Captive Bride (32 page)

“You are still angry with me,” she said.

“I am not.”

“You are. If not, you would speak your thoughts.”

“Perhaps I am.” The tight ball of unease in his chest could be nothing else. But it did not control him. Despite the tearful arguments and heated reconciliations, the passionate dreams and prickly disagreements, he wanted her with a certain, constant need that had nothing of drama or excess in it, only profound, utterly staggering honesty.

“Peter?”

“I dreamt of you.”

Her lips parted on another smile. “I know.”

A frantic knock sounded on the bedchamber door and it swung open.

“Milord.”
Peg curtsied swiftly. “Miss Beatrice,” she whispered. “Your mother is coming.”

Tip gritted his teeth. Bearing down upon his arousal, he stood and went to the window, turning his back. Behind him, Bea climbed from the bed, straightening her gown and smoothing her hair as Lady
Marstowe’s
maid hurried to a chair and pulled needlework from a bag.

“Beatrice, are you in here?” Lady Harriet’s limp voice carried though the door in advance of her person. Draped in sky-blue garments, she swept into the room in a flurry of perfumed elegance
.

“We will not hold dinner again for you tonight, Beatrice. Hello, my lord. How do you do this evening? We haven’t seen you all day. Have you been out riding again? I noticed your horse in the stable when we first arrived. He has such a beautiful bay coat, like pure satin, I told Alfred. A woman would pay money for hair like that, I daresay.”

Tip’s gaze slued to Bea. Hers was downcast
.

“Thank you, my lady,” he replied.

“What on earth are you doing in my daughter’s bedchamber?” she asked without any evidence of interest. “Of course, you must be seeking out Lady
Marstowe’s
maid for her,” she gestured negligently toward the servant. “I hope Beatrice has not caused you nuisance?”

He could barely release his jaw sufficient to reply.
“Certainly not.”

“Mama,” Bea’s head came up, beauty and quiet triumph radiating from her face. “Aunt Julia
is well.”

“She is? Well, that is to be celebrated, I suppose. Let us hope no one else catches the fever. In fact, you are looking rather peaked tonight, Beatrice.”

Bea turned to the mirror on the dressing table and a secret smile creased her lips.

“I think I look rather well, actually,” she said softly as though to herself, then darted a heated glance at Tip that went straight to his groin.

“Of course you don’t,” her mother corrected. “Put on some rouge before coming down, or your pasty cheeks will sour my stomach and ruin the meal for me.”

“Yes, Mama,” her voice wavered. “I will change now and be down in a trice.”

“No, no,” Lady Harriet complained. “You will be too long and we will all end up eating cold food again. Come wearing what you have on now. No one will look at you to care, anyway.” She traipsed toward the door and held out her hand for Tip, smiling. “My lord, would you escort me to dinner?”

Tip looked to Bea. “Miss
Sinclaire
?”

She shook her bowed head.

He nodded stiffly and extended his arm. Lady Harriet started in on a steady stream of commentary about the damp castle, the cook’s inadequate food, her useless servants, and the dismally misty climate. Bea followed in silence.

“Lady Bronwyn has gone to the village to comfort her old governess,” Thomas announced when they entered the parlor after dinner. “It seems that Miss Minturn suffered a relapse of her recent illness this afternoon, just as Aunt Julia was coming out of her fever, in fact.”

“Will Lady Bronwyn return tonight, Thomas?” Lady Harriet asked on a sigh.

“Not likely until tomorrow morning, Mama.”

The heady exuberance of Bea’s early evening activity had ebbed to an agitated simmer. The obvious relief in her brother’s eyes acted like flint on her nerves.

“Is that so, Tom?” she asked. “Have you spoken with her?”

His gaze shot to her, confounded at first, then glowering.

Tip stood at the other end of the chamber, his visage still as severe as it had been all evening,
a
glass of dark liquid in his hand. Bea wished she could drink it. Spirits might serve to calm her fidgets.

What she really needed, though, was Peter
Cheriot
in the broom closet.
For much longer than on the previous occasion.
And with no arguing.

Although arguing with him was such a lovely pleasure.
She had never quarreled with anyone else and now she recognized the gift of it. With him she was free to speak her mind. He made her feel fearless.

“Beatrice, have you had something to do with Lady Bronwyn’s sudden disappearance?” Lady Harriet cast an irritated glance at her.

“Yes, Mama.
I went to the village this afternoon and gave Miss Minturn an illness so that Lady Bronwyn would be obliged to care for her tonight rather than enjoy dinner with us.”

Fearless.

Her heart raced. She darted a glance across the chamber. Tip’s mouth curved up at the corner.

Bea’s exhausted nerves tingled. He had dreamt of her. He would not marry her now. But he had dreamt of her while she felt him. It was . . .
extraordinary
. She could kiss Lord
Iversly
for making it possible.

“Beatrice,” her father chastised, “You will not speak to your mother in that manner. What are you thinking, daughter?”

“Oh,” she
quavered,
her voice thin. “Nothing, I daresay.”

“I daresay.” Lady Harriet fluttered a fan over her face. “You are ungrateful. All those years I kept you in town, searching futilely for a husband you were absolutely unable to snare, and this is the thanks I get for it?”

Bea’s giddiness abruptly clumped together, sticky like melted taffy. She bit the inside of her lip.

“I am sorry, Mama.”

“Well you should be,” Lady Harriet sighed.

“Beatrice, I have given the matter some thought of late,” her father said, moving toward her. “I posted a letter concerning it this afternoon.”

“What matter, Papa?”

“Lady Bronwyn has not yet had her come-out season in London.”

“She is young yet. Eighteen, I believe,” Bea said uncertainly.

“She ought to have a season to give her some exposure to the world she will live in as a member of our family.”

Bea shot her brother a glance. His eyes were wide as horseshoes. He shook his head back and forth quickly.

“That seems like a fine idea, Papa,” Bea murmured.

“Her father, Lord
Prescot
, is an aging recluse without a female relation in London. So I have taken the liberty of writing
Prescot
to tell him that before the wedding we will bring out Lady Bronwyn. He must fund her wardrobe and pin money, of course, and a ball that we shall host. But we will take care of the rest.”

“How delightful, Alfred.” Lady Harriet sat up straighter than Bea had seen her sit in years. “When shall we go?
Now, during the fall session?
Or will we
await
the spring, when everyone is in town? Oh, how diverting it will be to have new gowns suitable for London entertainments again. You cannot know how trying it is to be confined to poor country amusements. Why, the other day, Mrs.
Smythe
was wearing a chartreuse pelisse. Can you imagine that?
Chartreuse?
This year!”

“You, ma’am,” Mr.
Sinclaire
said, “will not be attending us in town. Beatrice will serve as chaperone to the girl. Since Thomas and Lady Bronwyn are formally betrothed, this will not seem unusual.”

The blood drained from Bea’s cheeks. “But, Papa—”

“Now, I don’t wish to hear a word of it, daughter. You will do as you are told and help your brother in this matter. You will have all the new gowns and other gewgaws you require to suit your station,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I will hire a townhouse and be in residence with you both there throughout the season.”

“Papa, I am hardly fit—”

“Alfred, this is absolutely horrid of you.” Lady Harriet leapt up. Tears trembled in her pale lashes. “I cannot fathom why you are sending Beatrice rather than your own wife. Who does she know to introduce our future daughter-in-law to?”

“She can begin with your sister. Audrey would be glad to introduce Lady Bronwyn to her friends, as she did when
Georgie
lived with her.”

“I cannot abide Audrey.” Bea’s mother sniffed. “She is far too bookish.”

“That is another reason I have chosen Beatrice for this task. She will not get in anyone’s
way and Lady Bronwyn will have her season as a pretty girl like her should.”

“Papa.”
A lump of shame burned in Bea’s breast. “I do not think that—”

“Enough, Beatrice.
I have decided.”

“He has decided,” Lady Harriet pronounced in airy accents. “We must all bow to his high-handed ways. Oh, how could I be so unlucky to have a daughter who would betray me in this manner?”

“I am not betraying you, Mama,” Bea said tightly. “Papa—”

“Beatrice, I will hear no more of it.”

“But, Papa, I am barely two and twenty,” she forced through cold lips, her hands trembling.

“What does that signify? Ladies four and five years your
junior act
as chaperones to younger girls. It is the least you can do.”

“But, Papa,
I
am not married.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

Bea’s father spluttered. “You will do as you are told, daughter.”

“Alfred,” Lady
Marstowe’s
voice cut across the parlor from the doorway. “You are a prize fool. Beatrice, come with me.” She snapped her fingers.

Bea went to her great-aunt. She could not bear to look at Tip.

“Julia wishes to speak with you before she retires,” the dowager said.

“Yes, ma’am.”
Bea sank her clenched hands in her skirts and followed.

“I was under the impression, Beatrice,” the dowager said beneath her breath, drawing her to a halt as they neared the stairs, “that you are soon to be wed. Was I mistaken?”

“Aunt Grace, I cannot discuss this now.” Bea’s insides ached. “May I please go to Aunt Julia?”

The dowager fixed her with a firm look,
then
allowed Bea to precede her up the stairs. In the brightly lit bedchamber, Aunt Julia was propped up in bed looking as healthy as ever.

“Beatrice, come closer.” Julia’s hazel eyes sparkled as Bea sat at her side. “How lovely you look this evening. Doesn’t she look lovely?”

“Always,” Tip said at the open doorway.

“Oh, Peter dear. Do come in. I wish to speak with you both.” She grasped Bea’s hand and winked. “I don’t mind a gentleman in my quarters every now and again, do you?”

Bea met Tip’s gaze. He seemed pensive.

“I wish to thank you both for what you did for me this evening,” Aunt Julia said with a cheerful smile. “I spoke with Rhys, and I know it must have been very trying, especially for you, dear Beatrice.”

“Lord
Iversly
came to see you?”

“Yes, dear.
In private.
He does not feel up to much company at this time, I am afraid.”

Bea nodded. “Is he very unhappy?”

“He is searching for a companion, I daresay.
A mate for his soul.”

“A man should be allowed that, at the very least.” Tip said in a peculiar, deep voice.

His words hung in the silence. Bea’s insides felt hollow. He looked so severe again, his green eyes horridly indifferent.

“And yet,” Julia said, her curious gaze still resting on Bea, “I am under the impression that he does not believe he deserves happiness.”

Bea took a steadying breath. “If Lord
Iversly
cannot accomplish this for himself, perhaps we should.”

“That is a capital idea.” Aunt Julia clapped her age-twisted hands.

“What on earth are you suggesting, Beatrice?” the dowager asked.

“Gracie, I am trapped in the castle until this silly curse is lifted, of course. Why don’t we remain here and help
Iversly
find his soul mate? It would be great good fun, and the poor dear ghost deserves it after all these centuries.”

Lady
Marstowe
pinned her sister-in-law with an astonished gaze. “Julia, have you lost your mind?”

“No, that is our sister, Petunia, of course,” Julia said with a cock-eyed twinkle of pure lucidity.