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Of course, it's those too full of hubris and confidence who often fail to see those signs. Her self-doubt welled up as a sickness in her stomach; she longed to see him, and hoped that, perhaps, he had stayed the eve in the guest-rooms on the grounds. That would give the both of them an excellent chance at speaking about the issues that had come up between them; perhaps they could clear the air, and reignite whatever passion had wavered after their intimate time together in the cabin. A knocking on the door alerted her and she sprung from the bed, still clad in her messy riding uniform; she pulled it off, throwing it into a pile in the corner, grasping at her collection of soft, silken-white gowns to face the day with.
"Who is it?" she asked, her heart ringing hopeful that she'd hear a man's deep, stormy voice on the other side of the door.
"M'lady, your father wishes to see you," came the prickly and stern response. Ms. Mulwray's voice proved not nearly as pleasant as Lord Beckham's, and the harsh tone of her gave pause to young Nadia, who held in her churning stomach a strange little bit of excitement for today's events, hoping to reaffirm her love for the man who had showed her what it meant to be close; showed her just what love could feel like.
"I'll be down in just... a moment, Ms. Mulwray," she responded, her voice shaky. The tone had upset her, and she hastily threw on whatever garment she could get ahold of, runnin
g her hands down to smooth the rumples and curls; glancing in a mirror, she paid particular attention to herself; her hair still a mess, her skin dirty, her face tired... she could never present herself to Lord Beckham like this, she thought. Her nerves alight and her heart thumping, she yet hoped she could see him - perhaps he would accept her, no matter how desperate she looked. Her dreams had not been kind; that simmering fear in her stomach had turned to wild dreams of abandonment; Mary's words had made her imagine the duke leaving, never to speak to her or the house staff again.
She contemplated the dream as she fixed her hair, wrapping it into a small bundle with a pretty yellow ribbon. He wouldn't do that, would he? Certainly not. He couldn't! Not when he'd so intimately spent time with her; not when her father had searched him out so. He couldn't do that.
Or perhaps that was the simple girl inside of her talking; the girl with no knowledge, no understanding of relationships. The words of a hopeful heart crying out for him, while her stomach turned, unsure of what to expect when she left her bedchamber.
"He's waiting in the study, and he's quite fragile this morning, m'lady," Ms. Mulwray warned, her eyes focused deeply on Nadia. "Don't set him to desperation today, please."
"Father, yes... is Lord Beckham in the manor? Or in Emerys, perhaps? Did he stay the evening?" Nadia asked tensely, searching the hallway for any sign of the nobleman. Ms. Mulwray's expression flooded with confusion.
"Did you expect him to?" Her words struck Nadia like a resounding cudgel thudding against her head; he hadn't stayed... of course he hadn't. What a stupid girl I'd been, Nadia thought, to expect him to. She walked along the corridor like a tormented revenant; slow, plodding steps, searching endlessly for a love she began to fear she had lost. Why wouldn't he stay? Had he not wished to see her? Wouldn't a man in love be dying to sleep so near to his lover? Wouldn't a man in love spend his waking moments begging, pleading to see his love once more?
She arrived finally at the door of her father's study; she could hear the crackle of its fireplace. The sound triggered memories; her pulse pounded harder, and she imagined his body, strong and nude, so close to hers; his tongue pleasing her as she begged for him never to stop, as they shared quiet words of love and devotion and emotion, words she had never dared say to any man for fear of what he might try to take from her. She hadn't felt that with Marshall; she had found in him a spirit she thought would reject her or use her.
Dread filled her stomach at the thought that he had just been another man... that her worst fears had been true, that all men had the same wicked thoughts and feelings in their head. She took a deep breath and pushed her way into her father's study. He sat in the armchair, swirling a glass in his hand; a piece of parchment grasped in the other, lost in thought. He didn't even notice her at first, something that... rather startled her, and so she began to speak to catch his attention.
"I heard Lord Beckham left last evening? Has he sent word of a safe arrival? The bandits in the moors tend to be ruthless in the evenings," she asked, her words shaky, as she tried so hard to maintain the confidence her father knew her for.
"He's made it back, I'm certain," Lord Havenshire murmured absentmindedly.
"Are you certain? The bandits..." her voice trailed.
"Nadia, I wanted to... to congratulate you - you've found a husband," her ailing father said. "It's a day for celebration. You should be proud."
"Wh... what?" Nadia blinked. "A husband?" She stormed towards her father, her expression stern. "What manner of trickery is this, father?"
"Trickery? There's... no trickery. I've thought on it all evening, and I've signed the contract. Lord Beckham authored this, and he... he told me, it's what you wanted. What would be best for the both of you," he said. He handed the document gripped in his fingers to her, and she snatched at it with a slow, nervous rage building in her chest, the pressure pushing out the love and replacing it with terror. Her eyes pored over the words and with each sentence she felt the urge to scream; she felt pain filter into her, and she nearly collapsed as she finished reading.
Marriage of convenience. Marital freedom. No obligations. She felt... used. As if he'd relieved his guilt over his sister - his guilt over his manhood in a system that favored him - by writing out a silly contract and dismissing her. She had given him something so important, something she had never given any man - something she didn't want to give to any other man, but him. Not just her body, not just the most sacred of covenants; but her love, something she'd never felt.
Now whatever scars he bore had ruined all that and it made her feel... broken. She had felt rage, she had felt bitterness; but now, all she wanted was simply to shrivel away as a flower blustered by a harsh winter.
"I only... wanted to see your face happy, some day, Nadia. I had hoped it could be with him... he seemed to understand you, like no other suitor," Lord Havenshire lamented sadly.
"Father, I... I don't know, why he would do this, our day... together, we..." she huffed, exhaling sharply. "I don't understand this. It doesn't make sense! Why would he want..." she held her fists tight, shaking. "I... I can't... Egan!" she shouted through the doorway.
"Nadia, please, as much as it pains me, at least let me have the opportunity of giving you a wedding," Lord Havenshire pleaded.
"I'm preparing a carriage," she said in a flurry," destined for his manor. We're going to discuss this. I'm... I'm sure it's simply a misunderstanding," she murmured. "...Certainly."
But had it been? As she stormed through the halls, barking for Egan to prepare a carriage, she thought on darker things. Had Mary been right? If the man who had her had claimed her virginity and simply left her afterwards, not to speak to her again...
How could you be so stupid? Lady Havenshire asked her, swallowing hard. She had been sweet-talked right into the place that he had wanted her. He had gotten what he wanted - and now he had left.
No. He couldn't have. She would get to the bottom of this.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"Has something happened between you and Lord Beckham, m'lady?" Egan asked, breaking his little, jaunty whistle of his favorite tune. It was a bad time to ask such a question of Lady Havenshire, who had spent hours now as a nervous disaster; she had boarded the carriage with breath heavy and heart throbbing, full of fear and full of rage about the pithy contract that the man she had fallen in love with left behind to be signed. A marriage of convenience. Loveless. Hardly a marriage at all. She found it odd, the more she thought on it, that she had ever thought of such an arrangement as attractive at all! Who would enter into bonds so deeply-held, without love to bind it together? She couldn't believe that he would do such a thing! Hadn't he fallen in love with her, just the same as she had fallen for him? Hadn't he felt that spark, like the flash of flint and tinder against the dried wood, erupt into a heart-gripping fire, just as she had? Hadn't he said those adoring words to her by the light of the raging flames, as thunder cracked and rumbled in the distance, rattling the windows to the cabin?
He'd promised her everything. He'd called her a goddess, and he worshiped her just the same. And now he proposed a loveless marriage, simply for the inheritance of name and title? Her heart hurt, and she fought away tears, spurred on by Egan's poorly-timed question. He glanced back as the carriage pulled through the mountains and rocky pathways leading up the hills towards the Berrewithe estate; seeing redness staining her eyes and flowing along her cheeks, he took sudden alarm.
