Page 46 of Memories Made At Midnight
The point was moot.
He was determined to continue on the path that Providence had steered him down.
Sighing, he laid his head against the relatively clean seat back but didn’t permit himself to sleep. He must remain alert. Highbury’s man had found them far too easily, which confirmed Cassius’s suspicions that the earl spied on his niece.
His stomach tightened at the repugnant thoughts.
Likely, the wretch had bribed someone at the coaching inn too.
Should he ever have the misfortune of meeting the Earl of Highbury again, he’d plant the blackguard a facer, that would break his perfectly straight aristocratic nose. Not usually given to violence, Cassius shook off the unpleasant musings and directed his focus to the passing bucolic scenery.
Black-faced Shropshire sheep and white-faced, rusty-colored Hereford cattle dotted the Midland’s verdant meadows and rolling hills. Occasionally, a low moo or bleating baa sounded in the distance. A pair of turtle doves took to wing as the coach lumbered past. The distinctive whir, whir of their flight, only enhanced the early afternoon’s tranquility.
Beatrice murmured something in her sleep, and he caressed her face with his gaze.
It was the only caress Cassius would ever give her.
She wasn’t his obligation, but how could he leave her to Highbury’s evil designs?
Cassius considered himself a godly man who tried to do what was right. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but who was?
To abandon her was unthinkable. Unpardonable. Unconscionable.
Many men would have done so without a qualm.
The truth of it was, he could never forgive himself.
Regardless, once they arrived at the Latham ducal estate, he meant to turn her over to his parents’ care and wash his hands of her. Mother liked nothing better than coming to some unfortunate soul’s rescue. Father would use his considerable influence to ensure Beatrice not only claimed her inheritance, but Highbury left her alone.
Cassius’s major regret in passing Beatrice’s care to his parents was he would not finish her portrait.
Keep telling yourself that lie, and you might just come to believe it.
Nevertheless, nothing could compel him to risk his heart again, and the more time he spent with Beatrice Fairfax, the greater that possibility became. In the last few days, there’d been too many moments with her, where something tried to take root and sprout into an emotion beyond sympathy and compassion.
He curled his hands into fists.
By God, he could not allow that.
No, he would not open himself to that kind of pain and suffering ever again.
Beatrice is not Constanza.
He shoved the unwelcome thought aside.
It didn’t matter.
Besides, hadn’t he already done far more for Beatrice than most people would have done?
Indeed, Cassius had.
He owed her nothing else.
Given this unexpected interruption to his painting schedule, he’d likely not have enough paintings completed for the exhibition.
He accepted the situation for what it was rather than become vexed or disappointed.
There would be other shows.
