Her mother offered another tremulous smile and Bea felt guilty for pushing the issue. Bringing her home was going to be difficult for all of them, not only internally as a family; they’d all have to learn to live with each other as adults. She had a baby. They couldn’t pretend she was a child any more. It would also be hard socially. Her scandal would taint her mother and father as well.
‘We wanted you and the baby with us.’ That was all her mother said, uncomfortable with shows of emotion. It would be the closest she’d come to saying, ‘I love you.’ Her parents had that in common with the Worths. Neither were great demonstrators of affection and yet the affection for their children was there.
Her mother waited expectantly. Beatrice knew what her mother wanted to hear: that she was glad to be home, that she’d missed them, and she had, but Bea couldn’t say the words yet. She missed Scotland because Scotland was easier. Scotland was known. She knew what to expect of life there. Preston was right, though, Scotland was only easier because her acceptance was enabled by a lie. Here at Maidenstone, she’d have to live with the truth. When Bea said nothing, her mother forged on to another, more dangerous topic.
‘You’ll probably need new dresses. The draper has pretty prints in for summer.’ Her mother’s eye roved discreetly over her figure. ‘You’ve recovered well, darling. With the right styling it will hardly look like you’ve had a child.’ Bea did not like the sound of that.
‘Perhaps Evie could alter some of the gowns I already have. I don’t need anything fancy for summer in Little Westbury,’ Bea countered. She doubted she’d be going out much anyway. No one would be in a hurry to entertain a fallen woman.
‘If she’s not too busy. She and Dimitri are going up to London in a few weeks for Liam Casek’s ceremony.’ Her mother smiled as she pointed out, ‘Evie’s a married woman now—she has a home and a husband to take care of. All of you girls have grown up,’ she said, referring to the families of her friends. ‘First Claire and Jonathon, Evie and her prince, May and her Irishman. There’s only Preston left and he’ll be sure to marry soon now that he has Seacrest.’ She slanted Bea a coy look. ‘He’s ripe for the plucking. He’s watched his friends marry and he seemed quite taken with the baby today. You can always tell when a man is ready to settle down. It was the same with your father.’
Bea would have been positively horrified at her mother’s insinuations if she didn’t know better. For once, her mother was wrong. She knew something her mother didn’t. ‘I think Preston is rather wedded to his job for the government just now.’ Bea put a stack of nappies on a shelf, feeling very smug.
Her mother persisted, undaunted. ‘Well, he will have to rethink that dedication now that he has the estate to consider. It needs a strong hand and a wife if it’s to be run properly. You’ll see. He’ll marry within the year.’
Bea doubted it. ‘Yes, we’ll see,’ she offered neutrally, glad her back was turned so that her mother couldn’t see her expression. The thought of Preston marrying raised complex emotions. She suspected those emotions would not have been raised a week ago. She would lose her friend when he married. Thankfully, it wasn’t something she had to contemplate. Preston wasn’t ready yet to resign himself to the quiet country life. That was some small consolation. She could have him as her friend just a while longer. But that day would come. Once he married, he’d be beyond her reach. No decent husband carried on a close friendship with an unmarried female friend and most certainly not with an unwed mother.
She ignored the other subtle implication underlying her mother’s comments: that she might set her cap at Preston while he was ‘vulnerable’. Perhaps even use Matthew as bait. Such a thing was unthinkable. Preston was an ambitious man and, as such, he could not settle for a ruined wife and another man’s child the way a quiet, older, retired country gentleman might be persuaded to do.
She would absolutely not encourage Preston to stray from his ambitions. Yet one more reason she should be glad there’d been no further kisses. If there had, Preston might feel obliged to do the honourable thing, especially if gently pushed in that direction by her parents or his.
From the other room, Matthew began to wake. She went to him and lifted him from the crib, a suspicion taking seed. Had her parents sent Preston after her on purpose? Had they hoped something might come of their time on the road? Had they hoped he might offer for her out of respect for their families’ long-standing relationship and pity for her ‘desperate’ situation?
A sick feeling formed in her stomach. She thought of the kiss last night. Attraction had been there beneath the surface, for her. She’d assumed it had been there for him as well, although neither of them had admitted it. Now she wondered if she’d misread him. Had it been planned? Had her parents actually asked him for his protection, put the circumstances to him in blunt terms?
Would you consider marrying our daughter and making her decent?
Beatrice cringed. She hoped that wasn’t the case. Preston would be too much a friend and a gentleman to tell her. But surely the Preston she’d come to know this past week would not allow himself to be forced into an arrangement he didn’t want. He was far too determined to bend to another’s dictates. If he was thinking of defying his father in order to stay with his government work, he would certainly not bend to hers on the matter of marriage.
Bea sat in a rocker and undid her bodice. If her parents had expected anything, they would have been disappointed today. Preston had left this afternoon without a word in that vein, proving that he was very much his own man. He would decide for himself. She wanted him to be free, to be happy. So why was she unexpectedly sad that he was? She had no claim on him. Preston was free to choose the direction his life took next.
Chapter Nine
‘You are the talk of London, Preston, my boy.’ His father beamed at him from across the polished mahogany desk of the estate office. ‘Your name came up several times when the posting to Greece was discussed. What do you think about that?’
What Preston thought was that he’d been home precisely seven hours and already he was wishing to be back on the road.
‘What I wouldn’t give to be a few decades younger,’ his father went on with a chuckle. ‘Are you not pleased? Isn’t this the sort of opportunity you’re looking for? A chance to travel and avoid your mother’s matchmaking attempts a little longer?’
Was it? Preston had to wonder, not only at the answer to that question, but also why he was so reticent to give one. It certainly gave him a chance to travel, to represent his country’s interests and to serve as he’d not been able to in the military. The Foreign Office wanted to appoint him as a special envoy to the newly formed Greek state in order to better assess the situation with the Ottomans. But now? ‘Things’ had changed in the last two weeks, although he was hard pressed to put that change into words.
‘There’s Grandmother’s estate to see to,’ Preston put forward. ‘It needs attention if it’s to be viable. Grandmother was not interested in the modern inventions.’ It was a tangible aspect of that change, one perhaps his father could empathise with.
His father considered this for a moment. ‘Your sense of responsibility does you credit. No one needs an answer right now and no one expects you to leave before September. You can give the office your answer when you go up to London after you’ve had a few weeks to think it over. You’ll have most of the summer at Seacrest to arrange for a competent estate manager and get your plans underway.’ His father winked. ‘Who knows who you might meet abroad? Perhaps the pretty daughter of a diplomat.’
Preston nodded and smiled, giving the impression of enjoying the idea. In truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go abroad, after all. This posting would keep him away for a couple of years, depending on what he found in Greece. His thoughts flashed to Bea and Matthew, how tiny Matthew had looked in her arms his afternoon at the Penroses’. The baby would be a precocious thr
ee-year-old, walking, talking, running, when Preston saw him next, and the little boy would have no memory of the man who’d held him for hours in a carriage, who’d rocked him to sleep and tossed him in the air. He didn’t like how that felt.
‘I have promises to keep here,’ Preston began, trying to find words for his new feelings, feelings he hadn’t quite sorted through yet on his own. Those promises started with Beatrice and Matthew. He’d told her the boy would grow up with uncles and here he was faced with breaking that promise hours upon his return. Dimitri and Liam would be here, of course. But that wasn’t enough. They weren’t him. With an intensity that surprised him, Preston realised he wanted to be the favourite ‘uncle’.
His father rose from behind the desk and went to the decanter, pouring both of them a brandy. ‘A belated birthday drink, my son. You’ve earned it.’ The family had celebrated quietly at dinner and Liam and May had come over. ‘You did a great service to the Penroses these past weeks under difficult circumstances.’
He handed Preston a glass, his eyes serious. ‘Now that their daughter is home, I think we’ve kept any promises that were required of us. I am sure it will feel good to get back to your regular life, Preston.’ His father smiled as he said it, but Preston heard the warning hidden in the division of his father’s language: ‘their daughter’, ‘we’ve kept promises required of us’. His father had decided the Worths would distance themselves from the Penroses to some degree. If that distance did not include all the Worths, it certainly included him. Preston pushed for further clarification with a slight, enquiring raise of his brow and his father gave it.
‘I would not want to give them false hope in a particular direction.’ His father took a long swallow of his brandy, perhaps to give his implication time to make itself clear.
‘The Penroses are our friends. Beatrice is my friend.’ Preston mirrored his father, taking a long swallow to let his implications sink in.
‘We have helped them.’ His father’s tone was terse. ‘And we’ll continue to help them. May will see to it that Beatrice will be surrounded by friends.’ Ah, so that was how it would be. May would get that honour. May who was expendable and safe because she was married to a knight of the realm who supported lost causes and charity cases.
‘There’s only so much we can do, Preston,’ his father warned with a cryptic look. ‘The damage is done. Whatever the details, Beatrice Penrose has a child without a father. Her opportunities will be limited even with our help. Not just any man will want to take her on.’
Preston bristled at the classification. He didn’t like hearing Beatrice dismissed in such terms. ‘All the more reason to stay, I’d say.’
‘All the more reason to leave, if I were you.’ His father took a final swallow of brandy and put his glass down hard, the truth spilling out. ‘You’ve a kind heart, Preston. You are a man who wants to serve others and that is admirable. I don’t want the Penroses preying on that in their desperation to snare their daughter a husband and respectability.’
Preston almost choked on the last of his drink. ‘I beg your pardon? You think I want to marry Beatrice Penrose?’ Dear Lord, how did his father do it? Reading minds like a fortune teller? Had his feelings been that obvious? How could they have been when he wasn’t even sure of those feelings himself? Certainly the idea had crossed his mind, but as a mental exercise only. And, in his opinion, quite a natural one after spending so much time together.
‘I believe a part of you thinks you should marry her,’ his father answered with a solemnness that said he wasn’t joking. His father had thought long and hard about this avenue. ‘You’ve been friends, known each other your entire lives. You get on well enough, our families have history together. It would likely be an amiable enough companionship as marriages went. You’d certainly make her respectable. No one would whisper about the boy’s parentage if he were cloaked in the Worth honour and, at the risk of sounding crass but practical, Miss Penrose has already proven she has a passionate side. You could hedge your bets securely that other aspects of marriage would be enjoyable enough.’ His father eyed him speculatively, perhaps wondering if anything untoward had indeed occurred on a journey that had taken the longer end of the standard travelling time.
Preston fixed his father with a hard stare. He tried not to disagree overtly with his father whenever possible, but this could not pass. ‘You slander us both with such comments.’ He used the steel tones he relied on when facing down armed smugglers.
‘Don’t blame me for being honest. A man must consider all things. For ever is a long time.’
‘It is indeed, which is why I am in no hurry to marry anyone, Beatrice Penrose included.’
‘Then you’ll take the appointment to Greece?’ his father pressed.
‘I thought I didn’t have to decide tonight?’ Preston replied drily. He saw the appointment in a new light. His parents, who up until now had preferred he’d leave government service and retire to his estate, were now keen proponents of a new position that would take him deep into the Continent for possibly years. It was a very telling insight as to how concerned they were about the ‘threat’ posed by Beatrice Penrose.
His father clapped him on the shoulder, with forced bonhomie. ‘Of course. Nothing has to be determined tonight. You’ve just returned home, after all.’ But even the attempt at reconciliation carried a double meaning. Neither Greece nor Beatrice Penrose needed to be decided.
His father poured them another glass. ‘You’ve spent seven days on the road with an attractive woman and a cute child in a very emotional situation. It’s all still very close for you. Don’t think I don’t know. I remember how it was.’ His father leaned back in his chair. ‘The road makes for interesting companions. But the road also makes illusions, things that can’t survive in the real world. I once spent two years of my life in the Caribbean with a fellow named Edgars, at least that’s what he told me his name was. I don’t know if it was true, don’t know if it mattered. He had my back and I had his. We were running Grandfather’s shipping business in Barbados, sailing cargo ships, avoiding pirates, outrunning storms to make deliveries. Heady times.’ He raised his glass, toasting remembrances. Preston waited for the lesson. His father didn’t tell stories, he told parables. There was always a lesson, always a reason. ‘Edgars must have saved me a hundred times from a cutlass slash, or from being washed overboard or from any of the other thousand things that can go wrong in the Caribbean. Dangerous place. And I did the same for him at least as often. I thought with experiences like that, we’d be friends for ever. After all, a man who saves your life is not easily forgotten. I came home in 1791. Married your mother. The last letter I had from Edgars was in ninety-two. I haven’t heard from him in thirty years.’
His father leaned forward. ‘The point is, whatever you think you feel whether it’s out of duty or emotion, will pass.’
Preston nodded neutrally, letting his thoughts make the dangerous comparison between this night and last night. He and Beatrice had talked of change, knowing it would come. But, oh, how quickly! And in ways unexpected. Three weeks ago, he’d been looking for a reason to leave, to seek out adventure. His parents had been the ones wanting him to stay. His grandmother’s inheritance had been an albatross about his neck, limiting his opportunities. Now, he welcomed it because of the excuse it provided him. He had a reason to stay that went far beyond his grandmother’s estate and his father’s warning of disapproval.
His father was wrong on all accounts. Beatrice wasn’t looking to snare him. Beatrice needed him as a friend, all kissing aside. He’d promised her he wouldn’t desert her. He’d keep that promise starting tomorrow.
* * *
Malvern Alton had broken another promise. It wasn’t the first and certainly wasn’t going to be the last promise he’d break. But it might be the most dangerous. He was in a whorehouse and he couldn’t pay. Malvern Alton slid his gaze carefully a
round the room, taking in the woman behind the desk and the two beefy bouncers standing on either side of her. The message was clear: woe betide the man who came between a whore and her money, especially when that whore was Madam Rose at London’s prestigious House of Flowers. Malvern Alton held his hands out to his sides in a placating gesture of surrender, his gaze split between the brothel madam and the two thickset men who bracketed her, one of them thumping a blackjack against his palm with authority. His bill was due and he hadn’t the blunt to pay it—not just this bill, but his other bills as well: the tailor, the club, the boxing salon and who knew what else. Collectors were starting to show up at his door. He wasn’t worried. He would survive this, of course. He always did. He was lucky that way. He’d just prefer to survive with his teeth intact.
Alton offered Madam Rose a charming smile, showing every straight, pearly-white tooth in his dental treasury. ‘Is this really necessary, my dear? How long have we known each other? More than a decade. I’ve been coming here since I was sixteen.’ A darling dark-haired girl named Violet had been his first, a birthday gift from his uncles. ‘You’ve always been paid—’
‘By your father,’ Madam Rose interrupted with the steely stare of a determined businesswoman. ‘Your father has made it clear you’ve been cut off.’
‘A temporary inconvenience soon to be rectified.’ Malvern waved the news off as if it were nothing. ‘Fathers and sons quarrel all the time.’ It wasn’t ‘nothing’, however, and Madam Rose seemed to know it, too. But it wasn’t entirely a lie either. The situation could be rectified quickly enough if he’d accede to his father’s wishes: marry a wealthy girl and receive the portion left to him by a distant great-aunt, a portion that he’d left unclaimed for six months out of an unwillingness to leg-shackle himself. He’d argued he didn’t want to choose a bride until the Season when there’d be more selection. But now the Season was here and he was out of both time and money.
Marrying the Rebellious Miss Page 8