Another harsh laugh from him. “You would cuckold me? Bold of you to say so openly beforehand.”
That made her cross. Why would anyone find their way to cuckoldry when starting from the position of chess-by-post? It made no sense. Perhaps she should return to her original opinion of him, which was that his mental acuity was deficient. “Why are you so fixated on sexual fidelity? No, I mean that because you do not wish for heirs, that a union such as ours could be one born of preference and choice. That both of us choose a new path, that each day we are together is of our own volition, a freedom in and of itself. There is no bond other than our own wishes. And that my wishes are weighted equal to yours. I had thought myself incorrect in my original opinion of you, but now I must wonder since your logic is demonstrably faulty.”
Beckett’s soft lips twitched. Nell wondered if this was his tell when bargaining. Did he do this when negotiating bills in the side chambers of Parliament?
“In answer to your question,” he said, letting his words fall slowly. Did he think her daft? “I am fixated, as you say, on fidelity because I have difficulty believing that I get to have someone so permanent in my life. I do not come upon friends easily. And never in my life have I felt this way for a woman.” His elbows rested on his knees, his pale, bare toes peeking from beneath the blanket and inching towards the fire. “There are many ways I am not a typical man of my rank. Indeed, I do not possess even a modicum of desire to be so.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Nell could imagine him tiptoeing through a meadow, not wanting to step on wildflowers.
“I do not keep mistresses. I do not enjoy flippant mating, as if I were a rabbit in spring. I have been with a few women, not many, and mostly out of curiosity, rather than true desire. But I find the experience empty when I do not care for the person. I need more.” Beckett’s voice was rigid and fierce, as if he expected to be castigated for his stance.
It was Nell’s turn to blink rapidly into the fire.
“And I find that I desire you—” Beckett choked on his words. “Most ardently.” He cleared his throat. “Which is, in my experience, vanishingly rare. You are the first, as a matter of fact. And as such, you are precious to me, and I find myself doubting my worthiness. That precisely because I want you so badly, that I should not get to have you. Colloquially speaking, of course. I claim no ownership.”
Her stomach flipped over. No one had everwantedher before. Or at least, not to her knowledge. There was so much more to say. Suddenly, the protection of her identity and smokescreen of her past felt deceitful and vicious. “Beckett, I—”
“And you’ve had a husband, of course, which only churns my guts even more. That you have known a loving embrace as I have not. I shall get over it. I know I can, given sufficient time.”
“Beckett, no.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. She pulled her hand away.
“The idea of another man with hands on you. I can’t tell you how that eats at me—” His words were tart and bitter.
“I’m not a widow,” she blurted.
Beckett stopped and turned to her, his eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”
Nell shook her head, all her words wanting to tumble out at once. The noise in her head was loud, so insistent, she wasn’t sure she could even open her mouth.
“Your husband is still alive?” he choked out.
She could feel his pain like a whirlwind of hurt and pain, threatening to consume them both. It was difficult to speak, and she wished her thoughts could crackle through her bones and into his. “I’ve never had a husband.”
His body, which had previously been subject to minor movements and twitches, stilled completely. “You’ve never had a husband?” he repeated slowly.
Nell shook her head. “I needed the protection of widowhood when I moved to London. Mrs. Dove-Lyon suggested it, knowing there was power in even a fictious man’s family willing to protect me. We chose the name together and she produced a few forged documents to help my case, should I ever need it. Otherwise, I could not set up my own accounting.”
Beckett sat back, letting the news wash over him. She watched him, wondering if yet again, this truth would wound him. He rubbed his hands over his face and then into his hair, as if scrubbing a fog from his mind. But his shoulders relaxed. Whether it was from the knowledge that there had never been a Mr. Reid, or that this was how he looked when solving problems, she couldn’t guess.
“This has to do with the missing painting instructor, doesn’t it?”
So he did know. Her stomach conjured a millstone and dropped it hard in her belly. She should have known that somehow, someone would find out. That any man couldn’t merely disappear in a small village like hers. That there would always be a balance for a life taken. “Yes,” she whispered.
He nodded and sat back in the chair, his spine straight. His demeanor changed, going from the emotional, personal Beckett to the powerful, unimpeachable lord who fixed the empire’s troubles. “Tell me the story then, for I need to know what I have to do.”
“I don’t understand.” While her stomach was weighted down, her brain churned with the sudden appearance of bees. Her thoughts became erratic now, unable to finish one and move to the next, rather veering from topic to topic, unable to predict what he would do about anything, other than finding clothing that actually fit him once the rain let up.
“As your husband, I would have influence.” His voice was so calm. As if he were explaining the rules of a resolution beingpassed in the House of Lords. As if this—her convoluted past—were something so mundane. “I need to know what information to bury, who to bribe, what to conceal to keep you safe.”
Her stomach flipped around the millstone. What an acrobat it was this evening. “Oh,” she said, for nothing else came to mind. “This does not scare you?”
Then, her personal Beckett appeared again, and he reached for her hand. It was a tentative movement, far better suited than her attempt to touch his shoulder. “I thought it would. I tried to make what I learned about the disappearance of the artist the reason I doubted being with you. But in the end, it was a lie. The reason I doubted you was jealousy. I could not stand the idea of other men being important to you. That you had a past marriage I could never know. But you arriving in London, needing the help of a woman such as Mrs. Dove-Lyon does not make you a person who would commit murder for your own gain. Tell me all, so that I may fix whatever is left.”
For the first time in over ten years, Nell spoke of her past in that small village. How her parents kept the inn, about her brothers and sisters. About the day the painting master came and his lessons for the girls. How she had not been allowed to attend, given her off-putting strangeness, and how she hid in the recesses of the barn to listen to his lectures and then her attempts later, since she could recall his words verbatim.
How, at the time, she did not understand why he would put his arm around a student to guide her paintbrush. They did not use paints, but tinted water to learn, so why would his hands linger on a waist of a pupil, or dip lower for just a fraction of a second? His smile was wide and odd to Nell, imbued with meanings she did not understand.
As Nell told of Monsieur Cobb, Beckett’s lips tightened, and his eyes narrowed, but he did not interrupt.
She described sneaking into the barn, where the other students kept their supplies, and using her own tinted water to imitate the lesson from the day. She kept to the dark corners where no one would catch her if they entered to retrieve any supplies. And how, on one of those long summer evenings, her sister, Evangeline, the most beautiful of all of them, guided Monsieur Cobb into the barn. How she spoke of missing brushes, and Nell expected to be caught and beaten for her trespass.
