What the Marquess Sees (26 page)

Movement caught her eye, and she looked down again. Beneath her, the pile of ashes stirred as if something moved underneath. Beatryce stared, mesmerized, as the mound of ashes grew in size and shape. Before long the small pile was the size of a large animal.

Eventually, an orange beak poked out from the center of the growing pile, then a feathered head. A bird?

The thing springing forth from the ashes grew. And grew. Until it was larger than life and beautiful in its light, feathered glory.

It was a pale, blonde phoenix. Rising from the ashes. Resurrected from fire. The phoenix fluffed its great feathers, then looked up at Beatryce and caught her eye. The creature’s eyes were blue, more specifically, the color of the Adonis blue. Her own eyes.

She was reborn.

Beatryce bolted upright in her bed, drenched in sweat. The dream. She hadn’t had it since she was sixteen. Seeing Edward must have triggered her memories. But the ending. The fire and the phoenix? That was new; she’d never dreamt that part before.

“How do you know my brother?”

Lady Beatryce let out a small squeak, in reflex, but calmed almost immediately. She knew his voice by now.

There, by the fire, sat Dansbury, sipping some sort of drink. Probably whisky.

This man knew more about her than anyone else in this entire world. Why not tell him?

“I met your brother, Edward, when I was fourteen. I did not know who he was at the time; he was never introduced to me by name. But I recognized his voice tonight, the moment he spoke. His voice is one I’ll never forget, unfortunately. Nor his face.”

Beatryce sighed, then sat a little straighter and clasped her hands in her lap. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

“When I was fourteen, your brother paid my father for my virginity. And took it by force.”

Dansbury’s reaction was immediate. He threw his glass into the fireplace. The flames within leapt with the added fuel; the glass shattered across the hearth.

He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. “Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!”

He pulled at his hair as he yelled his curses.

Then he jerked to a stand and stumbled over to her bed, broken glass crunching beneath his booted feet with every step.

“S-scoot over,” was all he said.

She did. He sat down and began the process of removing his boots. No easy task. Was he planning to stay?

“Do you need help?”

“No, I’ll manage. Done it a thousand times on my own.”

Once he had them off, he crawled into bed and pulled her into his arms. He didn’t say anything else, and Beatryce was glad. Had he shown pity or tried to coddle her, she might have broken down. As it was, his actions showed his confidence in her strength. And besides, he was the worse for drink. She didn’t blame him his walk with the bottle; his world had been upended. The man could certainly afford to escape, if only for a little while.

She also didn’t press him to talk about everything that had happened, how he felt about it. He would speak if he wanted to unburden himself.

“Bea?”

“Hmmm?”

They both kept their eyes closed as they spoke, still held tightly in each other’s embrace.

“Do you know the first time I saw you?”

Beatryce wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this. “Tell me.” She encouraged him to speak anyway.

“It was the night of the Rutherford Ball in May of ’13. Do you recall it?”

“Somewhat.” She answered noncommittally, though she tensed with worry.

“I was outside, on assignment and hiding in the shadows, when you stepped out onto the back terrace. Your laugh preceded you and I felt it all over.”

She remembered. That was him in the shadows?

“Could you see me in the shadows?”

“I-I knew you were there, but I did not know it was you. I could only see a vague outline of your form.” She decided to be truthful; he probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning anyway.

“I nearly broke my cover and introduced myself, then and there. I had wanted you at first sight.”

“Did you?” What else could she say to that? Now more than ever she was sure she didn’t want to hear this.

“Then Middlebury joined you on that terrace. Do you remember that?”

“Y-Yes.” She would not be dishonest; she would own her actions.

“He touched you. I wanted to break his fingers. The desire to do so was unreasonable, but real…and strong.”

Her heart fluttered at his admission, despite the base nature of his revelation.

“Then I became angry at you. I heard what you said, what you two discussed. You’d both ruined a girl on purpose.”

“Yes, we did.”

“I hated you then.” She hated to know it. “Yet for a moment I thought I saw regret and desperation flash in your eyes. Was I imagining things, Bea?”

“No. You weren’t.” She spoke honestly, confident he’d remember nothing in the morning for his speech kept getting lower and slower as he fell his way toward sleep. “I felt this inexplicable trust in you, hiding there in the shadows. As if you were my guardian angel, sent down from heaven to watch over me. For once in my life, I wanted to be vulnerable and allow someone else to protect me, to keep me safe. For some reason, I knew you were up to the task and I pled with you the only way I could. I willed you to step in and intervene. To take me away from my life.”

“Guardian angel?” He laughed, inappropriate though it was to her admission of vulnerability, but then, he was the worse for drink. “And here I was battling far more base urges.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, too. It was in the past and so long ago; she’d long since overcome her fanciful imaginings that night, and her disappointment that she’d been wrong.

And his response was so typically…masculine. Base urges, indeed.

“Bea?”

“Yes…”

“I’m no guardian angel, but had I known…I would have tried my best.”

His admission pierced her soul. She tried to laugh it off in order to hide its impact. “Dansbury, you truly are a charming man.”

His answer was a snore; the man had fallen asleep. Thank God. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear her last remark. She squeezed him tighter, wishing him a peaceful slumber. Her eyes burned with tears.

But then he hummed and spoke again, his voice tired and low. “Mmm…Bea?”

She lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were still closed. “Yes?”

Nothing. Silence.

“Yes, Dansbury?” She prompted.

He smiled, but his eyes remained closed as he asked, “What?”

She laughed. “You called my name…”

He smiled again, and said, “Oh…”

She waited for him to say something else, but he said nothing. Then, he snored.

She laughed again. “Good night, D.” And laid her head back on his chest.

“Hmm…Bea?”

“Yes, D?” She said with a chuckle.

“It seems…” His voice trailed off a moment. “It seems fate has plans for us after all…”

Snore.

Oh, Dansbury.

Oh, this man, this man.

He could charm the socks off a snake. She envied the woman who would claim his heart.

But it would not be her. Not that she didn’t consider herself worthy; she had far more confidence than that. Now. But she was finished with society. His world now was her past. She was looking forward to being gone from society for good. Her experience at the Pump Room had reminded her of that.

It was then that she recalled and realized the point of her earlier dream. Her life had been a living hell, but that part of it was over. She was free. Reborn from the ashes of her previous life. And despite everything that had happened this night, despite being faced with a nightmare of a person from her past, she was now free of that past. And she was all that much stronger for her trials.

Beatryce fell asleep rejoicing in her newfound knowledge. In her freedom. Life, for her, began now.

“The curve of your lips rewrite history.”

―Oscar Wilde

“Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.”

―Sigmund Freud

The Next Morning…

Dansbury opened his eyes to a face full of blonde hair. Beatryce. She was still in his arms.

They’d fallen asleep that way, just as they were after her confession the night before, though much of it was fuzzy in his mind. Carefully, he leaned up on one elbow, the rest of his arm trapped beneath her, and looked down at her, so peaceful in her slumber. She wore a small smile on her face, and he was pleased that she slept well despite everything. He reached over with his free hand and gently brushed her hair out of her face. She scrunched her nose as the ends of a few strands tickled her there.

He wanted to remain where he was for a little while longer. All day, in truth. He was comfortable. Warm. It would be cold out from under these covers.

He felt surprisingly clear headed despite being concerned in liquor the night before. He’d drunk a lot of water before turning to his whisky. Perhaps that had been the key to his lack of a hangover, despite his best attempts at procuring one.

Sigh. But there was no use in delaying the inevitable. He had a madman to find. And a traitor. This, all of it, had to end.

Then, he had a sister to find.

He looked back down at Lady Beatryce and shook her gently on the arm. She didn’t move. He laughed, she was decidedly not a morning person.

He shook her again. “Beatryce, love. Wake up.” He leaned forward and kissed her nose. “Wake up, darling. Time to rise and shine,” he said in a singsong voice.

Beatryce stretched and moaned with contentment. His thoughts threatened to turn decidedly south. He suppressed the impulse, for now was most definitely not the time.

“Come on, my dove. We have some bad guys to catch.”

Beatryce blinked open her eyes, saw him, and smiled before she closed them again.

He suddenly felt adrift at sea, a man unmoored.

He fell back and stared up at the canopy above the bed. He was stunned; he felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.

What the hell was he going to do?

Nothing. Nothing! It was just a thing born of being in danger. Together. That was all. It had to be all. He was not ready. Not her!

He ignored his feelings as best he could and sat up, pulling his arm from beneath her and pretending to be his carefree self. He was good at that; he’d had to do the like many times before in his line of work. Inside he was in turmoil, but only he would know it.

Beatryce immediately rolled the other way, turning her back to him. He slapped her on the arse as he turned to get out of bed. “Come on, lazy bones. We need to get moving.” She only snorted and grunted in response. Nice and ladylike.

He placed his feet on the floor. Shite. It was bloody cold.

“Hmmm. All right. I’m coming.” Beatryce murmured, then promptly let out a soft snore. He laughed. Then, crawled back on the bed.

“Oh, no you don’t.” He sat up on his knees a minute as he thought about how to proceed.

God, he was in trouble.

He ignored that, too.

Then, he rubbed his hands together as he wondered if she was ticklish. No time like the present to find out.

Real trouble.

He placed his hands on her sides and began his torture.

Ah. That woke her.

She shrieked; then, started laughing as she yelled, “No. No. Dansbury stop! I can’t…I can’t take it. Oh my, no. No. No. Noooooo…” between great guffaws. She pushed at his hands, but he was stronger. And relentless.

Well, he had an answer to his question. She was most definitely ticklish.

Eventually, he released her. Though he was loath to do so; he was having far too much fun. And making her laugh made it easy to ignore his inner turmoil.

She rolled out of bed on the opposite side now. Bent over and heaving as she recovered her breath. She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. “Ooooh. You do know I give as good as I get, don’t you?”

“Is that a promise, Lady Beatryce?” he taunted in return.

“Why yes it is, Lord Dansbury.” She responded with a smile.

“Well, I’d like to see you try.” He goaded as he darted off the bed and dashed for the door. He opened it and rushed out to make good his escape, but not before a big, fluffy pillow hit him in the arse.

He ran from more than just her retribution.

*

His behavior was more than a little bizarre. He’d just been faced with his psychotic brother who, it turns out, is alive after all these years—and clearly responsible for their parents’ deaths, and yet he teased her and laughed as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Was he that kind of man? One who suppresses unpleasantness rather than face it head on? Who brushes off serious concerns with a joke and a laugh or two? One who would wait until the pressure built and built until he had no choice but to explode?

Or was he truly so carefree, brushing everything off with the ease of kicking the dirt from one’s boots?

She was betting the former and it concerned her.

Self-preservation kicked in. With a madman on the loose, her very life was still in his hands. What would happen if he flew off into a rage at the wrong time? Would she be in more danger? Not from him, per se, but less protected while he wrestled with his demons?

That did it. She knew she was falling back on old habits. Again. But she wasn’t truly safe until the madman was captured. So, she would dress. Then, she would find Dansbury and prod him in order to set him off before his burden grew and he detonated on his own, at the wrong time and place.

Her opportunity came a few hours later.

“My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart, concealing it, will break.”

―Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew

“So you haven’t had it easy after all. You’ve just successfully buried your emotions and hid them from the world. Have you ever dealt with them? Or properly grieved? Did you even mourn your parents’ deaths?” Beatryce attacked the minute she walked into the library. She hit low, regrettably, but her aim was true.