Captive Bride (27 page)

“I should remain here and see to the settling in of the servants,” Bea mumbled. She didn’t think she could bear the sharp sweetness of his company, not the way she felt now.

“I suspect they will do well enough on their own, and Cook is here to assist.” He moved to her side and she could not avoid looking at him.

On the surface, he seemed perfectly at ease, but a glint of hardness flickered in the back of his emerald eyes. He would not allow her to evade him; that much was clear.

She took his outstretched arm.

“Ma’am,” he tilted his head to her mother. “Mr.
Sinclaire
, we depart in hopes of returning shortly with Thomas and Lady Bronwyn.”

“Do be quick about it, Beatrice,” Lady Harriet instructed with a heavy breath. “You are the only one who knows just how I like my wardrobe arranged. I shan’t have a decent gown to wear to dinner this evening if you tarry long in that wretched village.”

“Yes, Mama.”
She cast her father a quick glance in parting.

“Do as your mother requests, Beatrice,” he said. “The sooner we find him, the sooner we can be gone from here and return you home where you belong.” His tone reproved.

They went toward the door. Bea struggled to contain the trembling of her hand tucked in Tip’s elbow.

As soon as they were in the corridor, she tried to pull away, but his arm pinned her to his side.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he
said,
his voice as firm as his grip, and dragged her through a door near the stairs.

“I thought we were going to the village.” Her gaze darted around the tiny space. It was a roughly rectangular chamber, no more than six feet square, dust on the floor, and a bucket, mop, broom and dustpan the sole occupants. A tiny, deep aperture window provided very little light.

“Not just yet,” he said behind her, shutting the door.

Bea’s heart leapt. The last time he’d said those words, he kissed her. Had he brought her in here to do that again?

She turned to face him, and all hope of a lovely dalliance in the broom closet vanished. His face was hard, his look incredulous.

“What in God’s name just happened in there?”

~
~
~

April 18, 1816 

Mr. Peter
Cheriot
proposed marriage to me today.

Actually, he did not precisely make a formal offer. He simply said (as we strolled past the tennis players on the green, with Mama and two of her friends), “When we are married, Bea, we must have a tennis court put in the yard, don’t you think?” He waved his hand toward the players, smiled, and immediately spoke of something else. I hardly knew what to say, in any case.

I do like him, Diary. I do not even mind it that he said such a thoughtless thing.

I like him very much.

Very
much.

~
~
~

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Bea released a miserable breath and it seemed to Tip that she bit the inside of her cheek.

“It’s obvious, I should think,” she said, her voice dull. “Mama and Papa are unhappy about Thomas’s situation.”

“Of course they are unhappy. Any sane parent would be.”

“It is truly remarkable that they came. I didn’t even know Papa planned to visit York this month. But Mama sometimes forgets to tell me of such matters until they are upon us.” She worried her lovely lower lip between her teeth. “It
is
good to see him. It is nearly two years since he visited York, and four since that last time in London when he told Mama he would no longer hire the townhouse for her.”

Tip remembered the day like it was yesterday. Between his father’s declining health and finishing university, he’d barely had time enough to call upon Bea in town. With her removal north, he often had to arrange his schedule in labyrinthine twists to manage to see her. And the months between his visits to Yorkshire lasted far too long
.

“Your mother is, as ever, entirely insensible of your feelings.” He raked his fingers through his hair. Her gaze following the movement of his arm grew warm. His hand stalled at the back of his neck. He tried to remember what he’d been haranguing her about. It was difficult to think straight when she looked at him in quite that manner, like she had the night before when she first touched him.

He cleared his throat to recapture his indignation.

“Why are you allowing them to treat you in this manner? Your damn fool inconsiderate brother got you into this and you didn’t say a blasted word about it.”

“You needn’t use such language.” The glimmer of arousal left her eyes, fueling Tip’s frustration.

“I will damn well use whatever language I choose. Why didn’t you tell them the truth and defend yourself?”

“The truth?
You mean, about
Iversly
and Bronwyn?”

“The truth about your lack of blame in Thomas’s muddle.”

She shook her head. “You know how it is with Mama. She becomes very agitated when I suggest she hasn’t the right of it. And Papa is so disappointed with how poorly Thomas has turned out—in his estimation, of course.”

“Not only his.”

Bea’s slender brows lowered. “He is my brother, and if you choose to insult him again, or my loyalty to him, I will walk straight out of this room, Peter
Cheriot
.”

Her threat had no effect on his mood. “Then what about your father, accusing you of being at fault?”

“I believe it is easier for him to fault me instead of his only son.”

“So you accept wrongful blame from both your parents because of their delicate sensibilities?”

“They are merely acting as good parents should.” Her teeth worried her lush lower lip.

“To whom?” he challenged. “And no doubt your brother welcomes your championship, so he can avoid responsibility for his own misdeeds.” 

She glared at him, her lips clamped tight now.

“What of the other matter, Bea? Why didn’t you tell them about us?”

“Us?”
Her dark eyes flickered with alarm.

“That you are marrying me,” he clarified, a hard stone of discomfort gathering in his chest.

She did not wish to answer. He could see it as clear as sunlight in her distressed gaze.

“Why not?” he prodded, when she remained silent.

She looked away, apparently studying the gray stones of the wall.

“I could not bear to,” she finally whispered.

Tip’s heart thudded hard. “The fact of it is so abhorrent to you?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. “It’s just that I know how they will respond.”

“How?”

“Not well,” she muttered.

Tip’s spine stiffened. “They require more than a title and ten thousand a year for their daughter?”

Her lips parted and lashes fanned wide.
“
Ten thousand
?”

“Thereabouts.”

“But I thought your father ran the estate nearly to ground.”

“Yes, well, I remedied that.”

“So quickly?
It has only been four years.” She seemed truly astounded.

“I’ve been very busy,” he snapped, then regretted it when her gaze shuttered. He took a steadying breath. “Is that insufficient for your parents? Do they expect more for you?” 

“For
me
?”
She seemed to choke, then shook her head vigorously.

“Then what?”
It must be something more significant. Something he would not want to hear.

“It’s only that,” she began slowly, “They will say . . .” Her voice faded, her eyes again distressed.

Tip stepped toward her, wanting to touch her but restraining himself. “What will they say?”

“They will not believe me.” Her gaze remained upon the floor. “Papa will be irritated that I cannot speak rationally, and Mama will prose on about what a considerate brother you have been to me all these years, and say what a feeble joke I am playing.”

Tip struggled with his warring emotions—anger and a peculiar sort of nausea.

“What we did last night, Bea, was hardly brother-and-sisterly.”

Her glittering gaze shot to his and her breasts rose on a tight breath. “I cannot very well tell them
that,
can I?”

Anger won out.
“Why not?” he exclaimed.
“This is absurd. Speak the truth and make them accept it.”

“I am not absurd, and it is not as simple as it seems. You don’t understand the way of it.” 

“I didn’t say you are absurd. I said the situation is absurd. And it is simple. You are merely afraid to put yourself forward.”

“I-I am not.”

“You’re stammering, for God’s sake. When do you ever stammer? You are afraid, but you cannot even admit it.”

“They are difficult to speak with.” She swallowed the words.

“Then pretend they’re me, and tell them off,” he said, hoping she would grin in response and dissipate the burning inside him. Instead, her eyes lit with vexation, which he supposed was better than misery. And it suited his ill humor perfectly.

“This is not amusing, Peter,” she said between clenched teeth
.

“It is to me,” he countered unwisely, but the words kept coming. “Your father must listen to you if you insist upon it, Bea. And your mother, while admittedly unpleasant, is somewhat rational when not complaining. At least they are able to have calm, measured conversations with one another, however infrequently. Try having a pair of untrammeled dramatists for parents and then tell me you know what it is to be afraid.”

“You don’t know anything about my family.” Her brow was dark. “You have no idea what it is like to live in the shadow of—”

“People who behaved with such a thorough lack of modesty that you spend every day of your life endeavoring to make up for it?” he shot out.
“Parents who allowed passion to so thoroughly overcome them that they died because of it?
Who bequeathed to their son the same unruly sensibilities so that sometimes each moment is a struggle to withstand it, like now, when I’m so angry that you won’t simply go in there and tell them what they need to hear that I nearly wish to throttle you?”

Her mouth formed a perfect O.

Tip gulped in air. Dear God, what had he said? He reached for her, but she backed to the wall.

“Oh, Lord, Bea, my cursed tongue.”

“I can withstand their criticisms. I have been doing it for two decades. But I cannot bear this censure from you too.”

Panic gripped him. With her eyes flashing in anger, she was exquisite, and he wanted her with every fiber of his being. “I don’t mean to censure you.”

“Then why are you shouting at me?” she hurled back.

“Because I only wish them
and you
to regard you as highly as I do.”

“So highly that you never once asked my father, or even my mother, for permission to court me?”

He blinked, clearly stunned, confirming Bea’s long held suspicion. It had simply never occurred to him to show her that sign of respect.

The last modicum of her hope collapsed.

“I don’t wish to do this. I cannot do this.” She went to the door.

“Cannot do what?” His voice was unyielding. “Speak your mind to them? What does it matter how they respond? Who cares?”

“I do.”

“Why,
dammit
?”

“Because they are my parents!”

“And they have made you feel worthless for your entire life, your mother lavishing Sylvia with attention and your father always overly impressed with
Georgianna
.”

Bea halted before the closed door. Tip had never before spoken of
Georgie
critically. But for all that she’d longed for a sign that he no longer cared for her sister in that manner, she could not like it.
Georgie
had done nothing to merit blame for Bea’s own foolish weaknesses.

She sucked in a breath and turned to face him. “It was not my sisters’ fault.”

“Then whose was it?”

Her throat closed. “Mine,” she forced out.

He stood perfectly still, staring at her. “Then it is yours to remedy. Go in there and speak to them, Bea, or I will do it for you.”

“No, you will not. It is not your business.”

“You are going to be my wife. It bloody well is my business now.”

Her misery flashed into temper. “Stay out of this, Peter. I will speak to them on my own terms when I am ready. I cannot be expected to be thinking straight when Aunt Julia is so ill and—” And she’d had so little sleep because she had spent the whole night making love with the man of her dreams. “And I—” And all she truly wanted now was to curl up in his arms until her parents vanished.