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At five and forty, would she even have the chance to experience excitement again? Aunt Agnes had sold all of her husband’s belongings that he hadn’t left to their children and moved to the seaside once he died. She enjoyed her quiet life, only occasionally giving in to the whims of her grandchildren, or in this case, her niece, and accompanying them to London. But that wasn’t the same as living a fulfilling life in her twenties, was it?

Would Beatrice be able to experience passion again?

I wish I had. Aunt Agnes’s words haunted Beatrice’s mind. She scooted from the bed and went to open the window, letting the gust of wind inside. “What would you do, Mama?” she asked the cloudy sky.

It wasn’t a fair question. Her mother loved the man she was married to. And yes, they struggled financially, and as a result, Beatrice suffered now, too. But her mother never seemed to regret it. She would have never deceived anyone either.

Beatrice looked at her purplish, bruised wrists and let out a sigh. Her mother was also never betrothed to an old man who hurt her to get liberties. She remembered his wet tongue against her lips, his scent, and gagged. Closing her eyes, she stuck her face out the window, breathing in the fresh evening air. What would her life be like in a month?

Humming a lullaby her mother used to sing to her, she walked over to the bedside table. There lay a note that Adam had sent her a few hours earlier. He had received her threatening note and invited her to join his entire family for a theater performance tomorrow night. Another thing to cross off the list.

She smoothed the wrinkles out of the paper and read it again and again. She had persuaded the viscount to sponsor her month-long stay in London. She’d managed to persuade Adam to accompany her on her little adventure. God willing, she would be able to persuade him to marry her, too. Or, at the very least, she’d persuade him to find someone else who would.

Chapter 11

Beatrice—the usually bright and animated Beatrice—was awfully subdued that evening. Sure, one might suppose that she was engrossed in the theatrical atmosphere, engulfed in the tragic plot. And it would have been a reasonable enough explanation because she loved storytelling and books, especially love stories. Except that, her gaze was dazed, as if looking through the stage, not at it, and she didn’t react to anything going on, whether it was sad or comical, while everyone around her gasped or laughed.

Lady Gage kept telling everyone around how her new theater would be different and even asked Beatrice a few questions but only received distracted exclamations from her instead. During the intermission, Beatrice tried to smile and chat with Adam’s sisters, but her smile was strained and forced. He knew her real smile. Her eyes glowed with happiness as if reflecting millions of stars and then crinkled at the corners long before her lips even twitched.

But most of all, there was a dimple of happiness in the corner of her mouth. Sadly, it did not appear on her face at all tonight. Adam fidgeted by her side, trying unsuccessfully to bring out that real smile. He had great news he wanted to share with her. But he quickly forgot all about that, his mind fully occupied by the woman sitting next to him.

While the play was in progress, and she sat there with her blank stare, he wished he could take her hand in his. Her body beckoned him to touch her. Anywhere. Everywhere. Her warmth, her scent reached his side and made his entire body tingle and ache. But when he leaned toward her and asked if anything was amiss, she just smiled her fake smile and told him that everything was fine.

When the play was finally over, Adam expelled a breath of relief. He couldn’t take the torture anymore. They said goodbyes to the rest of their party, made their way to the Vane carriage that would take them all home.

The ride was quiet but filled with tension. Isabel leaned against her husband’s shoulder, and he held her hands, running his fingers over her gloved hand. Adam had a strange, all-encompassing desire to hold Beatrice’s hand just the same way. It was just a protective urge to find out what had happened to his annoying little friend. Because, yes, in the past couple of weeks, they’d grown from reluctant partners to friends. And he could not cope with not knowing what spoiled his friend’s mood this much.

Upon arriving at Beatrice’s home, Adam gracefully hopped down from the carriage and handed Beatrice down. He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her toward the entrance. “I shall come speak to you in a few minutes,” he murmured as they walked.

“You don’t have to—” Beatrice began to protest, but Adam gently guided her to the doorstep, and without a word, he took her hand in his and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles.

“Dismiss your maid as soon as you can,” he whispered softly.

With a lingering gaze, he left her standing at the doorstep and swiftly returned to his carriage. He counted the number of houses they passed so as not to seem too eager. When they passed house number seven, Adam thumped the roof of the carriage with a walking stick.

“Is anything amiss?” Isabel asked, sitting up and squinting at the window.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to give you a bit more privacy, and I thought I’d walk home.”

“You don’t have to do this; we have almost arrived,” she protested.

“Yes, I know. But it’s close, and the weather is beautiful, so I thought I’d have a brisk walk.”

Isabel stared at the rainy street and nodded slowly. “Yes, rain can be beautiful.”

“Indeed,” Vane agreed.

“Well, have a good night.” Adam hopped off the carriage and watched it drive away before stalking back to Beatrice’s townhouse. He used the servants’ entrance to get inside, careful not to get noticed. He silently walked up the stairs and cracked open the door.

Footsteps moved swiftly in his direction. Adam hid in the dark corner just in time for Beatrice’s maid to rush past him. Beatrice had done as he asked and let the maid leave early. Good. When the maid’s footsteps disappeared, he left the stairwell and hurried toward Beatrice’s room.

He opened the door, entered the empty room, and frowned. “Beatrice?”

The door to the left opened, and she came out wearing a dressing gown over a puffy nightgown. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles, and a few strands of her hair framing her face were wet and curly. She’d obviously just taken her nightly ablutions.

She paused as she entered the room, blinking at him. Then she slowly walked toward the bed, picked up her spectacles from the bedside table, and put them on. “Did you wish to discuss something? I am rather tired.”

Her tone was flat, and she seemed rather annoyed. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and she was indeed simply tired. And he would have believed that if he hadn’t noticed her foul mood the entire evening at the theater.