Книга - Marrying The Rebellious Miss
Marrying The Rebellious Miss
Bronwyn Scott
One mistake ruined her…one man can redeem her!When an ill-fated affair left Beatrice Penrose with more than just memories, she fled to Scotland to raise her son away from society’s eyes. But the past catches up with her…and Preston Worth is impossible to deny when he’s sent to bring her home.Preston has known Bea since childhood, but only now does a forbidden and unexpected desire spark between them. And when Beatrice and her baby’s life are threatened he makes her an offer of protection she can’t refuse…as his wife!
One mistake ruined her... One man can redeem her!
When an ill-fated affair left Beatrice Penrose with more than just memories, she fled to Scotland to raise her son away from society’s eyes. But the past catches up with her...and Preston Worth is impossible to deny when he’s sent to bring her home.
Preston has known Bea since childhood, but only now does a forbidden and unexpected desire spark between them. And when Beatrice’s and her baby’s lives are threatened, he makes her an offer of protection she can’t refuse...as his wife!
Wallflowers to Wives (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)
Out of the shadows, into the marriage bed!
In Regency England young women were defined by their prospects in the marriage market. But what of the girls who were presented to Society…and not snapped up?
Bronwyn Scott invites you to
The Left Behind Girls’ Club
Three years after their debut, and still without rings on their fingers, Claire Welton, Evie Milham, May Worth and Beatrice Penrose are ready to leave the shadows and step into the light. Now London will have to prepare itself… because these overlooked girls are about to take the ton by storm!
Read Claire’s story in
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss
Read Evie’s story in
Awakening the Shy Miss
Read May’s story in
Claiming His Defiant Miss
Read Bea’s story in
Marrying the Rebellious Miss
All available now!
Author Note (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)
Beatrice and Preston’s story is about trust—not only learning how to trust others, but learning to trust oneself. For Bea, this means learning to trust herself again after making a huge mistake in judgement. For Preston, it means trusting his judgement even when it goes against the suggestions of people he respects and trusts.
Beatrice was a hard character to write. She’s had a child, and that’s unthinkable in the 1820s, so getting Bea home to Little Westbury without her being entirely shunned was a challenge. I hope that readers see that the choices Bea’s family make in order to keep her with them and to give the baby a chance at Society are made out of love and not out of deceit, and that they will perhaps provoke some discussion on the readers’ part. What would you do for love? Not necessarily romantic love, but the love of a parent for a child, familial love.
This concludes my Wallflowers to Wives series, all of which deals with the theme that comes front and centre for Bea: what would you do for the love or respect of self, of family, of another? Look for more glimpses of these fabulous women when Dimitri Petrovich’s friends take London by storm in my forthcoming series, featuring four Princes of Kuban.
If you have enjoyed the Wallflowers, please take time to post a review at goodreads.com (http://goodreads.com), Amazon or on millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk).
bronwynnscott.com (http://www.bronwynnscott.com)
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Marrying the Rebellious Miss
Bronwyn Scott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com (http://bronwynnscott.com), or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com (http://bronwynswriting.blogspot.com). She loves to hear from readers.
Books by Bronwyn Scott
Mills & Boon Historical Romance and Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks
Wallflowers to Wives
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss
Awakening the Shy Miss
Claiming His Defiant Miss
Marrying the Rebellious Miss
Rakes on Tour
Rake Most Likely to Rebel
Rake Most Likely to Thrill
Rake Most Likely to Seduce
Rake Most Likely to Sin
Rakes of the Caribbean
Playing the Rake’s Game
Breaking the Rake’s Rules
Craving the Rake’s Touch (Undone!)
Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous
Secrets of a Gentleman Escort
London’s Most Wanted Rake
An Officer But No Gentleman (Undone!)
A Most Indecent Gentleman (Undone!)
Visit the Author Profile page at
millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.
For P.E.O. Chapter GC and Step By Step, who support unwed and teen mothers. Programs like this show how far we’ve come from the days of foundling hospitals so that babies can be raised in love.
Contents
Cover (#u710de793-1151-5b1d-a623-308114b557cf)
Back Cover Text (#u979aa5a2-4332-50de-b913-41fbb6d0b28d)
Wallflowers to Wives (#u5296b727-5bc2-59f1-a9cb-dc519067d2c9)
Author Note (#u05549d97-beea-5498-9410-05119a20d1a2)
Title Page (#ubf0968cd-576c-5a57-8389-870224def0b9)
About the Author (#u8ac82669-7d6f-5da2-8ad0-ad57f92eb53a)
Dedication (#u7368e180-b5ad-5179-a7e7-5072afebf7d3)
Chapter One (#u11ea346a-dc83-57bb-8e56-27913f5c30cb)
Chapter Two (#ubdaf400e-1126-5080-88e3-b1e076bb13ad)
Chapter Three (#u33860e88-4461-5404-9f73-7790f9feabec)
Chapter Four (#ue3ed255c-934c-5e2c-ba24-800f967e57b3)
Chapter Five (#u8fc44c15-a8c3-523e-895c-ea7cbf65c796)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)
Scotland—April 1822
The Day of Judgement had arrived, bringing Preston Worth with it. There was only one reason he was here. He had come for her. At last. Beatrice had known it the moment she’d seen him ride into the yard of the Maddox farmhouse. After months of anticipation and planning, the dreaded reckoning was here.
Beatrice closed her eyes, trying to find her calm centre, trying to fight the rising terror at the core of her, but to little effect. Months of knowing and planning were not the bulwarks of support she’d hoped they’d be. She fisted clammy hands in the folds of her skirt, desperate to find balance, desperate to hold back the swamping panic that swept her in stomach-clenching nausea, in the race of her heartbeat and the whir of her mind. From the window, she saw Preston swing off the horse and approach the house in purposeful strides. All coherent thought splintered into useless shards of what had once been whole logic.
She knew only two things in the precious seconds of freedom that remained. The first: she had to act now! Every panicked instinct she possessed screamed the same conclusion: grab the baby and run! Her freedom would end the moment he entered the farmhouse. The second was that her parents had outdone themselves this time. They’d sent her friend to be the horseman of her apocalypse. Therein lay the conundrum: she needn’t fear her friend, the one-time hero of her youth, the saviour of her Seasons when no one else would sign her dance card. She need only fear his message. How did one fight someone who wasn’t the enemy? But fight Preston she must. This was Armageddon, the end of her world as she preferred it, if she lost the battle that was to come.
She would not lose. She was Beatrice Penrose. She didn’t know how to lose, even in the face of great adversity. She’d born a child out of wedlock and survived. What greater adversity for a young woman was there than that? There were low murmurs of voices at the door, Mistress Maddox and Preston exchanging greetings and introductions. Beatrice unclenched her fists and smoothed her skirts where her hands had wrinkled them. She drew a deep breath, giving panic one last shove. She could allow herself to tremble all she liked on the inside. She just couldn’t show it, couldn’t let Preston see how much his visit terrified her.
At the sound of boots at the parlour door, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin with a final admonition: she was Beatrice Penrose, she would survive this, too. She had time for one last breath before the axe fell, his words chopping short her freedom. ‘Hello, Beatrice. I’ve come to fetch you home.’
She turned from the window to meet her fate—no, not her fate, her future. Fate was something you accepted. The future was something you carved for yourself, something you alone decided. That meant taking charge of this conversation right now. The future was here, standing before her; tall and dark-haired with a sharp hazel gaze, Preston, the friend of her youth as she’d always known him and yet there was a difference about him today that transcended the dusty boots and windblown hair, something she couldn’t put her finger on, not yet. Her mind was still too scattered. She desperately wished she could get her nerves under control.
Beatrice gestured to the chairs set before the cold fire. ‘Please, come and sit. You should have sent word you were coming.’ At least she’d found her voice even if it sounded reedy.
‘And ruin the surprise?’ Preston took the far chair. She took the seat closest to the cradle where her son slept oblivious. Her foot picked up the rocking rhythm it had abandoned a few minutes ago for the window, this time out of a need to quiet her nerves more than putting the babe to sleep. ‘You must tell me all the news from Little Westbury. How are Evie and her new husband? He sounds like a paragon from her letters. I can’t believe I missed her wedding.’ She was talking too fast, rambling, and she couldn’t stop. ‘I want all the details and I’ll want to hear about May and Liam, too. They must be married by now.’ So much for hiding her nerves, but perhaps she could buy some time until she had her control back. At the moment, these questions were the shield behind which she could gather stronger resources.
Whether he recognised the delaying efforts for what they were or not, Preston obliged her. He was too much of a gentleman, too much of a friend, not to. She’d grown up with him. He’d filled the role of being an older brother to all of May’s friends who had only sisters or, like her, no one, when they were younger. He politely regaled her with tales of Evie’s wedding and the new house her prince had bought in the valley. He told her of Liam’s coming knighthood ceremony and of May’s elegant January wedding at St Martin-in-the-Fields. An hour ticked by and Bea began to hope that he might forget, that she’d succeeded in driving him off course. ‘And May’s dress? You haven’t told me yet what she wore,’ Beatrice pressed him when the conversation began to lag.
But Preston was finished. He had not forgotten. ‘I won’t say another word. There won’t be anything left for Evie and May to tell you when you get home. They will be so glad to see you.’
His words brought the conversation full circle. The delaying action was over despite her efforts to steer it away from the one topic she didn’t want to discuss.
Preston leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, his hazel gaze, so like his sister, May’s, fixed on her with tenacity. The tension that had slipped to the background was front and centre once again. ‘Bea, do you think I don’t know what you are up to? You think to distract me with gossip and run out the clock.’ She did not care for the suspicion of pity that shadowed his eyes. ‘To what end is this game, Beatrice? I will only come again tomorrow and the next day, if I must.’
He spoke bluntly and in that bluntness she discovered the indefinable something about him that had eluded her earlier: reluctance. If he must. He found the job to which her parents had tasked him as distasteful as she did. Preston no more wanted to be here than she wanted him here. She could use that. It was the spark she needed to wage war in truth. If she could turn him into an ally, if she argued hard enough, he might be dissuaded. She could send him back to England with her decision to stay. Beatrice leaned forward in earnest, her nerves settling at last now that she had a glimpse of direction. ‘I’m not going back.’
The announcement was met with silence.
It was apparently true—you could cut tension with a knife. She had misjudged the depth of his reluctance. Reluctant though he was, he meant to see this through. Her announcement was met with the faintest of smiles on his face, his hazel eyes contrite in silent apology, but his jaw was set in firm determination. Well, she could be determined, too, and it started with showing him she didn’t belong in England any more. She belonged here.
Matthew William chose that moment to wake. His little arms stretched, making fists, his mouth puckering up. Bea reached for him, her own body responding to the waking needs of her son. There was no time like the present to show Preston this was where she belonged now, who she’d become. She was no longer the pampered daughter of wealthy gentry, but a sensible, grounded mother. The baby let out a squall and Bea tossed Preston a proud but apologetic smile for her son’s noise. ‘He’s hungry. He always wakes up hungry.’
And hungry babies needed to be fed. Immediately and without qualms. Beatrice loosened the bodice of her dress and put the baby to her bare breast, an action that invoked no sense of embarrassment from her. How often had she nursed the babe these last months, regardless of who was around? She reached for a blanket to drape over her, but the action had already achieved the desired effect. Preston Worth, for all of his worldliness, shifted in his chair, no doubt uncomfortable with the maternal display. This was not the behaviour of a tonnish woman. Gentlewomen didn’t nurse their own children. ‘Have I shocked you? Would you like to go outside until I’ve finished?’ Bea offered, but her sweetness didn’t fool him.
Preston smiled back with a wolfish grin, making this a battle of faux congeniality. ‘Is that a gauntlet you’re throwing down? If so, you’ll be disappointed to know I am more impressed than dismayed. You nurse that child as if it were the most natural thing in the world.’
‘Because it is,’ Beatrice shot back. There seemed little point in maintaining a polite veneer if he was going to call her out. ‘I have nursed him for five months and I intend to keep doing it.’
‘I dare say that will enliven the ladies’ teas in Little Westbury. Perhaps you will start a new fashion.’ Preston was edgier, more sharp-toned than she remembered. It was a reminder that they were not children any more. She had heard of Preston’s life through May, of course. She knew he’d taken on an important position for the Home Office in charge of protecting the coast from sundry illegal traffic and arms dealers. But she had not spent time with him beyond an occasional mercy dance during the Season in London. Dancing, unfortunately, wasn’t precisely the best venue for getting to know someone. She’d learned that the hard way. The father of her son had been an exceptional dancer and that had not been a fair recommendation of his ethics. It made her wonder now what she didn’t know about Preston. He’d certainly ripped through her first line of defence with considerable boldness. He would find she could be bold as well.
She moved the baby to her other breast. ‘I do apologise. My parents have imposed indecently on your time by sending you here. I trust they are the ones who sent you?’
Preston only needed to nod in acknowledgement. Of course her parents had sent him. There was no one else to send. Their families had been friends for years, generations even, and the Penroses were sadly lacking in male progeny, having been ‘blessed’ with a single daughter. Preston was the closest the Penroses had to a son.
‘I will not be going back with you. You can take a message to my parents and convey my wishes to stay.’
This was her next line of defence: refusal.
‘I’ll write a note immediately so as not to delay your return. You can set out tomorrow.’ She put the baby to her shoulder and gently rubbed his back, invoking a burp.
‘Not without you,’ Preston replied firmly. Mistress Maddox came into the room and he slid his gaze her way. ‘Give the baby to the goodwife and come outside with me.’ The steel in his tone caught Beatrice off guard. She’d been focused on Preston as a friend, she’d been heartened by the idea that he was a reluctant messenger. It had lured her into a false sense of security. She’d not been ready for the harsh command. This was a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. She was seeing perhaps a glimpse of the man who commanded the coast of Britain, who protected a whole country. That man would expect abject obedience, which if not given freely might possibly be forced.
So be it. Beatrice rose and handed the baby to Mistress Maddox. She let Preston usher her outside into the mild spring sunshine. She let him be the one to break the silence as they walked. He wanted this conversation, he could damn well start it.
‘You are going back, Beatrice. Make no mistake.’ There was the firm tone of command again. He was no longer just her friend, just the messenger, but a man used to taking charge.
‘Even if you have to throw me over your shoulder and haul me off like a prize of war?’ she said coldly. The gloves were off now, friends or not.
‘Even if. But I hope it doesn’t come to that. I have every hope you’ll see reason before it gets that far.’
‘Or that you will,’ Bea replied drily. ‘There is more reason to see than your own.’
They stopped at a stone wall defining the Maddox property. Preston leaned his elbows against it. The breeze blew his dark hair. For the first time since his arrival, she noted the weariness on his face. She could see the traces of it in the tiny lines around his eyes, the faint grooves at his mouth, all reminders that he’d been seriously wounded in October; had spent the winter recovering. Now, he’d made a long journey to find her. Whatever weariness he felt could be laid at her feet. Her parents had sent him on a fool’s errand. She felt guilty over her part in it, but not guilty enough to grant him the thing he wished. She would not go with him just to appease the guilt.
‘Tell me, Bea.’ He sounded more like her friend. ‘No more prevaricating. Why won’t you go back?’
‘Go back to what? Society will pillory me for this. There is no place for me. Why would I return to a place where there is only shame? There is no life for me there.’
‘And there is a life for you here?’ Preston questioned.
‘Yes! No one looks at me with condemnation. My son is accepted. No one calls him a bastard.’
‘Because you’ve spun them a lie. May has told me all about it. How long do you think your “husband” can stay at sea?’
‘Until he dies. Merchants abroad for trade do die, you know. Mysterious illness, lightning-fast fevers. There’s a hundred perils that might come up.’ It sounded cold hearted even to her and she’d made the fiction up in the first place months ago when she’d arrived.
Preston gave a humourless laugh. ‘You are a bloodthirsty creature, Beatrice. Your poor husband is expendable, then?’
‘Yes,’ Beatrice answered simply. She’d be a grieving widow. It was the best of both worlds. No one would shun her son and no one would expect her to remarry after having loved and lost her devoted husband. It would be good protection for them both. Her son would have the shield of a dead father and she would have the shelter of widowhood.
‘Then what?’ Preston pressed on, his voice low. ‘You can’t stay even if your fiction holds. Your parents will cut you off.’ He paused with a sigh. ‘Forgive me, Beatrice. It pains me to say such things, but they are the truth and it is the message I am charged to deliver. I am the polite option. You may return with me of your own accord, or be burned out, so to speak. There will be no more money to pay for your keep. How long can you infringe on the Maddoxes without it?’
Beatrice looked out over the fields, taking a moment to gather her thoughts, to recover from this latest sally against her fortress. Hadn’t she expected such a manoeuvre? ‘I have prepared for such an eventuality.’ It wasn’t untrue. She and May had planned for it. They’d vowed together back in the autumn never to return to England, even if their allowances were cut, even if they lost the hospitality of her relative’s cottage on loan. So much had changed since the autumn, though. Her plans had not been laid expecting the cottage to be lost to fire or May being forced to flee with Liam, leaving her alone. Could she manage their schemes on her own?
‘I have some money set aside. I saved part of the allowance every month.’ She forged on bravely, outlining her plans. ‘I have found a small cottage to rent. I can grow herbs and bake bread to sell in the market. There is no school teacher here. I can tutor children, teach them to read in exchange for whatever I need.’ The plans sounded meagre when she voiced them out loud, fanciful and desperate.
To his credit, he did not mock her. Preston gave a brief nod. ‘Your efforts are commendable.’ But she knew what he was thinking. They were her thoughts, too. Was she really willing to commit her financial well-being to the caprices of barter and trade? Not just hers, but her son’s, too. What if it wasn’t enough? But it had to be. The risk in going home was too great. It wasn’t just the shame that kept her here. She could face the shame for herself. There were other fears, bigger fears.
‘I won’t let them take my son,’ Beatrice said with quiet force. This was the real fear, the one that had plagued her since her pregnancy: that her parents would snatch the child away, placing it with a family somewhere in England where she’d never find him again. That fear rose now. Had Preston come with more in mind than simply retrieving her? ‘I will not give him to you.’
Her family had chosen their messenger well, perhaps presuming on her friendship with him to let down her guard. They would find she was not so easily manipulated. Preston might be her old friend, but she would fight him, would make him the enemy if he thought to take the baby from her.
‘Never, Bea. How could you think that?’ The suggestion horrified him, breaking through the harshness. He was her friend once more. But they both knew how she dared to think it. It was what well-bred families did to erase the stain of scandal, to pretend the sin had never occurred. Preston reached for her hand and squeezed it, his grip strong and reassuring. ‘I give you my word, Beatrice, I will not allow the two of you to be separated. I am your parents’ messenger, Bea, not that it pleases me, but I am your friend. May and I have seen to it that your wishes are represented in this. We have made it clear that you expect to raise your son at Maidenstone.’ He spoke as if her acquiescence was inevitable. Maybe it was.
Maidenstone. The family home. Oh, he didn’t fight fair! Generations of Penroses had romped there, grown up there. There was no place like Maidenstone in the spring and the summer, the gardens full of wildflowers and roses. The thought of Maidenstone made her heart ache with nostalgia. Images of her son growing up there were powerful lures indeed. To show him the trails she’d walked, the lake, all of it, would be a wonderful joy. The allure must have shown on her face.
‘Maidenstone is his heritage, Bea. Would you deny your son what is his in exchange for raising him in near poverty? Life here will not be economically easy without your parents’ support.’ Preston was relentless in pointing out the realities of her situation. ‘Winters will be hard. Even more so without the resources you had this year.’ She knew that. She’d already lived through one winter without a home of her own. She redoubled her resolve. She had to hold firm. May and Preston meant well, but promises could be broken.
‘He is a male Penrose, Bea. Surely you see how that changes everything.’ Preston pressed his case more thoroughly now, moving from the philosophical considerations to more practical ones that unfortunately resonated with her logical side. ‘It is his protection. You have given your parents a grandson. He can inherit the Penrose land, the wealth. Maidenstone could be his.’
‘That is a fool’s dream. Do you think I haven’t thought of that?’ She had, of course, when she lay awake late at night worrying over the future. ‘It would be better for him to never know, to never suffer the disappointment of what might have been.’ Beatrice spoke honestly. ‘Society will call him a bastard. I would not wish that on him. Better for him to grow up here and learn a trade, find his own way in a world of his making than to hover on the fringes of a world that doesn’t want him, always on the outside.’
Preston’s response was quick and impatient. ‘Not if he’s recognised. Your father can choose to recognise him. It would even be better if your son’s father recognised him. You could give your parents the name of the father. He could be found and brought to account.’
Bea stiffened at the mention of the father. Malvern Alton. A deserter of women. A man who cared only for himself and for his pleasure. He had not cared for her any more than he’d cared for the consequences of their actions. It had taken her a while to recognise and accept the bounder for what he was—a rake of the worst order. For months, she’d clung to the illusion that he’d loved her and the hope that he’d come back. But now that she saw him clearly, any mention of Malvern Alton had to be met with the strongest of defences. She wanted nothing of him in her life. He didn’t know of her son and she wanted it to stay that way. He would be even less of a father than he’d been a lover. Not that the courts of England would agree with her. Nobly born fathers held influence if they exerted themselves to claim custody. If Alton wanted her son, he could force her hand. The very thought made her shiver. She struggled to keep her voice even. ‘No. I will not force a man who does not want me into marriage any more than I would force myself into marriage simply to appease society’s dictates.’
It wasn’t just Malvern she wouldn’t marry. It was any of them—any man willing to take her and her son. Such a situation would be disastrous, it would sentence them all to a life of unhappiness. Another fear rose, threatening the calm she’d fought so hard to win. ‘Don’t you see, that too is a reason I can’t go back. I will not go to London and seek a husband so that society can be appeased.’ Marriage—that was the other thing well-bred families did to erase the stain. She’d not put it past her own family to do the same.
They’d barter her off to a man willing to overlook her sin and her son and she would pay for that every day. That sort of man would lord it over her and her son, making them feel grateful for even the merest of considerations from him. She met Preston’s gaze, studying him for the truth. ‘Are there plans for me to marry? Is that why you’ve come now? To take me to London for the Season?’ She could imagine nothing worse—a social hell to rival Dante’s. No, that wasn’t quite true. She could imagine one thing worse—coming face to face with Malvern Alton again, especially now that she had her son to protect. While she was in Scotland, there was little chance of that happening. Alton liked his luxuries. There were few luxuries here.
Preston lowered his voice and leaned his head close to hers in confidence, his gaze earnest. She could smell the scent of horse and sweat mingled with wind and sandalwood on him. ‘There are currently no plans to marry you off to anyone.’ Evening shadows were starting to fall, long and sure across the fields. They’d talked away the afternoon. Resistance, refusal and refutation were all exhausted and still there was no resolution.
‘Come to Little Westbury, go home to Maidenstone. I won’t pretend it will be easy, but you should try. For your son’s sake. He should be raised among friends and we’ll all be there, waiting for you,’ Preston urged one last time. It was the third time he’d asked since this conversation had begun. Intuitively, she knew he would not ask again.
‘I choose to stay,’ Beatrice said firmly. Here, she was safe, not just from Alton, but from all danger, all men.
Preston bowed his head in a curt nod. ‘Then you leave me no choice.’ It was an ultimatum.
‘That makes us even. You’ve left me with none either.’ It was bravado at best. If she ran, where would she run to? To whom?
‘I will come in the morning with the carriage in the hopes you will have reconsidered the nature of your exit.’ The words left her cold. The idea that she had no choices left wasn’t not the same as his. He was merely forced now to take action. But she was forced to the opposite—to take no action, to acquiesce. To surrender. For now. Perhaps it was not so much a surrender as a retreat. She was Beatrice Penrose. She would survive this.
Chapter Two (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)
It could have been worse, Preston mused an hour down the road, the little village on the Firth firmly behind them. He could have actually had to bodily carry Beatrice out of the farmhouse. He’d more than half-expected to after their conversation the day before. He was glad he didn’t have to. His shoulders were up to it, but his mind wasn’t.
If it was up to him, he would have left her in Scotland. He knew all too well how it felt to be forced into an unwelcome destiny. Wasn’t the very same fate waiting for him upon his return? Hadn’t it already begun years ago when he’d been denied the chance to go to war for his country all because of his birth? He keenly felt the hypocrisy of being sent to retrieve Beatrice to resume a life she no longer wanted and force her to it if he must, when he, too, railed against such strictures. Would her rebellion be as futile as his had been thus far?
Preston studied her, her dark head bent slightly as she read, the baby quietly asleep in his basket on the floor. She was still the Beatrice he knew. There was still in her the girl he’d grown up with who romped the hills and valleys of Little Westbury with long strides, carrying a basket to collect herbs and plants during their hikes. But there was a difference to her now.
Motherhood had changed her, Scotland had changed her. Freedom had changed her. There was an air of serenity about her, moments of softness, and yet there was a fierceness to her that hadn’t been there before. Beatrice had always been a strong personality, always the first to speak up against injustice, sometimes too rashly. He remembered the butcher in the village and the time Beatrice had caught the man cheating a poor woman out of fresh meat. That strength had permutated into something even fiercer than it had once been. Of course, she had something, someone, to protect now.
He’d seen that fierceness on display yesterday. She’d been formidable in her defence and he’d seen her point. Life in Little Westbury would be financially secure, but it would be difficult. She’d deduced correctly that her parents were eager to put the past year behind them, not necessarily by embracing it, but by erasing it.
Beatrice looked up from her reading and smiled tightly, acknowledging his gaze but nothing more as her eyes returned to her pages. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d set foot in the carriage. She was still mad. At him. He understood. She blamed him for this disruption in her life. But there was something else he more rightly deserved the blame for.
Preston felt the guilt return. It had plagued him since he’d ridden away yesterday. It wasn’t his fault she had to come home. That decision lay firmly at the feet of her parents. However, it might possibly be his fault she was in the carriage under somewhat false pretences. He’d told the truth. He and May had advocated the baby be raised at Maidenstone and there were no plans to marry Beatrice off to anyone specifically. He knew the conclusion Beatrice had drawn from that last piece of information: she’d be allowed to stay in Little Westbury, in seclusion. She wouldn’t be forced to go to London and endure a Season. That was where he had not bothered to correct her assumptions.
There was always the chance she wouldn’t mind. That was the balm his conscience had fallen asleep to last night. Once she got home, she might want to go to London. Evie and Dimitri would be there. May and Liam would be there. There was Liam’s knighthood ceremony to look forward to. Surely, London’s allures would be too appealing to resist. The baby stirred and he watched Beatrice’s gaze go directly to the little bundle, her expression soft as she looked at her sleeping son.
No. Preston knew instinctively his hopes were futile. London had no allure that could compete with the contents of that basket. There was no question of the baby going to London. It was hard to catch husbands with babies clinging to one’s skirts. The baby would have to stay behind and Beatrice would never forgive him for that.
The thought of earning Beatrice’s enmity sat poorly with him. He’d argued against being sent on this mission from the start. He’d not wanted to do the Penroses’ dirty work, but neither had he wanted someone less sensitive to Beatrice’s preferences to come in his place. In the end, it was that which had persuaded him to accept, although he’d feared this duty would risk Beatrice’s friendship. That, and the idea this trip was one last reprieve from the new responsibilities that waited for him. If it hadn’t been for this journey, he’d already be at his grandmother’s estate in Shoreham-by-the-Sea, picking up the reins of his inheritance, reins that tugged him in the direction of a landowning gentleman far sooner than he was ready to accept them. Becoming a landowning gentleman was much more bucolic than his current position as the head of coastal patrol. Having an estate that needed him would put an end to his patrol work and to any ambitions he held beyond that. He wasn’t ready for bucolic and all it entailed. He pushed the thoughts away and focused on Beatrice.
‘Are you truly not going to speak to me for an entire week?’ Preston crossed his long legs, attempting to stretch a bit in the cramped space without kicking the baby’s basket.
Beatrice gave him a cool glance. ‘A week? That’s quite optimistic. I intend to not speak to you far longer than that.’
Preston nudged the toe of her shoe, unable to resist the boyish response. ‘You just did. Guess you’ll have to start over.’
Beatrice put down her book in exasperation. ‘You’re acting like a thirteen-year-old.’
Preston grinned. ‘It takes one to know one. I figured giving someone the silent treatment deserved an equal and appropriate response.’ He managed to tease a smile from her with the remark. ‘We both know you aren’t going to hate me for ever.’ At least he hoped not. ‘Why don’t you forgive me now and get it over with? This trip will be a lot more interesting with someone to talk to, especially if that someone is you.’
He gave her a boyish smile before he turned serious. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t want to do it, Bea. May told me how happy you were here. But if it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.’ Preston shook his head, letting the gesture say what he could not put into words. ‘I just couldn’t let someone else come. That’s not what a friend does, even when there’s bad news to deliver.’ Would she understand it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done? He who had faced gun runners and arms dealers in dark alleys, taken knives to the gut rather like she was taking the proverbial blade now.
Beatrice relented. He saw it in her eyes first, the dark depths softening as she began to see this journey from his perspective. She reached out a hand and squeezed his. ‘Thank you for being the one. I doubt I could have borne it otherwise.’ It was settled. They could be friends once more for a few weeks at least until he needed to beg her forgiveness again.
‘Good.’ Preston settled back against the squabs with satisfaction. ‘Now that’s out of the way, I can tell you about the latest letter from Jonathon and Claire.’
She tossed him a teasingly accusing glare. ‘You were holding out on me yesterday.’ Bea gave his knee a playful swat and just like that they were the people he remembered them to be.
‘Ouch! A good negotiator always holds something back.’ Preston feigned injury with a laugh. ‘Do you want to hear or not?’
‘Of course I want to hear.’ Beatrice bent down to pick up her son, awakened by their banter. She put the baby to her breast with consummate ease, unbothered by the loudness of the baby’s waking squall or the confines of the carriage that put them in such close proximity—a proximity, which to his mind, made the act of nursing seem more personal than it had yesterday.
Quite frankly, yesterday had been fairly intimate in his opinion. He had thought himself a worldly man, and maybe he was by masculine standards: well-travelled, well-educated. But this world of women was beyond his experience. Was there even etiquette for such a situation? He should look away, yet he could not bring himself to avert his eyes. Watching her with the child was new, fascinating, and it did queer things to his stomach, to his mind, filling it with reminders that while they were the same people they’d been growing up, they were different now, too, each having gone their own way for years. Beatrice was a woman now, the angular, thin girl turned into a lush woman made pretty by the contours of motherhood, a woman who knew the capabilities of a man’s body. And he was a man now who had no small experience in that regard when it came to a woman’s. It was an intriguing but uncomfortable lens through which to view an old friend.
* * *
Her eyes met his over the child’s head. For a moment Preston thought she might scold him for his prurience, but while the act of watching her stirred him deeply, it was not prurient in the least, only beautiful, like a Raphael painting of the Madonna and Child. Beatrice arched her eyebrow in query. ‘Well? Are you going to tell me your news or do I have to guess?’
He slanted her a teasing look. ‘You haven’t grown any more patient over the years, Bea. Jonathon wrote to say he and Claire are expecting a child in the autumn.’ Preston cleared his throat. His voice had caught most unexpectedly at the last. He’d been excited for his friend when he’d read the news. He knew how important family was to Jonathon. It was a value the two of them shared.
‘Oh!’ Beatrice’s face shone with pure happiness for her friend. ‘They must be over the moon. They will be good parents. There is so much love between them and now there will be a child to lavish it on.’ Preston did not miss the wistfulness in her tone. He’d felt that same wistfulness, too, when he’d first heard the news. Jonathon had moved on. Jonathon would have a family while he was still where he’d always been. Working for the government, conducting business for his family and their friends.
Preston’s eyes went to the baby in the ensuing silence. Would he ever have what Jonathon had? What Liam had found? He felt a twinge of envy at the thought of his two best friends, Jonathon Lashley and Liam Casek, both happily married and both his own age, both with careers of their own. Jonathon was a diplomat in Vienna. Liam was about to be knighted and looking forward to establishing himself in Parliament as an MP. Both of them proved careers didn’t exclude a family life with a woman he loved beside him. They proved a man could have both. And yet, Preston didn’t. That hole had never felt quite as gaping as it did now.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ Beatrice offered, passing him the baby before he could refuse.
Preston took the bundle gently in his arms. ‘He’s so light. I guess I thought because babies look like a sack of potatoes, they felt like one, too.’
‘He’s sturdy enough. He won’t break,’ Beatrice assured him. ‘You don’t have to treat him as if he’s glass.’
Preston adjusted his hold on the infant, starting to feel more confident. He looked down at the little face looking back at him and grinned. ‘I think he smiled at me. I think he likes me.’ It was such a small thing and yet it pleased him extraordinarily and ridiculously.
‘Mistress Maddox told me babies often smile when they pass gas,’ Beatrice said slyly, laughing and adding as consolation, ‘but I’m sure he likes you.’ She hesitated a moment before asking quietly. ‘Are you jealous? Of Jonathon, I mean?’
‘I shouldn’t be. He’s endured hardship over the last years. He deserves happiness,’ Preston answered truthfully. Why should he be jealous? He could marry whenever he chose, within the Season since his inheritance had been established. It would be ideal and frankly preferred now that he had a home to look after. If he wasn’t married already with an heir in the nursery next spring it was his own fault. His mother had ten willing debutantes to hand at any given time. Any girl would be glad to do her duty and marry him. Wasn’t that part of the problem? Part of his resistance? He wanted a family, but not like that. Not with a girl like that. Bea was watching him with an odd look on her face as he rocked the baby and he couldn’t help but ask her the same. ‘Are you, Bea? Jealous?’
* * *
‘Of Claire? No, of course not.’ Bea shook her head hastily to dispel such an unworthy thought. No true friend would begrudge another friend happiness. ‘I was just thinking about the child.’ Two loving parents and the benefits of a well-born birth. By a random act of fate, the child was poised for success simply by the nature of its birth. Her throat thickened. All the love she possessed for her son couldn’t compensate for what he’d never have. Watching Preston with him now drove it all home, the loss she tried not to think about. There would be no father to rock him, no father to run in the meadows with him, to teach him to fish and hunt and ride. No father to hug him, to help him through his first heartbreak, to usher him into manhood. Malvern could never be that man. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would be both mother and father to him. She would be enough.
Preston read her thoughts. ‘He’ll have uncles, Bea. He’ll have Dimitri and Liam and me. He will not go wanting for male guidance.’ Something moved in his hazel eyes. She feared she knew what it was and it was the last thing she wanted from anyone, but especially from him.
‘I don’t need pity,’ Beatrice said firmly but quietly. She would not be made a charity case.
‘I’m not offering it,’ he replied with equal sincerity. ‘Of all the people I’ve ever known, Beatrice, you are the least likely to need it.’
‘As are you. You’re handsome and well positioned. I know very well from having seen it first hand—the matchmaking mamas are angling hard for you. You could marry whenever you like.’ Beatrice gave him a wry smile. She needed to direct the discussion away from herself. Their conversation yesterday had strayed in this direction, too, and she had no desire to head down that path again. If they stayed this course they’d end up talking about Alton, about why she wouldn’t seek him out. They could talk about marriage, just not hers. ‘Surely there’s a pretty girl who has captured your heart?’
‘Actually, no.’ Preston was determined not to be distracted, though. ‘Why won’t you talk about him, Bea? Matthew’s father? That’s twice now. Don’t think I don’t notice how you veer away from the subject.’
Bea met his gaze with a strong stare. ‘He is not worth talking about.’ How did she explain talking about him seemed to make Alton more real? She let the silence linger, signalling the finality of that conversation.
Preston shifted in his seat, rearranging his limbs. ‘So,’ he drawled, fixing her with a mischievous stare in return, ‘you think I’m handsome?’
‘You know you are. It’s empirically true.’ Beatrice laughed, but the sound came out a little nervously, her mouth dry. Preston was handsome. He wore his dark hair brushed back off his forehead, revealing the lean, elegant bones of his face, the razor straightness of his nose, the firm line of his jaw, the sweep of enigmatic cheekbones that appeared stark and sharp when he was angry and gave way to a hint of friendly apples when he smiled. Perhaps, though, what gave his face its handsomeness were its two best features: his hazel eyes, intelligent and compassionate by turn, and the thin aristocratic structure of his mouth. It was a face that paired well with his body. His was not the bulkier, muscled body of a man like Liam Casek, but athletically trim. A fencer’s body, lean and quick in its height.
Beatrice shifted, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts. It was something of a shock to think of Preston in those terms. She’d never catalogued Preston’s physical assets in quite such a way—like a debutante or a matchmaking mama looking for a prime eligible parti. ‘I’ll take him now.’ She reached for her son. She’d imposed on Preston long enough and holding the baby would give her something to do, something to think about besides Preston’s physique.
Preston surprised her. ‘No, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hold him a while longer. You can rest, if you want. You must be tired with all the getting up every night. I think Matthew and I are getting on famously.’
She was tired. The nights were indeed difficult. Beatrice didn’t need further urging. She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, hoping the old adage was true—out of sight, out of mind. She’d very much like to dispel certain images of Preston Worth. Harbouring such fanciful notions was one sure way to destroy a friendship. It was probably why men and women were so often unsuccessful in their friendships with one another. It was more difficult than she’d expected to rid her mind of those images, but it was easy to rationalise why. They were in close quarters, there was the baby to look after. Jonathon and Claire’s news had thrown the holes of their own individual lives into sharp relief. It was natural to reach out and grab at the person nearest to you. Even now, wasn’t Preston doing the same thing? He wasn’t the only one who could read minds. She knew very well what he was doing. He was sitting across from her, holding the baby and pretending at fatherhood.
Of course, Preston’s situation wasn’t nearly as dire as hers. He could change his circumstances. She could not. Should not. She had her rules now and the number one rule was that men were dangerous. Rule number two: passion was dangerous. But Preston didn’t need to live by those rules. There was still time for him, all the time in the world. He could marry when he chose and he was young by male marriage standards. Many men didn’t marry until their thirties and Preston was what? Twenty-eight? He was five years older than May and she. She remembered that his birthday was in early April. The realisation almost made her eyes fly open. His birthday was the tenth.
He would likely celebrate it on the road. Away from his family. That was her fault. He’d not wanted to make this journey.
I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else coming for you.
He had sacrificed his comforts for her and she’d been shrewish with him. She would find a way to make it up to him.
Chapter Three (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)
In terms of igniting dangerous fantasies about one’s travelling partner, the day got markedly worse; everything seemed to feed those rather uncomfortable considerations. There was the picnic beside a quiet brook and a short walk through a meadow of wildflowers to stretch their legs later in the afternoon while Matthew dozed under the watchful eye of the driver, all of it accompanied by conversation, all of it seemingly meaningful to her, at least. It was a chance to get to know her friend again.
She learned about Preston’s work along the coast. Thanks to high taxes, smuggling was always in season. Danger, too, but he seemed to take it all in his stride. In turn, he asked about her interests—science and herbs, things she hadn’t devoted much time to since Matthew was born. She was starved for such conversation. It had been months since someone had paid attention to her as a singular entity in herself and it was intoxicating. The thoughtful conversation wove an intimacy all its own, a potency further enhanced by her earlier considerations—considerations that were becoming increasingly difficult to tamp down.
‘I think this might be the most pleasant day I’ve had in a long time.’ Beatrice let Preston hand her into the coach after their walk, suddenly conscious of his touch, of its warmth, its strength. ‘Motherhood, I’m discovering, is a lonely occupation. I don’t think I’ve talked to another soul about anything other than babies in for ever.’ Not talking about them had been liberating.
Preston grinned and settled into his seat. ‘I’m glad we stopped, then. I usually don’t talk about my work much. I suspect most find it boring, or somewhat scandalous. It’s one thing for a nobleman’s son to have a position, to be an “officer” of sorts, but it’s another thing to actually do the position.’ Preston shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine just sitting around all day. Apparently, several of my colleagues can manage it just fine. I would go barmy.’ He paused and turned more serious. ‘It killed me not to be able to serve against Napoleon. I was envious of Jonathon and his brother. Jonathon was an heir, too. I thought surely if Jonathon’s parents let him go, mine would as well.’
She hadn’t known. Always a dutiful son, he’d hid his disappointment admirably. ‘But you were posted to the coast instead?’
‘And not even in a military capacity.’ Preston gave a dry laugh. Beatrice could hear the lingering regret. She wanted to say something encouraging but not clichéd.
‘Running Cabot Roan, the infamous arms dealer, to ground is a significant service not just to Britain, but to Europe. One that nearly cost you your life, as sure as any soldier,’ she added pointedly.
‘True enough.’ He leaned back against the seat and pushed a hand through his dark hair. ‘I’m sorry, Bea. I’m being peevish all of the sudden.’ He was silent for a moment, but she felt the frenetic energy radiating from him, struggling to break free of containment. ‘I do enjoy the work. That’s the problem. My parents feel I should give it up now. I’ve spent my twenties serving the Crown, as many young men of noble families do, Bea, and now my parents believe it’s time to move on to serve the Crown in a more traditional sense.’ He chuckled. ‘Of course, they disagree on which tradition that should be. Father would like to see me shift my career to more diplomacy. But Mother...’ He held up his empty left fingers and waggled them indicating the lack of a ring.
Bea nodded her understanding. Of course his mother would want him to marry. Men of good birth were to oversee the land and those that worked it. Their service to England was to be gentlemen, protect the vast tracts of land that had been given into the care of their families generations ago and make sons to carry on the tradition. That was to be the purpose of his life just as her purpose in life had once been to marry such a man and produce that heir. It seemed both of them were determined to deviate from the path laid out for them.
‘You’re restless, that’s all,’ Beatrice said softly, realising that perhaps the conversation had been liberating for him as well. ‘I feel it, too, sometimes.’ In hindsight, she often thought it was that restlessness that had led her to the impetuous affair last winter. She could never regret Matthew, but she did regret giving in to the spontaneity and the desperation that had driven the decision to be with a man she knew very little about except that she found him exciting in an unpredictable sort of way.
She glanced at Preston, the words she wanted to say making her uncharacteristically shy. ‘Do you suppose that makes me a bad mother? Wondering if there’s more than nappies and nursing?’ It was her guiltiest thought these days. Perhaps there wasn’t anything more, perhaps this was why gentlemen preferred empty-headed debutantes. Those girls would never question the duality of motherhood.
Preston gave a friendly chuckle. ‘No, hardly, Bea. You’re a fabulous mother from what I’ve seen. I don’t know how you handle it, how you know it all: when to feed him, to change him, how to burp him.’
Bea felt herself glow. ‘I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’
Preston gave her a wink, his good humour seemingly restored. ‘I know.’
Bea gave him a considering look. ‘I think motherhood comes with a paradox: infinite love and finite limitations. Maybe being a gentleman’s son does, too, in its own way: limited opportunities while providing for eternal perpetuity.’ She’d always thought of men as having boundless freedom. Perhaps not.
‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, exactly.’ Preston reached for his book with a rueful half-smile before turning his attention to the pages and she did the same, allowing her thoughts, both old and new, to absorb her.
* * *
Even as she settled beneath the covers for the night, Matthew asleep in a makeshift crib beside her lonely bed, the thought was still with her that today had been a watershed; she was coming alive again, the rivers of her life diverging in different directions once more. She was not just a mother now, whose body was devoted solely to supporting another life, nor was she simply a girl with a past, but a woman with independent interests and needs. The sharpness of that realisation was a double-edged sword; those interests, those needs, carried her down dangerous streams, more passionate streams she’d promised herself not to navigate again for the sake of her son and herself. Hadn’t she learned her lesson already?
She could not allow herself to give in to the reckless passions that had led her into Malvern Alton’s arms, except perhaps in the middle of the night, alone in her bed where no one could see, no one would know. Bea slid her hands beneath the cotton of her nightgown, cupping her breasts, feeling the milky fullness of them and remembering that once, before they’d been a source of nourishment, they’d been a source of pleasure. It had been heady to feel a man’s hands on her. She’d felt delightfully wicked and delightfully natural, a complete woman, able to give pleasure.
Her hands slid lower, over the softness of her belly, the roundness of her hips. What would a man think of her now? She’d been much thinner, much straighter in form before the baby. Perhaps too thin except for her breasts. That angularity was gone now. She had a fairly frank relationship with the mirror. She might not have got her figure back after the baby, but she’d got a figure back. She could see the difference in herself now compared to London’s narrow-waisted debutantes.
Her hand slipped between her legs, to the one place that hadn’t changed, her core quivering. There was pleasure here still, perhaps the only physical pleasure available to her under her rules. She had not done this for ages, not since Matthew had been born, and it felt good and right after today’s realisations. She could be alive again. She was entitled to be alive again. She owed the knowledge of it to Preston.
But there, she had to be careful not to let her imagination get the better of her. This awakening wasn’t about Preston. She wasn’t pleasuring herself in her dark room because of her earlier fantasies. She was doing it in celebration of what he’d helped her realise. Nothing more.
* * *
That became her mantra in the early days of their journey. She and Preston were good friends and that made them good travelling companions. It was an ideal concept that explained the ease into which they could lapse with each other, the thoughts they could share with each other without fearing judgement, or the silence they could sit in. It explained the patterns that formed quickly and easily; the days spent in conversation, the walks and roadside picnics as the miles passed, the evenings spent in a private dinner away from the general noise of the taprooms, the companionable stroll as he escorted her to her room and said goodnight before going to his own chamber next door. Often, he carried the baby upstairs for her.
It was the happiest and yet saddest part of the day, watching him talk softly to the baby, who clearly adored him. ‘Pound on the wall if you need anything, Bea,’ he’d say reassuringly. ‘I’ll be right there.’ Sometimes he’d lean over and give Matthew a kiss on the forehead, his hand resting at her back, his body encompassing them in a little group as he said the words, ‘Goodnight, little man, sleep tight.’ Then he’d shut the door behind them, leaving her and Matthew alone until the morning and the sun shone again. Preston would make an excellent father. The instincts were all there: the caring, the gentleness, the devotion, the love. His children would be lucky. His wife would be lucky.
* * *
The fourth day was hard going. It managed to rain in the morning, turning the roads muddy. Progress was slow and there was no chance for outdoor breaks to stretch their legs. Matthew was feeling the confines of the carriage after three days of travel, having cried a large part of the day despite their best efforts to distract him. Even Preston’s unflagging patience was reaching its limits. They put into an inn around five o’clock and Preston jumped down to see about rooms. She could hear the mud squishing around the impact of his boots when he landed and firmly shut the coach door behind him with an admonition, ‘Stay inside, Bea.’
Peeking through the coach window, she saw the reason for it, unnecessary though the caution was. She had no desire to tramp around in the mud. Outside, the sight was dismal. The inn looked rougher and less well kept than the other places they’d stopped, the yard full of men in shabby clothes who apparently didn’t care they were ankle deep in mud and the rain still falling.
This was not where they’d planned to stay tonight. Their destination was still several miles away, a journey that might take up to two hours in this slog, or might see them stranded along the road if a wheel got stuck, or a horse went lame in the dark, victim of a misstep. Matthew began to stir from his brief nap, another reason for not daring more miles on the road. The baby could go no further.
The inn door opened and she watched Preston come out, rain beating on the shoulders of his great coat, dripping in rivulets down his dark hair, turning him somewhat more primitive than the gentleman she was used to. A man called out to him, something she couldn’t hear. Preston did not hesitate to silence him with a scowl and sharp words of his own. The man backed off. So it was that kind of crowd.
Preston climbed inside the coach, looking grim. ‘Bad news, Bea. They’ve only the one room. There’s a horse show in town and rooms everywhere are full. It’s either this or driving on. I suppose we could try. There’s a bit more daylight yet.’ He didn’t sound hopeful. Matthew was fully awake now, sitting on her lap and on the verge of another cranky bawl over being cooped up.
‘Take the room. I am sure we can manage.’ Beatrice smiled bravely. ‘I think it’s the only decision we can make. I know it’s not ideal.’
Preston nodded and twisted at something on his hand. His grandfather’s gold ring with a square emerald in it, a very masculine ring, a gift to him on his eighteenth birthday. She’d been there the night the gift had been given, a sign of maturity, of coming of age, of being recognised as another Worth male in a lineage that spanned generations, a proud moment, a prized possession. He handed it to her. ‘You should put it on, Bea.’ He shrugged, his explanation modest although she’d already divined the reason for it. ‘It will protect you.’ From the bullies in the yard, from whatever clientele existed in the taproom.
Beatrice nodded silently and slipped the ring on. Preston’s fingers were long and slender, a musician’s hands, although she hadn’t heard him play in years. As a result, the ring fit moderately well, only slightly loose. She curled her hand into a fist to ensure it didn’t slide off. What a difference a ring could make. A wife was entitled to all sorts of protections and considerations denied a single woman. Wasn’t that the reason she’d created her own fictitious husband in Scotland? Still, she was confident in her safety, ring or not. Preston would keep her safe. He always had. She had no reason to doubt his capabilities now.
Preston blew out a breath. ‘All right, let’s go. You carry Matthew and I’ll carry you. I’ll have a porter bring the bags.’ He swung her up into his arms, the babe clutched against her chest, and made his way across the muddy inn yard.
The room was small, with barely enough space for a bed, a small table, a fireplace and a dressing screen in the corner. The smallness seemed to emphasise the reality that even between longstanding friends, masquerading as husband and wife carried with it a dangerous intimacy. It was the bed that did it, dominating the tiny space so that one could think of nothing else but bed and all that it implied.
Stay busy, Beatrice told herself. She set Matthew carefully in the bed’s centre and set about starting a fire. Preston was downstairs, overseeing the bags, and he was wet. He’d want heat when he came up. She checked the cleanliness of the towels and the bedding, hanging one towel near the fire to warm for Preston. A maid popped her head in and Beatrice tried to order dinner, but was told the inn was too busy for special orders. Everyone who wanted to eat had to eat in the taproom. Preston relayed the same information when he came up a few minutes later.
‘The room is small.’ Preston’s eyes went briefly to the bed, perhaps drawing the same conclusions she had. Someone was going to end up in a chair or on the floor unless...unless they opted to share the bed. There would be no hiding in the dark if they did. But that was hours away yet.
‘It’s warm and clean, which is more than I expected. We’ll manage.’ She would rely on brisk efficiency to keep the fantasy at bay. ‘Let’s get you dry.’
Chapter Four (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)
Spoken like a perfect wife. The errant thought came to him as he stood in the centre of her efficient whirlwind, letting Beatrice strip him out of his coat, his jacket, his waistcoat, laying them over the fireplace screen and picking up the heated towel. ‘Here, dry off with this, it’s warm. I am assuming a hot bath is out of the question if they can’t be bothered to deliver dinner.’ She let him mop his face and neck. His shirt was dry, protected from the damp by his other layers, fortunately for modesty’s sake, but perhaps unfortunately for his other senses. He was rather enjoying being fussed over.
Beatrice passed him another towel, saying, ‘For your hair’, before pushing him down into the room’s one chair and opening his travelling trunk. She pulled out clean clothes for him. ‘Your clothes will be dry in the morning, but you’ll need something for tonight.’ She laid them out on the bed.
‘Take care of yourself, Bea. I’ll do.’ Preston smiled at her efforts. Of course Beatrice would fuss over him. She took care of those in need whether it be a poor woman in a butcher shop or a hungry baby, or a soaking wet man. He didn’t mind. When was the last time someone had done for him? When he was at home, his valet did it, but when he travelled for the Crown, he was on his own. His work often required stealth and one could not be stealthy with a valet in tow.
Beatrice was a caregiver, it came naturally to her, part of how she took charge. Look what she’d done for her friends this past year, inspiring them to take life into their own hands; his sister had told him about the Left Behind Girls Club where the motto was ‘nothing will change until you do’. He’d seen evidence of it these last days, all the attention she selflessly lavished on her son. He supposed he’d always known that about Beatrice. She’d been the leader of the little group of girls since they were young. But to see it in action was another thing altogether, a reminder, too, that he might have grown up with Bea, but their adult lives had been spent separately. He might have known the girl she’d been, but he did not know entirely the woman she’d become. He’d like to know her, though. It was, in large part, what these past days in the coach had focused on. The journey was no longer merely a rescue or retrieval of an old friend, but a discovery. He had the sense she was doing the same with him, both of them exploring the same questions: who had they become in the absence of childhood and the presence of their own adversities?
Perhaps the more important question was: where did that discovery lead? They’d long since superseded the friendship of childhood in Little Westbury and they were fast becoming more than the sum of their friendship in London as new adults come to town. He knew it was due to the enforced proximity of the road. Once the road was gone and they were home, this sense of closeness would fade. It was how the road worked.
He watched her deftly change the baby into a fresh cloth, her face all smiles, her voice a gentle coo even when Matthew fussed and rolled, trying to thwart her efforts. Something inside him went soft. Would the closeness fade? He found himself trying on the old line of comfort: ‘maybe this time it would be different’. Maybe he didn’t want the closeness to fade.
Bea took a moment to play a game with Matthew, blowing on his belly before settling his clothes. The baby laughed, forgetting his own troubles, whatever they might be. Preston laughed, too, feeling some of the weariness of the day slip away when Bea looked over at him and smiled. It was not a special moment, the way milestone moments are, but he knew in his gut he would remember this moment for ever. His mind would keep a sharp picture of her at the bed, looking over at him with the laughing baby in her arms, as if this was his wife and his child. His family in truth. Then Matthew started to cry again and the moment was gone. Bea bounced him, trying to settle him down, undaunted.
Her patience was admirable, really. Preston knew she had to be as tired as he was after a long day in the coach and he wasn’t the one who had to feed the wee little fiend. Matthew hadn’t wanted to do anything today except scream and eat. He wasn’t looking forward to taking the baby down to the taproom, but what choice did he have? ‘Let me hold him while you get ready,’ he offered.
She gave him a tired smile of thanks. Eating in public didn’t appeal to her any more than it appealed to him, but perhaps for different reasons. ‘Thank you. I will just be a minute.’
Preston kept a hand firmly and obviously at Beatrice’s back as they navigated the taproom, letting everyone see that she was clearly with him, clearly under his protection. There was a knife in his boot if he needed it. He hoped he wouldn’t. But not that hopeful. The room was just as bad as he’d anticipated, noisy with the excitement of tomorrow’s horse sales and full of the odours that come with a room filled to capacity with wet, muddy men unaccustomed to washing.
The innkeeper caught sight of the baby in Bea’s arms and ushered them to a quieter table in the corner, a small blessing. At least if there was a fight, he’d have a wall at his back, a far more preferable arrangement to being surrounded on all sides.
‘We’ll take wine if you have it,’ Preston told the man, helping Beatrice to sit before taking his own seat that looked out across the crowded room. Most men were just in high spirits, but two tables worried him. The one near the door looked to be trouble in general, spoiling for a fight with anyone. It was only seven o’clock and they were already drunk. The table closer to them was a more immediate concern. That would be personal trouble. The big man had been eyeing Beatrice since they walked in despite his hand at her back, despite the baby on her lap and the bold gold ring on her finger. A man who didn’t respect such signs was trouble indeed if he decided to do more than look.
* * *
The first part of the meal went better than expected. The rough inn had an excellent cook. The innkeeper had taken a look at Beatrice with the baby on her lap and had not hesitated to supply the table with the best his kitchen had to offer, perhaps as an apology for not being able to serve them privately. After a day filled with unmet expectations, the excellent meal was more than welcome. The rabbit stew was tasty and seasoned, the bread freshly baked, the wine a nice complement to the meal—so nice, in fact, Preston wondered if it was smuggled. He always wondered. Occupational hazard, he supposed. He and Beatrice were able to exchange a little conversation underneath the noise surrounding them. Baby Matthew was entranced by all the activity around him and was behaving. They were small blessings, like the moment upstairs, when just for a second, everything had been right.
After the day Bea had endured, he wished he could give her more, give her better. Maybe it was that desire to give her more than a rough night out that prompted his decision when the innkeeper had leaned close and whispered there was bread pudding available for dessert for his more discerning customers. Preston had seen Bea’s eyes light up at the mention and he couldn’t say no. He rationalised dinner had gone well enough so far, what would a few more minutes be?
He should have quit while he was ahead. They’d no more than taken two bites of the bread pudding when the big man a few tables over decided to make trouble. ‘What about the rest of us? I want some dessert, too,’ he bawled at the innkeeper. ‘You’ve been sending the best to their table all night long.’
The innkeeper, well used to rough clientele and a burly man himself, was not daunted. ‘Dessert’s for patrons who pay their bill, Burke.’
But Burke wasn’t done. Getting no satisfaction from the innkeeper, he turned his attention to Preston’s table. ‘Maybe I want something else for dessert.’ His eyes passed over Beatrice. Preston readied his fists. There was a fight coming. It was nearly unavoidable. He’d give the man one chance to retreat.
‘My wife doesn’t care for your attentions,’ Preston said firmly, drawing the man’s gaze away from Bea.
‘Your wife is pretty. I’m just wanting a little kiss, we don’t get such pretty ladies in these parts.’ The man was drunk, Preston could smell the alcohol on him, and the man was sizing him up, weighing Preston’s leaner build against his own bulk and coming to certain, rather violent conclusions. Big men always did. Big men thought sheer strength counted for everything, they forgot about other elements like speed and height, and reach and athleticism, and that wasn’t even counting what Preston did for a living. While most of the smugglers were unsophisticated sailors, there were arms dealers who’d been a good deal more dangerous. One drunk man in a tavern didn’t worry him.
Preston rose, exposing his full height up close. ‘Go back to your table before someone gets hurt. My wife doesn’t want to kiss you.’ He was aware that Matthew had begun to cry and the sound of the baby’s distress angered Preston in measure equal to his desire to protect Beatrice from this scum. What sort of man made a baby cry? What sort of man came after another man’s wife?
‘Who do you suppose that someone would be?’ Burke leered. ‘Perhaps you should be the one sitting down if you’re worried about getting hurt.’ Burke reached for Beatrice. Preston swung.
‘No!’ Beatrice yelped and leapt back reflexively, clutching Matthew to her as Preston’s fist smashed into the big man’s jaw. The blow knocked the man sideways and Preston was on him, landing another hard blow before he could recover.
‘Take your hands off of her, you bastard!’ Preston’s voice was a guttural roar, his fists landing hit after hit, but not without some retaliation. The bully regained his feet and struck back, a meaty fist burying into Preston’s stomach. Preston doubled over from the force, but came charging back like a bull, taking Burke in the midsection and ramming him into a sturdy table, spilling plates and ale. It was all the provocation the rest of the taproom needed to join in.
Chaos was everywhere; tables tipped, chairs flew along with fists; tankards and plates became weapons and shields. Beatrice had never seen this much violence up close. She ought to be afraid, but she wasn’t. She ought to find a way out, but she didn’t. She felt quite safe in the corner. Preston stood between her and disaster and every other man in the taproom. Never mind there were forty of them to his one. Preston slammed Burke’s head into the table and the big man fell unconscious to the floor.
‘Bea!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Stay behind me!’ He grabbed her hand and pulled, tucking her in behind him, his body her shield. ‘Come on!’ They moved fast, ducking and darting through the melee, Preston’s fists clearing a path towards the stairs, felling one man and then another without hesitation, his face a stoic mask of intensity, his eyes fixed on the next opponent and the next. At the stairs, he pushed her ahead of him, his hand at her back, urging haste. ‘Go, go, go!’ His eyes were fixed over his shoulder on the taproom.
Bea gained the landing before she was aware Preston had stayed behind at the base of the stairs. She looked back in time to see Preston swing at a tall, bulky man with thick arms who didn’t go down. ‘You knocked out my friend. I don’t think I like that,’ he growled, something glinting dangerously in his hand.
‘Knife!’ Beatrice screamed out of an instinctive need to warn Preston, never mind her voice was one of many, sucked up in the chaos of the taproom.
Preston bent to his boot and came up in a fluid motion, a blade flashing in his hand, already swiping at the man’s arm, catching it. A trickle of red showed on the dirty shirt. Beatrice clutched the baby tighter, making him squall. The violence had suddenly become much more real now. Preston was fighting defensively, careful not to maim or worse beyond what was needed. She wasn’t sure the other man was taking such ethical consideration with his punches. The bleeding scratch had the man angry. He wanted blood of his own.
‘Bea, get in the room! Bar the door,’ Preston yelled, not breaking his concentration. Blood or not, she didn’t want to leave him. It was not in her nature to abandon a friend, but she had Matthew to think about and Preston, too. She would only be a distraction to him if she stayed. She took one last look at Preston holding the stairs, ensuring her safety, and ran for the room.
What if he didn’t succeed? Bar the door. That was the reason for the command, wasn’t it? Beatrice didn’t allow for the thought until her back was pressed up against the door of their chamber, the heavy oak shutting out the sounds downstairs, the heavy bolt hopefully prepared to shut out intruders if need be. What if the man’s knife got the better of Preston? What of other knives? What of other men who’d want to try him? He couldn’t fight for ever.
Beatrice set the baby on the bed and glanced around the room for a makeshift weapon. A candlestick. No. It was heavy, but it would require her getting far closer to an attacker than she wanted in order to be effective. She wanted something longer. Her eyes lit on the fireplace. A poker. Perfect. Beatrice crossed the room and wrapped her hand firmly around the handle, testing the weight. It would even be better if it were hot. Bea put it in the fire, feeling inspired. Any unwanted soul coming through that door would regret it.
The only soul she was interested in seeing at the door was Preston. At first, she started at any little sound. Fifteen agonising minutes went by and then thirty. Still, no one came. The poker glowed hot at the hearth. On the bed, Matthew had fallen asleep, exhausted by the excitement and the long day.
Beatrice paced. Surely they weren’t all still fighting? But it was almost worse to think of what it meant if the fighting was over. How would she explain to the Worths if something happened to him? She ran through a few experimental lines in her head.
I’m sorry, Preston was wounded in a tavern brawl. It was my fault because I wanted the bread pudding.
It sounded just as bad as she thought it would. It was all her fault, just as it was her fault he’d had to come to Scotland, had to be on the road for his birthday. Now, it was her fault he was embroiled in fisticuffs or worse.
Chapter Five (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)
There was a pounding on the door, at last. Beatrice snapped into action, snatching up the poker from the hearth. She took up her position beside the door as another pound came, this time followed with a voice. ‘Bea, open up, it’s me.’ Relief made her clumsy. She dropped the poker, fumbled with the bar, dropping it, too, in her haste and excitement.
At first, relief at seeing him safe overwhelmed the details. Then, she saw them: the sleeve of his shirt ripped shoulder to wrist, the bruise along his jaw, the cuts on his cheek. ‘You’re hurt!’ The words were entirely inadequate. Of course he was hurt. He’d just fought how many men on her behalf? She tugged him inside and struggled with the bar, lifting it into place. There was suddenly so much to do.
‘Come, sit down. I’ll heat some of the washing water.’ She would have paid dearly for a kettle just now, to be back in her little cottage kitchen where she’d have all she needed to hand. She settled for wedging the ewer among the coals and the towels he’d used to dry off with earlier.
‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ She worked his shirt off, desperate to see the damage beneath the slashed sleeve, hoping there was none. ‘Are you cut?’ She examined the arm, looking for signs of injury, but finding none.
‘No, I was too fast for him.’ Preston grinned and she could hear the cocky pride in his voice.
‘Don’t tell me you were downstairs enjoying all this while I was up here worried sick,’ Bea scolded. ‘I was imagining all sorts of horrid things befalling you.’
Preston chuckled, wincing from the effort. ‘Oh, ouch!’
Bea gave him a stern look. ‘Ribs?’ She hoped not. That could be serious. She’d far rather treat a knife scratch. She ran her hands down his torso, feeling for any sign of a cracked or broken rib. The men down there had been big enough to deliver damage. He flinched where she pressed. ‘I think they’re just bruised. I can wrap them for you.’ She was already running through possible makeshift bandages. She had a petticoat in her luggage she could sacrifice.
Preston shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine. I won’t have you ripping up clothes on my account.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’ Beatrice wrapped a towel about her hand and reached for the warmed ewer. She poured water into the basin and soaked a cloth. ‘I saved some of the cold water for your face. That bruise will hurt, it needs cold, but your ribs will appreciate the heat.’ She knelt and pressed the folded cloth to his ribs, realising too late what work and concern had obscured. She had stripped Preston Worth to the skin, had put her hands all over him and was now kneeling before him in what could be taken as a rather intimate position under other circumstances. Her body didn’t seem to know the difference, although it should have.
It wasn’t the first time she’d seen his bare chest. She’d seen him shirtless countless times before, during the long summers of their youth. But this chest was nothing like the chest he’d sported as a slender adolescent. This was the chest of a man blooded in battle. Her finger traced the scar left by the wound this autumn. ‘Roan?’ She shuddered at the thought of how close the blade had come to doing permanent damage.
‘Yes, but the stitches are all Liam’s.’ Preston laughed.
Bea grimaced, not sharing the humour. She ran her hands down his torso, feeling for further injury, the smooth expanse of muscle beneath her fingers as it tapered into narrowing planes and a lean waist—a waist she happened to be eye level with. She made the mistake of rocking back on her heels, which forced her to sit a little lower, putting her eye level with something far more intimate than his waistline; a man becoming aroused. Beatrice cleared her throat. ‘Here, hold the compress in place.’ She rose, suddenly needing to keep busy. She should not be staring at Preston’s crotch. Preston shifted carefully in the chair, he, too, feeling the embarrassment of an awkward moment.
Bea rummaged through her luggage, talking too fast. ‘I have some herbs that can help with swelling.’
Preston cocked a curious eyebrow. ‘Do you, now?’
She flushed uncontrollably. Swelling was an unfortunate choice of words just now. ‘Swelling, as in bruising,’ Beatrice clarified, finding the packet she wanted.
‘Of course.’ Preston’s response was far too benign to actually be harmless. ‘What other kind of swelling could you have possibly meant?’
Beatrice chose to ignore the comment. ‘This is calamine and elm powder.’ She dumped a bit of the dried herbs into some warm water and stirred until it was pasty. ‘I’m making you a poultice. I think we’ll wrap your ribs after all. You’ll be more comfortable.’
She wouldn’t be, though. Getting the poultice on him would require close contact while she tied strips of cloth. She probably should have thought that one through a little better. Preston sniffed the air as she wound the strips about him. ‘Calamine smells like mint,’ she said before he could ask.
He lifted an arm to help her with the binding. ‘And the lavender?’ He breathed in again. ‘I think that must be you. Lavender smells...peaceful.’
‘Not like me at all, then.’ Beatrice laughed. Peaceful wasn’t a word she’d use to describe herself. She was outspoken, restless, sometimes spontaneous, and as a result sometimes quick to impatience.
‘You are more peaceful now than I remember you, though,’ Preston said as she tied off the last of the strips and stepped back to check her handiwork. ‘I think motherhood becomes you.’
Most likely, he meant the remark empirically, but the hour was late, the day trying and the evening more so. Such events tinged their small room with an undeniable intimacy as they looked at one another, perhaps seeing a little more of who they’d become: the mother, the gentleman warrior. Beatrice picked up her supplies, stifling a yawn.
‘Get ready for bed, Bea. You’re exhausted. I’ll take the chair tonight,’ Preston offered, saving her the awkwardness of bringing up the subject of sleeping arrangements.
‘We should share the bed.’ Beatrice disappeared behind the dressing screen with her nightgown, suddenly self-conscious. ‘With those ribs, you need to lie down.’ Why was it she could nurse a baby in front of him, but was nervous about stepping out in her nightgown? The nightgown was quite a modest garment, loose and flowing, the cotton thick enough not to be revealing in the firelight, at least she hoped it wouldn’t be.
He was going to protest. She could tell by the shifting of his body on the other side of the screen. He was thinking over the best way to argue. She couldn’t have that. She was going to have to take charge and insist. Beatrice stepped from behind the screen and walked over to the bed, pulling back the covers with the same efficiency she’d relied on all night. ‘Preston, don’t be ridiculous about this. You’re hurt and we’ve been friends for ages. We can surely survive a night together.’
She didn’t worry they’d actually do anything. There would be no forgoing of common sense. That wasn’t what she was concerned about. She was concerned her mind would never be the same—that she wouldn’t be able to look at him the same way. All neutrality would be lost and she needed that neutrality to survive this week. What would happen without it?
Preston nodded, perhaps recognising his ribs needed the bed more than his gentleman’s pride needed to be assuaged. ‘I’ll keep my trousers on, but I’m going to need help with my boots.’
‘Of course.’ She felt foolish all of the sudden. She’d forgotten about his boots. She knelt and helped him tug them off. Then she crawled into bed, trying to ignore the sounds of a man going through his bedtime rituals behind the screen. She had not realised intimacy came in so many varieties until this trip.
Preston lay down on the other side of the bed and turned down the light. The gesture swamped her with the sensation that this was what it must be like to sleep beside a husband every night, to feel the bed take his weight, to hear his body shift as he got comfortable. She didn’t know.
‘Bea, are you sure?’ Preston asked from his side. ‘I don’t want you to think...’
She completed his thoughts. ‘Think what? That you’d take advantage of me because I’m not a virgin? That you don’t have to behave honourably because I’ve shared a bed with a man before? I don’t think that, Preston. The man who fought for me downstairs is not a man I’d associate with those behaviours.’ She paused and then plunged ahead softly. ‘My lover never took me to bed, at least not in the literal sense.’
It seemed important that Preston knew that.
‘We were never even naked together.’
She hadn’t told May that in their long months at the cottage. She’d seldom spoken of her lover, but here in the dark with Preston the words were easy, perhaps because telling him these things didn’t require a name and Preston wouldn’t push for one.
‘It was all furtive lovemaking in haylofts and barns,’ she said. The kind of lovemaking done with skirts up and trousers down against a wall, clothing a mere yank or twitch away from being righted—just in case. It was just one more way Alton had failed her. She’d given him everything and he treated the gift, treated her, as something of negligible value, to be disposed of when he was finished.
Preston’s hand found hers among the bedclothes. ‘Did he force you, May?’
‘Will you be disappointed if I say no?’ Bea said quietly. Her parents had wanted it to be force. Rape was somehow a viable explanation for what had happened, whereas having consensual sex out of wedlock was not.
‘No.’ Preston sighed in the dark. ‘I’m glad you weren’t forced. I wouldn’t want you hurt or coerced. But I am sorry it wasn’t a better experience.’
Should it have been? Better? The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back, the question too leading to ask even in the dark. Still, the thought stayed with her as she drifted towards sleep. Admittedly, sex had not lived up to her preconceived ideas and she did have some, not only from the flowery allusions found in books, but from more scientific experiment. She could give herself some modicum of pleasure and that discovery had led her to believe sex would render an even larger pleasure when shared.
It hadn’t. Instead, sex had been messy, sticky and quick. Thank goodness for the last bit because barn walls often had splinters, hay was prickly, and one’s legs had a tendency to cramp up if they were wrapped around someone else’s waist too long. But there had been none of the troubadours’ pleasures or the scientists’ hypotheses she’d come to expect.
Had she missed something? Or was it that the pleasure was for the man alone? Her lover had seemed quite pleased afterwards. Science was primarily written by men, after all. Perhaps they had simply not considered the woman. Perhaps lonely pleasure was all she should expect. But, what if she was wrong? What if Preston knew something she didn’t? He’d certainly have more experience to draw from.
She twisted on to her side, contemplating Preston in the dark. The lucky man was already asleep. Preston was fast becoming a repository of secret talents. First, the dazzling display of boxing skills and knife work tonight and now this, the hint of sensual, forbidden knowledge. What sort of knowledge lay just six inches away? What did Preston know that she didn’t? That particular speculation was scientific curiosity. It was a tempting concept, but not nearly as wicked as the next: what would it be like to test the hypothesis of pleasure with him? Would it be worth breaking her rules? Bea rolled on to her back and sighed. It was a hypothetical debate she held only with herself. Such an occasion would never present itself. Preston was a man of honour. Even if he did entertain such notions, he would never act on them. Still, it was a titillating thought to fall asleep on.
* * *
The baby woke him in the deadest part of night, somewhere around three and not for the first time. Beatrice had fed him a little over an hour ago. Surely the baby wasn’t hungry again? Beside him, Preston felt Beatrice stir. She mumbled something incoherent in her half-sleep. That decided it. ‘Hush, go back to sleep, I’ve got him,’ Preston whispered, although his body protested at the movement and the idea of getting up. How did she do it night after night? They both didn’t need to be awake. He would look after the baby until it became obvious he couldn’t.
Preston swung stiffly out of bed, careful of his one side where his ribs hurt. He bent awkwardly to pick the baby up, found his way to the chair and settled in, Matthew cradled against his good side. ‘Can’t sleep, little man?’ he asked softly. ‘Me neither.’ He’d dozed off and on, sleep eluding him in part because of the waking child, but also because his bruises made certain positions uncomfortable. He turned up the lamp enough to see Matthew’s face in the dark, surprised to find the baby smiling up at him as if it were morning and not night. Suddenly, being sleepless was worth it to have these precious, quiet, smiling minutes alone. Perhaps that was how Bea did it, night after night of interrupted sleep, because these magic moments waited.
Preston smiled, too. ‘Well, since we’re up, we might as well have a story.’
He took a deep breath and began, choosing one of his favourite from childhood, an old French tale called Drake’s-tail, about a little duck who believed one could never have too many friends. He told the tale from memory, his mind half-concentrating on the words while his thoughts wandered down dangerous paths to tread when late-night magic was at its peak.
The journey was coming to a close. Just a couple of days more remained. He was going to miss this; holding Matthew in the carriage, playing with him on the picnic blanket when they stopped, carrying him upstairs and kissing him goodnight in the evenings, watching him sleep.
He finished the tale. ‘The people chose the little duck with the loudest quack to be their king and everyone lived happily ever after.’ He looked down into Matthew’s slack little face—the baby was asleep. His grandmother’s estate was an hour’s ride away, hardly an insurmountable distance, but it was apart—too far to be part of little rituals like this.
Even now, his throat felt a bit thick at the thought of not being there three mornings from now when Matthew would wake, happy and eager for the day, that adorable little smile on his face, that gurgling laugh on his cupid lips. How had that level of attachment happened so quickly? Somehow, this little fellow had grabbed hold of his heartstrings and wouldn’t let go.
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- Жанр: Исторические любовные романы, Современная зарубежная литература
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 250 стр. 4 иллюстрации
- ISBN: 9781474053754
- Дата выхода книги: 13 мая 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
One mistake ruined her…one man can redeem her!When an ill-fated affair left Beatrice Penrose with more than just memories, she fled to Scotland to raise her son away from society’s eyes. But the past catches up with her…and Preston Worth is impossible to deny when he’s sent to bring her home.Preston has known Bea since childhood, but only now does a forbidden and unexpected desire spark between them. And when Beatrice and her baby’s life are threatened he makes her an offer of protection she can’t refuse…as his wife!
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