Captive Bride (2 page)

He settled back upon his heels and read the missive through. “It’s nonsense.”

Bea snatched away the foolscap.

“It is not nonsense. Thomas is in trouble, and I must help him. And if you tell Mama what he wrote, I will never speak to you again, Peter
Cheriot
.” She tugged her hem out of the rosebush, arranging the gown around her legs. Tip stepped back, watching without comment. But he looked far too sure of himself. Bea’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t doubt me.”

“Oh, I don’t. I won’t tell Lady Harriet. But you aren’t going alone. If you imagine I would let you, you aren’t the sensible girl I have known you to be these past seven years.”

“My father is in town. I will write to him today and beg his assistance.”

“Ah, I see. Then, let us go forthwith to the parlor and I shall dip the pen into the ink for you, ma’am,” he said with a lifted brow. Bea held her tongue and he quirked a knowing grin. “I didn’t think so.”

Of course he knew perfectly well she would not enlist the aid of her father. Mr. Alfred
Sinclaire
disliked only one thing more than his wife’s constant complaints and criticisms: his son’s wastrel ways.

“This is not your business, sir,” she insisted, “and I will thank you to stay out of it.” She grabbed the basket of gardening tools and took a step forward.

His hand enclosed hers wrapped around the handle. Heart in her throat, Bea didn’t chance looking up. He spoke close beneath her hat brim, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that escaped her braid.

“Yes, thank you, Lord
Cheriot
,” he said calmly. “I would be delighted for you to accompany me to Wales to help rescue my scapegrace brother from the castle in which the idiot believes he is being held captive.”

She opened her mouth to chastise him for his impertinence, but he continued.

“I am in fact so enormously grateful, my lord,” his voice was low, “that when the job is done I will be more than happy to consent to becoming your bride.” His hand shifted, and he pulled the basket from her grasp.

He moved toward the house. For a moment, Bea watched him go, his shoulders disappearing beneath the trellis thick with foliage.

Pulse tripping, she started after him.

She caught up with him just shy of the house. “You cannot do this.
Gwynedd
is a five-day
ride away, and you despise carriages.”

“I will ride alongside.” He did not look back at her.

Bea absolutely did
not
wish to stare at his wide back and muse upon how a man could look so wonderfully virile whilst carrying a basketful of flowers. But she couldn’t seem to prevent herself.

“You will be
missed here,” she said in as steady a voice as
she could manage. “Lord and Lady
Marke
have been looking forward to your visit. Little Avery has not ceased singing your praises since the last time you came to York. And Mama expects you to play whist with her before you leave the county. She says I play too poorly to bother.”

“
Marke
and his family will go along perfectly well without me. They know I only hole up with them because they are closer to Hart House than the posting inn.” He swung the servant’s entrance open, dropped the basket on the ground, and gestured her toward the door.

Bea faced him, clasping her unsteady hands at her waist. “What about Mama?” More importantly, what about the
sennight
it would take to reach Thomas, days of agonizing intimacy on the road, at inns and in private parlors? What about the lack of any other company to save her from being alone with him, so easy to achieve in town before Mama had moved to Yorkshire permanently, even possible here, but certainly not on such a journey? What about her poor heart, so wretchedly determined to withstand his nonchalant attentions? It wouldn’t stand a chance in such close quarters. “She will be enormously unhappy if you leave so soon after arriving.”

He stepped toward her and reached for her chin, tilting it up. His fingertips were warm, sending tiny jolts of forbidden pleasure into Bea’s belly. Steeling herself for the tingling
thrill
that went through her every time she met his gaze, she turned hers upward. As always, his eyes were alight.

“As your mother’s happiness is not my primary concern,” he said quietly, “that argument, my girl, is not particularly effective.”

“She depends on you when you are here.”

He seemed intent upon studying her face one feature at a time. “She depends on you.
Too heavily.
I only endeavor to amuse her to take some of the burden off your shoulders.” 

Bea spoke across the lump in her throat. “You are very good to her. You always have been, since Papa sent her into rustication. She despises it here.”

Tip did not respond, but his brow compressed. His fingers slid away and he gestured for her to precede him into the house.
“Ready to brave the dragon?”

Bea wrung her hands. “You simply cannot come. Thomas will be livid to discover I have involved you.”

“I don’t care a jot for your twin’s sensibilities. And I can and indeed will escort you to Wales. Would you like me to inform Lady Harriet, or would you prefer to do that task yourself?”

“I will, of course.” Bea’s palms went clammy.

“It’s not as though you haven’t saved his hide plenty of times already.” He followed her through the entryway toward the parlor.

“I’ve never before
gone
anywhere to help him,” she murmured.

“You’ve only spent every penny of your pin money and played peace broker between him and your parents at every other turn. But this time I will be there to lend you moral support.” He smiled, his eyes glimmering.

Bea nearly groaned aloud.

The footman opened the door. The gold parlor, decorated in the latest stare with Egyptian silks and claw-footed furniture, glowed with sunshine. Lady Harriet, opulent in sea-blue organza,
reclined on a yellow satin divan. With limpid cerulean eyes so unlike Bea’s dull brown eyes, she stared out the French windows onto the terrace as though longing to go into the bright day.

Bea stifled her irritation. Mama never went outside unless moving from the front door to the carriage. She was merely putting on a show for her husband’s aunts.

Bea went to the two elderly ladies sitting opposite Lady Harriet, a contrast of cool and cozy nobility. Icy-eyed, pinch-faced, silver-haired Lady
Marstowe
shared little in common with her pleasantly rounded, cockeyed, smiling sister-in-law, Miss Julia Dews. But they were excellent traveling companions and came from their brother’s house in London to Hart House each October without fail. Bea welcomed the relief. When the great-aunts were in residence, Mama insulted her much less often.

“Dear me, Beatrice, must you drag in all that dirt? What a horrid mess you are,” Lady Harriet said languidly. “Good morning, Lord
Cheriot
. How do my neighbors, Lord and Lady
Marke
, go along?”

“Very well, to my knowledge, ma’am.
My ladies.”
He greeted the great-aunts with a bow, casting Aunt Julia an especially lovely smile.

Bea kissed her mother on one pale cheek. Her face powder made Bea’s nose itch.

She sucked in a breath of courage. “Mama, Thomas has written to me. He is in Wales and requests my assistance with a matter of great delicacy.”

“Wales!” Lady Harriet’s wan hand fluttered over her breast. “Whatever did he go there for? The Welsh are all so tiny, and wretchedly dark.”

Bea could have sworn Tip chuckled. Lady Harriet didn’t seem to notice.

“I would like to go,” Bea said, tucking her hands into her skirt.

“Go? Why, of course you may not go. What would I do without you? I daresay I would be obliged to speak to that wretched Perkins. He does not care for me above half. And that dreadful Mrs. Hobbs never listens when I tell her how I want lilies, not chrysanthemums, in my dressing chamber.” 

“Mama,” Bea said quietly, “lilies are not in season and you told the gardener you wished to grow only gardenias in the hothouse this year, so he has done that. Perhaps you might have those cut for your dressing chamber?”

“Gardenias,” her mother groaned.
“How wretchedly common.
You should not have allowed him to do that. Next year you must be more forthright with him, Beatrice.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“No, you cannot go. You will be obliged to take along your maid, and the two of you are the only ones who know how I like my hair arranged.” She draped a hand over her brow.

Bea’s insides quailed, but she forged ahead. “I cannot ask Papa for assistance with this matter, Mama, and
Kievan
is in Ireland with
Georgie
and the new baby, of course. Lord
Cheriot
has graciously offered to escort me to Wales.”
Please let her mother forbid it
.

“What a dear,
dear
man you are,” Lady Harriet extended her hand for Tip. He bowed over it, and she smiled. “The responsible, caring brother my Beatrice never had to support her, I daresay.”

Bea bit the inside of her cheek. Mama didn’t care a fig whether anyone supported her in anything.
But,
brother
?
Must she be so cruel?

But Mama had no idea. No one did, just as they did not know that Tip had ever proposed marriage to her. He had never asked her parents for permission to court her. A man did not do such a thing, after all, when he intended only to tease.

“Harriet,” the dowager Lady
Marstowe
intoned, looking down her nose through a lorgnette,
“it is entirely improper for Lord
Cheriot
to escort your daughter on such a lengthy journey without a suitable chaperone, maid or no maid present.”

Bea clasped her hands tightly together. Lady
Harriet set her disinterested
gaze upon Bea and her smooth brow creased. She sighed theatrically but with all delicacy.

“I daresay Aunt Grace is correct, Bea. You must not go off to rescue Thomas,” she said, proving her indifference to both of her youngest children in one listless utterance.

“Perhaps, Lady
Marstowe
,” Tip said with a charming smile at the dowager that turned Bea’s heart over, “you would act as chaperone to Miss
Sinclaire
on this occasion. Miss Dews, might you be convinced to come along as well? I understand that Wales in this season is exceptionally salubrious.”

Lady
Marstowe’s
lips pinched again, but Aunt Julia’s hazel eyes danced, setting them even further askew.

“That sounds lovely, Peter,” Julia said. “Dear Gracie, do let us go along. I have never visited Wales and I suspect this will be my last opportunity.”

“Never say it, my lady,” Tip said. “You appear as youthful as a spring stream.”

“Well,
I
am not,” Lady
Marstowe
said sharply. She frowned at the baron. “But I will go. It will no doubt be a great deal more interesting than sitting in this parlor listening to your complaints, Harriet.”

Bea glanced at Tip, but his attention was fixed on her mother. He looked particularly intent.

“Well, you all may as well desert me! Everyone has since Alfred left.” Moisture glimmered in Lady Harriet’s pale eyes. “Yes, go, all of you, and take your maid too. Leave me to my lonesome misery.” She turned her face away and sighed again. “But before you leave, Beatrice, do instruct Mrs. Hobbs to tell the cook that I simply abhor sole with lemon sauce.”

“Yes, Mama.”
Bea didn’t bother pointing out that she hadn’t left her mother’s side for more than a day in the four years since her father announced he would no longer see his wife. “Thank you for allowing it. I will return as soon as I am able. Aunt Grace and Aunt Julia, I am very grateful.”

“It’s bound to be the loveliest lark,” Aunt Julia chortled, endeavoring to untangle cream tart from her knitting wool.

Bea turned to Tip. “My aunts and I will do very well traveling on our own, my lord. You needn’t bother yourself, and I am certain
Cheriot
Manor calls you.”

“It can wait,” he said with a quick smile and turned to her mother. “I will take my leave of you now, my lady. Please allow me to make arrangements with your coachman as I depart.”

The lady of the house waved an indolent hand. Bea took a fortifying breath and went with him to the front door.

“Thank you,” she said. “You are kind to lend us your assistance.”

“Ah, a change in attitude seems to have come over the lady.
How refreshing.”
He grinned. “But don’t bother with that, Bea. I have business in that area I should see to anyway. I’m glad to have the excuse to go along.”

Of course.
Business.
Why else would he have offered?