“I’ve wanted you every bit as much, but…” Marianne bit her lip. “We both know there’s no future between a lady’s maid and a marquess.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The next morning, Beau was up with the sun. He’d already decided there was no way he could spend the day with Marianne. He’d brought her the books yesterday out of guilt, and today he was happy she had them when he left to go speak to the captain again. Captain Jones was a friend of both his and Worth’s, and the man was well aware that he had a potential traitor on board.
Jones and Beau had made a plan for Winfield to be followed should Beau and Marianne be separated from them somehow when the ship docked in France.
Beau told himself that he’d been working, and needed to focus on the mission. That was why he hadn’t spent time in the cabin with Marianne. But the truth was that he had to reluctantly agree that she was right. He shouldn’t have made love to her last night. It was unfair to her to prolong it. What was it about that woman that made him so insane that he couldn’t stop touching her or wanting her?
She was right. There could be no future between a marquess and a lady’s maid, and more and more of late, no matter how outlandish or impossible it might seem, Beauwanteda future with her. He’d considered asking her if she would be his partner on his next mission. They made a good team, the two of them. He’d never wanted to work with a partner before, but having a female partner did allow for some conveniences, such as pretending they were a married couple.
But marriage? No. That was out of the question. He didn’t even know who she was. He might know her last name, but as far as he knew, she was merely the daughter of a man whose sons were in the military.
There was no way he could make her his marchioness even if he wanted to, and…God, marriage hadn’t ever been anything he’d thought about truly. He supposed he’d need to marry and produce an heir someday, but he’d been so attached to his work, he hadn’t had time to contemplate the sort of life that would be, or the type of changes he would be forced to make as a result.
Now, with Marianne, for the first time, he was beginning to contemplate all of it. And even though on more than one occasion, he’d looked down the barrel of a pistol just before a man shot at him, Beau had never been more frightened.
* * *
When Beau returnedafter dark again, Marianne had finished the brandy bottle. Brandy wasn’t so bad, it turned out, when one had nothing else to drink. Oh, she’d spent much of the day reading. Reading and fantasizing about Beau’s hand on her thigh last night, his fingers making her cry out his name. The images of their lovemaking had flashed through her mind again and again today, making reading slow-going. But she’d still managed to put a decent dent inSense and Sensibilityby the time he returned. She’d enjoyed it. One of the characters had her name.
They finished dinner and it was cleared away before Marianne came over to join him on the bunk. She sat next to him, letting her feet dangle off the side. “You don’t need to speak to the captain again tonight, do you?”
His brow furrowed. “No. Why?”
“Because I want to ensure you don’t have anywhere to run off to before I ask you again why you don’t drink.”
The barest hint of a flinch crossed over his features. “You noticed I didn’t want to talk about it, eh?” he said with a humorless laugh.
“It was quite noticeable,” she replied, nodding.
He’d already removed his boots and he scooted back on the bunk until his back rested against the wall. Marianne scooted back to join him.
“It can’t be that bad,” she said. “You can tell me.” Their hands rested together, their fingers touching on the mattress.
Beau expelled a deep breath and laid his forearm atop his head. “My father drank.” He paused for a moment, staring forward. “To excess.”
The ship swayed and Marianne had to brace herself against the roll, clutching Beau’s shoulder. “I see,” she said solemnly.
The ship righted itself again and Beau continued, “When I was a boy, I promised myself that I would never drink.”
“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable when I drank,” she said quietly.
“Not at all. Most of my friends do. Worthington and Kendall certainly do.”
Marianne paused for a moment before asking her next question. “Was your father…angry when he drank?”
Beau scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “Very. But mostly toward my mother, not me.”
“Oh, Beau, no,” Marianne said. Instinctively she clutched his hand and squeezed it.
Beau squeezed back. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I can understand that,” she replied.
He stared at the wall above the desk again, unseeing. “When I was young, I remember bruises on my mother. Marks on her wrists. I didn’t understand.” He took another deep breath. “But as I grew older, I heard them argue. I would go to her room, try to stop him.”
Marianne swallowed hard. “That was quite brave. How old were you?”
