Authors: Katharine Ashe
Captive Bride
Published by Katharine
Ashe
Copyright 2012 Katharine
Brophy
Dubois
Cover design by Karrie Matthews
Interior layout:
www.formatting4U.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author
at [email protected]
. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead,
is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For more information on the author and her works, please see
http://www.KatharineAshe.com
This book is also available in print from online retailers.
To my author friends.
I love you dearly.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Excerpt from
How
To
Be a Proper Lady
Excerpt from
How a Lady Weds a Rogue
CHAPTER
ONE
“No, Lord
Cheriot
, I will not marry you.”
The gentleman’s emerald gaze, fixed on Beatrice
Sinclaire
clipping roses with steady hands, was not wide with surprise. Neither was it awash in pain, shadowed with hopelessness, or taut with longing. Nor were the eyes that followed her movements skeptically sharp, calculatingly narrowed, or enigmatically hooded. Instead, the gentleman appeared perfectly at ease.
Anticipating this odiously measured response, of course, had shaped Bea’s
reply
in the first place.
The ribbons on her straw hat fluttered in the late autumn breeze. She tilted up her chin toward her suitor. “But I thank you for the offer.”
His smile stretched wide across a handsome face made all the more appealing by the expression.
“You say that every time.
Exactly the same words.
Heaven knows I have invented at least a half dozen— no, I’ll merit, a dozen different ways to beg your hand. But you haven’t bothered a bit to spice up your response with variety.” The baron’s merry gaze shifted to a bob of rusted blooms at his elbow. “You’ve missed a few here, Bea.”
“If you please, my lord, I prefer you to address me as propriety demands.”
“Oh, if you insist,
peagoose
.”
His eyes sparkled. “Miss
Sinclaire
, that is.”
“Thank you, Lord
Cheriot
.” The clippers opened and closed in even efficiency between Bea’s fingers. Brown-edged and limp-
petaled
, spent roses dropped to the carpet of green at her feet.
“Thank you, Lord
Cheriot
,” the tall, impossibly broad-shouldered gentleman echoed as he wandered to a wrought-iron bench settled amidst shrubs thinned of their gold, pink, and white treasures. Lifting the tails of Weston’s best bottle green superfine coat with unself-conscious grace, he reclined upon the incommodious seat as though it were covered in down-filled cushions. His long legs stretched out in an attitude of insouciant serenity. “If I were a man to be driven mad, Miss Beatrice
Sinclaire
, you surely would have accomplished the thing by now.
In spades.”
“Then I am glad you are not so predisposed. I do enjoy your company, and I don’t believe inmates of Bedlam are permitted visitors.”
“I should think a fellow’s wife ought to be allowed to visit him once in a while,”
came
the quick rejoinder. “You know, I won’t let up asking. And when you have finally accepted me, I will insist that you call me Tip. Or perhaps I would like my given name better from you. A fellow ought to have a say in that sort of thing.” He paused. “And I will call you Bea whether you like it or not.”
“You’re sounding rather boorish, you know.”
Tip snorted a laugh. A wavy, dark brown lock tumbled forward over his eyes.
“No wonder you won’t marry me. Never mind the Lord
Cheriot-ing
you are so fond of. Why, to hear the way you speak to me, a stranger would think I was your brother.”
Firming her smile, Bea allowed her fingers to slow and her gaze to slip sideways beneath her hat brim. His attention was settled upon her, his brows high, quizzing.
She swallowed a sigh.
If only he
were
her brother. If he were Thomas, he would not insist on asking for her hand
in marriage, a habit Tip had formed early in their friendship just after Bea’s sister,
Georgianna
, broke his heart by marrying her childhood beau. And if Tip were her brother, instead of teasing her ceaselessly as he did every time he came to Yorkshire, he would busy himself haring off on some wild escapade, spending his allowance inappropriately, and making trouble for the family. Most especially, if he were her brother she would not have harbored for seven interminable years the consuming wish that he would once look at her and see
her
, rather than a poor reflection of her lovely, brilliant sister.
Alas, Lord Peter
Cheriot
was not related to Bea in any manner, despite his repeated proposals of marriage. But Bea had lived a lifetime of loving too well those who did not love her well enough in return. She simply could not bear for Tip to settle for her while ever after longing for a woman he could not have.
Nearby, the shrubbery rustled and the butler stepped through a gap in the hedge.
“Miss Beatrice,” he said in a wobbly, harried tone. “I have been searching for you all about the place.”
“Really, Perkins?”
Familiar tension ticked Bea’s stomach. Her mother must be especially tetchy for Perkins to fret so greatly that he would come all the way to the garden and speak to her so forthrightly.
Tip slouched back into the bench as the old servant approached.
“This just arrived, miss. It is from Master Thomas.
In
Wales
.”
He nodded knowingly.
“Wales?” Bea reached for the letter. “Thank you.”
Perkins disappeared, this time through the rose trellis, a man relieved of a heavy burden.
“Thought your twin was on a repairing lease in Scotland, not Wales,” Tip commented as Bea pried open the wax seal. “What scrape has he gotten himself into now?”
“I hardly know,” she murmured, chancing another look at her companion. Lord
Cheriot
seemed to be absently studying the roses hanging over his shoulder. Then the words scribbled across the page seized her attention.
A handful of silent moments later, moments marked with Bea’s churning emotions, she again met Tip’s gaze.
He
swallowed,
a visibly hard movement of his throat above his elegantly knotted cravat.
“You’ve got the damnedest eyes, Bea,” he said in a strange voice. “Very pretty, I mean― Have always admired . .
.
Miss
Sinclaire
?” He rose with a jerk from the bench and moved forward. “Bea? What is it? You have that look your sister used to get when―”
Bea’s knees wobbled and she reached out for support. Her palm caught on a thorn. She gasped and grabbed it to her waist, and her whole body wavered toward the bush. Tip grasped her shoulders.
“Here now, my girl.” His light grip steadied her.
Bea gulped in a breath. The shallow scratch on her skin would surely stain her favorite lemon muslin. But she had accomplished what she wished by wearing the fetching gown. He had offered for her again. However much she knew he did not mean it sincerely, she liked to hear the words. His voice was so lovely and deep, his smile breathtaking.
He hovered close, his hands wrapped around her arms. Bea’s heart beat in quick little flutters like the wings of hummingbirds that darted about her garden. She drew out of his hold and straightened her back, hiding the letter in the folds of her skirt
.
“Dear me,” she said. “I daresay I have been standing too long concentrating on my task. I will catch my breath and then go in for a cup of tea. Will you join me, my lord?” She made to turn away.
A firm hand impeded her.
“Oh, no you don’t, missy. I saw your face. And I never even imagined you were capable of swooning.”
“I didn’t swoon. I became momentarily dizzy due to the sun.”
Tip frowned. It didn’t in the least mar his easy good looks. It would be a great deal easier to withstand her feelings for him if he weren’t so dreadfully handsome.
And kind.
And solicitous.
And . . .
him
.
“What is it this time?” he said. “Is he in the suds again and calling for your pin money to square him with the sharps? Lord, the fellow will never learn.”
“No, Tip, it isn’t like that. Thomas is not in debt again. Well, he is, of course, or he would be in London now instead of Wales. But that is not why he has written.”
His mouth turned up in the slightest grin and his hand slid from her shoulder to the letter tucked in the flimsy yellow fabric of her skirt. Bea gripped the paper tight. His gaze met hers. A mere breath separated them. Tip’s dark green eyes looked oddly intense.
With a little breath of panic, she released the letter.