“What are you going to learn with more time that your heart hasn’a already told you?”
For once in her life the pieces just wouldn’t fall into place for her. All of her normal powers of reason seemed to be completely abandoning her, leaving her vulnerable and unsure—two things she absolutely hated. “You can’t just expect me to choose right here and now. Colin, don’t be unreasonable.”
He crossed his arms, his muscles flexing against the sturdy wool of his jacket. “Of the two of us, I am not the unreasonable one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, you don’t actually. You’ve insulted my integrity, called into question my sincerity, and doubted the depth of my emotion for you. But the one thing you have
“Colin—”
“No,” he said with a decisive sweep of his hand. “I have put everything on the table for you, and you canna even see your way to accepting the sentiment, let alone returning it.”
She pressed her lips together, frustration and anger boiling up. She had every right to be cautious—they had agreed that he was the one who had to prove himself. “Who are you to judge me—”
“Your betrothed, remember?”
The statement fell flat on the floor between them, stopping the argument dead in its tracks.
“As if could I forget.”
Colin’s flint-colored eyes ignited, and he took a step back as if physically attacked. She hadn’t intended the bitterness burning in her battered heart to so vividly color her words, but she couldn’t take it back now.
“I see.” He scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “Well, I guess we know where you stand now.”
Panic welled up within her, but she refused to speak when she couldn’t be at all sure of what she would say. If only she had employed the tactic before she opened her mouth last time.
“Fine. I canna force you to see reason, clearly. Just know that if you wish for the marriage contract to be broken, then you’ll have to be the one to do it. As much as I doona wish to be yoked to a wife who finds my every word suspicious, I won’t open myself up to legal ramifications.”
Her stomach pitched like a storm-tossed ship. How had things come to this? But in that moment, something else occurred to her. If she broke the betrothal, then he would be entitled to sue for the promised dowry. Blast it all, she would drive herself mad, second-guessing herself like this. She had to talk to someone; otherwise she’d have herself tied up in knots in no time.
She had to get out of there, the sooner the better. “Rose,” she called, her voice shaking the tiniest bit. The maid quickly appeared, her book in her hand. “We’re leaving.”
She had thought Colin’s features couldn’t grow any harder, but before her eyes he seemed to turn to stone. His eyes frosted over, and he stared straight ahead as if she weren’t even in the room.
Beatrice motioned for her maid to go ahead of her; then, straightening her spine, she headed for the door, steeling herself to pass by him. She could have stopped. She could have wrapped her arms around him and begged his pardon.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she pushed forward, each tap of her boots on the wood stairs underscoring the chasm opening up between them. She had either just made the best decision in her life . . . or the absolute worst.
Five days.
It had been five torturous days of misery, where Beatrice had done nothing but second-guess herself. But no matter how she looked at it, it always came back to trust. Once compromised, things could never be the same. Naivete couldn’t be reclaimed; innocence could never be rebuilt.
And she had yet to tell a soul about her decision. Her parents and younger sisters had returned to the country, and Evie and Benedict were spending some time with his brother before the rest of them returned home next week. With so much of her family out of touch, she wasn’t prepared to make an announcement that drastic in the form of a letter. No, when they all returned to the Hall for Christmas, she would do it then. In the scheme of things, a couple of weeks really didn’t matter. Colin knew the truth, and that’s what counted at that point.
A sound caught her attention, and she put down her useless paintbrush and looked to the door. The footsteps were long-strided and sure—Benedict was here.
Seconds later, he appeared in the doorway. “Do you have a moment?”
It was not the greeting of a man simply visiting family. His features were neutral, his tone bordering on official. Beatrice came around from the unused easel and pulled off her apron. “Yes, of course, Benedict. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Is something the matter?”
“That depends on how you interpret the information I come bearing.”
Well, that certainly didn’t put one at ease. “Come, have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the old sofa. The morning sun poured into the studio, warming the space far better than even a fire would. That had been a good thing, a few moments ago. Now, a prickle of concern combined with her heavy winter morning gown, making her sweat.
“I could certainly use some good news, Benedict.”
He smiled, his dimple creasing his left cheek. “I can see that. Unfortunately, I have no idea whether you will like or dislike the information I come bearing, but I decided you should have it nonetheless.”
“My, that does sound serious. All right, then, let’s hear it.” She braced herself, completely uncertain of what he could possibly have to tell her. If it was bad news, she was not opposed to boarding the next ship to France for an extended sojourn. Five or so years ought to do it.
“I received a missive today from one of my contacts who I had requested help from last month. There is to be an announcement in tomorrow’s paper, but select private invitations have already been issued.” Benedict leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Evidently, a single portrait is to go to auction next week. Sir Frederick Tate’s final masterpiece.”
Beatrice’s mouth dropped in utter astonishment. He could have just as well said Rembrandt was in town. “A final masterpiece? Does Colin know?”
“Colin is the one who is to sell it.”
The words were like a blow to the chest. “How could that be? He never . . .” She trailed off, unable to comprehend the enormity of the situation. He’d never said a word. She thought back to their meeting, which he had so eagerly arranged the moment he had returned. Was there a significance to them meeting in his father’s studio?
“From what I gather, it is a previously unknown work, discovered at the estate during his recent visit.” He leveled his chocolate gaze on her, taking in her reaction. “There are bound to be questions about why he would choose to sell the work.”
She nodded slowly. Of course there would be. Everyone would think the estate was in trouble—why else would a man sell his newly deceased father’s last piece? But in that moment, it didn’t matter to her. The whole world could think he was a penniless fortune hunter, for all she cared.
Because in that moment, in a sudden, blinding flash of clarity, she knew better.
He had every right to sue if she backed out of the betrothal. He would win, too. She had no case—and more than that, she was quite certain every detail of the settlement had been attended to in order to be certain it was legally binding.
He could ruin her. He could take his rightful settlement, and he could restore his estate. He could choose some sweet bride—a thought that had Beatrice balling her fists into the fabric of her skirts—and move on with his life.
But he wouldn’t.
Her mind reeled, dashing back and forth between their many conversations about Sir Frederick. About how difficult their relationship had been, about how hard things had been. Yet whenever he looked at one of his father’s paintings, his face lit up. She knew he mourned the fact that not a single one had remained with his family, save
