Ewan doubted it, but rationality had long since lost its place in his thinking when it came to the beautiful brunette.
What if there was a tiny speck of a chance that she would somehow need him? If not now, then in the future?
He couldn’t think about leaving when he was desperately clinging to that hope, however vain.
He looked at the ormolu clock on the mantel as it struck the hour. Another night had passed without a wink of sleep.
It was exactly one week until May Day.
Beatrice had talked excitedly about the festivities so much that even Ewan had begun to get excited about them.
He’d listened, fascinated by the blush on her cheeks, the sparkle in her green gold eyes, as she spoke of the procession and the dancing and the crowning of the May Queen.
She might have missed the slight longing in her tone as she told him about the tradition, but Ewan had noticed. He noticed everything about her.
Once more, the memory of her tears flashed in his mind and gnawed at him.
Any pleasure he felt in memories of her excitement was extinguished by the more recent ones of his betrayal.
He had ruined his chances. He knew that. Just as he knew he didn’t deserve a heart as pure as Beatrice’s.
And she didn’t want one as deceitful as his.
But she had it anyway.
“My lady, if you do not take the time to practice, you will never be able to use your musical talents to secure affections. Now. Again.”
It was only sheer force of will that prevented Beatrice from tearing her hair out and screaming at Monsieur Bisset.
Playing the pianoforte wasn’t going to bring Ewan back. Singing like an angel wasn’t going to make her fall in love with someone else.
For a week now, she’d been desperately trying to return to normal. It was no use. She didn’t know what normal was anymore.
In only a handful of days Ewan had insinuated himself into her world, into her heart, and she felt lost without him.
And that made her sick with self-contempt.
How could she love him and miss him after what he’d done?
“S’il vous plait, my lady.”
Beatrice gritted her teeth and began to play as though she were eight years old again.
This was ridiculous.
She stopped abruptly then turned on the stool to face her instructor. Her tormentor, to give the right of it.
“I’m done.”
The diminutive Frenchman frowned at her in consternation.
“But you must—“
“I’m done,” she repeated firmly before standing and moving toward the door. “Monsieur Bisset, I appreciate everything you’ve tried to do. But I don’t need or want these lessons. I’m done.”
Mama would have her head when she found out what Beatrice had just done, but she was past caring.
For the first time in a week, she managed a smile.
Stepping outside into the garden, Beatrice turned her face up to the sun.
She suddenly found her morning free, but she had no idea what to do with it.
No, that wasn’t true. She knew exactly what she would do, just as she knew she shouldn’t.
Natalia had told her to burn the letter ceremonially. To purge Ewan from her mind and her heart. But Natalia didn’t know what it contained, for Beatrice hadn’t even let her dearest friend read it.
The problem was that he wasn’t just in her mind or her heart, she felt as though her very soul were branded with his name. There was no getting rid of him.
Beatrice moved quickly to the small folly by the pond, a favourite place of hers for reading or being alone.
Once seated on the bench, she pulled out Ewan’s letter, crinkled now from the constant folding and unfolding.
When it had arrived the morning after the disastrous ball, she’d been too distraught to read it. That night, however, she’d lain in bed and devoured it with her eyes by the candlelight, her emotions tumultuous and her tears falling freely.
She’d read it every day since.
She knew it practically by heart.
But her eyes skimmed over the strong, masculine handwriting as if seeing it for the first time.
My Darling Beatrice,
I know that I have no leave or right to address you thus, but of the many sins I’ve committed, I doubt this will be considered the worst.
I know that you will read this and believe me every sort of coward for leaving. And you are right. I am too cowardly to see your face again knowing the hurt and pain I’ve caused. I’m too cowardly to stay near to you and be reminded of what I was a part of. Most of all, I’m too cowardly to see you and the understandable disdain for me in your beautiful eyes. Eyes that used to gaze at me with a tenderness that gave me happiness beyond words.
You told me once that you loved me, and fool that I am, I didn’t say it back.
I know the memory of last night will haunt me for the rest of my life. I know that my hurting you will forever be my single greatest regret. And I know that you will one day meet someone worthy of that love. You don’t always believe in your worth but Beatrice, you are a treasure beyond compare. You are kind, and beautiful, and pure, and good, and you deserve to be with someone who is worthy of all of those things.
I wish more than anything that I was that man. That I hadn’t allowed circumstances to make me consider hurting you in such a way. I knew from the first moment I met you in the forest that I couldn’t do it.
You have no cause to believe me, but I tell you with all honesty that I was going to try to make it right. I allowed myself to become distracted by you and what I feel for you. And you found out about my duplicity in the worst possible way.
For that, and for so much, I am sorry.
I won’t ask for a forgiveness I don’t
