Will’s condemnations ringing in her ears.
She had misled him? She had abandoned him? He was saying those things to fix the blame on her and ease his own guilty conscience. And only a cad would call her a coward because she wouldn’t dive off a thirty-foot cliff into the ocean when she was ten years old.
She remembered that day. And the day he’d tried to persuade her to ride astride. And all the other times he’d pushed her into doing things she knew she shouldn’t. Sometimes, like the diving and the saddle and Egypt, he’d failed to persuade her. But there had been other times when he’d succeeded.
I remember how the pulse in your throat used to start hammering whenever I kissed you.
Beatrix remembered that, too. She’d denied it, of course, but did he really believe she’d forgotten? She squeezed her eyes shut. How could he think she’d forgotten all the times when she’d gone out alone to meet him in one of their secret places? All the times she’d let him kiss her when she shouldn’t have. And he dared to accuse her of cowardice? She’d put her reputation and virtue at risk dozens of times just for the delicious thrill of his lips on hers. . .
She could feel her face growing hot at the memory, and she opened her eyes with a sound of impatience. She was not a coward. And she wasn’t a liar, either, whatever he might think.
She had sketched those artifacts for him because she liked sketching, not simply to please him. And she’d listened to him for hours as he’d told her all about the Romans and the Assyrians and the Egyptians because she had been truly interested. But she’d never thought any of it was real. She’d never thought digging up relics of those past civilizations would be their life.
Beatrix stared at the green pastures and hedgerows that stretched for miles all around her, lands that had belonged to the Danbury and Sunderland families for hundreds of years, and her anger dissipated into an old, familiar feeling of bewilderment. He’d said this wasn’t the life he wanted, but what did that matter? This was the life they had.
Born into English aristocratic families, she and Will had both been destined for this life from the moment of their birth. It was a life of privilege, yes, and there were elements of triviality within it, she supposed, but it was also a life of duty and responsibility, of caring for the less fortunate and securing the future of one’s children and grandchildren through land and title. To ignore it was impossible, and to shun it was unfathomable. One might just as well be a revolutionary, she thought with a shudder. Or an American.
When the carriage arrived at Danbury House, she went back to the drawing room, in desperate need of distraction. Geoff was gone, but her aunt was still there, seated on one of the crimson velvet sofas with a large leather volume on her lap.
“What are you reading, Auntie?” she asked as she came in.
Eugenia looked up. “Ah, Beatrix, there you are. Sunderland all right, I hope, and not too badly maimed?”
“A bruised knee, I’m told. He’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”
“Excellent. I’m glad Mrs. Gudgeon was able to reassure you about the matter.”
The housekeeper had done so, true enough, but Beatrix decided it would be best not to mention that she’d actually spoken with Will. As he had pointed out, calling upon one’s former fiancé without a chaperone wasn’t at all proper, and here in the country, where there wasn’t much to do but gossip, any little thing, however trivial, could be noticed and commented upon. A women’s reputation was a fragile thing, and easily damaged. Aunt Eugenia would no doubt point all that out, and Beatrix didn’t feel much like enduring a lecture on propriety today. The less said, the better. “Just so,” she murmured, and left it at that.
Eugenia smiled and patted the sofa. “Come and sit with me.”
Beatrix complied, and as she settled herself beside her aunt, she
She had misled him? She had abandoned him? He was saying those things to fix the blame on her and ease his own guilty conscience. And only a cad would call her a coward because she wouldn’t dive off a thirty-foot cliff into the ocean when she was ten years old.
She remembered that day. And the day he’d tried to persuade her to ride astride. And all the other times he’d pushed her into doing things she knew she shouldn’t. Sometimes, like the diving and the saddle and Egypt, he’d failed to persuade her. But there had been other times when he’d succeeded.
I remember how the pulse in your throat used to start hammering whenever I kissed you.
Beatrix remembered that, too. She’d denied it, of course, but did he really believe she’d forgotten? She squeezed her eyes shut. How could he think she’d forgotten all the times when she’d gone out alone to meet him in one of their secret places? All the times she’d let him kiss her when she shouldn’t have. And he dared to accuse her of cowardice? She’d put her reputation and virtue at risk dozens of times just for the delicious thrill of his lips on hers. . .
She could feel her face growing hot at the memory, and she opened her eyes with a sound of impatience. She was not a coward. And she wasn’t a liar, either, whatever he might think.
She had sketched those artifacts for him because she liked sketching, not simply to please him. And she’d listened to him for hours as he’d told her all about the Romans and the Assyrians and the Egyptians because she had been truly interested. But she’d never thought any of it was real. She’d never thought digging up relics of those past civilizations would be their life.
Beatrix stared at the green pastures and hedgerows that stretched for miles all around her, lands that had belonged to the Danbury and Sunderland families for hundreds of years, and her anger dissipated into an old, familiar feeling of bewilderment. He’d said this wasn’t the life he wanted, but what did that matter? This was the life they had.
Born into English aristocratic families, she and Will had both been destined for this life from the moment of their birth. It was a life of privilege, yes, and there were elements of triviality within it, she supposed, but it was also a life of duty and responsibility, of caring for the less fortunate and securing the future of one’s children and grandchildren through land and title. To ignore it was impossible, and to shun it was unfathomable. One might just as well be a revolutionary, she thought with a shudder. Or an American.
When the carriage arrived at Danbury House, she went back to the drawing room, in desperate need of distraction. Geoff was gone, but her aunt was still there, seated on one of the crimson velvet sofas with a large leather volume on her lap.
“What are you reading, Auntie?” she asked as she came in.
Eugenia looked up. “Ah, Beatrix, there you are. Sunderland all right, I hope, and not too badly maimed?”
“A bruised knee, I’m told. He’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”
“Excellent. I’m glad Mrs. Gudgeon was able to reassure you about the matter.”
The housekeeper had done so, true enough, but Beatrix decided it would be best not to mention that she’d actually spoken with Will. As he had pointed out, calling upon one’s former fiancé without a chaperone wasn’t at all proper, and here in the country, where there wasn’t much to do but gossip, any little thing, however trivial, could be noticed and commented upon. A women’s reputation was a fragile thing, and easily damaged. Aunt Eugenia would no doubt point all that out, and Beatrix didn’t feel much like enduring a lecture on propriety today. The less said, the better. “Just so,” she murmured, and left it at that.
Eugenia smiled and patted the sofa. “Come and sit with me.”
Beatrix complied, and as she settled herself beside her aunt, she
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