

“Do not worry, Thomas. I take the words that a man utters when he is about to come with their proper weight.”

“I am not sure that you do. Beatrice, look at me.”

She could not ignore such a command. She raised her eyes.

His port wine eyes were steady. She did not know if she had ever seen him look at her with such steadiness. Usually, his eye contact had a heady, tremulous quality to it. But not now.

“I meant what I said. I do love you. But I don’t expect you to say it back. You have not known me for very long. Indeed, in the carriage yesterday, when I spoke with you and Sally, I realized how much more you know about me than I do about you.”

She supposed that was true. She had been in his world, but he was only now about to enter hers.

“I just didn’t want you to think that I didn’t mean it. Because I do.”

“Thank you,” she finally managed. “I appreciate—the clarity.”

She had not considered, in truth, whether she loved him. And as of now, she did not know the answer to the question. Love was not something she had ever expected to feel for a man. And she did not know what love signified, anyway. What would it mean for her to say it back to him?

A longer stint as his mistress, assuredly. That was a pleasant thought. Once she had settled this matter with Mr. Gordstone, she imagined living as the mistress of his St. James’s town house. The simple, elegant life that they might lead together. A life that would be both pleasurable and allow for her to save her family estate.

But what happened when he tired of her? A man in love would claim that he could never tire of his mistress and, of course, eventually, he would. Or duty would call him. One day, he would be besieged by the realization that he needed to create an heir with the appropriate woman, one who could bring him riches and a fine pedigree for his children.

She would open a door to happiness, yes, but also to the day when, inevitably, she would be discarded.

Not long ago, she would not have cared about such a prospect. The money would have been good enough and the pleasure, so unexpected, would have been an added benefit.

Now, however, it didn’t seem like nearly enough. Not with him.

In short, the prospect of admitting such feelings for him—even to herself—made her feel wildly out of control.

No, in this moment, returning the words to him were out of the question.

“I will leave you to your breakfast,” he said, with a smile, seemingly unperturbed by her paltry response. “Our carriage will leave in a quarter hour—will that be long enough for you to eat and dress?”

She nodded. Then he kissed her on the forehead and strode from the room.

Soon after, they departed from Mrs. Bercine’s and began their long ride.

The ride quickly felt interminable. While she was sure she could have passed the time pleasantly enough with only Leith or Sally, their presence together made many topics unbroachable.

The scenery offered little by way of distraction. It was spring, but neither bright nor clear. Instead, all the world outside the carriage appeared ringed in a greenish gray.

In fact, as far as Beatrice was concerned, the only thing worth looking at around her was Leith, who couldn’t help but look handsome, even on such a gloomy day as this.

But with Sally in the coach, she could only admire him. And if she admired him too much…well, she began to grow uncomfortable. And she had to look away.

With so little to distract her, Beatrice could not help her mind straying to her mother and brothers at Parkhorne Hall, and her anxiety of what they might face from Mr. Gordstone.

Yes, she knew Malcolm would do all that he could to keep her mother safe, and that his abilities were considerable. But even Malcolm could not be everywhere at once.

From Mr. Gordstone, she feared the worst. She was certain that if he found the right moment, there was no violation he would not visit on her mother in order to get what he wanted.

Leith bore the journey with remarkable composure. She had the distinct sense that under usual circumstances he would complain about the uncomfortable pace of their travel. But he was maintaining a remarkable appearance of good humor.

“How large is Parkhorne Hall?” he inquired at one point that afternoon.

“Not large,” Beatrice said quickly, feeling conscious of how modest her home must appear in his eyes. “It is little more than three hundred acres. And the house is not modern. Although it is larger than many of its type.”

“It is a beautiful part of country,” Sally added. “The finest in our parish. I can say it because I own naught of it, even though I live there.”

“In Somerset, I have never been anywhere but Bath. But I have heard raptures about its beauty.”

“Our estate is very hilly, which makes it exquisite to the eye, but not ideal for farming. There is an apple orchard and a spring pond, however.”

“It is the loveliest pond,” Sally added.

Beatrice smiled at her sister’s pride in the place. She had wanted her to feel at home there and she was heartened that, after all of these years, she truly did.

After a long day of travel, they finally reached their stopping place for the evening. This time, the inn was not as large or lavish as Mrs. Bercine’s, and Thomas and Charles were forced to bed down in the stables.

After another tavern meal, they all headed to their separate accommodations.

Except for, when Beatrice arrived at her room, she realized that their basin had no water.

“I will fetch it,” Leith said, when she remarked upon it.

She shook her head at him. “You are already in your nightshirt. And you are a marquess, you forget,” she said, teasing him. “It is only down the stairs. I will be gone but a moment.”

He nodded at her, even though he frowned a bit as she exited the room.

She suppressed a sigh. Beatrice was not sure how to right things between them again. He seemed more tentative with her ever since his declaration and while she wasn’t prepared to say she loved him back, she wanted their easiness with one another to return.

But then she stopped cold.

For she saw Sally, her Sally, being embraced by a man. She narrowed her eyes in the dim hall outside the door to her room. It was Charles!

“Sally!” she exclaimed.

The two young people sprang apart.

“Oh, Bea. I didn’t see you there.”

Beatrice wasn’t sure what to think—or how much she should interfere. Sally had told her that she was promised to Fred Larkin. And here she was kissing another man!

Charles was gazing at her sister with an expression that could only be described as “hopelessly besotted.”

Perhaps, she was realizing with rapidity, she had made assumptions about her sister’s innocence that had been either completely incorrect or were becoming wildly out of date.

“Sally, really, I have no idea where to even begin.”

“I can explain later,” Sally said with a shake of her head.

Beatrice supposed she was in no position to give lectures on sexual morality. She bit back more effusions of displeasure. Clearly, she would have to take the matter up with her sister when they were next alone.

“Very well then. I will see you both on the morrow.”

It was very clear that Charles would not be bedding down in the stables. No, instead, he would be bedding down with her sister.

“Good evening, Miss Salisbury,” Charles added, his voice a hair too cheery for her liking.

But Sally was her own woman. She certainly wasn’t about to tell her not to bed men when Beatrice herself was currently endeavoring to be a courtesan. And was at present the paid mistress to a wealthy, powerful man notorious for his love of demi-reps.

That did not mean, however, that, when she returned to her room, she was going to keep silent about what she had seen.

Striding back into the room with their water jug, she hiss-whispered to Leith, “You will never believe what I only just saw in the hall.”

“I am sure I could guess,” Leith said from their bed. “But I’d rather you tell me.”

“Sally! And Charles! Kissing!”

Leith laughed as she placed the jug by the basin and began to wash.

“I must say I am rather proud of him.”

“Well, I don’t know what to think myself. She is supposed to be engaged! She told me herself not long ago.”

“Engaged? To whom?”

“To Fred Larkin. A man with a very nice smallholding in our parish. A very nice young man, too. And now she is kissing Charles!”

“A very nice young man, as well, I’d add.”

She tutted. “You do not seem terribly concerned. I am worried for the hearts of both men—and hers, as well.”

“All parties involved are very young,” he said. “If they do not come to an understanding between them, they will have time to heal.”

“Oh, will they?” she said, finished with her ablutions and coming over to the bed. “And have you recovered from every wound you received at their age?”

“No,” he said, with a smile. “But I have a sensitive nature.”

“I do not even know what wounds you received at eighteen. I am not sure you have ever cared for a woman before me.”

The words came out of her mouth before she could think better of them. Once they had, she felt herself blush. It felt wrong to reference his feelings for her so casually when she had not returned his sentiments. But if he minded, his countenance did not show it.

“I dare say you are correct. But a man can be wounded without being in love.”

She turned to look at him. His brown eyes glowed as they often did in low light.

“Do tell me what you mean.”

She reached out and put her hands on his chest through the lawn of the nightshirt. Somehow, this incident with Sally made her feel closer to him.

“It is embarrassing. Like everything I relayed to you about my past.”

“My past is little better,” she reminded him. “Or have you forgotten the Lord Gilchrist episode?”

“No, I haven’t,” he said. “Although that seemed more sad than embarrassing to me.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But tell me of your youthful folly.”

“Well, it was my second time with a woman. At a brothel. A very elite establishment.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Of course.”

His dark hair and eyes shone against the white of the bedclothes. He had seldom looked more, she thought, like that prince from the storybook. That one illustrated at the end of her childhood books who, once, Beatrice had thought might be for her.

“And she reached down and touched my cock and she said, as lightly as you please, Oh, a small one .’”

“Were you terribly affronted?”

“I sincerely wished to sink through the floor and die.”

“Perhaps she was delighted with her discovery.”

“Perhaps,” he said, seeming to consider it for a while. “Though I wasn’t.”

“Is that what led you to be so circumspect in your dealing with women?”

He shrugged. “It certainly did not help. After that, I never slept with a woman who wasn’t my mistress. I wanted more control. And far less honesty.”

“I like that you are being honest with me now.” She kissed him. “And so I can be honest with you. I can, in fact, tell you a secret. Your cock is perfect.”

These words, she had no problem saying to him.

He gave a low hum of approval.

“I am glad I please you.”

“You do. Very much. Perhaps it is I who should be paying you for the privilege of your bed.”

He laughed. It wasn’t an easy thing to do—to make him laugh—and she loved when she managed it.

“They say the most famous courtesans only bed the lovers they enjoy. If that is so, then I must be bound for a wonderful career. I have made such a good start.”

He didn’t laugh at that. “Pray, don’t speak of that,” he said. “I do not like to think of a time when we will be parted.”

“Neither do I,” she answered with candor.

Such a soft, hopeful look alit his face that it made her chest constrict.

“Truly?”

“Yes,” she said, and kissed him again for his sweetness.

The idea that this man would be sweet to her had never crossed her mind when she first met him in the drawing room at Carrington Place.

And yet now he truly was.

That night, they made love in a way that they had not quite before.

It was different, Beatrice reflected the next morning in the carriage.

Tender. Almost achingly so.

They had taken their time, moved slowly, as if they had no reason to rush or worry nor any cares in the world.

He had been so gentle with her that she had felt, inexplicably, like weeping.

She supposed it was because she had never expected gentleness from men.

But he had laid her bare and then made her come once and then twice and then again—until she was panting and nearly completely spent.

When he had entered her, she had been less sensitive than usual, and so they had both been able to take their time. They had fucked in an unhurried, easy rhythm, and he had kissed her face.

“I love you,” he had said, once more, which she hadn’t expected after she had neglected to return the words to him. “You believe me, don’t you?”

He had been looking into her eyes when he asked the question. And she had nodded her assent.

She had had men say many things to her in bed before. That she was a goddess, a wonder, the most beautiful woman alive.

But never that they loved her. Sometimes, later, when they had proposed marriage, they had said things to that effect.

However, she had never experienced a declaration so pure, or so passionate, as this one.

She did believe that he loved her. It wasn’t hard to see how he had changed for her. He was no longer the haughty, bitter man that he had been. He had become something else in response to her.

The question was whether such feelings on his part would last.

And whether she would be a fool to say that she returned his sentiments.

Because, increasingly, she felt that she did.

How could she not? When he was so vulnerable and open with her? When he was so tender and gentle?

These thoughts circled in Beatrice’s head as their carriage drew closer to Parkhorne Hall.

She even spared a thought for Sally, who, despite her relatively calm countenance, must be experiencing anxious feelings to say the least. Her arrival back in the village would not be comfortable in the slightest, Beatrice wagered, given that she was engaged to one man and—so it would seem—bedding another.

But Sally would have to figure out her mess on her own.

Because Beatrice would only have time for addressing the crisis of Mr. Gordstone. And any spare energy would be totally absorbed by Leith.

The sky had darkened again. But Beatrice recognized the quality of the dark.

“Do you recognize our location?” Leith asked, quietly, as Sally was sleeping.

“Yes. We are almost there.”

“I look forward to meeting your mother. And brothers,” he added. “Although I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

“Thank you. They will all be overawed by you. None of them spend any time in anything like superior society. Well, my mother did, in her youth, but that was long ago now.”

He took her hand.

“It will all come to rights. We will dispatch Mr. Gordstone. I am not going to let anything happen to you or your family.”

Beatrice flinched at his aura of authority. She did not want to be outmastered in her own home.

Even though a small, traitorous part of her was soothed by his presence and his handsome words.

“Let me speak with him. You may help if it is necessary. But it will not be.”

“I have agreed,” he said, his tone a bit more diffident.

But then they cleared the forest. And in the moonlight, Beatrice could see it.

Her home.

“Parkhorne,” she said to Leith, looking out at the large stone edifice, wondering how the place that meant the most to her in the world must appear in his eyes. “We’re here.”