Regency Society. Ann Lethbridge

the generosity of her body.

      Home.

      With Bea.

      The thought struck him sharply, piercing all the defences he held in place. No longer just himself.

      The smell of violets wafted close as he pushed open the door. And perfumed wax? Candles, he determined, the warmth of flame felt even from this distance. So many?

      Beatrice’s soft breathing from the sofa had him turning, puzzlement at her slumber and anger at her forgetfulness in not dousing the wicks. When his fingers touched warmth he wondered what it was that she wore, lace and skin in equal measure along the fine lines of her legs. Like the garments a courtesan might wear in the better establishments off Curzon Street.

      He knew the instant she came awake.

      ‘I fell asleep?’

      ‘It is well after twelve. Why did you not seek your bed?’

      ‘I was hoping that you might come.’

      He sniffed as she moved, the scent of violets almost overpowering. Much more potent than usual! ‘Did you spill your bottle of perfume?’

      ‘No?’ The word came back to him as a question.

      ‘There is strong smell of violets in the room.’ He crossed to the candles. ‘And it is dangerous to leave so many candles alight whilst you slumber, Bea.’

      She laughed easily, but ceased the instant his hands covered the full abundance of her breasts. He loved the way she did not pull back.

      ‘What is it that you are wearing?’

      ‘A nightdress that Emerald lent me.’ The shyness in her voice was easily heard as she explained. ‘I have been waiting for you to return home.’

      Suddenly he understood. ‘This was all for me? The candles, the perfume, waiting up…?’ Taris felt something inside himself that was foreign and unfamiliar and disturbing. Something undeniable. Something so empowering that the very essence of it made him still.

      ‘Emerald told me a little of your time in the army under Wellington. She said that you were a master of disguise who never once was caught.’

      ‘That was a long time ago and I was a different man.’

      ‘Have you forgotten the languages Emerald insists that you speak fluently?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And are you not still involved in the deciphering of ciphers for the British Army?’

      He smiled and the amber in his eyes was dancing light. ‘Yes, but if anyone else knew that you knew I’d undoubtedly be instantly dismissed.’

      ‘You negotiate a world that every other person might simply have given up on, Taris, and that to me is heroic.’

      He stayed silent.

      ‘The lace on this gown is almost silver and I am wearing nothing at all underneath it. My hair is newly washed and scented and the nails on my feet and hands have been very carefully painted. Pink,’ she added, as though the colour might be important to him. ‘And I have done none of this to entice a man whom I pity or patronise. Frankwell abused me for years, you see, and the scars that I bear are the scars of shame and fury. Fury that I did not fight back or seek help or say what it was that was happening to me. Your scars, on the other hand, come from honour and valour and bravery, wounds that tell the story of saving your brother and escaping from a place that no other ever had before. If I could exchange my damage for yours I would, Taris. I would do it in a second.’

      Her voice broke on the last words, but she did not let him speak.

      ‘I would exchange it because you never gave up as I did.’

      ‘Never gave up.’ The echo of the words nearly broke his heart. For him and for her, two people dealt a hand that was not fair, yet surviving in spite of it. Or perhaps because of it? The question surprised him.

      Brave and valiant? In her eyes he was that?

      Outside the wind was loud and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. Inside with the fire and the candles and the cobweb nothingness of a gown he had no need for sight to imagine, a new possibility began to dawn on him.

      Home and hearth and Beatrice.

      His hand stole to the slight swell of her stomach and he felt her quick intake of breath.

      And family. His family. Children and laughter. More than one. Many. Running at Beaconsmeade and Falder and knowing the land as well as Ashe and he ever had.

      This child will be born in less than five months by my calculations and I should not wish it to be born out of wedlock.’

      She did not speak.

      ‘Would you give me leave to court you, Beatrice-Maude? Court you properly, I mean?’

      ‘Properly?’

      ‘Partner you to the country entertainment on offer around Falder? Court you in the way of a beau who has only the very best of intentions?’

      In response she entwined her body around his, leaving him with no doubts as to her answer.

      All his reserve broke. ‘Love me, Bea,’ he whispered into the long curtain of her hair.

      ‘I do,’ she replied and his heartbeat surged. Nothing could have stopped them coming together and like dry kindling to a flame they rose before floating down spent, breathless with ecstasy and repletion and release.

      ‘I love you, Taris.’ Said again as he closed his eyes and slept.

      Taris could tell that the gossip of the servants had come to the ears of his brother when he walked into breakfast with Beatrice the next morning.

      ‘Did you sleep well?’ Humour was apparent in the question and he was certain that Bea had heard it too.

      ‘Very, thank you.’ Determined that he would not let Ashe have his fun, he helped himself to a generous plate of eggs and bacon and began to speak of the Davis function that they had all promised to attend that evening.

      Emerald’s arrival, however, only seemed to add to the tension. The escapade with the nightgown had probably been her suggestion in the first place and as she sat he could tell that the meal was going to be a long one.

      ‘You arrived back late last night, Taris?’

      ‘I did.’

      ‘And you are late rising this morning?’

      ‘I am.’ He stressed the personal pronoun with a telling emphasis.

      ‘Which is unusual for you?’

      ‘It is.’

      ‘Mama thought she heard music coming from Cristo’s room last night. She told me so this morning.’

      His sister-in-law could no longer hold in her laughter and it settled around the room. Beneath the table Taris felt Beatrice’s hand steal into his own and she squeezed it before speaking.

      ‘Where is your brother Cristo?’

      Her question was exactly the right one—it drew everyone’s attention into a completely opposite direction.

      ‘Our brother has lived in Europe for a number of years after deciding that England no longer suited him.’

      Asher’s reasoning was not quite the truth, Taris thought, but close enough.

      ‘He certainly had good taste in books. I have looked over the shelves in his room and have decided that even the public reading rooms in London do not have the breadth of topic his library has.’

      ‘A characteristic he inherited from our father.’ Taris was careful in his choice of words and when his sister Lucy appeared at the doorway the family was quick to drop the subject altogether.

      ‘Why did your brother