Fifteen
The king had suffered a grievous battle wound.
“You are strong, my king,” the concubine said as he burned with fever. “And not because you are my king. You are my king because you are strong.”
It was a fine point, but one that gave him the will to live another day. And then another, and another, and another, until the wound was merely one more ridge of shiny skin for the concubine to kiss and caress.
—The Concubine and Her King.Unpublished MS.
Henry woke, reached for Susannah, and discovered he was alone. She had left.
She’s left for good.
He shook his head. No. Likely she hadn’t wanted to be discovered in his lordship’s bed. Henry didn’t care what Carruthers thought or repeated to others, but it was a far more dangerous thing for Susannah than for Henry. A double mark against her, given her sex and his rank.
Oh, no. Oh, no. He scrubbed his face with his hands. What had he done?
Remember she came toyou,Henry Delamere.
But only after he had laid out the most obvious hints, said she had somehow trapped him with her enchanting nature, essentially told her he would be waiting for her to come to his bed. Given her instructions.
He hadn’t wooed her
He’dearledher.
And then he’d seduced her and proceeded to splatter all over her in the most grotesque and juvenile way.
She’d be right to leave him.
Carruthers came in with the morning tea and made no comment on the open curtains, the wet rag left on a table, the scratches on his lordship’s shoulders. Henry had the valet shave and dress him in his riding clothes. Feeling himself an interloper in his own house and a traitor to everything he believed, he crept down the stairs.
Maybe she hadn’t left.
“Eakins, Miss Beasley.”
“In the large library, my lord.”
She was still here. But knowing that didn’t comfort him the way he had expected. He went to his stables and had a long, hard gallop.
At the end of it, Henry knew what he must do. He had his apology ready. He would tell Miss Beasley he had behaved in an unforgivable manner and would beg her pardon. He would pay her the one hundred and forty-seven pounds still remaining for her time and trouble. He would arrange for a carriage to take her wherever she wished. She would be under no obligation to write the book for Mina.
He didn’t deserve her. He couldn’t possibly deserve her. He’d make her leave him before it was too late.
It might be too late already.
The library door was wide open. He hesitated on the threshold. She was sitting at the table across the room, three or four books open in front of her, and she was staring out the window, twisting a strand of her hair in her fingers. She seemed lost in some world of her own, and he hated to be the one to drag her back into this loathsome one where lecherous men made free with the vulnerable because they could.
He stepped in and closed the door. Her head turned, and her cheeks went pink as she jumped to her feet. She flew—yes,flew—across the room and collided with him and threw her arms around his neck.
“You.” Her smile was radiant, eager. “You’re here.”
His plans to send her away evaporated. His arms went around her, his hands cupped her back. He held her to him.“Yes.”
“I want to kiss you,” she said. “I’ve been thinking all morning about kissing you. Do you think I should?”
He did not consider the wisdom of his answer.
“Yes,” he said.
