Читать книгу Lord Sebastian's Wife - Katy Cooper - Страница 9

S hortly after Beatrice left the solar, Sebastian rose and made his bows to the earl and countess. With Beatrice gone, all who remained in the solar—John and his wife, the earl and countess, even Cecilia—reminded him of what he would never have: a sweet, serene married life. The reminder was more than he could endure.

From the solar, he went down to the great hall. Night had fallen and it was past time to go to bed, but he was too edgy to sleep. If he returned to his chamber, he would lie awake, unable to stop thinking about wool prices, his rents, income that covered less and less of his expenses…and Beatrice.

Around him the house was silent, as if all its occupants, even those he had just left, slept without dreams. He envied them. He remembered how heedless he had once been, assuming that because no harm had ever come to him or his, no harm ever would. If it had not been for his uncle’s aid, he might well have lost everything. Since then, he had taken fear for Benbury’s future to bed with him.

At the far end of the hall a white blur moved into sight, gleaming faintly in the low light cast by the fire-place to one side. Sebastian stepped deeper into the shadows. Who was this creeping through the hall when most of the household had retired? And why did he only see the white oval of a face?

She came closer and firelight glittered on her jet ornaments, smoldered on the velvet of her skirts. Dressed in widow’s black, she had melted into the shadows, barely discernible even to his sharp eyes.

Beatrice.

She passed him without seeing him—or at least without betraying that she had seen him—and slipped through the arch that led to the chapel stairs. He crept after her, wondering why she went to the chapel at this hour, and hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. She had to have gone to the chapel; there was nowhere else. But why? Of all her family, she was the least pious, not the kind of woman to pray in the middle of the night.

Intrigued, and more than willing to let curiosity distract him from the weary round of worry, he followed her up the stairs.

The chapel was located at the top of the stairs. Faint light from within the room revealed that the door was half open. Resting a hand on its panel, he paused to reconsider entering. If Beatrice was praying, he could only be an unwelcome intrusion—and no matter what she did within, he would have to speak to her if he joined her. He had nothing to say, nothing that he dared say.

He imagined himself turning and going back down the stairs, crossing the hall and seeking his bed. Rest would only aid him in his meeting with the earl; staying here with Beatrice was folly. The days when he could follow every impulse were long past.

He pushed the door open.

The chapel was dim, illuminated only by the sanctuary light, a brave, weak show against the blackness of night. Beatrice knelt in the middle of the chapel floor, her head bent over folded hands. The gabled hood she wore concealed her face, but even if he had not seen her climb the stairs, he would have known her by the graceful bend of her long neck. In truth, he would know her anywhere, under any circumstance. When he had discovered her with Conyers, he had recognized her even though she had been enveloped in Conyers’s arms.

Tension tightened his shoulders, the too-vivid memory of Beatrice embracing George Conyers sparking fury as if he faced it anew. He fought both anger and memory, pushing them down, beyond reach, and swung the door shut. It slipped from his hand to bang softly against the frame, the latch rattling.

Beatrice jerked around, her mouth open, her hands flying up to her breastbone. Then she saw him and the expression left her face.

“My lord, you startled me,” she murmured as she rose to her feet.

“I did not intend to.” He moved deeper into the chapel, drawn unwillingly closer. Then, because he could not help himself, because he could not reconcile her apparent piety with what he knew of her, he asked, “Why are you here?”

She blinked as if the question surprised her. “I came to pray.”

“At this hour? When the household sleeps?”

She lifted her chin, her eyes wide and wary as if she did not know whether or not he mocked her. “Why does the hour matter?”

“I should have thought you would seek the comfort of your bed.”

She was silent for so long he thought she would not reply. She lowered her chin. “Prayer is good for the soul. If I did not know it before, I know it now.”

Because of your sins. Again anger rose in him; again he pushed it down. He had not followed her to abuse her about the unchangeable past. Or had he? Fool that he was, he did not know why he had followed her, except that he could not stop himself.

“Do you pray to be delivered from our marriage?” He spoke without thinking and immediately wished he had said nothing.

Her face shuttered. “There is no deliverance.”

He had thought her furious refusal to accept the betrothal earlier in the day had been shock. The way she had looked at him again and again at supper had given him hope that she would not go into the marriage furious and cold. Her bleakness now withered that hope.

“How can you know?”

“Because you are not pleased. If we were delivered, you would be happy.”

That surprised him. He had not thought she would interpret his behavior so. “Do you think I should be pleased to be delivered?”

A frown creased her brow. “How not? You would be free of me then, free to marry Cecilia.”

He did not want to marry Cecilia. He might not trust Beatrice, but he would not choose her sister over her. The realization was another surprise, as were the words that spilled from his mouth.

“You are not a bad bargain, Beatrice.”

Her frown deepened and she dropped her gaze from his. “You do not know that.”

“I know.”

She smoothed her hands over her skirt, talking to the floor. “You cannot.”

She spoke so softly he had to move closer. He stopped when the hem of her skirt brushed the wide toe of his shoe. “You are wellborn, well dowered. And you have been a wife before. None of marriage will be strange to you.”

She looked up at that, speculation in her eyes as they searched his face. He waited for her to find what she sought.

“I have not been your wife nor do I think my dead lord’s ways are your ways.”

Pain sparked at the reminder. Just as he did not want to remember her dalliance with Conyers, neither did he want to think of her life with Manners. “I am a man, as he was. How different can we be?”

Some bleak memory stirred; he could see its shadow in her face before she turned away. “Not all men are the same,” she murmured.

As you well know, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He clamped his mouth shut lest he speak the words aloud. Despite the anger that would not remain at bay, he would not fling accusations at her, chastising her for sins he imagined, all of them greater than the one he had witnessed.

When he did not reply, she turned back to him, the question in her expression fading as her gaze traveled over his face. Understanding flickered in her eyes as if she saw what he wished to hide and then it was only the candlelight gleaming in their blue-gray depths while her face smoothed to blankness. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Beatrice had somehow vanished, leaving her body to face him.

Come back to me.

“Beatrice,” he said softly.

“My lord?”

Do not hide from me and name me as if I am a stranger to you. You know I am not.

“Call me by my name.”

Her eyes met his and in their depths he saw Beatrice return, the distance between them melting like spring snow. She searched his face as if she had never seen him before.

“What do you want of me, Sebastian?”

“Nothing,” he said. He could not say what he wanted. All he knew was that she could not give it to him.

She folded her hands. “I do not believe you.”

He crossed his arms. “Does it matter?”

“I wish to know what you desire, so I may prepare myself to provide it.”

“Do you think I will ask anything you do not know how to give?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why? What have I ever done that you should think that?”

“You are a man. That is all you need.”

“Do you think so ill of men?”

“Think ill of them? No, Sebastian, I do not. Men are what they are, not to be ill or well thought of for it. I only ask so I may be all you desire in a wife.”

“It does not matter. You can never be all I desire in a wife.” You lost that ability when you let George Conyers into your bed. He clamped his jaw shut before he could speak the words. Anger ached in his chest, burned in his throat. If he was not careful, he would begin to curse her and there would never be peace between them.

In a quiet voice she asked, “If I can never be the wife you desire, Sebastian, will you not tell me what I can do to make the best of this bad bargain?”

“Anything you do will be well enough.” Anything she did would have to be enough. They were knotted, not to be parted in this life.

She sighed and lowered her eyes. “I do not believe you.”

“We cannot undo the past, Beatrice. You cannot undo your dalliance with Conyers and I cannot undo what I have said about it. From now, all I need is your obedience, and I do not doubt I shall have it.” That much, at least, was true. He would make certain of it.

“If we cannot undo the past, I at least am willing to let it rest.” She looked up at him, her clear eyes catching the candlelight. “Can you say the same?”

He eased his gaze away from hers, unable to withstand her scrutiny. “I do not care about the past.”

“Do you not? You cannot leave it behind. I have done penance for my sins and promised never to commit them again. For my immortal soul, I will not so dishonor myself. You can neither forget nor forgive. How shall we ever live together, Sebastian?”

“We will because we must,” he said.

She walked away from him, toward the altar. He followed.

“What do you want of me, Beatrice?” he asked.

She crossed herself and knelt, folding her hands. He knelt beside her.

“Tell me what you want.”

Looking at the rood screen, she said, “I want to be at peace.”

“I cannot give that to you.”

“I know. No man can.”

No man? Memories danced before his mind’s eye: Conyers with his hands on her, Conyers with his mouth on her. And Beatrice allowing it all.

“Did Conyers?” he asked, his voice harsh and flat in the silence.

She closed her eyes, her mouth flattening, and then said in a weary voice, “Sir George Conyers wanted nothing more than an hour or two of pleasure.”

“And you gave it to him.” He did not want to talk about Conyers, but he could not stop prodding her. What ailed him?

She shook her head and opened her eyes, staring up at the rood screen once more. “I do not think so.”

“Are you saying I was mistaken in what I saw?”

“What did you see?”

“I saw him touch you where no man but your husband should.” The muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened, and behind his anger was pain, so fierce it did not seem a memory but agony renewed.

She murmured something, her voice too low to be heard, then said, “You are not mistaken in what you saw.”

“You speak in riddles, Beatrice. You deny you gave him pleasure yet you admit you lay with him.”

“I admit nothing.”

“Did you lie with him? Was I mistaken?” The echoes of his cry clanged against the walls of the chapel, his fury escaping into the open at last.

She turned to face him, her eyes wary. He had a brief, bitter memory of her as a girl, as easy to read as a primer. Now he could no more decipher her expressions than he could translate Greek.

“It does not matter whether I lay with him or not. I will be faithful to you. I would promise it if you asked it of me, but a promise does not matter. I will never betray you because I refuse to risk my immortal soul to give any man living a moment’s ease.”

She looked away and stood. “Let us talk no more, Sebastian. I am weary and say what I ought not. If you will excuse me, I shall retire now.” She walked toward the door.

His anger died as if it could not survive her absence. He scrambled to his feet and followed her. “Do not go, Beatrice.”

She turned to face him. “Why not? We only brangle whenever we meet. Perhaps, given time, we shall be able to live together without quarrel. But that time has not come.”

He held out his hand, no longer clenched in a fist. “I do not want us to part like this.”

She sighed. “Nor I, but I do not see how else we may part.”

He moved closer to her, his hand still outstretched. “If I say I believe you…”

“Do not lie for so small a reason, Sebastian. It does not matter enough.”

His hand dropped; the two feet that separated them might have been twenty. “You are changed.”

Her chin went up. “Perhaps I was never who you thought I was. Perhaps what you see now is the truth.”

“Is it?”

Her mouth curled in a bitter smile. “You cannot leave anything alone. I cannot answer that question, I cannot allay your fears. I can offer you no comfort. This is what we suffer for our sins.” She turned away from him and crossed the distance to the door. Opening it, she turned to face him. “Good night and God be with you.” She disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

Without her, the chapel walls crowded around him, the air chilly and damp. The light on the altar flickered and danced, spilling shadows and golden light against the dark stone walls. Sebastian returned to the altar and knelt, casting about in his empty mind for a prayer, any prayer.

If he could, he would release Beatrice from this marriage. Not because he wished to marry any woman but her, but because she was right when she said they did nothing but brangle when they met. He did not want a turbulent marriage. Like Beatrice, he wanted peace, but when he was with her he could not find it for himself nor would he leave her be to discover it for herself.

Yet however much he wished otherwise, he could not be free, nor could Beatrice. They were bound to one another, tied before God. Some men might, for expedience, discard their wives like outworn shoes, discovering a convenient precontract or fortuitously remembered consanguinity. Unlike them, Sebastian would not dishonor himself, even to undo this marriage. Whether he wished for it or not, in a way he would never have chosen or imagined, he must marry the woman he had loved since childhood.

God help them both.