Beckman: Lord of Sins

“She did the chickens for me instead. I don’t think she’s cut out to be a housekeeper. She will always choose the outdoor task over the indoor task.”

“You’re outside plenty.” Polly rinsed out a washcloth, and started going over the counters one last time while Sara did the same with the table.

“I am, but if I were keeping house in a less rural setting, say in Bath or York, I’d be a creature of the house, and the maids and footmen would be the ones beating the rugs and so on.”

“And are you thinking Bath or York might bear consideration?”

She was. With a third polite, ominous letter from Tremaine, Sara was indeed thinking of housekeeping elsewhere. Sara glanced at Polly over her shoulder and saw her sister expected an answer.

“When did you get so perceptive, little Polonaise?”

“When I turned sixteen. I do not want to leave here, Sara. The place is just coming to life, and Allie is comfortable here.”

“She doesn’t know any better.” Sara finished the table and draped her rag over the back of a chair. “Would you be as attached to Three Springs if North weren’t here?”

“Would you be as anxious to leave if Beckman weren’t here?”

“Ouch.”

“Yes.” Polly wrung out her rag within an inch of its wet little life. “Ouch.”

“I don’t think North will stay much longer, Polly.” Sara kept her tone gentle, though she hurt for her sister.

“I’m counting on him leaving.” Polly crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “Not really counting on it, but assuming it will come to pass. I just hope…”

“There was your first mistake.” Sara surveyed the kitchen tiredly. “No hoping, Polly, you’re less likely to be disappointed that way.”

“What a cheerful lady you’ve become. Since your little visit to Portsmouth, you’ve been distracted, Sara.”

“Since getting Tremaine’s first letter.”

Polly studied the pots that hung from the rafters like so many weapons in an armory. “So answer the man. Don’t give him an excuse to come calling and start charming Allie away from all good sense.”

“God in heaven.” Sara’s expression blanked with dismay. “You don’t think he’d follow in Reynard’s footsteps?”

“If he follows in any of Reynard’s footsteps,” Polly rejoined darkly, “I’ll cook him a meal he won’t live to digest.”

Polly took herself off to bed on that note, leaving Sara to deliver the various piles of clean laundry around the house. But Sara considered the prospect of trundling up and down several sets of steps, several times, and possibly running into Beckman—polite, friendly Beckman, whose eyes in the days since they’d been to Portsmouth always held a hint of a question—and decided Allie could handle that chore in the morning.

Allie could not, however, write a reply letter to Tremaine St. Michael.

Directing her steps to the library, Sara tried to draft the letter in her mind. She got out pen, paper, sand, and ink, and stared at the blank page, then managed, “Dear Tremaine.”

Dear Tremaine? Dear?

“I thought you’d be in bed by now.” Beckman stood at the door, looking tired, damp from his nightly soak, and wary.

Sara gave him a tentative smile. “Trying to see to some correspondence. Do you need the desk?”

“Just some ink.” Beck sidled into the room and propped a hip on the desk, surveying her. “So how fare you, Sara Hunt?”

The question was there in his eyes, and a hint of concern too. Sara stared at the inkwell rather than look on either. “I’m tired. You?”

“Tired as well. May I ask you a question?”

She braced herself for some scathing inquiry, though his manner was not belligerent. “Of course.”

“It’s been nearly two weeks since we returned from Portsmouth.” He picked up the inkwell, a once-elegant little silver bottle dented with age and use. “Was that single weekend to be the extent of your frolic with me, Sara?”

Sara felt the civility of that question, the dispassion of it, start minute fractures in the region of her heart. “I told you we weren’t to attach significance to our dealings, Beckman. You knew that.”

He set the inkwell down just out of her reach on the desk. “Sara, I’ve missed you.”

The fractures cracked so abruptly Sara was surprised her pain wasn’t audible. “You see me at every meal. I see you.”

“You look through me at every meal,” Beck said. “If you are not interested in continuing our liaison, then you have only to tell me. I will leave you in peace, if that’s what you want.”

“What I want…” What she wanted was impossible, particularly with Tremaine’s threat hanging ever closer. She rose, that being necessary if she was to leave the room—and the man sharing it with her.

“What do you want?” Beck prompted, closing the distance between them. “Tell me what you want, Sara, and I’ll do what I can to see you have it. I’ll leave if you like, though I’d as soon not abandon Three Springs yet.”

“I don’t want you to leave.” She was positive—certain—of that much, but only that much.

“Let me hold you.” Beck didn’t wait for her permission but took the last step between them and enfolded her in his arms. He urged her against his body, and Sara slipped her arms around him.

God in heaven, she had missed him. More than she knew, more than was rational.

“Better,” Beck murmured, his hands moving over her back. “Talk to me, Sara. Put your arms around me and talk to me.”

Her tired brain started making a list: His bergamot scent, his heat, his strength, and the way he pitched his voice. His blue, blue eyes, the way firelight caught red highlights in his golden hair.

“I’ve missed you too.”

“What else? You missed me, but you’ve not wanted to let me know it, Sara. What else is going on in that busy mind of yours?”

She shook her head and held him more tightly.

“I have a few things for you.” Beck slid his fingers around her wrist. “Things I meant to give you in Portsmouth, but the moment never presented itself. Nothing of great value, but they aren’t items I can use or give to another.”

She wavered, and he waited. He didn’t tug on her wrist, wheedle, or start in kissing, any one of which would have given her something to brace her resistance against. Instead, he held her with silent patience.

Sara’s objections—she had them, surely she did—tossed down their weapons and limped off the field of common sense.

He held her hand as they passed through the house.

“This place is positively sparkling,” he said, “and the gardens and lawns have come along as well.”

This was the cunning flattery of a man who knew that a woman kept house so that others might enjoy the results.

She returned fire as best she could. “To say nothing of the acreage. You and North have been working miracles, but I never noticed North’s tendency to be contrary before you arrived. He delights in it.”

“He’s not used to taking orders or having anybody to discuss his ideas with. We’re reaching accommodations, but it’s an education for us both.”

Sara glanced around his sitting room and moved to light some more candles. “Because you are used to being listened to?”

“Leave them.” Beck took the taper from her hand. “And yes, Sara Hunt, I am used to being listened to, at least when I’m on the earldom’s business. But you are my business now, and the silence between us is not comfortable. Come.”

Beck led her by the wrist into his bedroom, then rummaged in his wardrobe to retrieve some packages. He put them on the bed, sat on the mattress himself and patted the place beside him.