Captive Bride (20 page)

He shifted aside.
“Your escape, my dear.”

“My dear?
You sound like him now.”

“Perhaps I am beginning to understand him.” His voice sounded as cold as the stone.

She pushed past him. He gripped her arm and spoke low by her cheek.

“Do not mistake it, Bea. There is no other way.”

She pulled free and stumbled down the steps. Smudging tears away, she emerged beneath the gate and hurried toward the bridge. The day hung gray with pending rain, a heavy cover of clouds
above,
and unusually warm for the season. A woman wrapped in a cloak stood at the opposite end of the drawbridge.

“Aunt Julia?”

“Hello, Beatrice. You may not go any farther. The castle grounds end here. I can feel it in my bones. A bit shaky, you know.” Her eyes danced merrily.

A shock of understanding went through Bea. “Aunt Julia, you are a maiden.”

The elderly lady twinkled.
“Pure as new-fallen snow.”

“Then you are trapped here too.”

“Oh yes, until the curse lifts.” she smiled, crinkles deepening at the corners of her eyes. “How is your young man today?”

“My young man?”

“Darling Peter.”

“He is not my young man, Aunt Julia.” Bea’s gaze shifted over the misty slope descending to the village. “I came to wait for Thomas and Lady Bronwyn’s return. What are you doing out here? Where is Aunt Grace?”

“Resting.
The trip to the village this morning wearied her.”

“Of course, you did not go.”

“Oh, no.
But it was terribly exciting awaiting their return.”

“Exciting? Aunt Julia, are you enjoying this?”

“I enjoy everything, I daresay.” She smiled, adjusted her cloak so that it fell halfway over her shoulder and the remainder upon the damp ground. She tilted her head aside. “Save yourself, my dear. I won’t mind it.”

Bea gaped. “Aunt Julia?”

Her great-aunt’s skewed gaze fixed as stably as Bea had ever seen. “Choose a warm, breathing man who cares for you, over a specter.”

“I—” She didn’t know quite what to say. “You would be trapped here. Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I daresay, yes.”

Or
Iversly
would . . . Bea couldn’t bear to think of it.

But could he? She didn’t believe he would.
Unless he truly was that desperate.
In desperation, a man might do anything.

She gripped her frigid hands together. “When will they return?”

“I rather think a great while from now. You would be more comfortable inside.”

But Bea doubted that she would ever be comfortable again.

They hadn’t long to wait before the carriage returned with Thomas and Lady Bronwyn. He handed her out, then offered his arm for another lady descending the steps. Tall, slender and pale-haired, she had the look of someone who had been ill for some time, grayer-skinned and older than her years.

“Miss Minturn?” Bea asked.

“Oh, Beatrice, this is my governess,” Lady Bronwyn drew the woman forward and placed her hand in Bea’s. Miss Minturn’s fingers were icy.

“How do you do, Miss Minturn?”

“I understand that
Iversly
wants you.”

Bea’s eyes went wide. Bronwyn’s hand fluttered over her throat, and Thomas sucked in a
slow breath of air.

“Our Beatrice is very clever,” Aunt Julia chimed in. “He will have to think quickly to win her.”

“He will not win me, Aunt Julia. Miss Minturn, please come inside and have some tea. It is starting to rain.”

“Is he here?” the governess whispered. Bronwyn grasped her arm and they went inside the castle, their little line chillingly like a funeral procession.

As they entered the parlor, Miss Minturn’s eyes searched the corners.

“Is he here?” Again, her voice remained meager.

“He is not,” Bea replied, tugging her shawl more firmly about her ill-fitting bodice that Tip’s hands had been all over in the stairwell. She swallowed back a moan. “Miss Minturn, please have a seat. Will you tell us what you know of the curse and Lord
Iversly
? Perhaps it could help us.” She skipped a glance at Julia, but she seemed content rummaging around the tea tray.

“The curse,” Miss Minturn said in throaty accents, “is a maiden’s damnation. And he is the most glorious lover a woman could ever have.”

Bronwyn released a little squeak. Thomas blanched. Bea’s gaze went to the door. Tip stood there, wearing riding clothes and studying their visitor.

She dragged her attention back to the business at hand. “Miss Minturn, could you tell us precisely what you mean by those comments?”

The woman’s pale gaze slewed about the chamber and her chest heaved with emotion. She closed her eyes. “I loved him, and he betrayed me.”

“You loved him?” Lady Bronwyn gasped.

“How did he betray you?” Bea asked.

“He absconded with my heart.” Miss Minturn’s brow folded. “Then he crushed it like an insect beneath his boot.”

“Good heavens, woman,” Lady
Marstowe
snapped. “He is a specter. He has no real boots to speak of. Now tell us something of merit.”

“Miss Minturn, did you offer him your hand?” Tip asked, moving to her side.

She opened eyes full of anguish. “I did,” she whispered.

“Did he accept it?”

“He led me to believe he would. He made love to me with his words, then—”

“Then I put another man in her bed.”

Miss Minturn sprang up, casting her gaze wildly about the chamber.
“
Iversly
?
Oh,
Iversly
, have you come to torment me anew? Oh, sweet sorrow! Oh, honeyed grief!”

“Madam, take hold of
yourself
,” the dowager ordered.

“Did you do as she said,
Iversly
?” Thomas demanded.

“I never tormented her. I gave her what she deserved.”

“You said you loved me and would keep me,
then
you gave me to
him
.”

“Who is ‘him’?” Lady Bronwyn’s crystal eyes were round as saucers.

“A convenient, lustful knave,” the ghost said, “who knew not the boundaries between nobleman and servant.”

Miss Minturn’s eyes grew red and tears seeped from them. “It was dark. I thought he was you. I did not love him.”

“Rather to the point, you did not marry him, did you?” Lady
Marstowe
commented.

“Obviously she didn’t, Aunt Grace,” Thomas supplied.

Bea caught
Iversly’s
black gaze. “Why did you do it?”

The Welshman tilted his head. Then, slowly, he shifted his gaze to Tip.

Bea held her breath.

Iversly
returned his regard to her.

“It is a game I sometimes play.” His voice was a lion’s forbidding purr.

“A game,” Miss Minturn wept. “I gave him my heart.”

“But Minnie,” Bronwyn said, “
you
did not wish to become a ghost, did you?”

“To be with him, I would have,” she groaned.

“Miss Minturn, cease this drama,” Lady
Marstowe
insisted. “Lady Bronwyn, take her away and calm her. We cannot converse rationally with all that noise.”

Tip escorted them to the door, closing it behind them.

“Now, Lord
Iversly
,” the dowager said, “tell us why you used that woman so dreadfully.”

“She imagined herself in love with me.”

The parlor fell silent. Bea’s gaze slipped to Tip. He seemed to be studying the ground at his feet.

“Seems rather churlish of you,
Iversly
,” he commented evenly, his gaze rising to her. He frowned.

Bea forced her attention to the ghost. “She loved you, so you hurt her.”

“Love was invented by fools.”

“But you allowed her to believe you returned her feelings.”

“She believed what she wished to believe. Women often do.”

Bea swallowed around the ache in her throat. “Not all women.”

“Aye?
For four hundred years, foolish maids have come here imagining they could comfort me. They seek adventure.” He laughed, harsh and derisive. Then his tone dipped. “And I provide them with it.”

Seeking adventure.
Like her
. “You have done this before, that is, before Miss Minturn?”

“She was not the first. So many come, with no notion of what they promise. No notion of the horror of this existence. They disgust me beyond endurance.”

“But they offer love.” Bea’s voice was not steady. The others stood transfixed, staring into nothingness where they could not see the ghost. Only Tip’s pensive gaze rested upon her. She felt it like a caress. “You could have that affection,” she said to
Iversly
. “You would not be alone any longer.”

“I do not wish to spend eternity with a woman who loves me. I would rather rot in the bowels of Hell.”

Tip turned and looked at precisely the spot where
Iversly
stood by the window.

“You may
rot
yet,” he growled. “How do you know Miss
Sinclaire
will not also succumb to your charms?”

“Because, my fine noble lord,”
Iversly
spoke slowly, “her heart lies firmly with another.”

Bea’s nails dug into the seat of her chair.

“What does that mean?” Thomas demanded. “Bea?”

“Foolish boy.”
The ghost turned his perceptive gaze upon her. “Your sister is already in love.”  

~
~
~

May 1, 1817

Mama and I encountered Mr.
Cheriot
today while shopping. Mama instantly launched into recounting last evening at Lady Ashford’s ball, which he listened to with all appearance of sincere interest. He responded with polite sounds when she told him how four eligible gentlemen had already paid calls that morning, naming them particularly. He smiled at me as though pleased for me, which made my stomach queasy.

Mrs. Paul passed us and Mama stopped to converse with her. Mr.
Cheriot
took my hand and placed it upon his arm and we strolled a bit further to look in the window at Lumley’s. We spoke of various matters, then he said, “You know, Bea, I am very glad for all the attention you are receiving, but don’t lead those poor fellows on, will you?” I was rather nonplussed. I responded, “Mr.
Cheriot
, are you flattering or quizzing me?” “Neither,” he replied, “it’s only that you don’t want to disappoint them, since you are already intended elsewhere.” I could not have been more astonished.
“To whom?”
I asked. “Why, to me, of course.” He flashed a grin, as though we shared a joke.

Diary, after months in town, I imagined I had finally got the hang of it. I said to him, “Tease all you will, sir, but I am wearing a new bonnet today and nothing can overset me.” He smiled and only said, “Those poor fellows, indeed.”

He wishes to amuse me. Another woman might, I suspect, find such a flirtation diverting. I think he is odiously familiar.

His groom then appeared in a
pelter
, bearing a message on a slip of paper. Mr.
Cheriot
begged my forgiveness, returned me to my mother swiftly though without any less kindness than usual, and went off after only a brief good-bye. I nearly wept, but did not. Weeping is for silly girls, not girls who know better.

Tonight at dinner Papa told me Mr.
Cheriot
sent a note to explain his hasty departure this morning. It seems that Lord
Cheriot
fell from a maddened horse and broke his back, and his son was at once required at home. How horrible! My heart is sore for his family—his mother and sister.
For him.

And yet, I cannot deny it, I continue to refine upon his teasing comment. When he has such significant concerns, it seems an unpardonably silly preoccupation.

But oh, Diary, the trouble is, I am very much in love with him.

~
~
~

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Tip’s universe stilled.

“Is it true, Bea?” Thomas demanded. “Or is this merely another of this blackguard’s lies?”

“Temper, temper, boy,” the ghost murmured.