PortraitofPassion (19 page)

She had known from the beginning that she could not have
Henry and Idyllwild. She had seen him in Anna’s house, had known him
immediately. As she had walked over and curtsied before him, as she had calmly
allowed Anna to introduce her, she had been plotting, forming and discarding
ideas in her head. Before the night had ended, she had the beginnings of a plan
in her mind, a plan to make Henry’s appearance in Paris work to her advantage.
She had only needed Bertie’s crafty mind to smooth the rough edges, to look
into the future and map out a strategy. She had cultivated Henry’s friendship
with one goal in mind.

That had been months ago in Paris. She had not come to love
Henry then, to look for his smile, to see herself reflected in his lively blue
eyes. In London she had come to value him for himself rather than as a means to
achieve her greatest wish. It had been so natural to adore him, to be adored by
him.

And Olivia. She had never dreamed she would meet the lady,
had not imagined she would come to love her also. To see her father in the tilt
of her smile, in the quiet wisdom she possessed, in the curiosity that prompted
her to ask questions and genuinely listen to the answers.

Could she stand firm in her resolution to give them up, to
forfeit their regard and their affection? Yes, she thought, she could and she
would.

“And Easton?” Bertie whispered.

Bea was taken aback by his soft words.

Her heart wanted to shy away from the thought, as it had
done over the last weeks. She forced herself to face the truth. She could no
longer pretend that nothing had changed. She could no longer ignore the reality
of the situation in which she now found herself, a situation she had created
willingly. Bea loved him, she loved him madly, passionately. She had given
herself to him because she had not been able to help herself. She had opened
her heart to him, pretending to herself that it did not change anything, that
she could love him and still walk away when the time came. Now the time had
come. Now she must prepare herself to sacrifice Simon, to sacrifice her very
heart.

“Yes,” she replied softly, “and Simon.”

They sat in silence for the remainder of the journey.

Bertie had given instructions to the coachman to take the
long way home, so Bea was not surprised to find Simon waiting for her in the
front hall when she and Bertie arrived. She was surprised by his haggard
appearance, by the banked rage she saw in his eyes, by the lines of worry
framing them. He jumped to his feet when he saw her.

“Beatrice,” he said, his voice raspy and low. He did not
move toward her.

“I’m off to bed,” Bertie announced, walking toward the
stairs. Bea watched him silently until he had disappeared from sight.

She turned and slowly walked toward Simon until she stood
looking up into his stern face.

“Darling,” she whispered, laying her hand upon his cheek. “I
am so glad you have come.”

Simon closed his eyes and let out a soft breath. His posture
relaxed, his hands blindly came up to clasp her hips.

Bea waited for his eyes to open, relieved to see them light
with warmth.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I am fine,” she assured him with a smile. She hoped it
reached her eyes. She did not want to lie to Simon, not anymore. One more
night, she cautioned herself.

“Olivia said that my lady aunt was unforgivably rude to
you.”

“Oh yes, I think she may have been sipping from the wrong
punchbowl,” Bea responded with a soft laugh. “I do not think she was quite
right in the head.”

“What did she say to you?” he asked, clearly surprised by
the excuse she offered for his aunt’s behavior.

“Oh Simon, I do not want to talk about her, or even think
about her.”

“You seemed so upset…” he began in confusion.

“It was the crush,” Bea explained, tucking her hand into the
crook of his elbow and leading him to the stairs. “There was no air to
breathe.”

“I thought that my aunt must have offended you,” Simon
replied.

“She did,” Bea agreed. “But you know I cannot hold a grudge.
She was not in her right mind I don’t think. And upset to see me with Henry. It
does not signify, Simon. I doubt I shall ever see her again.”

As they walked side by side up the broad staircase, Bea
could feel his curious gaze. She stared straight ahead, afraid of what he might
see in her eyes. Sorrow. Bitterness. Deceit.

Beatrice entered her room to find her maid Abby asleep in a
chair.

“Abby,” Bea whispered, gently shaking her shoulder.

“Oh miss,” Abby cried sleepily, jumping to her feet. “I am
that sorry to have fallen asleep!”

“It is late. Of course you fell asleep.”

“Shall I undress you?” she asked before spotting Simon
standing quietly just inside the door. She blushed and bobbed a clumsy curtsy.

“Would you be an angel and find us a bottle of wine?”
Beatrice asked the young girl.

“Yes miss, right away,” Abby agreed and fled past Simon and
out the door.

“Poor dear,” Bea murmured, staring down at the chair the
young maid had abandoned. For some reason she could not explain, she suddenly
felt ashamed—angry and ashamed. The sight of the sleeping girl, her eagerness
to please, her blushing acceptance of the lord in her mistress’s bedroom, it
all combined to make Beatrice feel dirty, dishonest. Shame and rage filled her
as she stood there with her back to Simon.

Finally she looked over her shoulder. Simon had not moved,
simply stood by the door regarding her silently, his eyes studying her.

“Why are you standing there?” she demanded softly, her voice
low and deep. She heard the building rage, felt it course through her blood.
She did not understand where it came from. She did not know how to stop it, was
not sure that she wanted to. The rage felt safe, necessary. It would drown out
the shame, allow her to get through this night and the days to follow.

Simon quirked a brow at her. Bea felt mean laughter rumbling
up her throat, hitching her breath. She spun away from his intent gaze, going
to the window to stare sightlessly out into the dark night. She heard Simon
moving about the room.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” she invited and realized
that she could see him reflected in the window glass. She watched him remove
his coat, fold it and lay it upon a chair.

A soft knock on the partially open door announced Abby’s
return. Bea turned from the window. “Will you set it up on the table by the
bed?”

“Yes miss,” the girl replied, again sidling around Simon,
who stood before the table Bea had indicated. Simon stepped out of her way then
sat in a chair before the empty fireplace.

“Shall I pour for you?” Abby asked and Bea saw that she
addressed her question to Simon.

“Please,” he replied with a smile that caused the girl to
blush yet again.

She finds him handsome.
But of course she does, he
is beautiful.
Bea studied Abby’s efficient movements, her hands agile and
graceful as she poured a measure of wine into each glass. Her gaze wandered
over the girl, taking in her soft, blue eyes, the strands of dark-blonde hair
that had escaped from her mobcap, the gray dress and white apron she wore.

She was a pretty girl. Bea thought that had Abby been born
into a different family, she would be making her debut soon, perhaps next year.

Instead she waited upon a dishonest, lying, scheming woman.
A bastard.

Bea could not hold back bitter laughter at the thought.
Simon turned his head to look at her in surprise. Abby froze, her gaze flying
to Bea’s face.

“You are a very pretty girl,” Bea said and watched the blush
deepen on the girl’s cheeks.

“Thank you, miss,” she shyly replied, bobbing another quick
curtsy.

When Bea only watched her silently, Abby looked to Simon,
who gave her a subtle shrug, before she asked, “Is there anything else I can do
for you, miss?”

“You may undress me,” Bea said.

“Beatrice,” Simon protested quietly.

“I would like Abby to undress me and brush out my hair,” Bea
insisted. She forced herself to raise her eyes to his, unsure what they would
reveal to him. She was confused, an awful feeling of desperation mingled with
the banked rage and shame. Would he see?

Simon captured her gaze, his eyes dark, not angry, uncertain
perhaps. She knew she was behaving irrationally. She did not care.

“I’ll step outside,” Simon finally replied.

“Do not,” Bea said, waving her hands about in agitation.
“Please, stay.”

Simon looked from her face to her hands, suspended in
midair. She dropped them to her sides, clenched her fingers in her skirts,
grabbing fistfuls of the dark silk.

Bea looked at Abby, standing as still as a statue, her eyes
wide as she looked back. Bea realized that it was the first time the timid girl
had ever looked her mistress in the eye. As if reading her mind, the maid tore
her gaze away and bent her head down.

“You may undress me,” Bea whispered, wishing she had not
started down this path, unable to retreat from it.

As Abby approached her, Simon rose to retrieve the two
glasses of wine. He handed one to Bea, his fingers brushing against hers as she
reached for it. Her gaze flew to his face, to see a small, infinitely sad smile
upon his lips. His eyes were sober, steady. Bea was struck with the notion that
he understood the rage and shame that had taken hold of her, that he understood
her erratic emotions.

He nodded at Abby, as if encouraging her to continue. Bea
sensed the stiffening of the girl’s back, though she could no longer see her.
She had stepped behind her mistress to unbutton her gown.

Bea sipped her wine, hoping that the cool liquid would
somehow soothe the heat racing through her body.

Simon resumed his seat and silently watched as Abby efficiently
unbuttoned her lady’s gown and carefully eased it over her shoulders, expertly
catching it as it fell to her hips, and easing it down to the floor. She knelt
to the side and held up her hand for Bea to hold for balance as she stepped
from the pool of deep-blue silk. Bea was left in her thin cotton chemise and
light stays over her lacy drawers and silk stockings. She looked down at her
feet encased in dainty slippers.

Bea brought her eyes up to find Simon’s gaze fixed upon the
swell of her breasts over her stays. He swallowed, his throat working as if to
get around a lump wedged there. He clenched his jaw once, relaxed and raised
his glass to his lips, his gaze never wavering.

Bea took a long swallow of her own wine, looked down at Abby
silently kneeling before her and realized that she still held the girl’s hand.
She gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and Abby looked at her questioningly.

“Your slippers?” she asked.

Bea lifted one foot then the other to allow the girl to
remove her slippers, placing them on the floor beside her gown.

She felt Abby’s nimble fingers releasing the ribbons that
held her stockings in place and closed her eyes in relief. It was almost done.
Soon she would be naked before Simon and could send the girl to her bed. Regret
for her actions toward her maid left a sour taste in her mouth. She raised her
glass to wash it away.

When she opened her eyes, she found Simon watching her,
studying the line of her throat, the lift of her chin, the movement of her
tongue as she licked the drops of wine from her lips. His eyes lifted to hers
and Bea was startled by the naked desire she saw there. His eyes were dark, his
lids heavy over them. Sparks seemed to dance and shoot out from their depths,
causing a shiver to race through her body.

Abby delicately cleared her throat and Bea looked down at
her. The maid lifted one hand and slowly reached up and under her chemise for
the ribbon of her drawers. Bea guessed she was giving her time to stop her,
time to find a modicum of modesty. Bea did not halt her hand, only waited until
the lace and cotton crumpled to the floor to lift her bare feet and allow the
maid to add the garment to the growing pile of clothing next to her.

Abby rose to retreat behind Bea and she felt the gentle tug
on the laces of her stays, felt the blessed relief as air rushed into her
expanding lungs.

Abby muttered something under her breath, Bea thought she
might have said, “I told you not to lace so tight.” Bea wanted to smile but her
lips were stiff, her eyes painfully dry.

Abby tossed the corset to the pile on the floor, leaving Bea
naked but for the thin chemise that covered her from her shoulders to the tops
of her thighs. Bea sensed the girl take a deep breath before she moved around
to stand in front of her. Their eyes met briefly and Bea thought she saw
compassion in her gaze before the maid once more dropped her eyes and pulled
the ribbon holding her chemise closed above her breasts. The soft garment slid
slowly over Bea’s shoulders, caressed the swell of her breasts, caught for one
slow moment on their pouting buds, before falling to her waist. Bea raised her
arms to stop its descent in the crook of her elbows, holding the cotton
suspended. She looked from Abby’s upturned face to the glass she held.

“That will be all, Abby.” Simon’s gravelly voice drew Bea’s
gaze. He slowly rose from his chair, placing his glass on the table beside it.

Abby jumped and spun toward Simon, and Bea wondered if she
had forgotten his presence in the room. Perhaps she had needed to pretend he
was not there in order to complete her task.

“Oh but I must brush out Miss’ hair,” Abby replied, her
voice soft and hesitant.

“I’ll brush out her hair,” Simon answered.

Abby looked at Bea for confirmation.

“Thank you, Abby,” Bea said, turning to place the glass on
the vanity behind her. She watched as Abby scooped the garments from the floor,
dipped a quick curtsy and fled the room, softly closing the door behind her.