Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(84)



“It was a selfish act to marry you,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t find it easy to settle for what I could give you, and not push for more. But I did warn you.” His opaque gaze slid over her. Bracing one hand on the jamb above her head, he brought the other to the front of her robe, where a hint of her white lace nightgown spilled over the neckline. He toyed with the bit of lace, and bent his head over hers. “Shall I make love to you?” he asked softly. “Would that suffice?”

Beatrix knew when she was being placated. She was being offered sexual pleasure in lieu of real communication. As far as palliatives went, it was a very good substitute. But even as her body responded to his nearness, kindling at the warm scent of him and the sensual promise of his touch, her mind objected. She did not want him to make love to her merely as ploy to distract her. She wanted to be a wife, not an object to toy with.

“Would you share my bed afterward?” she asked stubbornly. “And stay with me until morning?”

His fingers stilled. “No.”

Beatrix scowled and stepped away from him. “Then I’ll go to bed alone.” Giving in to momentary frustration, she added as she strode away from him, “As I do every night.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“I am cross with Christopher,” Beatrix told Amelia in the afternoon, as they strolled arm in arm along the graveled paths behind Ramsay House. “And before I tell you about it, I want to make it clear that there is only one reasonable side of the issue. Mine.”

“Oh, bother,” Amelia said sympathetically. “Husbands do make one cross at times. Tell me your side, and I will agree completely.”

Beatrix began by explaining about the calling card left by the Colonel Fenwick, and Christopher’s subsequent behavior.

Amelia sent Beatrix a wry sideways smile. “I believe these are the problems that Christopher took pains to warn you about.”

“That’s true,” Beatrix admitted. “But that doesn’t make it any easier to contend with. I love him madly. But I see how he struggles against certain thoughts that jump into his head, or reflexes that he tries to suppress. And he won’t discuss any of it with me. I’ve won his heart, but it’s like owning a house in which most of the doors are permanently locked. He wants to shield me from all unpleasantness. And it’s not really marriage—not like the marriage you have with Cam—until he’s willing to share the worst of himself as well as the best of himself.”

“Men don’t like to put themselves at risk in that way,” Amelia said. “One has to be patient.” Her tone became gently arid, her smile rueful. “But I can assure you, dear . . . no one is ever able to share only the best of himself.”

Beatrix gave her a brooding glance. “No doubt I’ll provoke him into some desperate act before long. I push and pry, and he resists, and I’m afraid that will be the pattern of our marriage for the rest of my life.”

Amelia smiled at her fondly. “No marriage stays in the same pattern forever. It is both the best feature of marriage and the worst, that it inevitably changes. Wait for your chance, dear. I promise it will come.”

After Beatrix had left to visit her sister, Christopher reluctantly contemplated the prospect of visiting Lieutenant Colonel William Fenwick. He hadn’t seen the bastard since Fenwick had been sent back to England to recover from the wounds he’d received at Inkerman. To say the least, they hadn’t parted on good terms.

Fenwick had made no secret of his resentment toward Christopher, for having gained all the attention and homage that he felt he had deserved. As universally loathed as Fenwick had been, one thing had been acknowledged by all: he had been destined for military glory. He was an unequaled horseman, unquestionably brave, and aggressive in combat. His ambition had been to distinguish himself on the battlefield, and gain a place in Britain’s pantheon of legendary war heroes.

The fact that Christopher had been the one to save his life had been especially galling for Fenwick. One would not have been far off the mark to guess that Fenwick would rather have perished on the battlefield than see Christopher receive a medal for it.

Christopher couldn’t fathom what Fenwick might want of him now. Most likely he had learned about the Victoria Cross investiture, and had come to air his grievances. Very well. Christopher would let him speak his piece, and then he would make certain that Fenwick left Hampshire. There was a scrawled address on the calling card Fenwick had left. It seemed he was staying at a local inn. Christopher had no choice but to meet with him there. He’d be damned if he would let Fenwick into his house or anywhere near Beatrix.

The afternoon sky was gray and wind whipped, the woodland paths choked with dried brown leaves and fallen branches. Clouds had veiled the sun, imparting a dull blue cast. A damp chill had settled over Hampshire as winter shouldered autumn aside. Christopher took the main road beside the forest, his bay Thoroughbred invigorated by the weather and eager to stretch his legs. The wind blew through the lattice of branches in the woodland, eliciting whispery movements like restless ghosts flitting among the trees.

Christopher felt as if he were being followed. He actually glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see death or the devil. It was the kind of morbid thought that had plagued him so mercilessly after the war. But far less often lately.

All because of Beatrix.

He felt a sudden pull in his chest, a yearning to go wherever she was, find her and draw her tightly against him. Last night it had seemed impossible to talk to her. Today he thought it might be easier. He would do anything to try and be the husband she needed. It would not be done in one fell swoop. But she was patient, and forgiving, and dear Lord, he loved her for it. Thoughts of his wife helped to steady his nerves as he arrived at the inn. The village was quiet, shop doors closed against the November bluster and damp.

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