PortraitofPassion (23 page)

“Oh Christ, Bea,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

Simon rose unsteadily to his feet, waited for his head to
stop spinning, waited for his eyes to regain focus and slowly walked down the
stairs and out of Beatrice Morgan’s life.

Beatrice heard the door close, heard Simon’s footsteps fade
down the hallway. With a soft groan, she relaxed her aching muscles and allowed
her body to slide down the side of the bed. She landed on her hands and knees,
her braid falling to the floor as she bent her head in sorrow

She listened to the silence of the room, the silence of the
dark night outside her window. It was a blessed relief, that silence. It seemed
to fill the room like a living presence, washing away Simon’s words, his
panting breath, the slap of his flesh against hers.

She thought about just rolling over onto her side on the
floor and curling up into a ball. She wondered if she could sleep if she did
that. She was so tired, so tired of fighting. Always fighting. Fighting to live
her life as she chose, fighting to hold on to the happy memories of her
childhood, fighting to claim what was rightfully hers, fighting to find her
place in the world.

Gingerly Beatrice rose to her feet, using the bed for
support. Her thighs hurt, her calves burned, her toes ached. She reached one
hand down between her legs, winced at the tenderness she found there. She drew
her hand back and looked at the wetness on her fingers. His wetness. Her own.

“You’re wet for me
.”

She was shamed by the truth of his words, shamed by her
body’s betrayal. She had been wet for him, had wanted him even after she’d
realized he knew of her secret, of her treachery and deceit. Even knowing he meant
to punish her, she’d wanted to feel him inside her, to drown in the pleasure,
to find her release with him buried deep inside her body. One last time.

“I will not think about it,” she spoke forcefully to
herself. “I will not ever think about him again. I will not remember. He does
not exist. He never existed.”

She thought it was true. The man she had fallen in love
with, the man she had thought him to be, had been an illusion.

“You wanted me to take you roughly last night, to fuck
you like a whore
.”

She could not deny the words.

Beatrice walked slowly into the bathing room, her eyes
shying away from the big tub. If she remembered sharing that tub with Simon,
she pushed the memory away.

She found a square of linen and submerged it in a porcelain
bowl of cool water, dragged the soft cotton between her legs, wanting only to
rid herself of his seed, of the proof of her body’s betrayal.

Dressed in a fresh nightgown, she walked to the vanity.

As she carefully lowered herself onto the small padded
stool, she saw a cream-colored envelope propped up against the bottles beside
the note Simon had left for her that morning. Had it been less than a day?
Beatrice shivered. She left the envelope where it lay and reached for the note.

Dearest Beatrice,

I hate to leave you sleeping so peacefully. You look like
an angel in the soft light just before dawn. I must make a short journey. I
hope to return late tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. Please stay at
home today and tonight. It will ease my mind to know you are safely ensconced
in the house and gardens. I will explain when I return.

Yours,

Simon

Beatrice slowly tore the note into pieces, smaller and
smaller, until her fingers cramped with the effort. She opened her hands and
watched the pieces fall to the floor like snow.

She lifted the envelope, found a necklace of rubies and
diamonds curled across the marble tabletop. To Beatrice it appeared as a snake
in the shadowy room, one that might strike at any moment. With a shudder, she
swept her hand across the vanity, sending bottles flying to the floor and the
necklace bouncing against the wall.

She opened the envelope and unfolded the document it held.
She quickly scanned it. She felt no surprise. She felt nothing at all as she
held the deed in her hands. Winter Haven. A nice name, she mused. It sounded
like a peaceful place. She pictured a squat little whitewashed cottage with an
old-fashioned thatch roof and small windows. Perhaps there were wildflowers
growing all around it.

She dropped the deed onto the vanity as she rose. She had
hours to get through before she could call on Henry. She thought she might be
able to sleep and looked at the bed. She could not lie upon that bed, not now,
not ever again.

She made her way out into the hall, stopping before the tall
linen bureau. She selected a faded yellow cotton blanket, soft and worn from
years of washing. It was the same yellow blanket that had sheltered her as a
child, the same blanket she had brought from Idyllwild all those years ago.

She returned to her room and climbed up onto the cushioned
window seat, tucking the blanket around her. It was the same position she had
sought when she was a girl in her room at Idyllwild, when she was missing her
father.

She was so tired, so terribly tired. She leaned her cheek
upon the cool window glass and closed her eyes.

She saw Simon in her mind as he had looked that first night,
so tall and arrogant. She saw him sprawled out asleep in her bed, so boyish
with his face relaxed and his eyes closed. She saw him laughing with her in the
garden.

She reminded herself that he did not exist. He was a figment
of her imagination. He was a ghost. She would never see him again. She would
not even think about him.

Instead Beatrice thought about Idyllwild. She pictured the
gray stone house, the rolling hills and sweeping valleys, the dark, shady
woods, the crystal-clear pond. She imagined the feel of the dewy grass between
her toes, the sound of her mother’s laughter carried on the wind, the smell of
the first snow. She allowed her mind to drift over old memories and sensations.
She felt herself falling, slowly, so slowly asleep and welcomed the blessed
nothingness that claimed her.

* * * * *

The pelting rain upon the window brought her gradually
awake. She snuggled under her blanket and in her sleepy contentment she
imagined she was home in her bedroom with a cool summer storm raging outside
her window.

Reality slammed into her like a fist in the stomach. She
sprang upright, felt a wave of nausea roll through her and sat perfectly still,
breathing slowly until it passed.

There was a soft knock and Abby poked her head through the
door.

“You’re awake,” she whispered with a shy smile.

“What time is it?” Bea asked, startled by the rasp of her
voice.

“Gone ten,” the maid replied as she stepped into the room.
“His lordship has been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Ten!” Bea jumped to her feet, stumbled back and bumped her
legs. Abby rushed forward with arms stretched out to steady her.

“Abby,” Bea moaned. She squeezed the girl’s hands. “Abby,
quickly, a bath.”

She watched the girl retreat to the bathing chamber before
turning to look across the room at the tall bed. An image of Simon pulling her
across that bed, flipping her roughly onto her stomach, flashed through her
mind.

“No,” she whispered as pain shot through her heart.

“Did you say something, miss?” asked Abby, poking her head
through the door that led to the bathing room.

“Nothing,” Bea answered. “Is my bath ready?”

“The footmen are just pouring the water.”

“Please run down and have Gerald ready a carriage. Tell him
he will drive me.”

Bea forced her mind into nothingness as she hurried through
her bath. She was afraid to think about last night, so she concentrated on what
she must do today.

“Henry knows,” she said the words aloud as Abby buttoned the
long row of buttons up the back of her dress.

“Miss?” Abby asked.

“Nothing,” Bea replied. “Just thinking out loud.”

She thought about the bargain she had struck with the
countess, remembered that moment of doubt when she had thought that perhaps she
had been outmaneuvered. She laughed softly, the sound wispy and brittle.

Apparently the countess had not kept her word for even one
day. If Simon knew, she must go forward with the assumption that Henry knew.
How much had she told them? Bea shoved her feet into her boots.

Bea took the gray hooded cloak Abby held out to her,
relieved to see that her hands were steady.

“I can do this,” she muttered, ignoring her maid’s worried
gaze. “I’ve been waiting nine years for this day.”

She half expected to find Bertie pacing restlessly outside
her bedroom door. The hall was empty. She hurried down the stairs and across
the hall, her footsteps beating upon the marble floor.

“Bea,” Bertie called from upstairs.

Beatrice did not stop, she did not slow. She wrenched open
the door and flew down the steps as Gerald jumped from his perch and opened the
carriage door for her.

“Hastings House,” she told him as she climbed inside.

“Yes miss,” he replied. Bea could see worry in his dark
eyes.

Beatrice looked out at the nearly deserted streets of
London. The rain was coming down in buckets and surely anyone with a lick of
sense was indoors. She hoped that included Lady Hastings and Simon. She said a
quick prayer that she would find Henry home alone.

Twenty minutes later Gerald held a large umbrella over her
head as he helped her from the carriage and up the slippery wet steps of the
imposing town house that had been home to the Earls of Hastings for
generations.
Papa lived here
, she thought.
He lived here as a boy and
later as the earl. This is where he came when he left Idyllwild.

Gerald grabbed the brass knocker and wrapped it sharply
three times.

“Please drive the carriage around the block until I come
out,” she said to him as the door opened. When he gave her a surprised look she
said, “I do not want anyone to see it should they happen by.” She knew Simon
lived only blocks away. She did not want him to know she was here.

She turned from Gerald to look up into the face of the
butler who had opened the door. In his hands he held a small silver tray.

“I do not have a card,” she said to the tall,
broad-shouldered man who stared at her with cold blue eyes. “Please tell Lord
Hastings that Miss Morgan is calling.”

“The Earl of Hastings is not at home,” he replied in a
crisp, condescending voice and began to close the door. Bea reached out to push
against the massive door, knowing it would do no good. She saw Gerald’s hand
land next to hers, felt the door swing back toward the startled butler.

“Miss Morgan will see the earl,” Gerald said calmly. “Now.”

“The earl is not at home,” the butler insisted.

From inside the house Bea heard footsteps approaching. She
stuck her foot into the wedge of space between the open door and the brick wall
and joined her meager weight to Gerald’s to force the door farther open.

“Get your foot out of there or I’ll smash it,” the butler
growled.

“Good God, Dobbins, what are you about?” Bea heard Olivia’s
sharp words just as the butler gave a grunt and leaned his massive bulk against
the door. She moved to withdraw her foot too late. The door came crashing
forward to slam into her foot, pinning it to the brick wall.

Bea let out a sharp cry as pain shot through her foot and up
her leg. Through the tears that immediately came into her eyes, she saw Gerald
toss down the umbrella to brace his shoulder against the door and give it a
great shove.

The door went flying inward and Dobbins went flying backward
with a grunt. Bea snatched her foot back and watched in horror as the butler
attempted to grab on to a table to the side to stop his fall and succeeded only
in pulling it down with him. He fell hard on his fat rump. The table crashed
down on top of his splayed legs. The door bounced against an interior wall and
flew back toward Bea. Gerald put up one hand and halted the door’s progress.

Bea looked up from the butler sprawled upon the white marble
floor to find Olivia standing in a massive foyer, her wide gray eyes fixed on
Bea, her hands over her mouth in surprise.

Carefully Bea lowered her injured foot, rested a bit of her
weight on it. A dull, throbbing pain instantly settled upon the arch of her
foot. She winced briefly, decided the pain was manageable and walked into the
house.

“Thank you, Gerald,” she said to the groom, her gaze
traveling around the foyer. “Please do as I asked you.”

“But, miss,” Gerald exclaimed. “I cannot…it’s pouring out.
How I will know when you are finished?”

“I will wait for you on the steps, under the portico.” Bea
could not seem to drag her eyes from the startlingly white foyer, from the
giant chandelier that hung from the ceiling that must be three stories tall.
From the pristine white walls adorned with equally white plasterwork of what
appeared to be ivy trailing up to the ceiling, from the cold marble floor and
two massive curving staircases that ran up either side of the room to meet on
the second floor. She had been in a number of important houses in her travels,
but she had never seen anything like this huge, empty white space.

“Oh Beatrice, you should not have come,” Olivia whispered as
the butler got to his feet. Bea tore her eyes away from the room to look at
her. In the corner of her eye she saw Dobbins march to the door that Gerald
must have closed behind him and wrench it open. He stood waiting, a gloating
smile upon his red face.

“I had to,” Bea answered her. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Henry is not home. He left early this morning. Please, when
he returns I will send him to you.”

“Oh Olivia, you know he will not come to me.”

Olivia looked from Bea to the butler.

“Oh for the love of God, Dobbins, close the door,” Olivia
ordered.

“I have strict instructions from Lady Hastings,” the butler
argued.

“Lady Hastings does not run this house, my brother runs this
house, and if you don’t close that door this instant, I will see that he tosses
you from your post. You should be sacked for injuring the lady!” Olivia glared
at the man until, with a growl, he slammed the door closed.