Page 40 of When the Marquess Needed Me (The Rake Chronicles #4)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

T he Marquess of Leith had been gone for two days.

And Beatrice could not stop crying.

Technically, she knew she had asked for him to leave. That it was foolish to cry about what she had brought upon herself.

After all, she thought to herself, as she lay in the bed where they had made love so tenderly and so fiercely, this was what she wanted.

She wanted to be with her family at Parkhorne Hall, free and unencumbered, to be in control of her domain. She did not want to be the mistress of a London marquess of vice. She wanted to be the spinster of Parkhorne Hall, the one who drove a hard bargain and made the estate profitable, and who took advantage of erotic opportunities discreetly.

Beatrice could not imagine trading her life here for an unfamiliar one, where she would be watched and judged by a society that had always scorned her, when it acknowledged her at all.

The only problem was that her body appeared not to agree with the assessment of her mind. Whereas she knew she should stay at Parkhorne, she found it difficult to stem the flood of tears that arose whenever she thought of Leith, her Thomas , in London without her.

She did not want her family to see her so weepy. They had already been startled by the abrupt, tandem departures of Mr. Gordstone and Leith. While they had been shocked to hear of Mr. Gordstone’s treachery and relieved to hear that the debt was no longer a consideration, they were surprised that Lord Leith had gone as well.

In fact, Malcolm had crossed his arms and sighed. “Let me guess. You told him to go?”

“I don’t know why you assume that,” Beatrice sniffed, crossing her own arms.

“Yes, I can’t see why I would at all.”

Now, Beatrice had just left Malcolm in the barn, so as to not to cry in front of her brother. She did not want his questions, and she did not want to prove him right.

As she turned around the edge of the barn, however, she nearly ran into Charles and Sally.

She had not yet spoken to her sister alone and thus had not had the opportunity to ask her what in the world she was doing with Charles and Fred. In fact, if Beatrice was honest, she was avoiding her. She had questions she wanted to ask Sally, but she was also reluctant to answer the questions she knew Sally would have for her.

And she was frankly shocked to see Charles still at Parkhorne Hall.

“You didn’t leave with Lord Leith?” she demanded of Charles, right after they had nearly collided.

“No, ma’am,” he said, his eyes sliding over to Sally. “I thought it right to stay here.”

“My sister is engaged to another man, you know,” she said, unable to help herself. She was so vexed and so very, very heartbroken. “So I am not sure if there is a place for you, Charles.”

“Beatrice!” Sally reprimanded.

“I know,” Charles said. “About the engagement.”

“Ah, so you’ve broken with Fred Larkin, then?”

“No,” Sally said, the exasperation in her tone more than evident. “I haven’t.”

“I don’t understand,” Beatrice said. “Are you engaged to two men at once?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “She is.”

Beatrice didn’t know what to say. Her sister was more exasperating and surprising than she had ever imagined.

“But that’s illegal,” she said, slowly, as if explaining the concept to two young children. “Bigamy is illegal.”

Sally sighed. “Of course it is. I can’t actually marry both of them. But they both want to marry me. And each other. We all want to be together.”

“What—how—” Beatrice found that she was beyond words.

Sally exhaled another huff of frustration.

“I told you Fred and I were engaged. And so we were. But Fred made clear to me that he has a fancy for both men and women—and I made clear to him that I was uneasy about a life spent with just one man. I never envisioned that for myself. Not even when my grandmother used to talk about the hell waiting for any woman who gave herself to a man outside of wedlock.”

Beatrice, who had met Sally when she was the scrawny, scared granddaughter of a religious zealot, did not known how to process this statement.

“And then I met Charles. I knew Fred would love him. Who wouldn’t?” she said, gazing at Charles with pure adoration.

Beatrice was stunned.

And, then, as if attempting to complete the tableau, Fred appeared.

When he saw Charles and Sally, he broke out into a positively rakish grin. They beamed back at him.

Beatrice, however, was far less sanguine. “And what is your plan? I do not think the villagers in town will take kindly to a woman with two husbands.”

“We are working that out,” Sally said thoughtfully. “But we do have a plan. Charles and I are going to announce that we secretly married in London. And that Fred has hired us to work on his farm.”

“What if someone notices? Sally, it could be dangerous.”

She shook her head. “We will be careful. And no one will much care, I suspect.”

“Well,” Beatrice said, “I suppose I wish you all well.”

It was very evident from her tone, however, that she did not wish such a thing. And she wasn’t even sure why.

Tears threatened again. No, of course, she did know why. She was a wretched, awful thing, who couldn’t stand the happiness of others when she herself was so miserable.

Sally cast her a truly pitying look.

“Bea,” she said, taking her arm. “Come with me.” And then, back to her two men, she called, “I need to speak with my sister. I will see you two very soon.”

“ What is wrong?” her sister demanded, once they had left the men behind. “Why did Lord Leith leave?”

“I asked him to leave,” she said, still sounding, she knew, quite petulant. “We quarreled. He overstepped, Sally! And then when I became cross with him, he said many hurtful things.”

“About what did you quarrel?”

Beatrice swallowed. She had thought this part over since Leith’s departure and was aware that her conduct here was not strictly rational.

“He discovered Mr. Gordstone’s lies—for which I was, of course, grateful—but, instead of consulting me about how best to proceed, he happened upon the man and Lord Holcombe in the drive. He threatened them, told them to leave, and entirely took care of the matter without so much as speaking to me first.”

“What a villain,” Sally said dryly.

“Parkhorne is my home—it is mine to protect,” Beatrice objected.

“No, Beatrice,” Sally said, her voice gentle but her tone firm. “Parkhorne belongs to all of us. I know you’ve done so much these past six years to keep it running. To make it what it is today. But it is not yours alone.”

“Well, it is certainly not Lord Leith’s.”

“Beatrice, the man loves you. Perhaps, he should have consulted with you first. But you cannot complain of his results. Who cares how a wretch like Gordstone was gotten rid of as long as he is gone?”

“And that is not all,” she said, breaking out into fresh tears, which were somehow tears of sadness and vexation at once. “He told me that I should leave Parkhorne Hall. That my life was wasted here.”

When Beatrice said the words, she was sure that Sally would take the offense to them as she had done. But, instead, her sister was quiet.

“Why are you silent?” she said, anger flashing at the ingratitude she detected in this silence. “After all I have done, are you suggesting that everyone merely wishes me gone?”

Her sister stopped. They had reached the house. She put her hand on her arm. “No one wishes you gone, Beatrice. We all love you. I am sure George and Malcolm would delight to have you here forever. But is that what you really want?”

Now, it was Beatrice’s turn to be silent.

“One day, the estate will belong to George. It already does belong to him, but it will fall to his management, when he is old enough to take it over. And don’t you think, Bea, that there is a life beyond this place that might offer you more?”

Two weeks ago, her answer would have been no . But now Beatrice realized, with mortifying speed, that Leith had been right.

She had wanted to go to London. She had wanted to experience something else. She hadn’t been able to admit it to herself—and so when the threat of Mr. Gordstone had appeared, she had seized on the opportunity. She had wanted to experience more.

Still, it was painful to imagine giving up her home.

As if reading her thoughts, Sally said, “Even if you move to London or elsewhere, it does not mean you give up this place. It will always be your home. I will not live here much longer myself—and yet that is how I feel.”

Beatrice let her tears flow freely now. There was no use in stemming them—and Sally didn’t care.

She rested her head on Sally’s shoulder and they both stared up at the house.

“It’s a beautiful place, don’t you think?” Beatrice said.

“It is,” Sally said, patting her arm.

Beatrice knew, in her heart, that she needed to go to London.

She couldn’t live without him, it turned out.

If he could forgive her, she would marry him whenever he liked.