Captive Bride (33 page)

Bea struggled to order her thoughts. “You would remain here willingly?
Indefinitely?”

“Would you like to stay, too, dear? There is plenty of space, I daresay, and I don’t believe Bronwyn’s grandmother would object to a bit more company. She is such a retiring lady, of course.”

“Well, I—”

“Lord
Cheriot
,” Lady
Marstowe
said, “is my great-niece betrothed to you, or not?”

Bea’s breathing froze.

Not a flicker of emotion showed on his handsome face. “She is not.”

The dowager’s nostrils flared. She crossed her arms across her narrow bosom. “I am fully willing to inform Beatrice’s father as to the necessity of it.”

Bea came to her feet, her heart pounding. “Don’t, Aunt Grace. Please.” She wanted him, but her head was a muddle, and she could not have him like this. Aunt Grace’s ice-blue eyes might as well be the barrel of a pistol. But if anyone were going to force him into marrying her, it would be herself.

“My lord?”
Lady
Marstowe
asked.

Tip stood like stone.
“As she wishes.”
He could not sound more unmoved. Bea’s courage wavered.

“Beatrice, you are being pigheaded and unwise. Both of you are,” the dowager stated. “I do not intend to allow you choice in this matter.”

Bea hurried to the door. “It has been an exhausting day. I’m tired. I am going to bed and will speak with you all in the morning.” With trembling hands she turned the latch and slipped out.

Tip came after her.

“Bea—”

“First Thomas, then Papa and Mama, and now . . .” She bit her lip. “This is all truly horrid.”

“Which part?
The part in which you willingly accept your fate as others have laid it out for you?
Or the part in which you act contrary to what you know to be right?”

Her throat thickened. She ached to touch him and renew the mystery of bewildering intimacy they had shared hours earlier, to carry it straight into his heart.

Throwing prudence to the wind, she laid her palm upon his chest. His heart beat steady and swift. She spread her fingers and shifted her hand beneath his coat to feel more.

Tip grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?” His voice sounded rough.

“Do you know, earlier tonight,” she whispered, “what happened to me, it— it was like nothing I have ever experienced before.” She lifted her gaze.
“Except with you.”

His eyes flickered,
then
shone. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and dragged her to him. His mouth came down upon hers firm and open, his hands circling her face, sinking into her hair as he pressed her against the wall. He kissed her deep, hard, and wonderfully.

Bea clutched his shoulders and drank him in, trapped between solid man and her own liquid heart. Her palms slid down his chest, adoring him. She would never weary of touching him, not even when they were old and gray and barely able to totter around. The sensation of his heartbeats beneath her fingertips would always move her.

She should tell him now that she was sorry she had prodded him to cry off. She should end this foolishness and have the man of her dreams who desired her and cared for her. But she couldn’t. Now more than ever, she knew she did not deserve him.

Not yet.

“No.” She shoved him away, pressing the back of her shaking hand to her mouth. “I will not
marry you under these circumstances.”

“These circumstances?” he exclaimed, his breaths uneven. “What circumstances are those, Miss
Sinclaire
? That I have not, in fact, asked you to marry me lately? Or that you cannot keep your hands off me? Or—”

“Go away, Peter.” She slid from between him and the wall, sidestepping out of his reach. “Go to the village or some other place, and don’t come back until tomorrow. I am excessively fatigued and cannot quarrel with you at present. But, frankly, if you remain here I don’t believe I can withstand you, either.”

He stared. “You are excessively fatigued?”

She nodded.

“And cannot quarrel with me?”

She bit both her lips.

“Beatrice
Sinclaire
, you are a strange and impossible woman.”

“I
know
. The trouble is that no one has ever recognized that but you!” She whirled around and ran for her room.

She locked the door. This dramatic gesture did not, however, guarantee a restful night. She lay awake staring at the canopy atop her bed, her heart beating wildly at the memory of Tip’s burning kiss and outraged look, his wonderful words and everything between them, everything she had done wrong, and right, and had yet to do.

When she finally arose near dawn, her eyes were heavy with dark circles beneath them and her cheeks as pasty as her mother said. She dressed and descended to the breakfast parlor, but not even the servants stirred yet. Leaving the building, she slipped silently across the mist-shrouded courtyard, making her way toward the rear garden path.

She walked and thought and imagined until the cold Welsh morning eventually drove her inside again. Smoothing the mist off her cloak, she made her way into the breakfast chamber.

Everyone was present except Tip. Bronwyn was absent as well, no doubt still at the village with her governess. Aunt Julia enjoyed a bowl of porridge and
jam,
her elbow entrenched in a puddle of butter.

“Oh, are you awake this early, Beatrice?” Bea’s mother asked with a lift of her pencil-thin brow.
“How unusual for you of late.
Lady Bronwyn keeps her servants to shockingly early hours. But this is the wretched countryside, after all.”

Bea went to the sideboard to collect a muffin and tea.

“Beatrice,” her father said in quiet tones, “
have
you given any further thought to your poor attitude last evening?”

Bea took a slow breath.

“No, Papa, I have not.” She set down her plate, a tinny sensation running through her blood, thinner and colder than her heady excitement the night before, but clear and thoroughly focused. “I believe I was entirely in the right of it.”

“In the right of it?”
His brow darkened
.

She folded her hands. “Thomas and Lady Bronwyn do not wish to marry.”

Thunderous silence met her statement. She forged on, energy replacing the chill with each word. “Thomas’s infatuation with her has cooled, and Lady Bronwyn, it seems, would prefer a titled gentleman.”

“Thomas, my wayward son!”
Lady Harriet exclaimed. “Your father has already sent his letter to Lord
Prescot
. Tell me your sister is spewing untruths.”

“Why, Mama?” Bea asked.
Fearless, fearless
.
“Only yesterday you complained that
Bronwyn was not a suitable match for my brother. Have you altered your opinion on the matter so swiftly?”

“Insolent girl,” her mother grumbled. “You are jealous of your brother’s success and have intentionally botched this betrothal, haven’t you?”

Bea’s mouth fell open. “Jealous?
Of Thomas’s happiness?
I wish him nothing but.”

“You are guaranteeing that right and tight then, aren’t you?” Thomas shot her a glare, crossing his arms.

Heat ran up Bea’s spine. “What on earth are you talking about? You would rather marry the wrong woman than risk Mama and Papa’s displeasure?”

“I would have done it my way,” Thomas grumbled.

“How is that, Tom? After you are already married to her? Let me tell you something, that lovely girl you set your sights on just over a fortnight ago will not wait patiently to see the day.” She balled her quivering fists. “Thomas, this is the last scrape I am wresting you from, and you should thank me for it. From now on, you are on your own.”

“Beatrice, you have certainly done this, and your brother will suffer for it.”

“I beg your pardon, Mama, but I simply cannot see how I am to blame for Thomas and Lady Bronwyn determining they will not suit,” she said, her teeth clenched so hard they squeaked. “And that is another thing. Just because I didn’t hang out for every gentleman who crossed our drawing room threshold does not mean I had an aversion to finding a suitable husband.”

“You never showed interest in any of them,” Lady Harriet sniffed.

“I did. Some of them were quite nice. But I had little opportunity to discover whether they would suit. You chased them all away with your whining and complaining so effectively, I never knew. Then you took me out of society at precisely the moment I was beginning to feel comfortable in it, cutting me off from my friends in order to spend time with yours and making so many demands on me that it was nearly impossible to go out simply for diversion.”

Her mother waved that away with a languid hand. “You would never have accepted any of them if they had continued coming around.”

“That is true. I might not have.” Most assuredly not, with her heart lodged securely in Peter
Cheriot
. “But that hardly signifies. At least I might have enjoyed better company than your gossiping friends. I should have adored living with Aunt Audrey, even just visiting her on occasion.” She turned to her father. “Why didn’t you consider that for
me
, Papa? Why only when it came to bringing out Lady Bronwyn did it cross your mind? Didn’t you think me fit to enjoy my seasons as well? You gave
Georgie
that consideration when she went down to town.
Why not me?”

“Your aunt does not approve of your brother. You know that, Beatrice. You would not have been able to keep an eye on him from Audrey’s house.”

“How is it that I became my brother’s keeper? Perhaps when we were children and we shared the schoolroom it might have made sense. But Thomas is a grown man now, Papa. To expect him to take instruction from a sister who has seen considerably less of the world than he has is ludicrous.” She let that sink in. “And it is unfair to me, as well.”

Her father stood, pulling his napkin from his lap. “Beatrice, what has gotten into you?”

“Myself, I think.”

“You are a selfish girl,” Lady Harriet sighed. “Alfred, tell your impertinent daughter that she is wretchedly selfish.”

“Selfish to meekly rusticate to the country because you drove Papa to distraction in town?”
Bea said, calm conviction filling her. “Furthermore,” she looked to her father, “Mama does not need me at home. She needs you, her husband. You want me to be there so that you are not obliged to feel guilty about not being there. But acting as your substitute is not my life’s ambition. I never wanted the position, and I only did it from duty to both of you.
For too many years.
As of now, I will no longer be filling that role.”

Bea’s father stared, eyes wide.

“What else would you do?” Lady Harriet said petulantly. “Go to live with your sister in Ireland? I daresay she would be happy to have you there to care for the children, at the very least.”

“I have no doubt
Georgie
and
Kievan
would welcome me into their home, as a friend rather than an unpaid servant, of course. But I do not intend to go there.” She took in a thick gulp of air. Sometime during her tirade Tip had appeared at the doorway. She felt his presence like a wind strengthening her flame. Certainty filled her lungs and sang in her blood. “Lord
Cheriot
has asked for my hand, and I have accepted.” 

~
~
~

December 29, 1814

Today I made the acquaintance of Mr. Peter
Cheriot
. He is kind, clever, and well-natured, and when we speak he looks at me as though he is actually listening to my words.

He is also very handsome. Mama says handsome men are a woman’s curse. But Mr.
Cheriot
seems handsome on the inside as well. Cousin Mirabella was excessively peevish due to the weather, and he spent an hour with her counting snowflakes on the window to distract her. She is not yet eleven, although he must be nineteen at least.

Mama also says I haven’t the knack of flirting with gentlemen and will be a dismal failure during my first season in society. But Mr.
Cheriot
seemed perfectly happy to talk with me. He is very amiable
.

Diary, when he looks at me, my insides grow warm in the oddest manner. I cannot explain it. I would say it was love at first sight, but I do not believe in such a thing.

Rather, I did not.
Until perhaps today.

~
~
~

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

Her parents gaped.