Lord Sebastian's Wife

Cooper Katy

He imagined himself turning and going back down the stairs, crossing the hall and seeking his bed. Rest would only aid him in his meeting with the earl; staying here with Beatrice was folly. The days when he could follow every impulse were long past.

He pushed the door open.

The chapel was dim, illuminated only by the sanctuary light, a brave, weak show against the blackness of night. Beatrice knelt in the middle of the chapel floor, her head bent over folded hands. The gabled hood she wore concealed her face, but even if he had not seen her climb the stairs, he would have known her by the graceful bend of her long neck. In truth, he would know her anywhere, under any circumstance. When he had discovered her with Conyers, he had recognized her even though she had been enveloped in Conyers’s arms.

Tension tightened his shoulders, the too-vivid memory of Beatrice embracing George Conyers sparking fury as if he faced it anew. He fought both anger and memory, pushing them down, beyond reach, and swung the door shut. It slipped from his hand to bang softly against the frame, the latch rattling.

Beatrice jerked around, her mouth open, her hands flying up to her breastbone. Then she saw him and the expression left her face.

“My lord, you startled me,” she murmured as she rose to her feet.

“I did not intend to.” He moved deeper into the chapel, drawn unwillingly closer. Then, because he could not help himself, because he could not reconcile her apparent piety with what he knew of her, he asked, “Why are you here?”

She blinked as if the question surprised her. “I came to pray.”

“At this hour? When the household sleeps?”

She lifted her chin, her eyes wide and wary as if she did not know whether or not he mocked her. “Why does the hour matter?”

“I should have thought you would seek the comfort of your bed.”

She was silent for so long he thought she would not reply. She lowered her chin. “Prayer is good for the soul. If I did not know it before, I know it now.”

Because of your sins. Again anger rose in him; again he pushed it down. He had not followed her to abuse her about the unchangeable past. Or had he? Fool that he was, he did not know why he had followed her, except that he could not stop himself.

“Do you pray to be delivered from our marriage?” He spoke without thinking and immediately wished he had said nothing.

Her face shuttered. “There is no deliverance.”

He had thought her furious refusal to accept the betrothal earlier in the day had been shock. The way she had looked at him again and again at supper had given him hope that she would not go into the marriage furious and cold. Her bleakness now withered that hope.

“How can you know?”

“Because you are not pleased. If we were delivered, you would be happy.”

That surprised him. He had not thought she would interpret his behavior so. “Do you think I should be pleased to be delivered?”

A frown creased her brow. “How not? You would be free of me then, free to marry Cecilia.”

He did not want to marry Cecilia. He might not trust Beatrice, but he would not choose her sister over her. The realization was another surprise, as were the words that spilled from his mouth.

“You are not a bad bargain, Beatrice.”

Her frown deepened and she dropped her gaze from his. “You do not know that.”

“I know.”

She smoothed her hands over her skirt, talking to the floor. “You cannot.”

She spoke so softly he had to move closer. He stopped when the hem of her skirt brushed the wide toe of his shoe. “You are wellborn, well dowered. And you have been a wife before. None of marriage will be strange to you.”

She looked up at that, speculation in her eyes as they searched his face. He waited for her to find what she sought.

“I have not been your wife nor do I think my dead lord’s ways are your ways.”

Pain sparked at the reminder. Just as he did not want to remember her dalliance with Conyers, neither did he want to think of her life with Manners. “I am a man, as he was. How different can we be?”

Some bleak memory stirred; he could see its shadow in her face before she turned away. “Not all men are the same,” she murmured.

As you well know, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He clamped his mouth shut lest he speak the words aloud. Despite the anger that would not remain at bay, he would not fling accusations at her, chastising her for sins he imagined, all of them greater than the one he had witnessed.

When he did not reply, she turned back to him, the question in her expression fading as her gaze traveled over his face. Understanding flickered in her eyes as if she saw what he wished to hide and then it was only the candlelight gleaming in their blue-gray depths while her face smoothed to blankness. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Beatrice had somehow vanished, leaving her body to face him.

Come back to me.

“Beatrice,” he said softly.

“My lord?”

Do not hide from me and name me as if I am a stranger to you. You know I am not.

“Call me by my name.”

Her eyes met his and in their depths he saw Beatrice return, the distance between them melting like spring snow. She searched his face as if she had never seen him before.

“What do you want of me, Sebastian?”

“Nothing,” he said. He could not say what he wanted. All he knew was that she could not give it to him.

She folded her hands. “I do not believe you.”

He crossed his arms. “Does it matter?”

“I wish to know what you desire, so I may prepare myself to provide it.”

“Do you think I will ask anything you do not know how to give?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why? What have I ever done that you should think that?”

“You are a man. That is all you need.”

“Do you think so ill of men?”

“Think ill of them? No, Sebastian, I do not. Men are what they are, not to be ill or well thought of for it. I only ask so I may be all you desire in a wife.”