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, somethin
g 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
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.
Marrying the Rebellious Miss Page 3