“I would never do such a thing,” he said earnestly. “My respect for your mousetrap of a mind is too great.”
She pursed her lips. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“You will forever wonder if I am complimenting or insulting you, but I promise you this, Lady Beatrice: I never insult you,” he said with honesty and no subterfuge. “I have a great admiration for you, even if you do not believe it yourself.”
She eyed him carefully. “I think that you do in the way that you can.”
“In the way that I can?” He felt as if he was about to have his guts handed to him on a silver platter yet again—and he was growing to like it. It was such a pity he couldn’t have more of her.
Because his body ached for her. Ached like a parched man for cool springs. But since he’d never marry her, he couldn’t have her. No, he couldn’t stretch her out on his bed, as he had in his dreams. He couldn’t strip her stockings from her limbs. Kiss his way up her thighs and give her pleasure whilst slaking his thirst for her.
He curled his hand into a fist behind his back, willing the thoughts of her naked under him out of his disobedient brain. But he’d never wanted a woman he couldn’t have. Surely he could fulfill his promises to her without succumbing to her worst suspicions about men and their desire to assist women?
Yes. He could. He was determined.
He could never love her. He’d never be so irresponsible. But he also knew that to keep himself in check, the only thing he’d ever be able to give a woman like Beatrice was power and distance.
It suddenly occurred to him, much to his horror, that he had just contemplated taking her to wife.
To be his duchess. The mother of his heirs. But he could never offer such cold fare to a woman of such passion. It would ruin her life. And he would be the worst thing for her.
“I know that those words are not a compliment,” he replied at last. “You are always giving me set downs.”
“Because you are a duke, you always need them,” she replied merrily.
He rolled his eyes and laughed, savoring the humor that dissipated the tension in his body built up from that damned desire in which he couldn’t indulge. “I suppose it is good to have a critic,” he said. “So few people, except my enemies, will choose to point out my errors.”
“I shall happily continue to do so,” she assured.
“But are you my enemy?” he sallied. “You keep insisting we are not friends.”
“Indeed, I am not your enemy,” she declared, dropping her hand to her side. “Since I am going to be your family. That would be bad form.”
“Indeed.” She had a strong sense of noblesse oblige. More than most gentleman, he’d wager. He drew in a breath and said softly, “So you shall tell me when I am going amiss so I can know it before my enemies do?”
She laughed, a rueful tone. “Would you give me such an important role?”
“I would,” he replied, taking a step forward, wishing he could close the distance between them entirely. “For I think very few could handle the laying out of my sins with the intelligence, the alacrity, and the wit that you do.” He grinned. “At least sometimes you make me laugh when you point out my flaws.”
“Ha! I have yet to see you laugh when I do so.”
“Inside, Lady Beatrice,” he teased. “I laugh on the inside. Indeed, when you bring me low, I cry there as well.”
“How very terrible for you,” she observed. “One should cry when they feel like crying, and one should laugh when they feel like laughing.”
“Do you?” he queried, not believing for a moment that Lady Beatrice was an open book of feeling. Of wit and anger and merriment, yes. The rest? He was not so certain.
“Of course I do,” she retorted. But then she paused, her brows drawing together. “Except I don’t seem to cry. I don’t cry particularly well in front of people. I haven’t since my parents died. I cried all my tears then, and I have not permitted myself since. It is a rather impossible circumstance of our English existence, is it not?”
He’d lost both of his parents at a fairly young age, but he had not felt an accord with them. Beatrice? When she spoke of her parents? Her eyes lit with admiration and a hint of sadness.
They must have been wonderful. He found himself glad that she had not known the cruelties of his own childhood. Cruelties that would deny him love for the rest of his life.
“True,” he rushed, desperate to shove unpleasant memories aside. He thought of Admiral Nelson. “But ten years ago, men used to cry quite happily in public, carrying about handkerchiefs, pressing them to the tears on their face. Kissing their friends without accusations of foppishness, and, of course, they recited poetry and wrote long, emotive letters.”
She nodded. “Yes, it is a sad thing lost, but along with the colorful clothes of the era, it does seem to be no longer the fashion for men to be emotional. Ladies, either, really. We’re all meant to go about being stoic and great wits, are we not? Though most of us haven’t the wit to please ourselves, let alone a dinner companion.” Beatrice sighed, genuinely at a loss. “I am so sorry. I hope it does not affect you too greatly.”
He stared at her for a long moment.