Captive Bride (16 page)

No answer met his knock. He set his jaw and turned the latch.

Moonlight crept through partially drawn curtains, but no woman sat at the dressing table or lay upon the bed. Tip’s heart beat uncomfortably fast. He drew the door closed and started up the corridor again.

He found her in the dining chamber. She stood before a window, looking out onto the dry moat and hill sloping out from the side of the castle. Bluish-silver light illuminated her hair caught up in a knot, glinting off the satiny tresses like river water at night and caressing her lovely neck and graceful collarbone. The moonlight defined her figure in silhouette, tracing each gentle curve, her gown a mere glove upon her intoxicating body.

Tip took a long breath.

She looked over her shoulder, hesitating before turning to him fully.

“I thought you meant to avoid me after all,” he managed to say in what sounded to him like an unremarkable tone. It must have been, because she remained perfectly placid. Entirely unlike earlier when her eyes sparkled with emotion and he had to struggle not to drag her into his arms.

Good. Her return to normalcy would make this easier.

“I did. But then I changed my mind,” she replied.

“I’m glad.” He crossed the chamber, folding his hands behind his back. Better to trap them than use them impulsively. He didn’t entirely trust himself. “I hoped we could speak. Actually, I hoped I could speak, if you will hear me out.”

Her brow furrowed, but she nodded.

“We have never quarreled before, in my recollection,” he began, winning a flicker of her lovely lashes. “Frankly, I didn’t believe it was possible. No, wait—” He held up a palm as her lips parted. “I am many unenviable things, but intractable is not one of them. At least concerning most matters,” he added.

She looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“You expressed yourself very clearly this afternoon, and I was a
boor
about it. I apologize for that.”

She took her soft lower lip between her teeth. Tip’s temperature inched a notch higher.

“Thank you, I think,” she said. “I can tell you are about to add ‘but,’ aren’t you?”

“Not in the least. I have no intention of backtracking on that apology.”

“Unintentional backtracks do occur occasionally.”

“Then let them, if you will. They will not come in the way of our friendship.”

She blinked but did not speak. Her eyes were luminous and rich in the moonlight. He could lose himself in those lucent eyes and never wish to find his way out again.

“I realize it has been barely a
sennight
since I last requested your hand in marriage,” he said, tightening his fingers together behind his back. “This evening, however, I understand matters
between us somewhat differently.”

“I should hope so,” she said, her voice unusually thin
.

“I believe more firmly than ever that we should suit, Bea.” He had to unbind his hands to get on one knee, but he trusted in his newfound sense of measured calm that he would be able to restrain himself from employing them inappropriately.
If they could speak civilly so soon after a tremendous row, he could contain his lust.
At least for a while.
“Will you marry me?”

Her entrancing eyes popped wide and her delectable mouth fell open.

“Are you
insane
, Peter
Cheriot
?”

“Not yet.” He hoped she meant the question rhetorically. His heart lodged in his throat. “And I fully intend never to be. Marry me, Bea.”

Her expression grew if possible more astonished. “Didn’t you hear a word I said this afternoon?”

“Every one of them.”
Except perhaps a few.
He’d been excessively distracted by the pressing need to throw her on the floor and make violent love to her.

“Then to whom, exactly, do you think you are proposing?” Her breasts rose on a hard breath. Tip stood up so as not to be quite so dead-on with the entrancing sight.

“You.
There is no one else in the room that I can see, ghosts notwithstanding.” This was not going so well. “Say yes, Bea.”

“No.” She looked pained. Her eyes closed tight for an instant. When she opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears. “No, I will not marry you. I will not.”

“You will not?” He had not anticipated this. He should have. He was, perhaps, the greatest idiot alive.
“Again?”

“Nothing has changed since last week, has it?” She obviously meant this question rhetorically.

He shook his head to clear it of bewilderment. It
had
changed, at least in his estimation. They had quarreled like lovers, yet hours later they could sit through a perfectly pleasant dinner conversing on various topics, and all was well again. That ought to count for something. His parents had never moved from passionate anger to pleasant companionship so quickly and easily. They cried for days, moped for another week, then finally fell back into each other’s arms as enamored as they’d been before, despite broken furniture, carriages, and horses, and the wagging tongues of society in their wake.

Bea’s impassioned speech roused his desire more than ever. But he could control that. He’d been controlling it for years already, like this afternoon when he’d controlled it by calling her a doxy.

Perhaps his control had been less than perfect, after all.

“Of course something has changed.” Her voice pitched on a peculiar note. “
I
have changed. You are not now offering marriage to the same woman you did seven days ago.” She lifted a hand and swept back a twist of dark hair that had slipped over her cheek. Tip ached to do it for her, to stroke the satiny tress and caress her soft skin. Dear God, if he couldn’t have her soon, he might
actually
go mad.

“Then will this new woman marry me?”

“No! Oh sweet heaven. No,” she insisted. “
No
.” Her eyes were fraught with distress.

He swallowed hard. He had caused this.
Her unhappiness.

Dear God, no
.

“So, that is a refusal, I understand.”

“You
are
insane.” Her voice broke.
“Or suddenly an imbecile.”

She was entirely correct. Only a complete fool would continue asking the same woman for her hand after she refused it so many times. Only a buffoon of the lowest order would put his heart on the line again and again to have it crushed, and rather savagely this time.

He was indeed a fool for this woman.
A hopeless imbecile.
But he never wanted to hurt her. Yet somehow he clearly had. He deserved to be horsewhipped.

“All right,” he said, taking a deep breath in a vain attempt at steadiness. “You have made your point. I regret to have distressed you.”

She nodded, dashing the back of a slender hand across her damp eyes.

They stood like that for a handful of seconds, a minute perhaps. Tip didn’t know. He didn’t care. The only thing he truly cared about, it seemed, was entirely out of his reach. And this time—this blasted out-of-control, emotional, tear-dashing time—it must end. Each time she had refused him in the past he’d held out hope that someday she would accept. But he could not deceive himself any longer. Her response now, so unlike her previous measured demurrals, made it perfectly clear.

“Do you know, Peter
Cheriot
,” she said, her voice quiet and uneven, “all these times you have offered marriage to
me,
you have not once asked why I refuse you.”

The words blindsided him.

He floundered for a response. “It is not my business to ask.”

“It is if you insist on offering again.”

Abruptly, Tip’s crushed heart made way for his neglected temper. “That is absurd.”

“I think you don’t want to know.”

“What?”

“You do not want to know why I won’t marry you. It is safer for you that way.”

“What in the devil’s name are you talking about? There is nothing whatsoever safe about offering marriage to a woman.”

“Precisely my point.”
She breathed hard, her eyes bright again. “You do not wish to marry. You ask me again and again in the certainty that I will refuse you, so that you can feel satisfied you have made the effort and never be obliged to admit to yourself that you do not actually want a wife.”

“I do so want a wife. I want you.” Dear God, he sounded like a child.
Worse yet, like his father.

“I don’t believe you,” she countered. “If you truly wished to marry me, you would ask me why I refuse you each time.”

No, he wouldn’t, for the single reason that he feared her response.

Everyone knew what a profligate his father had been, and the shame of his parents’ public battles and reconciliations. For God’s sake, Tip’s beautiful, sparkling sister, a noblewoman, had married a country curate to escape the
ton’s
gossip. Tip didn’t want to hear Bea confess that she couldn’t be with him because she did not trust him not to carry on in his parents’ mode. So he kept asking, hoping his constancy would prove to her that he was not cut from that cloth.

“See?” She backed away, blinking rapidly. “You cannot bring yourself to ask me why.”

Tip’s hands fisted at his sides, his jaw tight enough to break his teeth. If it meant even the slightest chance of winning this woman, he would force himself to ask her. And finally he would hear the answer that would smash his hopes once and for all.

His tongue struggled to find words.

A tear spilled over the cusp of her dark eye, slipping down her cheek in a silvery trail and catching at the edge of her lips. Tip stared at those lips, sensuous and ripe, and desire gripped
him so hard and fast he rocked on his feet. Wild with it, he gulped in air, every mote of his being focused on her beautiful mouth.

He grabbed her and covered it with his.

Her lips were as warm and supple as when he’d kissed her before. But this time they did not remain motionless. Instead, they moved against his as though created to do so, gently parting and tasting his with soft, tentative touches that sent Tip’s pulse careening against his
neckcloth
.

He gripped her beneath the arms and pulled her to him. She grasped his coat sleeves and released a little sigh of pleasure.

Tip’s world spun. His thumbs brushed the sides of her breasts, and he delved deeper into her sweet, hot mouth, caressing with the tip of his tongue until her hold on his arms tightened and she leaned into him. Sweeping his hands around her waist, he flattened her body to his. Her curves tucked cozily against him, her breasts and graceful hips yielding, firing his need. Her hands moved to his back and her lips opened wider.

He needed to touch her everywhere, to feel her closer. He slipped a hand over her soft behind and cupped.

“
Peter
,” she sighed against his lips.

He pressed into her, letting her feel his desire. Dear God, she was an innocent, but he needed her. He had needed her for years and she responded to him so eagerly.

“You want this, Bea,” he murmured, nipping at her bewitching lower lip, filling his hands with her. “You want me. Admit it.”

“I do,” she breathed brokenly, sliding her arms around his shoulders.

He kissed her deep and hard, and she responded with hunger, her tongue venturing to touch his, awkward but intoxicating, her hands clutching his neck. He trailed caresses along her jaw to the fragrant tenderness just beneath her ear, weaving his fingers through her hair. She tilted her head, allowing him freedom on the silken skin of her throat where her pulse came heavy and fast.

He couldn’t get enough of her—her eager mouth, her captivating scent of roses and honeysuckle, her clinging hands and perfect, shell-like ears. Why hadn’t he ever noticed before how perfect her ears were? How slender her wrists? How delicate her collarbone? He had adored her and still remained blind. But now he saw her with perfect clarity, and he was ravenous.

His hand sought her breast. Bea stiffened, then relaxed into his touch. The fabric of her gown was fine and thin, the satin swell of her breasts teetering at the edge of her bodice with each deep breath she drew.
So beautiful.
Such temptation
.

He reveled in the shape of her, and her warmth, his cock surging harder against her when a light moan escaped her lips. He took her mouth again, drinking in her flavor, and slid his thumb up and across her skin. Then he dipped it beneath the fabric.

She gasped, a sound of complete pleasure and he felt her—supple, velvety skin and the rough, intoxicating texture of her taut nipple—and satisfaction rumbled from his chest. She breathed hard against his mouth, her fingers gripping to hold him near as he caressed. Her knees parted and he spread his hand on her behind and thrust against her. She moaned, this time fully. He pressed his mouth to her neck, tasting her, adoring her, aching with need he had controlled for far too long.