She stopped, aware of the impropriety of spilling all her secrets to this man she scarcely knew.
“A husband?” he said gently.
She nodded. “And now I realise how presumptuous of me that was. I do not think I even have the proper character to be the wife of any man, let alone a lord. I am too selfish… too brazen. Even my own father calls me bumptious.”
The marquess laughed. “But you are also k-k-k—” He stopped, sighed, tried again. “K-K-K—” Again he stopped, then almost shouted,“Kind!Very.”
“But I am not,” she said sadly. “I am rude and thoughtless and say whatever comes into my head, without considering how it may upset the other person. It is only afterwards that it occurs to me that I should have been more subtle, and dressed things up a little to avoid giving offence.”
He shook his head violently. “Not s-s-subtle. Ihatesubtle. People s-s-say things, b-b-b—” He gave an exclamation of annoyance, and released her hand to reach into a pocket and produce a small notebook and pencil. He scribbled away furiously, tearing off each page as it was filled, and passing it to her to read.
‘Miss Franklyn, I am surrounded by sycophants who smile and tell me lies. They may be subtle but they are also hypocritical and I wish I could escape them once and for all. You have never been like that. You never get impatient with my speech and try to guess what I am trying to say. You have no idea how much I hate it when people do that! Also, when we first sat on this bench, you chattered away to keep me company without needing me to say a word, which was delightful. And yes, you are kind. You may speak before considering the consequences sometimes, but you are willing to admit to that fault and correct it as far as possible. Look how considerately you dealt with Mr Fielding in the letter you wrote to him, which he has proudly shown to his particular friends as an example of your generous heart. It is the gentlest rejection a man could ever hope to receive. So never say of yourself that you are unkind, for it is untrue. You may be selfish to a degree, for which of us is not? Only a saint, and who wants to be a saint? An entirely good person would be tedious company, I think. Miss Franklyn, you have one quality that I, and many others, value above all others, and that is honesty. I despise all those who say one thing to my face and another behind my back. How can one ever trust such a person? You are worth a thousand of such miserable snakes. I hope you will never change. Please, do not be sad any longer.’
Impossible not to smile at such words! “Thank you,” she whispered. “I feel much better now, but I must go and dress for dinner.”
He nodded, smiling, then reached for her hand again and raised it to his lips.
Impulsively she leaned towards him and kissed him full on the mouth. “You are a dear, sweet man, and I hope you find a wife who values you as you deserve.”
Then, giggling slightly at the stunned expression on his face, she skipped away down the path.
***
After that strange moment in the old schoolroom, when he had as good as declared himself to Bea and then almost kissed her, Bertram stumbled through the day in a daze. He was silent at breakfast, silent through an interminable and dull lecture on Tacitus, silent during most of the fencing tournament. He was still silent as Bayley dressed him for the evening.
“Have you had a good day, sir?” Bayley said politely, as he fitted Bertram’s shoes onto his feet.
“Yes, thank you, Bayley.”
“Did you enjoy the tournament, sir? Mr Franklyn won, I gather.”
“Yes. Franklyn won.”
“Against Lord Grayling.”
“Yes.”
Bayley gave it up, and uttered not another word. Bertram barely noticed, so lost in his own thoughts was he. His mind was in such turmoil that he felt himself unfit for company, so when his friends arrived to dress for dinner, he slipped out of the room and made his way to the chapel gallery. Below him, the low sun cast long shadows across the floor, but up in the gallery where no rays could reach it was almost dark, and blessedly quiet.
There he gave himself up to the tumultuous thoughts spinning through his head. Joy and astonishment and exaltation and hope and exhilaration and terror chased each other like hounds let off the leash, wild with excitement. He wanted to race around like that himself, running and leaping and howling with the bliss of his first love. What was Horace to this delirium? How had the poets ever had the power to move him, when set besidethe delicious sight of a tremulous smile or a scorching glance or a pair of soft… oh, so soft lips? She burned into him and yet he yearned with all his being for her touch. How many times had he read of such feelings? The reality was a thousand times better.
Yet there was also remorse. What a fool he had been, to say such things to Bea, to make promises he could not keep and even to be on the brink of kissing her again. It was only an inch away from a proper declaration, yet he could not,mustnot tell her all that was in his heart.
If only he could be sure of inheriting the earldom! With that prospect before him, even if many years away, he could go to Bea with a light heart and speak of love and marriage and how much he wanted to hear her talking in Latin for the rest of their lives. Or English, if ever she tired of Latin, it mattered not, so long as she were his wife.
But Lord Rennington might yet marry again and sire an heir, and then Bertram would be merely Mr Atherton forever more, and could not offer Bea the title she wanted and so richly deserved. He was in no position to make promises to her, and yet he so badly wanted to tell her everything. He quite understood Fielding’s precipitate proposal. When he was with Bea, he could think of nothing else, with his senses overwhelmed by her closeness — her smooth skin that made him want to touch her, the blue eyes gazing at him so clear-sightedly, the hearty way she laughed, not a mild titter like most women. There was such life in her, and she filled him with life, too. She was like a fountain spilling energising water into a pool, and he was suddenly parched with thirst. Never before had he needed anything but his books and his family, but now he needed Bea with an aching that tormented him day and night.
But for all the anguish of unrequited love, he could not help laughing out loud for the sheer joy of it. He was in love, so deep in love that he might never find his way back to reality, but hedid not care. It was enough tofeelas he had never felt before. What a strange half-life he had been living, trapped in the world of two thousand years ago and not seeing the world around him in the present day.
Now that his eyes had been opened, he knew precisely what he would do. He could not speak yet, not until he knew for certain of his uncle’s intentions, but once that question was settled, then he would open his heart to Bea. Perhaps she would reject him at first if the title was unlikely to come his way, but he was sure he could win her over, in time.
He was no longer concerned that she would marry one of his friends. She had rejected Fielding, Brockscombe seemed to be satisfied with a kiss and a hairpin, and Medhurst was still mooning after the lovely but vapid Miss Grayling. As for Miss Grayling’s brother, Franklyn had seen him off comprehensively. That was an elegant way to deal with a man with questionable intentions! Now Grayling knew that if he dishonoured Bea in any way, Franklyn would call him out and would very much have the upper hand. Grayling was no fool, and would not risk that sort of scandal.
Dinner that evening was dominated by a point by point discussion of the fencing tournament, every move analysed to within an inch of its life. Bertram was amused to see Franklyn accorded an unaccustomed degree of deference. Franklyn was self-effacing, and pointed out that he himself had enjoyed a very easy run, while Grayling had suffered a long and strenuous match against the marquess, but he seemed to be flattered by the attention, nevertheless.
As for Bea… Bertram’s heart ached for her, for it was clear she was miserable. She was situated beside the marquess, but he had Miss Grayling on his other side who monopolised his attention. Medhurst was on Bea’s other side, having failed to find a place beside Miss Grayling, but passed the entire mealtrying to overhear her conversation with Lord Embleton. No one seemed entirely happy with their situation. If only Bertram had been quicker, perhaps he could have secured Bea’s company for the meal. Surely he would have done a better job of making her smile than Medhurst.
After dinner, there was dancing again, and at least Bertram managed to stand up with Bea once, but only for a reel which was too energetic for conversation. By the time Lady Esther rose to retire, taking Bea with her, he could not claim to have exchanged more than a dozen words with her all evening. It was maddening.
