Kit jumped to his feet and joined her and Ben in an embrace. “We shall always be here for you, dear sister. Even if our brother insists on his path.”
“He’s so bloody determined that none of us should ever be hurt again.” Ben winced. “But damnation. The destruction of his determination is quite a thing to behold.”
Those words silenced her. She contemplated how alone Will must have been for so many years to act so. “I do not think he will change. And I cannot blame him. He warned me before we wed. And like the fool I am, I wed him anyway.”
“Oh, Beatrice.” Ben shook his head. “He’s damned stubborn, our elder.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she dashed them away. “What a coil. I’m a water pot.”
Ben whipped out his handkerchief and dabbed at her face. “A marvelous water pot that we love.”
She nodded, but she could not ignore the unsaid words: even if Will cannot.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What the bloody hell are you two doing?” Ben demanded.
Kit and Will circled each other in the boxing arena.
They were looking for ins. Both ready for a damned good fight.
Will kept his guard up, as did Kit. They both eyed each other, hoping to find a moment, an opening in which they could swing at the other.
“We are taking out our feelings in the only way that men know how,” Will replied drolly.
Ben rolled his eyes. “That is not true. The vast amounts of verse in the history of the canon of poetry suggest that men are absolutely capable of using words to describe their feelings.”
Kit scowled, then jabbed forward.
The punch struck Will’s jaw, and his head jerked back.
He laughed. It felt so damn good. Since his long walk and night with the stars, he’d been thinking. But now? Now, he needed to work it out with his fists.
“Perhaps,” Kit said. “But I do not have adequate words right now to describe my distress at the fact that Margaret is traipsing about town, following Beatrice to every political event and charitable meeting that Beatrice has on her list.”
“You should be damn glad that’s what she actually likes,” Ben retorted. “And let’s be correct. She’s attending those and every art gallery in London.”
Kit scowled again and pulled his guard up, but this time, Will swung in, spun round, and jabbed his fist into Kit’s back. Kit winced, nearly went down to the floor, but bounced up fast and circled around the ring.
It was impossible now not to think of boxing and Beatrice in the same sentence. How he longed for the accord that he’d felt with her that day.
But they could never go back.
No, there was only forward. He had no idea what that would be yet, but he would not hold himself back any longer. Of that he was certain.
And he hoped the same for Kit.
Will had made a complete muck of things with Beatrice.
He cringed at the things he’d said. It had struck him that the best thing he could do was give her and Margaret time. To realize that he was not going to sweep in and attempt to control their every action.
He was a duke. It was difficult not to storm in and make everything right. Or at least the way he thought it should be.
But there was one true thing in all of this. Every damn day without Beatrice was hell; there was no questioning it.
He needed her by his side. In one short month, that had become utterly clear to him. But he had no idea if he could win her back.
He couldn’t go on merely existing. And that’s all he would have without her.