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Chapter Twelve

Châteaux de Beaumont

Outside Rouen, France

Thirty minutes later, Branwen and Bryston awaited their hosts in quite the most elaborately appointed drawing room she’d ever seen. The French were known for their opulent taste in décor, and this room with its gilded portraits, plaster moldings, and in general, wholly overdone architecture left her quite stunned.

Still reeling with humiliation and fulminating compunction, her heart ached painfully. Each breath was a supreme effort. Nonetheless, she affected nonchalance as she studied the room, keeping her back to Bryston as much as possible.

She felt his brooding gaze on her as sure as if he’d placed a hand upon her rigid spine, watching her every movement.

Had it only been mere hours ago, Branwen had wondered if she could make a happy, contented life with someone she knew didn’t love her?

Had she truly naively believed her love would be enough?

The instant Branwen had asked Bryston if he loved her, she could’ve bitten off her tongue. She’d forced his hand, but now, she was glad for her impulsiveness. An undeniable truth had reared its head during those extended, awkward moments in the carriage.

She could not be contented with a man who didn’t love her, no matter how much she loved him.

Fool. Numpty. Imbecile.

Branwen had been deluding herself.

Just as well, she knew the truth of it now, rather than continue to harbor false hope. That someday he might come to love her. Branwen wasn’t a wagering woman, and that gamble was far too risky to take.

Nevertheless, she respected Bryston for his honesty.

He could’ve easily lied to get what he wanted. To seduce her into his bed.

Oh, she hadn’t a doubt he wanted her body, but he craved carnal satisfaction and nothing more. And once they’d wed and she learned the heartbreaking truth, it would’ve destroyed her.

As it was now, her heart and pride were battered—fine, pulverized—but she still had her dignity. Gone were the foolish, false illusions she’d entertained these past several days.

How well could one get to know another in less than a fortnight, anyway?

Well enough to know there will never be another like Bryston McPherson.

That comprehension effectively and immediately dissolved any lingering anger.

How could she fault Bryston for feeling the same way about Delphine that Branwen felt for him?

The heart was an intrepid thing, and it loved whom it loved.

There was no place for blame, accusation, resentment, regrets, or logic, even.

Branwen resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder to see what Bryston was doing.

He hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to her since they’d disembarked the carriage. Once he’d given his men their orders, he’d escorted her inside the mansion, all cool formality and politesse.

Craning her neck, Branwen gawked unabashedly at the ornamentation, the garish plum and gold furnishings, the bright marble-topped tables, and the vases of flowers on nearly every surface. Gold framed mirrors, candelabras, and chandeliers reflected the ribbons of sunlight streaming in from the six floor-to-ceiling windows gracing one side of the room.

Between every two windows, French windows opened up onto a raised terrace, upon which a gardener had artfully arranged planters, benches, and statues. Beyond the terrace lay breathtaking gardens, the likes of which she’d never before seen.

If a single spent blossom or stray leaf marred even one meticulously tended bed, she’d flip her skirts up as Abbie and her girls had upon the docks.

Either Mical De La Beche had married very well, or he had indeed acquired a vast fortune from his pirating days. Nonetheless, as remarkable as the house was, she could not imagine living in such a place.

Aye, it might be beautiful and ostentatious, but it lacked any warmth, and she would never be able to relax in such elegant surroundings.