‘Hopefully it will be rectified sooner rather than later.’ Madam Rose made a gesture and the two men advanced from around the desk.
‘I haven’t any money tonight. Tomorrow.’ Now, he was starting to panic. He didn’t relish being beaten up and thrown out into the alley with nothing on but his shirt and trousers. The rest of his clothes—expensive clothes—were upstairs in Daisy’s room, left behind when he’d been hauled down and called to account. If Madam Rose threw him out, he wouldn’t get those clothes back.
‘Turnabout is fair play. Pay up or take your punishment the way you meted out your pleasure tonight.’ Madam Rose held firm. ‘You hit one of my girls.’
Not hard enough, apparently. He’d like to hit the little bitch again. This was all Daisy’s fault. If she hadn’t screamed, none of this would have happened. Who would have thought there was something such as ‘too rough’ for a whore? That was their job, wasn’t it? But Daisy had given herself airs when he’d brought out the riding crop and now he was standing in Madam Rose’s office half-dressed and being forced to discuss money, of all things. It was disgusting, really. Madam Rose was showing her poor breeding by insisting on this degrading conversation. A gentleman never discussed money. It was a plebeian topic for the masses.
Alton spread his hands and opted for a smile he hoped was sincere. ‘I am sorry about Daisy. I thought she understood our game.’ It wasn’t enough. The first punch took him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him as he doubled over.
Madam Rose raised a dyed dark eyebrow, unconcerned about the violence. ‘I thought you understood our game. You play, you pay.’ The second punch took him in the jaw, rattling his precious teeth. He couldn’t afford to take a third.
‘Please!’ Alton gasped, finally desperate. ‘You will be paid, you’ll see. I am set to marry. A rich girl.’ He gasped out the lie, word by painful word.
‘Who?’ Madam Rose made a gesture and the two thugs backed off. ‘I need a name or my men need blood.’
Alton racked his brain, trying to think of a name she’d buy. It couldn’t be anyone Madam Rose could actually research. That meant no one from London. He needed a girl from the country. Ah, the dark-haired virgin he’d fooled around with last winter on his repairing lease. What was her name?
He’d stalled too long. Madam Rose didn’t believe him. The men were advancing again. ‘Beatrice Penrose.’ The words rushed out. He was fairly sure he had the name right. She’d talked and talked about science. He’d kissed her the first time to shut her up.
‘Beatrice Penrose?’ Madam Rose looked sceptical. ‘When is the happy occasion? I hadn’t heard.’
‘June,’ he blurted out.
She seemed to consider this before delivering her verdict. ‘Very well, you have until June to settle your debt. I will expect payment plus fifteen per cent on your wedding day.’ She gave him a cold smile. ‘May I be the first to offer you felicitations?’
He tugged at his shirttails, trying to gather what dignity he had left; his jaw throbbed, his stomach hurt and he hadn’t a pair of boots. ‘I’ll just gather my things,’ he said.
Madam Rose shook her head. ‘I think I’ll keep them as collateral, Mr Alton. You can have them back in June.’
Great. Now he’d have to walk to his rooms barefoot and half-dressed. But he could stand a little humiliation if it meant his teeth were intact. Pride had its price after all—a price that would involve a short trip to Little Westbury in the near future to claim a bride.
* * *
Alton tried to concentrate on the money as he made the cold walk home in the dark. He’d marry the botany-spouting shrew and claim both fortunes: hers and his great-aunt’s. He’d tuck her away in the country, maybe get a few whelps on her because he was definitely having sex with her. She had to earn her keep. After that, he’d not have to think much about her. It wasn’t a bad trade. He’d make money on this marriage at the very least. In the final analysis, what did marriage mean for a man anyway? He was still free to be much as he’d always been except he’d have a dress bill to pay and a few more social obligations to attend. All in all, he supposed it could always be worse.
Despite the cold, he started to whistle a bawdy song—‘Courting Leggy Peggy’. In a week he’d be in Little Westbury and this cold inconvenience would be over.
Chapter Ten
The loud, joyous sound of voices raised in singing as they travelled down the drive to Maidenstone brought Beatrice out front the next afternoon. She shielded her eyes against the sun with a hand and laughed in recognition. They were coming! Her friends were coming! And making a gay show of it, too. There was Evie dressed in a daffodil yellow aboard her chestnut mare riding beside Dimitri, the handsome dark-haired Russian prince who had swept her off her feet this autumn. In the rear in a bright blue riding habit was May alongside Liam on his prized horse, Charon.
Her gaze drifted over them all, gladness in her heart. They had come. They had not deserted her. It was one thing to stand by her when they had nothing to lose as wallflowers and when her secret was not yet known. It was another entirely to stand with her when there was a baby she couldn’t hide and they had so much more to risk. They were married women of social status now. But it was at the head of the column where her gaze lingered. Preston rode there, dark head bare, head thrown back as he sang, his soul on display as he embraced the warm spring day.
Had it only been a day since he’d ridden away? It seemed an age. She’d missed him last night when she’d tucked Matthew into his crib for the first time and when she’d gone to her own bed, Matthew just a few feet away, the crib having been moved into her room. But Preston wasn’t. The emptiness of the space in the bed beside her was missed as much as the nightly ritual of kissing Matthew on the forehead.
Her hand went to the small bump beneath her bodice where his ring hung on a chain about her neck. She’d meant to give it back yesterday, but there’d not been a chance. Now, having it near was like having him close and there was a certain, illogical reluctance to wanting to give it back. ‘Preston! You’ve brought me company.’ Bea sailed down the curving front stairs to greet them, hands outstretched, throat suddenly choked with emotion as Preston swung off his horse and took her hands. This was so much more than bringing company. It was bringing acceptance. It was an unwritten rule of the ton that the best way to protect a woman’s reputation was to cloak her in one’s own. Her friends had brought themselves today and their reputations. Everyone who heard them, who saw them, would know they stood with her.
Preston squeezed her hands, smiling at her, his eyes full of a thousand questions: Are you all right? How was last night? Were your parents good to you? And, if she read it aright, I missed you.
‘Let me make introductions.’ He gestured to the tall man who’d helped Evie dismount. ‘This is Dimitri Petrovich, formerly of Kuban. I don’t know if you met last summer.’
Dimitri Petrovich came forward and took her hand, bending with consummate grace, his deep brown eyes never leaving hers, and brushed his lips over her knuckles. ‘We met once, briefly. You were shopping with Evie, if I recall correctly.’ He nodded to where Liam Casek and May stood. ‘You already know Liam?’ It was a neatly done segue to include the others. Bea thought it likely such social graces and inclusiveness came naturally to this confident prince.
Bea took the opening and moved towards Liam. ‘Dear May and Liam, how good it is to see you.’ She hugged May tight before turning to Liam. Between May and Liam, Matthew had been born safely in the little cottage in Scotland. She owed these two people more than any two people in the world. She moved to hug Liam, reaching up on her toes to do so. He was as tall as Preston. ‘I hear you are to be knighted.’
Liam laughed. ‘In a few weeks, in London.’ He reached for May’s hand and squeezed, making no mistake about where his affections lay. ‘It all still feels like a dream.’ No one looking
at him could doubt he meant more than the impending knighthood felt like a dream. May Worth was the sum of his world, just as Evie was the sum of Dimitri’s, no matter how attentive Dimitri’s gaze was.
Bea’s heart gave a happy-sad lurch. Her friends had found good men, perhaps, as they liked to think, empowered by her call to action. She was alone now. She’d helped them find happiness, but had not been able to claim that same happiness for herself. Preston came up behind her, the groom having gathered the horses. ‘I don’t suppose your cook has made any of those pink macaroons I like so much?’
Bea gave him a teasing smile. ‘You know she always bakes them on Wednesdays. Is that why you came? For my macaroons?’ She made a mock pout. ‘I thought you might have come to see me.’
Preston grinned and something akin to the crackle of lightning sizzled between them, white, hot and jolting. Proof that the intimacy of the road had not been entirely quenched. ‘Maybe I came for both. I’ve been telling Liam and Dimitri all about those macaroons. And you,’ he added after a short, teasing hesitation. ‘Shall we show everyone out to the back veranda?’
He took her arm, looping it through his, and she felt the comfort of his touch as well as the frisson of awareness, of attraction that had sprung up since that first day in Scotland.
It was hard not to notice what an easy trio of couples they made as they took tea in the sun, exchanging news and hearing about May’s wedding. Bea found it too easy to engage in an extension of the fantasy that had formed during the journey home: this could be her life—her life and Preston’s, the third couple in the group. This was what it would be like to enjoy the summers of their adulthood in Little Westbury, surrounded by their friends.
The nursemaid, Annie, brought Matthew down from his nap to show off and the sensation intensified. Preston took him first, Matthew giggling in recognition of his friend, before being passed off to the others who doted on him in turns. ‘He’s grown!’ May exclaimed, eyes shining as she held the baby she’d delivered in November. ‘Look, Liam, he’s smiling at me.’ The comment elicited a laugh and a quiet look between Bea and Preston.
‘What?’ May insisted, catching the glance.
‘Nothing.’ Bea smiled.
‘No, it’s something,’ May protested. ‘I saw that look.’
‘It’s just that babies sometimes smile when they pass gas,’ Preston informed her.
‘Are you saying Matthew looked at me and passed gas?’ May’s green eyes challenged her brother’s in good-humoured sibling rivalry.
‘Yes.’ Preston grinned in response. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Now, give Liam the baby before you drop him like Grandmother’s china, which I am sure you recall with shattering precision.’
May huffed and passed the baby over to Liam, giving her brother a stare. ‘You are never going to let me forget that.’
‘No.’ Preston laughed and Bea’s heart was full, wanting to catch every nuance of the moment; of being home, of sitting in the sun with her friends, of watching them with Matthew, all of them loving, none of them condemning. Maybe it had been the right choice to come home, after all.
* * *
‘Thank you, everyone.’ Beatrice meant it sincerely as she saw her guests to their horses later. Tea was over and Matthew was waiting to be fed. There was more she wanted to say as she hugged Evie and May goodbye, but her throat was thick again. She hoped they knew what was in her heart. It had been a glorious afternoon, a perfect way to complete her homecoming. Certainly, there were still hurdles to overcome. She hadn’t had to face the society of Little Westbury yet. But for now, this was enough, more than enough.
She said goodbye to Preston last. ‘Thank you, most of all,’ she said in quiet tones just for him, ‘for arranging this.’
‘It was nothing. Everyone was coming anyway.’ He smiled and moved to mount.
Bea put a hand on his arm. ‘Wait, I forgot to give you your ring back yesterday.’
He shook his head and swung up before she could argue. ‘Keep it for now. I’ll get it when I come over tomorrow.’
‘You’re coming tomorrow?’ She laughed up at him, a part of her already excited at the prospect of seeing him again and he hadn’t even left yet. ‘Why? We won’t have the macaroons tomorrow,’ she teased.
Preston leaned over his saddle, green eyes sparking. ‘Precisely. I want to prove I didn’t come for the macaroons alone.’ He straightened and twisted to look behind him at the column of riders. ‘All right, everyone, the hunting song again on three!’ He kicked his horse into motion and they were gone, singing as they’d come, loud and merry, before she could ask the question he provoked: if he hadn’t come for the macaroons, what had he come for?
Certain answers posed themselves naturally: for friendship? For honour? For her honour? Other more complicated answers rose: had he come for all of these or something more? That was the kiss talking, the kiss responding to the lightning sizzle between them. Such a response was dangerous. It was precisely the reason she had rules. Not just for her own protection, but for others’ too. She couldn’t let anyone guess at the fantasy in her mind; not her mother, who would do heaven knew what with that knowledge, not Preston, who might feel obligated to act on it. She could have his friendship, but nothing more, no matter what attraction lay between them.
* * *
Preston was as good as his word. He came the next day and the one after and the one after that until a week of visits had piled up between them, a week of afternoon walks with or without Matthew, depending on naps, a week of teas in the extraordinary sunshine as spring arrived at last after a very late start. Most of all, a week of talks. Perhaps because of her status as a non-debutante, or his status as an old family friend, they were allowed to be on their own, always with an open door or within sight of the house, but there was privacy to talk, to carry on the conversations they’d begun on the road. She craved those visits, craved catching sight of him coming down the drive on his horse. That worried her. Having rules was one thing. Enforcing them on a stubborn mind that wanted to pursue another course of action was another entirely.
She was coming to depend on him, his presence, and it couldn’t last for all sorts of reasons. Some of those were practical; he would go away some day soon. London called and there was his estate to manage. Some of those reasons were less practical, and all of them could be traced back to that imprudent kiss. It had given her irrational hope and illogical possibilities which had fuelled the question: what did these visits mean? If they meant something, anything at all, could she continue to risk them without jeopardising her rules and something more?
She very much feared if she did allow them to continue, she might convince herself she was falling for Preston Worth—a most dangerous conclusion indeed. It would ruin their friendship and that was just the beginning. It might even ruin the longstanding friendship between their families. She was not for him. She was not for anyone. She’d made that decision months ago. But it was hard to stick to that decision now that she knew him; the thoughts of him, the touch of him. How did one set aside ambrosia after only one taste?
Even now as they walked the perimeter of the gardens, she caught herself watching him in a conversation, her eyes going to the sensual, thin line of his mouth, remembering the press of those lips on hers, the feel of his tongue in her mouth, to say nothing of the habit she’d acquired of undressing him with her gaze, her mind remembering the smooth planes of his torso, all that lean muscle and strength marred incongruently by the one scar that had nearly killed him. Her mind remembered far too often how his body had responded to her touch, how it had quickened. And hers, too.
‘You’re a million miles from here, Bea.’ Preston was staring at her. They’d stopped walking and she had the distinct impression he’d been silent a long while.
‘I’m sorry.’ She’d been caught out. She might as well brazen it out. ‘I w
as just wondering what we were doing.’
‘Walking?’ Preston hazarded.
She didn’t let him play obtuse. ‘The visits,’ she prompted.
‘You need me.’ Preston’s answer was blunt without a hint of arrogance.
Bea laughed. He sounded very much as he had when they were growing up, always there to play the hero when one of the girls needed rescuing. ‘Like I did when I was eleven and locked myself in the attic during hide and seek and couldn’t get out?’ The memory hung in the air, almost tangible, each of them recalling how Preston had picked the lock instead of going to her father for help, which would have resulted in all of them getting into trouble for rough play in the house.
She gave him a soft, sad smile. ‘I’m not eleven any more, Preston. I can fight some of my battles without you. You’ve done enough and I am grateful for that. Besides, I think your work here is through. I’m having tea with the ladies tomorrow.’ She tried to infuse the announcement with brightness. A successful tea would officially mark her acceptance into society, perhaps a chance to send Preston off. If the ladies took to her, he wouldn’t need to play nursemaid, a bittersweet thought. She would miss him, but it would be for the best. Proximity bred all nature of perils.
‘Nervous?’ Preston raised an eyebrow in query. ‘Don’t be, they’ll love you as they always have. I am sure of it.’
‘But how could it possibly be all right?’ She wanted to argue, to air all of her concerns. She had violated one of society’s most important beliefs in chastity before marriage and she’d been caught.
Preston shook his head. ‘Don’t overthink things, Bea.’ He looked down at his feet and then past her shoulder, pushing a hand through his hair. She had the fleeting impression that something about the tea or about what she’d said had made him edgy. Then the impression was gone, replaced by a boyishly conspiratorial smile as he leaned close to her, teasing. ‘Shall I call tomorrow afterwards and we can talk it all through? You can tell me everything and we can toast your success.’
Marrying the Rebellious Miss Page 9