He said, “It is done.”

“How long?” she asked.

He frowned. “How long?” How long had it taken to come to an agreement? How long until they married? She could mean anything.

“How long until I must live with you as your wife?” she asked. In her hand, the rose shook and a petal dropped off, drifting against her skirt. He stepped closer.

“Two months. The wedding will be at Michaelmas.”

She nodded. “Ceci said it would be so.”

“She knew?”

“I do not believe she knew. I think she guessed or reasoned it out. I must show I do not bear Thomas Manners’s child.”

“Do you?” he asked. For the first time he wondered. What would befall them if she was with child?

“I carry no child, of that I am certain,” she replied, staring past him. Her tone was flat, yet full of meaning, meaning he could not begin to interpret.

More than any other woman he knew, she was a mystery to him. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes met his, a question in their depths. He held his breath until she found her answer. He could see, as clearly as if she spoke the words aloud, the moment when she decided not to tell him what she knew.

“I know as any woman does. My courses have not failed me.” She blushed as she spoke, but whether it was because she lied or because she was embarrassed to speak of such intimate matters to him, he could not tell. “But the truth does not matter. It is what men believe is the truth that counts.”

He thought of what he had once believed of her, and what he had learned. Conyers’s arms around her, Conyers’s hands on her breast… In defiance of his good intentions, his mingled hurt and anger spoke. “So a woman may betray her promises and it counts for nothing if no one knows.”

“Or a man,” she said sharply, anger flashing like lightning. And, like lightning, it was gone almost more quickly than his eye could see. She sighed and lowered her head. “Is this how you intend to use me? To remind me at every turn of my sins?” Her voice was weary and her mouth, half hidden by the turn of her head, curled down at the corner.

“No,” he said. “It is not what I intend.”

“Can we not make peace between us, Sebastian?” She raised her head and looked into his eyes. “I do not want to quarrel with you.”

“Nor I with you. But I do not see how we may avoid it.” Not when she said things that provoked him to unkindness, provoked his unruly, cutting tongue to mischief.

She lifted the rose to her face, brushing its petals against the tip of her nose, but he did not think she smelled its sweetness, not with the distance in her eyes.

“Ceci has courage,” she said.

“She does.” He frowned. On the face of it, her remark had nothing to do with his statement, but he did not think them unrelated. He waited for Beatrice to reveal the connection.

“She dares to do things I never dreamed,” she went on, “and in doing so, she fires my courage.”

Courage to do what? He wanted to ask, but something, some angel or demon, held his tongue still.

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. Once again, he saw the thoughts moving in her eyes, calculating, weighing him. When she looked away, he knew she had once more chosen to hide her thoughts from him. The morning, the afternoon, the rest of his life darkened; there would always be silence, things unspoken, between them.

“Forgive me, Sebastian.” Her voice was harsh, as if she forced the words out. His jaw clamped shut and his mouth tightened. What new game was this? What if it was not a game? He could not think, could not gauge her honesty. “Forgive me for Conyers and forgive me for betraying my husband by intention if not by action.”

Her offenses were not against him and not for him to pardon even if he could. The man who could pardon her lay in his tomb. “Do not ask this of me.”

“You cannot forgive me?” she cried, crumpling the rose in her hand. Its scent, heavy and piercingly sweet, clogged the air.

He spoke through teeth that would not unclench. “I have nothing to forgive. You did me no harm.”

“If I did you no harm, then why are you so angry with me? Why do you hate me so?” Her face between the dark folds of her hood was stark pale, whiter than it had been before, her lips colorless.

“I do not hate you,” he said.

“Liar,” she said softly. Her mouth trembled as though she might start crying, but her eyes were cold, colder than he had ever seen them. Their chill bit through him.

“I do not hate you,” he said again. He was angry with her, angrier than he had yet been, and he did not know why. “I despise you.”

The words hung in the air; he could not snatch them back. She caught her breath and then nodded. “So.” She opened her hand and rose petals fell to the ground like snow. “We are good company, after all. You cannot despise me as much as I despise myself.”

Without curtsying, without asking for leave, she turned and walked away.

“Beatrice.” He had not meant to say he despised her; that was too simple a name for what he felt.

He did not know what had driven her attempted apology—did she try to cozen him, or had she simply wanted to have done with her past?—but in spurning it he had also refused the chance to alter their demeanor toward one another. And he had spurned it in the harshest manner he knew how.

If he had simply accepted her apology, could he have put an end to their endless quarreling? He did not know, but perhaps it was not too late.

There was only one way to find out. “Beatrice!”

H urrying down the path toward the river’s edge, Beatrice clenched her fists, trying by force of will to stop trembling. She did not know if she shook with anger, fear or hurt; it was all the same to her. Emotion caught her up and carried her away, a flood smashing through the barriers she had built to protect her heart.

“Oh, God, what shall I do?” she whispered. Her hard-won control was gone.

She had tried to make peace between them, but Sebastian had wanted none of it, throwing her effort to ease his fury back in her face. If he would not make peace with her, she could see no help for them. They would live and die at odds.

When Thomas had died, she had felt as if the walls of her prison had fallen down, releasing her from darkness into the light of day. She had not cared how she would live the rest of her life, only glad she would never again wait with one ear cocked for the sound of his curses, one eye open for his oncoming fist. Then, just as she was ready to begin considering the rest of her life, John had come home and this new disaster had overtaken her.

“Beatrice!” Sebastian shouted.

She knew she ought to turn—no doubt he would be angry if she did not—but she could not make herself stop and face him. Not while she fought to calm her turbulent soul.

“Beatrice!”

A few of the men working in the beds along the riverbank straightened and stared. Behind her, she heard swift footsteps on the path. A hand grabbed her arm and swung her around.

“Beatrice, did—”

She flinched, head jerking back, muscles tensing as she braced herself, arm flying up to protect her face. It happened so quickly, she did not have time to stop herself.

Sebastian’s fingers on her arm loosened but did not let go. “Beatrice!”

She lowered her arm, her cheeks hot. Why had she reacted so? She knew Thomas was dead, his senseless blows in the grave with him. She had nothing to fear while in her father’s house, so why had she revealed so much to Sebastian?

“Did you think I would strike you?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her breath shallow. She could not speak of this, not to Sebastian. I will master myself.

“No, I did not,” she gasped, unable to catch her breath. All the air in England, sweet and foul alike, would not be enough to fill her.