Matilda’s hands dropped. Christian felt his heart fall the same way—a helpless plummet in his chest.
“Leave me alone,” said Bea fiercely. “Leave me alone to think—”
And then she turned on her heel and ran away, the paint-spattered hem of her dress fluttering blue and white in the dappled light of the hall.
When Bea had not returned to the house by late afternoon, Christian was worried.
By early evening, he was out of his mind with fear.
Matilda had counseled patience, and he’d listened. “She said she needed time to think,” Matilda had said, and bit her lip. “You should respect her wishes in that. Give her time, Christian. She’ll come back soon, and then you can speak to her.”
It had seemed like wisdom when the sun was still bright overhead. Bea liked to paint on the beach, he knew. Perhaps she had tucked herself into her cove with a thick woolen blanket. Perhaps she’d gone for a long ride upon her sorrel gelding.
He’d had hours—plenty of hours—to castigate himself for all the many ways that he’d failed. Again.Again.He had tried to grasp what he wanted and instead he’d put the people that he loved at risk. He was selfish—he was so goddamned selfish. He did not know if he should have declared himself to Matilda weeks ago or if he never should have spoken to her.
But that thought broke his stupid heart.
He’d used his hours to compose an apology to Bea in his head. To practice the words he would say to her. And to Matilda.
But then a light rain had begun to fall, and then rain had turned to tiny pellets of ice. The sun had started to tip down, and Christian lost all pretense of reason. He could no longer persuade himself that Beatrice was enjoying a brisk afternoon by the seaside.
He could no longer pretend to himself that waiting here, safe and warm by the fire, was the right thing to do. Bea could be hurt. She could be frightened. She could be somewhere out there, alone and injured, because ofhim,his failures again, hurting the people he cared the most about.
“I should go,” he said. He stood up on legs he could not quite feel.
Matilda stood with him. They’d been closeted in Bea’s studio—hoping she might return there first—and Bea’s paintings were everywhere, looking violent and vibrant even in the shadowed corners of the room.
She pressed her hand to his, a quick squeeze of his fingers. “I think you’re right. We should go in pairs, probably. Mrs. Perkins will know better than I how many grooms can help us search—”
Terror clawed at his ribs. “No.No.”
She paused, arrested in her quick strides toward the door. “I’m sorry?”
“You cannot go. You—you—”
It was tangled in his mind: Matilda, her bright hair a flare against the snow. Grace’s chilled body. Bea—little Bea, cold somewhere and alone—
He tasted blood in his mouth.
“I will take the grooms,” he said. “All the grooms. We’ll go in pairs. But you must stay.”
Her chin went up. “I’m worried too. I cannot simply sit here—”
He cupped her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her cheekbones. “Please,” he said hoarsely. “Please stay.” He tried to think of words to convince her. He tried to think of something that made sense. “I need you to be here if she returns.”
She stared up at him, skepticism plain in her blue gaze. But finally, she nodded.
He felt a powerful surge of relief, and then a twin stab of fear for his sister. He bent down and kissed Matilda’s hair, her cheek, her mouth. “Thank you.”
He looked back once, before he hurried from the room. Matilda stood, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her hands open and helpless at her sides.
Chapter 18
It was full dark when Matilda found Beatrice.
They had searched the mansion first, before Christian and the grooms had plunged out into the hideous icy precipitation. They had asked all the staff if they’d seen Bea, had checked every room and closet and wardrobe to no avail.
But after Christian had gone, Matilda had decided to search again. It was that or go mad with impatience and fear.
