“I shan’t,” she said, crossing to him and crouching down. “You have drunk yourself into a stupor, feeling sorry for yourself, because you do not understand Margaret’s decision.”
“She’s here, isn’t she?” He gazed upward, his voice thick. “I can sense it. She’s upstairs.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Focus, Kit. Focus. Do you actually love her?”
He snapped his dark gaze back to her, his russet hair flopping over his forehead. “I love her greater than the sun, greater than the moon.” And then he said, “Doubt thou the stars are fire? Doubt that—”
“No, no, Kit,” she cut in, not having the patience. “Do not launch yourself into Shakespeare. Whilst I love the Bard, this is not the moment to use his words. Use your own.”
“I love Margaret more than I can possibly say,” he said honestly. “I felt so alone until I met her. Her smile, her eyes—”
She groaned and grabbed his hand, willing him to finally understand her point. She clasped his big, warm palm and gazed into his eyes, which resembled a poet’s at present. She sighed, resigned she was going to have to get past his romantic notions to the core of his love. “No, no, Kit. Not her smile, not her eyes, not her beauty. Those are not things that will indicate that you love Margaret. Those are all physical; those will fade. What do you love about her?”
He gaped for a moment, apparently astonished by this idea.
Blowing out a breath, he easily began, “I love the way that she always sees people in their best light, how she always trusts that the darkest situation shall see the rise of the sun, how she always feels that things will turn out well, how she lifts people’s spirits whenever she walks into a room, how she adores the written word, how she adores dancing…”
“Then you must tell her,” Beatrice rushed, squeezing his hand, feeling hope for the first time that it might not end in total tragedy. Indeed, she felt far more hope for him than she could for herself. “You must tell her how much you love her and why, for right now she does not know if she is loved for herself or if she as loved as an ornament. And it is a very confusing thing for a young lady, for we are taught to be nothing more than our smiles. You must love her for more than her smile, Kit.”
“I do,” he swore. “So much.”
“Then do something about it,” Beatrice said tightly. Wishing the man she loved had not so easily run away. But he had, because, just as he had insisted, he did not love her.
He never would.
“Goodness,” Kit said. “You really are fierce about this, aren’t you?”
“It is your life,” she pointed out, a bittersweet smile tilting her lips. “Would you wish me to be less?”
“No,” he confessed. “Now. Would you be so kind as to get me—”
“No, Kit,” she said quickly, patting his hand. “I will not sort this out for you. You must do it yourself. But I have ordered you beef tea, which will at least get you started. You shall take care of yourself.”
She looked away, her own sorrow heavy again now that Kit seemed to be on his way. “If only Will were sorted out so easily.”
Ben strolled in behind them. “Yes, Will is in quite a state.”
“I’m glad you agree,” she said, standing. “I’ve never seen him like that. In fact, I had no idea he could be like that.”
“Nor I,” Ben agreed, worrying his lower lip.
“Do you think it’s because he’s finally been defied as a duke?” Kit asked.
“No. It is far worse,” she whispered.
Ben nodded, his face creased with worry. “I do not think he’s felt so much since he was a boy. Before Mama left us. It’s an age-old wound. He’s been covering it for years, and finally it’s coming to the surface. I hope to God he doesn’t really destroy everything because of it.”
Beatrice dropped her gaze, wondering if her own future was slipping away with Will’s wounds. “I hope so, too. I don’t know if I can bear it.”
Ben crossed to her, and, much to her amazement, he folded his arms about her. “I hope you don’t mind me giving you a hug.”
“Not at all,” she said, her voice straining suddenly. “I could actually use one.”
“Beatrice, we all love you,” Ben said, holding tightly to her. “We all adore you, and he loves you, too, if he can but admit it.”
“No,” she lamented. “I don’t think he does.” A bitter laugh rolled over her lips. “Everyone loves me but the man I love. The irony is terrible. But I will not be so foolish as to not value my friends.”
Ben did not argue or try to convince her that Will would come to his senses. A sob tore from her throat, and much to her horror, she buried her face against Ben’s chest. “F-Forgive me.”