Page 38 of When the Marquess Needed Me (The Rake Chronicles #4)

Chapter Thirty-Six

“A n uncomfortable carriage ride, I’d wager,” Leith said, with a chuckle. “Mr. Gordstone will be lucky if Holcombe waits to drop him at a tavern.”

He turned towards Beatrice and was surprised to find her looking none too happy. He had expected her to be elated by this welcome turn of events.

“What is it?” he said, alarmed by her expression.

“I told you I could handle Mr. Gordstone.”

Irritation prickled across his body. He had just solved her problems, he had just saved her and her family from ruin, and this was the thanks he was to receive?

“Monty sent me the letter. And I was prepared to come to you, but then I saw them in the drive. What was I to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her frustration evident. “But you didn’t listen.”

“Beatrice,” he said, advancing on her now and reaching for her arm.

“No, don’t,” she said, pulling away.

“I am sorry, what have I done to affront you? Other than save you and your family from two men bent on ruining you all?”

“I didn’t need you to save us!”

“Yes, you did,” he said. “I cannot believe you are being this stubborn, Beatrice.”

“No, Leith. I told you. Before we came here. This is my family. This is my estate. Parkhorne is mine.”

Even now, when she was being infuriating, and impossible, he didn’t doubt his love for her. But if she couldn’t see that he had needed his help in this instance, or help from someone in any case, he wasn’t sure what it meant for their relationship.

“Parkhorne isn’t yours, Beatrice. It belongs to your brother. George.”

He said the words in frustration—he had only meant to impress upon her the absurdity of her reasoning. But when he saw the look on her face, he knew instantly that he should not have uttered these words aloud.

“Of course,” she said, acid in her tone, “because only men can own estates. Is that right, my lord?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“And the fact that I am the one who has run this place, and sacrificed for it, and loved it—that means nothing. Because my name didn’t appear in my father’s will.”

“Beatrice, I am not saying that your work, that your connection, to this place doesn’t matter. But it isn’t your future. It is George’s future. What are you going to do? Stay here your entire life and be their spinster sister? What of when he doesn’t need you anymore to run the place? When he can do it himself?”

She scoffed. “Is this your marriage proposal? Insulting my life’s work and telling me that I am better off as someone’s wife?”

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. But it was no use.

“Your life’s work, Beatrice? You are four-and-fucking-twenty. Your life is just beginning. And my apologies if I think it a waste for you to entomb yourself here on this little country estate and grind yourself down for it. For a future that isn’t even yours.”

“It is mine,” she said, through tears. He wanted to reach for her, but he knew she wouldn’t let him. He wasn’t sure when their conversation had spun so far out of control. “It is all I want. To be here. With my family.”

He threw up his hands. “Maybe you believe that. I can’t say. But I think you enjoyed being in London. Being free of this place. You barely spoke of it. In fact, you didn’t even have to come to London in the first place and, when you did, you didn’t have to stay. Mrs. Westmore had the money all the while. Monty offered you the money. And you’ve had men offer you marriage, I know you have—old lovers who would have done anything for you. Because any man who has the privilege of bedding you loses his goddamn mind. And, furthermore, you are an intelligent woman, Beatrice. You could have found another way. But you wanted to escape. I know you now. You can’t lie to me. You wanted to escape—and you took your chance. And you enjoyed it. And you certainly enjoyed being with me.”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” she said through tears, “for a man of four-and-thirty who until recently spent the last decade bedding women with his trousers still on.”

He closed his eyes at her unkind words. And then he opened them, needing to reason with her, and sure that he would fail.

“Does it make you feel better to say cruel things to me? Does that make you feel more powerful? More in control?”

She said nothing.

“You don’t have to be with me, Beatrice. But even if you choose not to be, don’t stay here,” he said, gesturing towards the house. “And wait for the few beddable men who travel here on occasion for a distraction. Live your life. Mr. Gordstone is gone. You have your freedom. You can go anywhere.”

“They still need me here,” she croaked.

“No,” he said, softly. “They love you here. But Parkhorne Hall does not need you to stand.”

“Leave. I want you to leave,” she spat out. “I don’t want you here anymore.”

He stilled. She couldn’t be earnest.

“Truly? You say that you love me and then the moment we quarrel you tell me to go back to London?”

“I say a lot of things in bed,” she said, her voice truly cold. “You can’t take them seriously.”

He winced. He couldn’t believe that she would suggest that she hadn’t meant it—when he knew she had. Leith had seen it in her eyes.

“No, Beatrice,” he said, advancing on her. He peered into her face, the tears running down her cheeks, and he cupped her cheek with his palm. “Two weeks ago, if a woman had spoken to me in this way, I would already be gone. But you’ve changed me. You taught me that I could be open. That I could be loved—for all my flaws and peculiarities. I know that you love me. You can’t help it. Just as I cannot help loving you.”

She said nothing, staring up at him with resentment in her eyes, as if loving him had ruined her life.

And maybe it had. Only she could determine that.

“If you want me to go, I will. Is that what you want?”

She nodded, wiping her tears away with her hands.

His heart broke a bit in that moment. There are moments in life that age a man—and that little nod would always be one for the Marquess of Leith.

“I will leave. I will go back to London. But I want you to know that I love you. And that I want to marry you. And that if you change your mind, all you need do is come to London and find me. I’m yours, Beatrice. Until the day I die.”

It pained him beyond expression to say such words and know they would not be returned. Not now anyway. Not when she was in this stubborn state.

But she had given him the ability to claim what he wanted. To say it out loud. Once, he had been sure that he could not love. That he wasn’t suited to love or be loved—that there was something frozen and wrong inside of him. She had done that for him. She had freed him.

And if this was the only way to free her, even if he didn’t come to benefit, then so be it.

Because he could bear Beatrice Salisbury not choosing him. But what he couldn’t bear was her staying at this country estate and moldering away in its charming, lonely shades.

“Please. Leave.”

He reached down and—for perhaps the last time—kissed her lips.

And then he obeyed her command.