Chapter 2 A marriage of Appearance

Beatrice

I still could not believe what I had seen. Yet there I stood beside Abel as the last of the guests prepared to leave, my hands folded tightly before me, my wedding gown dragging at my body like a punishment I had not yet finished paying for. The lace itched. The stays pressed cruelly against my ribs. My veil, still fixed in my hair, felt unbearable now.

My eyes burned, but I would not let the tears fall. If anyone noticed, they mistook the reason for it. A new bride parting from her parents was expected to look sorrowful. A daughter leaving one home for another was allowed her tears. Let them think so. The truth was far worse.

Only moments earlier, I had looked through a half open door and seen my husband with another man. I had not stayed long enough to hear explanations, excuses, or lies. Shock had carried me away before pride could decide what to do. Even now I could still see it too clearly. Abel's hand twisted in the front of that man's shirt, the nearness of their bodies, the unmistakable hunger in the kiss.

And now here he stood beside me as though nothing had happened. That, more than anything, was what I could not forgive. He did not look ashamed. He did not look afraid. He seemed only mildly distant, as though the evening had wearied him and he wished it done. He gave no sign that he meant to speak to me. No look that begged discretion. No hurried attempt at explanation.

Nothing. Everything for this, I thought. Everything for nothing.

Mother embraced me first. Her arms tightened around me for only a moment, careful of my gown, careful of herself.

"You must write," she murmured near my ear.

As if letters could mend what had already been torn apart.

Father kissed my forehead with grave formality. Even now, with the wedding over and the vows spoken, he looked less like a proud father than a man trying to persuade himself disaster had been avoided. Perhaps he believed it had been. Perhaps they all did.

One by one, the guests departed with smiles, farewells, and blessings for a future I no longer wanted to imagine. Laughter faded. Carriage wheels rolled away into the night. The great hall, so crowded only an hour before, seemed suddenly too large. At last, the doors closed.

When I turned, Abel was already looking at me. There was no apology in his face.

"Shall we?" was all he said.

For one foolish, furious second, I wanted to strike him.

Not with my hand. I had been raised too well for such a scene. But with words. With every sharp, ugly truth pressing against the back of my teeth. But his family was still there.

Lady Odessa Fitzgerald stood near the foot of the staircase, tall and severe in dark violet silk, her diamonds cold against her throat. She watched us with the stillness of a woman who missed very little and forgave even less. Beside her, a few remaining relatives lingered with lowered voices and careful eyes, all waiting for the final scene of the evening to be performed properly.

A bride leaving with her husband. A family preserved. A scandal buried before it could rot in the open. I looked at Lady Odessa and thought, bitterly, that she wore pride like armor. Poor woman. She stood there so certain of the son she had raised, so certain of the dignity of her house. Little did she know what her son was. Or perhaps she did. The thought chilled me.

Lady Odessa's gaze moved from Abel to me. "Mary will take Mrs. Fitzgerald upstairs and help her prepare for the evening."

Prepare. The word struck so sharply that I nearly laughed.

A maid stepped forward at once, young and pale faced, with her hands folded before her apron. She did not look at me directly. No doubt she knew what was expected of a bride on her wedding night.

"There is no need, Mother," Abel said. His voice was gentle. Lady Odessa's brows lifted a fraction.

Abel offered her a mild smile and placed his hand lightly at the small of my back. To anyone watching, the gesture might have seemed tender. I felt only the careful distance in it, the exactness, the performance.

"We have each other," he said.

A soft sound of approval came from one of the older women near the staircase. Someone smiled. Someone else looked away with the satisfied embarrassment people reserve for newlyweds. Heat crawled up my neck. I wanted to tear myself from his touch. Instead, I lowered my eyes and smiled.

It was a practiced, pretty thing. A bride's smile. The sort of smile women are taught to wear when their hearts are breaking and men are pleased with how quietly it happens.

"Good night, Mother," Abel said.

Lady Odessa studied him for another moment, then inclined her head. "Good night."

Her eyes came to me.

"Beatrice."

There was no warmth in the way she said my name. Not cruelty either. Only assessment, as though I were a new piece of furniture brought into the house under unfortunate circumstances.

"Lady Fitzgerald," I replied.

Abel guided me toward the staircase. I went because every eye had followed us, and pride would not allow me to give them anything more to whisper about. Step by step, I followed him upward.

At the landing, Abel removed his hand from my back. Only then did I breathe. He led me down a long corridor lit by wall sconces. The flames trembled in their glass covers, throwing shadows against portraits of dead Fitzgeralds whose painted eyes seemed to follow my every step. The mansion felt different now that the guests were gone. Larger. Colder. Less like a home than a place waiting to close its doors around me.

Abel stopped before a set of double doors and opened one. The chamber beyond was grand enough to mock grief. A fire burned low in the hearth. White roses filled a porcelain vase near the window. A silver tray held wine, fruit, and untouched slices of cake. The bed had been turned down, its embroidered sheets gleaming softly in the firelight.

Everything had been prepared for tenderness.

There was none. I stepped inside, and the door closed behind us.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then I turned on him.

"I beg your pardon," I heard myself say, though I had no notion why I should be the one asking it.

Abel's expression remained calm, but I saw something pass through his eyes. Weariness, perhaps. Or guilt. If it was guilt, it was not enough.

"Beatrice."

"Do not say my name as if we are acquainted."

His mouth tightened slightly. "We are married."

"Yes," I said. "That appears to be the chief tragedy of the evening."

A faint breath escaped him. It might almost have been a laugh, had there been any humor in it.

"I know what you saw."

"How fortunate. I feared I might have to describe it."

"You need not."

"No. I suppose the image will remain clear enough without assistance."

He looked toward the fire, then back at me. In the warmer light, he seemed almost softer than he had in the hall. That made me hate him more. Cruelty would have been simpler. Coldness would have given me something solid to push against.

"I am sorry," he said. The words were quiet.

"For being caught?" I asked.

"For letting you be drawn into this."

That stole some of the answer from me. "I never intended to humiliate you."

"Then you failed rather spectacularly."

"Yes," he said.

The simple agreement unsettled me. I had expected denial. Anger. Perhaps even arrogance. Instead, he looked at me steadily, and for one dangerous second, I could almost believe he regretted the wound if not the cause of it.

"I did not want this marriage," he said.

The words landed cleanly between us. I stared at him. He went on in the same soft, even voice. "Not with Daphne. Not with you. Not with anyone."

"And yet you stood before God and half of England and promised yourself to me."

"Because it was expected of me."

"For your family."

"Yes."

"For appearances."

"Yes."

Each answer was a small blade. I looked down at my hands. They were clenched so tightly that my gloves had begun to wrinkle across the knuckles.

"And what am I, then?" I asked. "An appearance?"

"Beatrice..."

"No. Do not soften your voice and expect me to mistake it for kindness."

His face changed at that. Not much. Abel Fitzgerald had excellent control of himself. But I saw it, the smallest flinch.

"I have heard how they speak of you," he said.

My anger faltered, then sharpened. "Have you?"

"Yes."

"Then I am sure you were well entertained."

"I did not say I believed them."

"How flattering."

"I thought," he said gently, "that perhaps you did not fancy marriage any more than I do."

The words struck differently than the others. Not because they were true. They were not. Or at least, they had not been. I had fancied marriage once. I had fancied him. I had imagined his hand in mine and his voice lowered for me alone. I had imagined being chosen so fiercely that no one would ever again wonder why Daphne had not been standing in my place. But he did not know that.

And I would have died before telling him.

"What are you offering?" I asked.

"A practical arrangement." A practical arrangement. That was what my life had become. Not love. Not companionship. Not even desire. An arrangement.

Abel's gaze held mine. "We need not make each other miserable."

"I was not aware there was another option."

"There is."

He drew a breath, and for the first time seemed to choose his words with care.

"To the world, we will be husband and wife. We will attend dinners, receive guests, satisfy our families, and give them no reason to pry too closely. But in private, you may live as you wish."

I stared at him.

"I will not question where you go, whom you see, or what affections you choose to pursue."

My throat tightened.

"Affections," I repeated.

"If there is a man you want," he said quietly, "you may have him."

The words should have shocked me. Perhaps they did. But beneath the shock came something worse, a hollow, spreading sadness.

He was giving me freedom. And making it sound like mercy.

"You are telling your wife she may take a lover on her wedding night."

"I am telling you I will not make a prison of this marriage."

"No," I said softly. "Only a lie."

His eyes lowered.

"Yes," he said. "Perhaps that too."

The honesty of it was almost unbearable. I turned away before he could see my face clearly. The fire blurred. The roses blurred. Everything in that beautiful, hateful room blurred.

I had wanted him once. That was the humiliation I could not name. I had wanted this room, this future, this man. And now he stood behind me offering permission to seek comfort elsewhere, as though my heart were a small inconvenience to be managed discreetly.

"What if I refuse?" I asked.

"Then we shall be unhappy in a different fashion."

A tear slipped free before I could stop it. I wiped it away quickly, furious with myself.

"Will you touch me?"

"No."

The answer came at once. I looked back at him.

Abel's face was calm again, but not indifferent. "Not unless you ask it of me."

"I am sorry," he said again. This time, I believed he meant it. It changed nothing.

I reached up and began pulling the pins from my veil. One by one, they came loose, biting at my scalp before slipping free. At last, the veil fell from my hair and drifted to the floor between us like something dead.

"I see," I said, though I saw nothing clearly anymore. Abel's gaze fell to the veil. Then, quietly, he moved past me and opened the adjoining door.

"My room is through there. I will leave this chamber to you tonight." I almost laughed. "How considerate."

"I am trying to be."

"That may be the saddest part."

He accepted that in silence. At the threshold, he paused. For one moment, I thought he might say something more. Something cruel enough to help me hate him cleanly. Something tender enough to make the night less unbearable.

He said only, "Good night, Beatrice."

Then he left me. The door closed softly behind him. I stood alone in the bridal chamber with the fire burning low, the roses perfuming the air, and my veil lying ruined at my feet.

For a long while, I did not move.

Then I sank onto the edge of the bed that would not be shared and pressed both hands over my mouth to keep from making a sound.

Because if I began to weep, I feared I might never stop.