A Most Delicate Pursuit (11 page)

Not so with Bea. She would run and jump in, carelessly splashing water on her sister. Of course, Caro would fuss and stomp around, scolding her, but Bea didn't care. Many times she'd enjoyed the bracing fun with the added benefit of torturing her older sister.

Without another thought, she jumped into the water and reveled in the bracing cold. And cold it was. The shock forced the breath from her chest and the very next moment she came up sputtering, her head back above the water. Gasping for air, she made her way back to the spot where she'd left her clothes. She swam to the water's edge, shivering and teeth chattering, to look up into Michael's curious and shocked expression.

“Oh, heavens,” she said, covering her mouth, and curling up into an embarrassed ball of trembling flesh.

“Might I offer you a hand?”

Arms loaded with the cook pots and other assorted utensils, Michael made his way to the stream. Rounding the bushes, he stepped into the clearing and caught sight of the nymph-like figure splashing in the water and knew that he was doomed. To his dismay and delight, he saw Beatrice dive into the chilly water and marveled at how she came up seconds later sputtering and spinning like a dervish. The woman was clearly unbalanced, he thought.

But he had to admire her pluck. That was Beatrice all around. The first to speak up in an argument, the last to give in whenever a problem seemed too overwhelming. She was amazing that way, and though he knew those were qualities that weren't well looked upon in proper ladies' behavior, he had to admit, it made her far more attractive and interesting than any other woman he knew.

No matter what, she hadn't considered one thing when she'd decided to leap into the chilly water: how much colder she was going to be when she got out. Being the proper gentleman he was, and wanting more than anything to tweak her temper, he decided to grab a blanket and come to her rescue.

And, if he caught a glimpse of the magnificent woman, or even the tiniest hint of a glimpse because he was a proper gentleman, after all, then all the better.

It was a beautiful morning, a gentle breeze blowing and a sharp bite to the air. There was birdsong in the distance and the rustling of trees around him. How he loved the woods, Michael thought. It would be so easy to stay here, away from the city and its multitude of angry, judgmental people.

Still, the day was so pleasant, he decided to push those thoughts away and give all of his attention to the sputtering angel that was splashing in the pond.

When he reached the pond, Bea had her back to him, only her head visible above the water. Even from where he stood, he could hear her teeth chattering.

“Raising such a ruckus and you'll be scaring off all the fish.”

“Michael!” She spun around, instantly sinking down to her chin in the water. Her wet hair was piled high on her head, making her look like a soggy carrot, bobbing up and down.

He couldn't hold back his laugh. It'd been a long time since he'd been so entertained. “I saw you and thought you might need this.” He held up the blanket.

“Oh, um, thank you.”

Michael paused before he approached her with the blanket. “Beatrice,” he began, stopping just short of the water's edge.

“Yes?” There was a tinge of fear in her voice. Or could it be something else?

“Marry me,” he blurted out, the words flying from him, the sound of it surprising him as much as it did her.

That hadn't been the plan, he thought. Ash would be furious with him, but it had to be said.

“Michael,” she said, waving him off. “Don't be silly. The blanket, please?”

Well, that was no less than he deserved. “Draw her out,” Ash had said. “Romance her. Women love that.”

And here he was thinking he'd piqued her interest after only one night together.

For a moment he toyed with drawing out their conversation, but then he thought better of it. He wished he'd the courage to act so impulsively, continue to argue the reasonableness of their wedding. However, he well knew the hopelessness of that strategy.

“Of course.” He laughed, as though his paltry proposal had been merely a jest, and he laid the blanket on the bank. “We need to hurry. The sooner we get on the road, the better.”

Earlier that morning, he'd set the animal loose and watched it wander away from the cottage, munching happily at the last few sprigs of grass before winter arrived full force. As he stood there, he realized how much like the season he was. Growing colder inside, feeling brittle and old, waiting for the bleak winter that hovered just at the edge of his thoughts. It had been a long time coming, this change. Michael knew he was at a crossroads. Should he surrender to the bone-chilling winter to overtake him? Or should he find a place to live, safe and warm?

Now, he stood facing the trail ahead of them. Remembering Beatrice, swimming in the freezing water, laughing and enjoying herself, he was reminded of spring and the promise that lived within her. Of course, she wasn't aware of any of it. It was the way of the young and innocent to never know how alive they are until time and experience have robbed them of it.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, he decided on his next course of action. The pursuit of Miss Beatrice Hawkins was proving most difficult.

Embarrassed by her whimsy, Bea sprang from the cold water and into the warm blanket Michael had left nearby. The moment the warm cloth touched her skin, she was reminded of being in his arms. It had been merely hours ago that they had been wrapped up together, sharing a blanket and lying under the stars.

Bea shook herself. There was no time for thoughts like that now. And no reason to torture herself with the memory. She did feel a bit guilty, taking what she wanted from him and then casting him off. If only they were living under different circumstances, where she had say over her future and he was not confined by the constraints of his station. Even though her sister had managed to leg-shackle a duke, there was no reason to believe that she would be able to do the same with Michael. He'd a reputation, after all. No. And despite the vigor of their lovemaking the night before, she was sure he would tire of her before long and move on to his next tryst.

To be fair, she didn't blame him. He was a man, after all. And most of them were that way. Of course, her brother-in-law was one of the few genuinely in love with his wife and Bea knew to her marrow that he would never cast his affections outside their bedroom. But Michael was not Ash, and he'd been single for a very long time.

Or, at least she thought he'd been so. In fact, the truth was she knew very little about him. What harm would it do to ask him about his past? Surely, he'd nothing to hide. Still, she would promise to keep his confidences. And, having something to talk about on their way to Slyddon would kill the deafening silence between them as well as avoid the subject of their own hours spent together the previous night.

Satisfied with her decision, she finished her dressing, forgoing her corset, since she'd no one to help her with the ties and would rather die than ask Michael to do so. That would be a return to intimacy that she'd best steer clear of.

“I'm ready to go,” she announced, finding him in the clearing.

He looked up at her and tilted his head sideways. “Are you, indeed?” He pointed to the pile of clothing she had under her arm. “Sure you won't need those?”

She glanced down at her parcel of the remnants of her shift and corset. “There are plenty of things to wear at Slyddon. Besides, these have seen better days. I abhor wasting anything, so perhaps they can be mended and put to use.”

“Ah, the ever practical Miss Hawkins.” He grinned at her.

She wasn't sure why his tone pricked her temper, but she bit down on the urge to give him a set down. “As a man of means, I'm sure you don't understand the need to be frugal.”

He shrugged. “Your sister's married to a duke, so I would think they would provide for you accordingly.”

“Of course, they do. But Caro and I always donate things we no longer need or use to charity. There are plenty of those with barely any clothes on their backs, you know. It wasn't that long ago before she and I were among them.”

He bowed to her. “My apologies. You've a kind and generous heart. More of us should follow your example.”

In a single act, he'd gained not only her forgiveness but also her admiration. He knew when he'd been amiss and had no problem standing up for it.

Why must he be so irresistibly kind?

Bea shook her head. “I suppose we should get started.”

“I've packed up the cabin should anyone else need to use it,” he said, slinging the pack over his shoulder.

“Good.” Bea started to move ahead of him but he grasped her arm.

“Wait…”

Surprised, she twisted around to look at him. For a moment, she held her breath, sensing that he had something else in mind. Something she desired, too…

“What? Why?”

He let out a breath and then slowly backed away from her, acting as if he'd touched the lit end of a torch.

“I should lead the way. In case there are thieves out there, or worse.”

A twinge of fear twisted in her stomach. “Do you think the men who attacked us are still out there? It's been days.”

He let out a breath. “I agree, if they were nothing but simple highwaymen. If they were sent by Bainbridge, then they could still be waiting and watching the roads.”

“Oh.” She felt light-headed but refused to give in to it. “What shall we do?”

“Fortunately, they don't know these woods as well as Ash and I do. I'll take you in another direction and we'll approach Slyddon from the south. That way, we can slip into the main courtyard and not be seen from the road.”

Bea nodded. “Then, please, lead the way.”

Glad that she'd decided to concede to his reason, Michael relaxed. What he needed was more time to convince her to marry him. Once they arrived at the lodge, Ash and the others would be waiting there, expecting a marriage to take place.

Beatrice could be a stubborn woman. That's what had made her so devilishly appealing, after all. She would be a challenge to the very end.

God help him, Michael loved a challenge.

He'd been certain that once he finally coaxed Beatrice to his bed, he could easily persuade her to enjoy at least that part of their relationship. After all, there wasn't anything more enjoyable than the bedding.

For men, anyway. He well knew that it wasn't always so for the women. Thankfully, he'd learned that pleasuring a woman heightened his own experience.

“It wouldn't be all that bad if you married me, you know.”

They'd been cutting through the thick brush for over an hour. He glanced back to see her disheveled figure following not far behind. Her hair had fallen out of its pins, and her dress had become soiled and tattered from the thick brush around them. She'd gathered her skirt and held it high enough that he could see the lower half of her legs, which now bore several scrapes and scratches.

Eyes narrowed and a bit of dirt on her face under her right eye, she gave him a cutting expression. “What are you talking about? I thought we settled that. I'm not marrying anyone.”

“You've made your position quite clear. I don't agree. I think I'm quite the catch, you know.”

“Really?”

He grinned, enjoying her sharp tone. “I'm not terrible to look at, am I?”

“No,” she said, stepping over a knee-high tree root. “As if I'm so shallow as to let appearance matter. It's the person inside that's important. He has to be kind, for one thing. Responsible, for another.”

“Ah, then, I am the perfect match for you.” He laughed.

“On the outset, perhaps. But believe me, we don't suit. We're far too different, you and I.”

“Different? How so?”

It was a fair question.

She paused, clearly uncomfortable at the turn of their conversation. “You engage in behaviors that are evidence of your poor judgment.”

“My poor judgment? What would those behaviors be?”

She licked her lips, and when she looked at him, she wore the expression of a wounded, cornered animal.

“Your propensity for dueling, for one.”

Stunned, he was taken aback. “Dueling?” He nearly choked. “Wait. What do you mean, I have many faults?”

She huffed. “Of course you have more than one. Most of us do. I know I have no small number myself.”

Michael let out a breath. “Very well. Let's start with my ‘propensity for dueling,' as you call it.” He held up a branch for her to walk under it.

“Yes, let's do.”

She gave him a stern expression, demonstrating that this was one issue that she was steadfast about.

“I haven't engaged in duels all that often. Only two this past year, in fact.”

“One that nearly killed you.”

“It was an accident. I was hit by a piece of flying debris. That could happen to anyone.”

“If one is engaged in a duel, I wholeheartedly agree. Had you avoided the conflict, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now and you would still have both your eyes.”

He looked at her, stunned. Never had anyone questioned his judgment.

Well, no one except Ash, but then he'd never agreed with Michael's choices. That was to be expected, since they held vastly different ideologies.

“I had good reason for my actions. In every instance…”

She held up her hand. “In every instance you gave no thought to your responsibilities to your estates, to your staff, or”—she paused, swallowed a quick breath, and then blurted out—“those who care about you. You toss away their feelings as easily as you scrape the mud from your boots.”

That stopped him so abruptly, she nearly ran into him.

“I'm sure it must seem that way.” As he watched her, he had a startling realization. “You care.”

Exasperation was the only way he could interpret the twisted expression she sent him.

“Of course I do, you dolt. You”—she stopped suddenly, her face turning white as snow—“that is, you're a dear friend of Ash and Caro, and I've come to think of you…”

“You've been thinking of me?” He couldn't keep the grin from his face.

“As a close friend of the family,” she finished quickly, far less resolute than she had been. “Oh, quit grinning at me like a neighing donkey.”

He cleared his throat, doing his best to tamp down his sudden good humor. “I apologize. I was merely trying to grasp your true meaning. Please forgive me.”

“You're forgiven,” she bit out.

A moment of silence passed between them and he handed her the flask of water. He stood, quietly watching her take a drink from it. She then pulled a handkerchief and dabbed at her forehead and mouth. Though she looked as though she might burst into tears at any second, she obviously bit down on her emotions and handed the flask back to him.

Michael knew it was a dangerous course, seeing that she'd nearly reached her limit and considering all she'd been through these past few days. Best to keep the focus on himself and away from her problems, then.

“So, what are my other faults that you think will keep ours from being a successful marriage?”

“Fidelity.”

As if struck by a second arrow, Michael reeled. “Fidelity? Why on earth would you think that?”

She stood unmoving, wrapped in pristine righteousness. “Really, Michael? You can't possibly question that. After all, your reputation…”

“My reputation? What's wrong with my reputation?”

“Dear man, you cannot be so oblivious.”

“I don't think of myself that way, but go on. Enlighten me.”

Beatrice took a deep breath. “You engage in illicit affairs with women with whom you do not care about and are not married to.”

Michael opened his mouth to defend himself, but she didn't give him a chance, barely taking a breath as she spoke.

“I know that this is a common practice among men of the ton, but still, it's morally wrong.”

“I see. Well, I do, on occasion enjoy the company of a lady.” He took a breath. “But, if you think that I don't care for the women I take to my bed, you are sorely mistaken. But, pray, do go on.”

“As I said, you've been with many women…”

“Yes, we've established that, although, truth be known, my bed partners are far less in number than you'd think.”

“How many?”

Damn, the woman was sharp. Offering her a hand to step across a treacherous tangle of thistles, he gave her a careful study. Was she trying to scandalize him even more, or was she, indeed, just curious?

“Three.”

She laughed, a dry, brittle sound. “I can hardly believe that, sir. If you think to gain my affection by lying to me…”

He grasped her hand and gave it a good squeeze. “I'm not lying. I've only taken three women to my bed. Ever.”

Leaning forward, she challenged him. “Name them.”

He bit his tongue. Never had anyone ever questioned him about his love life. In fact, he was quite sure no one ever really cared. Except for Ash, that was. He knew all about Michael and was as tight-lipped as a French spy about it. But this? To be called out about his personal life?

Well, he supposed it really was his fault. He shouldn't have allowed the gossips to extoll on his raunchy behavior. Though, he had to admit, he'd enjoyed playing the rogue in public. It kept the old biddies of the marriage mart off of his coattails at the least.

But now? He couldn't help the rising tide of guilt and shame that washed over him. Of all the things Michael considered himself to be, a coward wasn't one of them. Still, her keen focus set him off his guard. More than that, Beatrice's respect meant a great deal to him. If it meant he had to take responsibility for his actions, then so be it. He would open himself to her and damn the consequences.

“Name them,” Beatrice repeated. She couldn't help herself.

Of course, she hadn't really wanted to call him out like this. After all, how could she hold the man accountable for things he'd done before they were together? Was it really representative of how he would behave during their marriage? Or was he a changed man?

Bea chided herself. Of course everyone knew men followed patterns in their lives. While she'd heard tales of his exploits at every turn, it was usually from sharp-tongued natterers who never spoke well about anyone.

The truth was, there was only one man she truly respected. Ash. He was so deeply in love with her sister that any ninny could see he would never stray from their bed. As evidenced by the next child they were expecting.

Still, that was her brother-in-law and not the man in front of her. She needed to keep her mind on that.

“Miss Lucinda Dalton,” he said.

His words smacked against her. An image of a common, heavily painted lightskirt instantly jumped to her mind. Scantily dressed, she'd have tight red curls and cruel green eyes, and would be leading Michael around by his cravat.

“Tell me about her.” She crossed her arms and stared at him, patiently awaiting his answer. She meant to call him out, after all.