as long as they were discreet.
He clenched himself closed against the memory. Discreet? God, he had written poetry to her! How discreet was that? That Spenton knew and dismissed the affair as trivial was still painful. John realized then how heartless Angela was, how little he meant to her. Women were incapable of constancy.
John threw himself on his parents’ mercy and asked to come home, only to find his parents knew all. “If there’s a brat from the union, Spenton will acknowledge it. I talked to him,” his father said shortly in the stables one morning as John saddled his horse for a ride. John was stunned at this fresh possibility of disaster. Those three months were hell as he waited to hear that Angela was pregnant.
But disaster did not strike. He decamped to the Continent and drowned his pain in becoming just as bad as everyone thought him, just as the countess had guessed. She made it seem so . . . green. Well, no one could call him green now. He did not believe in virtue anymore. He couldn’t even feel virtuous about acting for his countrywhen his duties included lying, stealing, killing, and using women. He never let himself fall in love with them. He never would.
The horses clopped along streets toward Bessborough House. How had the countess known so much about him? A horrible thought occurred. Was she a spy for France? She apparently came and went across the Channel as she pleased. What better way to ferret out a country’s secrets than to sleep with the crème of its political and social crop? Damn! He’d let his guard down. Had she smoked his true occupation?
Bessborough House’s ornate façade came into view. He took a breath. He hadn’t given anything away. He had been lax because he was on his home soil. It would not matter. He was for Portsmouth soon. He would not see her again.
And yet . . . Did he not have a duty to determine if she was a spy—find out who her French contacts were? He would be exposing himself to her scrutiny. But he was forewarned. And she underestimated him. That would be to his advantage. Now, where could he see her next? He put down the little thrill in his loins that accompanied that thought.
Beatrix spent a wakeful day, her nerves all electric irritation. She didn’t need blood, but she needed something. Her old friend Shakespeare could not hold her interest. She tried a book by the new woman everyone was talking about. Austen. Her clear and humorous vision of people and society amused Beatrix for almost an hour. She wrote a letter offering to support that artist Constable. He did light like no one else but Turner, and yet could not gain recognition from the damned Royal Society. She no longer believed art could save the world. But some things must be painted, written, danced, or sung, and she could make sure a few gifted individuals were allowed to dothat. She tried not to think about what had happened last night at Bessborough House. Out of control. On the edge. In front of everyone.
And she had no idea why. What brought on this feeling that a great darkness was nipping at her heels? Was madness for her kind inevitable? That was the purpose of Mirso Monastery, to stave off madness. Perhaps Mirso was all that was left to her. But she wasn’t ready to retreat so fully from the world. And why not? What did the world mean to her? If she could take a few books, a few paintings with her, why not start tomorrow?
Because then Asharti would be right about her.
That was why she struggled with the darkness. She paced from bed to dressing table and back again. She needed something to focus on besides the darkness.
The answer to that had a name. Langley. It was dangerous to seek him out at all, with the feelings he roused in her. But interest in something seemed to quiet her memory flashes. What to do next? If she invited him for Tuesday it would be admitting she craved his company. If she did not, the earliest she might see him was Wednesday at Hartford House, and that
He clenched himself closed against the memory. Discreet? God, he had written poetry to her! How discreet was that? That Spenton knew and dismissed the affair as trivial was still painful. John realized then how heartless Angela was, how little he meant to her. Women were incapable of constancy.
John threw himself on his parents’ mercy and asked to come home, only to find his parents knew all. “If there’s a brat from the union, Spenton will acknowledge it. I talked to him,” his father said shortly in the stables one morning as John saddled his horse for a ride. John was stunned at this fresh possibility of disaster. Those three months were hell as he waited to hear that Angela was pregnant.
But disaster did not strike. He decamped to the Continent and drowned his pain in becoming just as bad as everyone thought him, just as the countess had guessed. She made it seem so . . . green. Well, no one could call him green now. He did not believe in virtue anymore. He couldn’t even feel virtuous about acting for his countrywhen his duties included lying, stealing, killing, and using women. He never let himself fall in love with them. He never would.
The horses clopped along streets toward Bessborough House. How had the countess known so much about him? A horrible thought occurred. Was she a spy for France? She apparently came and went across the Channel as she pleased. What better way to ferret out a country’s secrets than to sleep with the crème of its political and social crop? Damn! He’d let his guard down. Had she smoked his true occupation?
Bessborough House’s ornate façade came into view. He took a breath. He hadn’t given anything away. He had been lax because he was on his home soil. It would not matter. He was for Portsmouth soon. He would not see her again.
And yet . . . Did he not have a duty to determine if she was a spy—find out who her French contacts were? He would be exposing himself to her scrutiny. But he was forewarned. And she underestimated him. That would be to his advantage. Now, where could he see her next? He put down the little thrill in his loins that accompanied that thought.
Beatrix spent a wakeful day, her nerves all electric irritation. She didn’t need blood, but she needed something. Her old friend Shakespeare could not hold her interest. She tried a book by the new woman everyone was talking about. Austen. Her clear and humorous vision of people and society amused Beatrix for almost an hour. She wrote a letter offering to support that artist Constable. He did light like no one else but Turner, and yet could not gain recognition from the damned Royal Society. She no longer believed art could save the world. But some things must be painted, written, danced, or sung, and she could make sure a few gifted individuals were allowed to dothat. She tried not to think about what had happened last night at Bessborough House. Out of control. On the edge. In front of everyone.
And she had no idea why. What brought on this feeling that a great darkness was nipping at her heels? Was madness for her kind inevitable? That was the purpose of Mirso Monastery, to stave off madness. Perhaps Mirso was all that was left to her. But she wasn’t ready to retreat so fully from the world. And why not? What did the world mean to her? If she could take a few books, a few paintings with her, why not start tomorrow?
Because then Asharti would be right about her.
That was why she struggled with the darkness. She paced from bed to dressing table and back again. She needed something to focus on besides the darkness.
The answer to that had a name. Langley. It was dangerous to seek him out at all, with the feelings he roused in her. But interest in something seemed to quiet her memory flashes. What to do next? If she invited him for Tuesday it would be admitting she craved his company. If she did not, the earliest she might see him was Wednesday at Hartford House, and that
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