Captive Bride (35 page)

“Thomas told me that your parents have no idea of Lord
Iversly
at all. My father did not believe it, either, although I wrote him countless letters.”

“I understand he is something of a recluse.”

“Oh, yes.
And very old.
My mama was his fourth wife.”

Bea cocked a brow. For a recluse, Lord
Prescot
had been a busy man.

“Bronwyn, would you like a season in London?”

The girl’s eyes lit. “Oh, it is my fondest wish. But it is unlikely, I’m afraid.”

Perhaps if the girl saw what a prize her betrothed was, she would not be so hesitant about him. Or, perhaps during their time in London together, Thomas and Bronwyn would realize they should by all rights not wed.

“If Lord
Cheriot
does not object, I would be glad to bring you out,” and take Bronwyn to all the fashionable venues Bea’s mother had neglected to take her to after those first few months, with Aunt Audrey to assist.

Bronwyn’s hands squeezed Bea’s. “Oh, Beatrice, you are exceedingly kind. Especially after—” Her cheeks colored up. “I am excessively mortified. I had no idea.”

“No one did.”

“That must have been very difficult for you.”

Bea smiled and glanced across the chamber to Tip. His emerald gaze rested on her.

“No,” she said, returning her attention to Bronwyn, a flutter of nerves in her belly. “Not really.”

Thomas suggested they all go for a ride. Aunt Julia remained happily in the castle. Casting her husband resentful peeks, Lady Harriet said she would stay in as well. But Aunt Grace agreed to the venture, and Bea’s father enlisted his groom to fit up the old gig tucked away in the stable.

Because of the gig, the going proved slow along barely tracked roads and paths, but pleasant. The hills were bright green, straggling with mists, dotted with wooly white denizens, and tangled with copses of mottled gray trees. Tip made no effort to speak with Bea in particular, and said nothing to her that could not be heard by everyone.

By the end of the ride, Bea’s head swam with bewildered exhaustion. After everything they’d been through, he seemed perfectly at ease and just as always before—friendly, kind, laughing, and entirely unsatisfying to her hungry heart. She should feel like a fool for expecting
something else from him, but her blood still tingled with awareness each time he looked at her.
Which seemed quite often.

When they returned home, she hurried up to her bedchamber and in weary relief fell soundly asleep.

She awoke to evening’s gray peeking through the draperies and a knock on her door. She dragged herself from bed.

Her mother swished into the room, a vision in saffron taffeta trimmed with silk flowers.

“Beatrice, your father has commanded dinner at half past the hour. I have come to make you presentable.” 

This was a turnabout. Bea rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Thank you, Mama.”

Lady Harriet dug into the traveling trunk. “Do not thank me. It is the least I can do.”

“Mama, you needn’t—”

“No, I needn’t,” Lady Harriet agreed, her back turned as she drew out a gown, but her voice wavered. “You are to be a grand lady now, a baroness, and I will not have you believing your own mother an ungrateful puss.” She swiveled around. “How will this one do? It suits your coloring nicely. I do not recall it. When did you purchase it?”

“I had the shop in York make it up last spring.” She paused. “Mama, I don’t hold a grudge.”

“Then you are a better person than I, Beatrice, for I certainly would,” she said tersely. “But you deserve happiness now.” A tear sparkled at the edge of her crystal eye. She held the dress forward, assessing it approvingly. “He will not be able to take his eyes off you in this.”

Apparently he could not. It disconcerted Bea nearly more than anything had as yet. He said almost nothing to her throughout dinner and afterward in the parlor while everyone took tea, but he watched her as she never recalled him watching her before, his look unreadable. Bea found it extraordinarily difficult to eat. The longer it continued, the more her nerves jittered.

“Well I’m done up for the night,” Thomas declared, setting his empty port glass on the tea table. “Mama, may I see you up?”

Lady Harriet glanced at her husband, a curious expression on her face. “No, Thomas. I believe I would like your father to have the honor.” She stood and extended her hand. Bea’s father rose and took it upon his arm, and they left the room.

Lady Bronwyn looked shyly at Thomas.

“Mr.
Sinclaire
, would you see me up? I would like to say good night to my grandmother before retiring.”

Thomas bowed neatly, his gracious smile tickling Bea with pride. Perhaps the girl would make a man of him, after all. Or else they would come to despise each other.

She glanced at her great-aunts. Julia’s head had fallen back upon the sofa, her mouth was hanging open. The dowager nudged her awake.

“Come, Julia. To bed,” she clipped. “Lord
Cheriot
, Beatrice, see us to our chamber.”

Tip went forward and took Julia’s arm. She blinked, smiled cheerily, and patted his hand.

“Thank you, dear Peter. What a remarkable day it has been.”

“A remarkable
sennight
, forsooth.”
Iversly’s
voice sounded through the chamber. Aunt Julia’s attention went to the window.

“Hello, Rhys. Are you turning in as well?”

“Perpetually, my lady.”

Aunt Julia chuckled.

“Good night,
Iversly
.” The dowager gestured her sister and the baron forward.

Bea paused. At the door, Tip cast
her a
glance, then went out.

“Lord
Iversly
,” she said, “I wish to thank you for what you have done for me.”

“You have what you desire now,” he said without inflection.

“Well, partially, at least.”

“Ah, but I believe you will find that you have more than you could have ever dreamt, my dear.”

The knot of nerves in Bea’s belly tightened.
“But what of you, my lord?
Will you ever find your dream?”

Silence met her, vacant and chill in the fire-warmed parlor. Bea waited, but nothing came, and she knew she was alone.

She climbed the stairs and walked the corridor to her bedchamber in a pensive humor. She grasped the latch but did not turn it.

Iversly
was willing, even eager, to live eternally without hope of love. And Thomas seemed happy to wait indefinitely to learn if he and his betrothed would rub along well together. But Bea’s blood still ran with impatient need. She did not wish to wait months or years to know if Tip could love her. Her daring certainly would not be any higher than now, after finally telling off her family. She might as well learn the truth right away. At least then she would know what to expect from her marriage.

“Planning on spending the night here in the corridor?” Tip’s voice came at her shoulder.

She spun around.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Being betrothed to him, this time publicly, permanently, did not make it any easier to stand close to him without losing her breath. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow, his jaw was ever so slightly shadowed with whisker growth, and his vibrant eyes sparkled
.

“I-I was
th
-thinking.”

“And stammering again, apparently.”
He reached up and tucked a few errant strands of her hair behind her ear. His fingertips lingered. “What seems to be the trouble now? Has
Iversly
discomposed you once more?”

She shook her head, swallowing around the lump of wavering courage lodged in her throat.

“Not
Iversly
?” he asked, moving closer. A breath of air separated them. Bea had to bend her neck to hold his gaze.

“Not
him
.” She curled her fingers around his lapel, turned the door latch, and pulled him into her bedchamber.

Tip caught her up in one arm, pushing the door shut.

“What’s this? Have I caused sensible, practical Miss Beatrice
Sinclaire
to become overset?” He smiled, and heaven descended for Bea.

“Always,” she breathed and drew his face down to kiss.

He dragged her tight against his body.

Given the half hour it had taken her mother to button her into her garments, Bea’s clothing came off with remarkable speed. But Tip seemed intent, his fingers on the hooks and laces quite sure. Her stays, shift, and stockings joined petticoat and gown on the floor.

He took in a heavy breath, tangled his hands in her hair, and covered her mouth. He kissed her with a hunger Bea hadn’t dared to imagine. She tore at his coat and cravat, needing to feel his warm skin beneath her hands. He yanked his shirt over his head and pulled her into his arms again.

She fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, caressing his arousal beneath the fabric in
tentative strokes. Tip sighed deeply, his hand covered hers,
then
he helped her divest him of the garment. Bea sought his hard satiny length, warmth bursting inside her in anticipation.

He swept her up and deposited her on the bed.

For a moment he stood still, his gaze scanning her from toe to brow, and Bea thought she would die with delirious happiness. Heat prickled behind her eyes, so intense she sucked in breath to hold her emotions at bay. He joined her on the mattress, moving between her thighs and bringing his body intimately against hers.

He took her face between his hands. “Beatrice
Sinclaire
,” he whispered huskily, “you are beautiful.”

She choked down a sob of overflowing joy, shifting beneath him to feel him more, reveling in his words and the caress of his body. He lowered his mouth to hers, and she drank him in. Whatever this was that he was giving her, whether love or merely friendship laced with searing passion, she could accept it. She would take anything he had to offer if it felt like this forever.

Her hands clutching his shoulders trembled and her breaths were labored as he kissed a line of perfect pleasure along her throat to her neck. Tears trembled at the corners of her eyes, then spilled out, marking twin tracks into her hair. She willed them away, praying he would not notice, but another sob shook her.

“What is it?” he murmured against her shoulder, a smile in his voice.

The intimate whisper only caused the tears to flow more heavily. She bit down on her lip in agony. He simply must not see her like this. But try as she might, the stream of tears only worsened.

Tip lifted his head. His eyes darkened with dismay.

“You are not laughing.” He pushed back onto his elbows.
“Oh, no.
No
. Don’t, Bea, please. I knew it was too― I should have waited until after we wed. But then you seemed to want― Dear God, please don’t cry.”

He pulled away and sat up on the side of the bed. Through her sobs, Bea ached from his abrupt distance. She pushed to a sitting position and reached for his arm. The sensation of his hot skin over firm muscle caught her breath.

“I did want to. I
do
. I’m so sorry.” She
hiccupped
a staggered sniffle and sucked in a big breath, struggling to contain her weeping. “I cannot seem to prevent it. I am just so filled with— with
everything
. I-I know I am stammering, but I feel as though I’ve sprouted wings, or perhaps only found those I always folded up tight before.”

Through her tear-fogged vision, he looked befuddled.

“When I left Mama at Hart House to come here,” she hurried to explain, “I was so excited for an adventure. But I discovered more than an adventure here. I discovered that I do not want to go back to being good, practical, sensible, obedient, wretched Beatrice. Ever! I want to be free. Not just here at the castle for a few days.
Always
.”

“Free?” His jaw went taut, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t even think of refusing to marry me again, Bea,” he said in warning tones. “It’s far too late for that.”

“No, of course not,” she exclaimed, but the look in his eyes was so strange. “It is only that I—” The tears began again, heavier this time, streaming down her cheeks and dripping off her jaw.

“Dear God, this is a nightmare,” he said in a thick voice, running a hand through his hair. “I want you so much it makes me crazy sometimes, nearly all the time. It used to be that making love to you was the only thing I could think about. Now, more than anything, what I want most is to make you happy. I thought perhaps you felt the same way. But if this is how it will be, I
cannot do this to you. It’s impossible.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she said through the tears, her heart singing from his beautiful words.
Perfect words.
Words she’d never dreamed he would say. “I won’t always cry, and you did―you
do
give me pleasure. What I mean to say is―”