Captive Bride (18 page)

“Guess I’ve botched matters badly this time, haven’t I? Bea is in danger. What should I do?”

“If I knew that, would I still be here, or have allowed your sister to remain?”

“I won’t leave,” Thomas said stoutly, sitting up straight.

“You damned well better not. And you also better go find your future bride and take her to the village. She must speak with Miss Minturn.”

Thomas remained silent for a moment. “Will you tell Bea?”

Tip’s hard gaze shot to him. “I knew you to be a scapegrace, Tom
Sinclaire
, but until now I hadn’t realized how much of a coward you are as well.”

Thomas’s face reddened. He jerked to his feet. “You’re right. It’s not your place, of course. What was I thinking? I’ll go now.” He started toward the stable door.

Tip took a deep breath. “Don’t frighten her.”

Thomas halted. His gaze slung back, regret plain across his features. He nodded, wiped the blood from his nose and lip with a handkerchief, and left.

Tip turned back to his horse, his heart beating faster than it had since the first time he had proposed to Bea. Thomas was an immature, self-centered boy and something of a cad. But for all her dimples, Lady Bronwyn
Prescot
was no wilting lily. Tip hadn’t any doubt that the lady had encouraged her eager admirer to free her of danger from the ghost. They made a perfect pair.

Tip mounted his horse and rode out the front gate.

~
~
~

August 9, 1818

Mama and I attended the Assembly tonight in
Aldborough
. It was dreadfully hot and I had no wish to go, but Mama insisted. She has thoroughly despaired of finding a husband for me, but she enjoys going about to see her friends. She intends, I think, to show a brave face to the world despite Papa’s defection.

My card filled with the autographs of squires’ balding second sons and gloomy former soldiers. None of them were Peter
Cheriot
, whom I believed to be still attending his declining father in Derbyshire. It did not matter to me with whom I danced.

Then he appeared.

Imagine the leap of my heart, Diary, the smile I could not suppress as he approached, as handsome as the last time we met in January before Mama and I departed London. He kissed my knuckles and asked after my health. I hardly knew what to say, but I must have replied suitably since his warm smile did not diminish. What on earth was he doing there? The place was astir; young, handsome heirs to baronies do not typically attend the Assembly at
Aldborough
. I had not even heard he was in the district. Certainly Nancy would have told Mama had she known he intended to come. He must have arrived only tonight.

He requested the next
set,
I regretted that it was already spoken for, as well as all others. He heard me without any show of disappointment, then stood by Mama’s side like a chaperone for the remainder of the evening, pleasantly conversing with all but not dancing (to the dismay of any number of ladies present).

Afterward, he rode alongside our carriage to Hart House and Mama invited him inside for tea.

Tea.
At midnight.
In the countryside.
She will seek company whenever she
can,
she is so weary of mine.

We conversed about many things, including
Georgie
, in whose activities and interests he was predictably interested. He seemed reluctant to speak of his father’s ill health. Mama fell asleep on the divan and began to snore lightly. With barely a break in the conversation he said, “Bea, I admire you greatly and believe we would suit. Would you do me the honor of accepting my hand?”

I said, “No, thank you.”

I could hardly have replied otherwise.

At first he appeared surprised. Shortly, however, he spoke easily again, proof enough, Diary, that I was justified in refusing him. A man in love does not recover from such a rejection in less than two minutes. Or so I understand it.

I could probably marry any other gentleman under such circumstances, but not Peter
Cheriot
.
Never him.
I would rather die.

~
~
~

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Bea’s eyelids cracked open to the unfamiliar sight of midday sun creeping through her bedchamber curtains. Typically she rose before dawn, stealing an hour in peace before Mama’s demands and complaints began.

She could have left all that behind.

He had kissed her, touched her, made her mad with longing, and asked her to marry him again. Astonished, confused, awash in sensations wholly unfamiliar and deliciously shocking, she had not quite comprehended what was happening.

She rested a shaky hand on her brow.

He wanted her in his bed.

It seemed incredible. All those years of teasing, brotherly attention, and now he wanted her
that way
.

He cared for her as a friend, and he desired her. Wasn’t that love?

But now he had promised to do exactly as she insisted. He was leaving her life. He would not abandon the castle yet, of course. He’d made it clear that he considered it his responsibility to make certain of Bronwyn’s and her own safety.

Bea dragged herself out of bed and went to her traveling trunk. All her gowns were hopelessly wrinkled. She wished she had the enthusiasm to put a hot iron to them, but the effort seemed beyond her. She wondered if Cook was ironing her great-aunts’ clothing. In any case, they would be gone the following day, having abandoned Bronwyn to her horrible fate this very night.

Bea shivered, opening the trunk. The contents seemed to have shrunken. She reached in and pulled out her prettiest gown, spring green with emerald-colored ribbons she had woven through the bodice and sleeves, chosen because they reminded her of Tip’s eyes.

She stalled, her hand hovering over the trunk.

Then, with firm intention, she shook out the gown and reached for her undergarments. Her hand met more gowns, stockings, and shoes. She dug into the trunk, but it was empty of shifts and petticoats. No stays in sight, either.

She went to the warped
garderobe
.

“You will not find them there.”

Bea started, then grabbed up the green gown and covered the front of her thin
nightrail
.

“Lord
Iversly
,” she said stiffly, “it is unseemly for you to enter a lady’s bedchamber without invitation.”

“Yet there is another in this castle to whom you would offer an invitation to this bedchamber with alacrity.”

Bea sucked in a quick breath. “Why do you stand by windows? Don’t you know the light comes right through you?”

“I have not bothered musing upon such insignificancies for centuries.”

The door swung open and Lady
Marstowe
entered.

“You should have been up hours ago, Beatrice. What would your mother think?”

“Mother is not here, Aunt Grace. Lord
Iversly
is, however.”

The ghost’s gaze shifted to Lady
Marstowe
, and Bea hastily slipped the green gown over her thin
nightrail
.

“That cannot be helped, I suppose.” The dowager snapped her fingers and Bea turned to allow her great-aunt to button her in. “What does he want?”

“My bride,” Lord
Iversly
intoned.

“Then go find her, my lord. I must speak with my great-niece in private. This gown fits atrociously. Where are your stays, Beatrice? Have you lost all sense of propriety in this uncivilized place?”

“I cannot find them, Aunt Grace.”

Lord
Iversly
caught her eye. Bea’s stomach flip-flopped. He looked very dark today, but shockingly attractive, his black hair swept back from the harsh planes of his face. He
smiled,
a slow curving slash of his mouth. His gaze slipped down her body, lingering on her unconfined breasts, then her hips.

Bea’s eyes went wide. “You have taken them, haven’t you? Why on earth would you do such a thing?”

“What are you talking about?” Lady
Marstowe
demanded.

“Women in my day did not wear such ridiculous garments.”
Iversly
chuckled, a wicked glimmer in his ebony eyes. “Modest women did not need to pretend modesty by layering themselves in unnecessary cloth.”

Bea frowned. “Well I am dashed cold without them.” Heroines in ghost novels were complete ninnies, it seemed. She was not about to be the same, not even if her spine was tingling with icy dread in the presence of the large, slightly translucent man. Today he wore a shirt of mail over lean leggings and a black tunic with a gold eagle emblazoned on the chest
.

“It should not matter to you what I wear, whether my hat upon my feet or my stockings around my neck.”

“Beatrice,” the dowager hissed.

“Aunt Grace, he is a ghost, and he is a horrible man for taking my stays. He has not stolen your petticoats, has he?”

Her great-aunt’s mouth went flat. “He would not dare.”

“No, of course not.”
Bea swung back to
Iversly
. “Have you left off harassing only your intended bride, Lord
Iversly
, in favor of every virgin in the castle now?”

“Only the one.”
His mouth set in a dangerous smile.

“Bea?” Thomas’s bumpy voice came from the doorway. Aunt Julia stood behind him, her eyes dancing.

He came forward, anger on his face as he looked toward the window where Bea’s gaze fixed. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Thomas—”

“Aunt Grace, Aunt Julia, I would like to speak to my sister alone, if I may.”

“Of course, dear.”
Julia took Lady
Marstowe’s
arm. “Grace and I were just going to meet Bronwyn’s grandmother, weren’t we, Gracie?”

“No. But it is about time I had an interview with that useless invalid. Thomas, where is Lady Bronwyn?”

“I don’t quite know, Aunt Grace.” He looked uncharacteristically abashed.

Lady
Marstowe
frowned,
then
followed her sister from the chamber.

“Bea, you are in trouble.”

“Greater trouble than being trapped in a crumbling castle by a miserable wretch of a specter?”
She shot
Iversly
a glare.

He lifted a thick brow. “It is best not to cast insults at your bridegroom upon your wedding
day, my dear. When you are finally his, he may repay you in a manner you cannot like.” His words slithered through her.

“This is not my wedding day. And for Lady Bronwyn’s sake we will discover the weak place in your foolish curse and beat you at your own game, my lord.”

“Bea,” Thomas said. “He’s speaking the truth of it. You are the only maiden in the castle now.”

Bea’s breath caught. “Where has Bronwyn gone? Did she manage to escape? Oh, I am so relieved for her! How did she do it?”

Thomas shook his head. “She’s still here, Bea, though I suppose she can leave now since she cannot serve his purposes any longer.”

“She is still here? Then . . .” Understanding dawned swiftly. Considering that she was still a maiden—the only maiden left in the castle, apparently—it probably dawned too swiftly for modesty’s sake. Her shoulders fell. “Oh, Tom, how
could
you?” 

He shrugged and had the decency to redden up.

“Did you at least engage her hand before the deed was done?”

A look of shame crossed his face, then acute discomfort. His lip was bleeding and cheek swelling.

“What happened to you? Have you been injured?”

“Oh, Bea.”
He came toward her. “Here you are, thinking first about Lady Bronwyn’s honor and my injuries, before you ever think of yourself. You are a jewel of a girl. I’m proud to call you my sister.” He clasped her hands warmly.

“How touching. Brotherly love at its finest,” the ghost murmured, his voice echoing through the chamber in eerie accents. Thomas’s hands tightened.

“I am so sorry, Bea. I didn’t even think of what it would mean to you. You must be horrified.”

She pulled away. “I don’t see the point in being horrified, not when there is work to be done. We will best this curse, I tell you. I will not be forced to marry this heathenish brute.”

“The heathens were before my time, my lady,” the apparition said.

“I am not your lady.”