him released—she felt it in the relaxation of his muscles, saw it in the sudden calm illuminating his gaze. “I’ll tell you everything.”
A soul-stirring serenity seeped into Thomas as he gazed up at Beatrix’s beautiful face. Her pale hair was a tousled mess, a halo of raucous disarray surrounding her angelic features. Tonight had been a revelation.
He twisted his finger in a lock of her hair. “I haven’t taken many women to bed, and it’s been years. For me, that was astonishing. I hope it was the same for you.”
She laughed softly. “You didn’t have to tell me about your experience.”
“Why not? You told me about yours.”
Sobering, she looked away from him. “That’s different.”
He supposed it was, but he didn’t want her to feel bad about a choice she thought she’d had to make. Curling his hand around her nape, he tugged at her to look at him again. “Don’t ever feel embarrassed or ashamed with me. I’m grateful for your openness, your vulnerability.”
Her eyes softened, the green in them a warm, vivid hue. “And I am grateful for yours—and for your support. I haven’t let many people get this close to me. To know me this well, I mean.”
“I understand.” He pulled her head down and lifted his to kiss her. Their lips met and briefly molded together.
Thomas sat up and pulled the coverlet back. She moved with him, and they both slid between the bedclothes. He sat against the headboard and put his arm around her as she nestled into his side.
“I probably shouldn’t have come here tonight, but I needed to see you.” He ran his hand through his hair, scrubbing his scalp. “I didn’t think it through. What if Selina and Harry had been here? It’s their bloody wedding night.”
Beatrix put her hand on his chest. “They weren’t. All is well. Or it will be. You seem like you’re feeling better than when you arrived.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “How can I not?” Truthfully, he felt better than he had in his entire life. He wanted to ignore the anguish pushing at the back of his mind—Bow Street, Thea, all of it.
“I’m glad.” She kissed the base of his throat.
He realized if he didn’t start talking, he might never get to it. His body was already rousing, eager to explore Beatrix once more.
“I lied to you—and to Bow Street—about what happened the night Thea died. You saw that she followed me onto the balcony and that she fell, but I don’t think you saw what really happened. More importantly, you don’t know what happened inside.”
“No, I didn’t. I could tell you were arguing—I could hear raised voices. It wasn’t the first time I heard you. Rather, her. I could always hear her voice, yours less so.”
“She raged about a multitude of things. Regan’s neediness, because she asked her mother to read her a story once in a while.” Thomas heard the unladylike sound clogging Beatrix’s throat and felt her tense.
“What a horrid woman,” she muttered. “Sorry, continue.”
Thomas brushed a kiss atop her forehead. “Thank you for leaping to my daughter’s defense. That means more to me than you could ever know.” Regan, as she would soon learn, was the crux of everything—at least to Thomas. “She also raged about needing more money to pay her gambling debts, wanting a phaeton, which I refused to buy for her, and generally bemoaning her lot in life as a bloody viscountess. More specifically, as my viscountess.”
Beatrix looked up at him. “Do you think she would have been happier with someone else? Some people just can’t find satisfaction in any situation.”
“Thea was one of those people. I don’t know that she could have ever been happy. I honestly don’t know if she could even understand or recognize what that felt like.” He swallowed, gathering his courage to share what he’d only ever told her and had regretted doing so. “My father was the same way. My mother was wonderful—kind, thoughtful, loving. He never appreciated her. Or me.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“She died shortly after giving birth to my younger brother. He died within a few hours, and she perished a few days later. My father insisted she get out of bed and not wallow in grief. He was punishing her for my brother’s death. He looked for any reason to torment her. And, to a lesser extent, me.”
“Oh my God, Tom. How old were you?”
“Ten. Mama was weak. She’d had another stillborn child and a third one only lived to