Marrying the Rebellious Miss

by Bronwyn Scott

  Bea looked up from the work table where she was grinding something with a pestle. From the faint smell, he thought it might be sage. ‘Preston, hello.’ She came around the table, wiping her hands on her apron and taking the bouquet, but something was off. She must know about the deception.

  ‘If you’ve come to see Matthew, he’s asleep, I’m afraid.’ Bea gave him a smile, putting the daisies in an empty jar on her work table.

  ‘I came to see you,’ Preston corrected. ‘I wanted to make sure tea went fine and to tell you I was leaving for Seacrest this afternoon.’

  I was wondering if you’d been able to forget about our kisses, to pretend they didn’t happen, because I haven’t. It haunts me. You haunt me. At night when I’m in bed. In the afternoon when I’m out riding. In the morning when I wake. It haunts me pretty much all the time. I have hopes being at Seacrest will appease them, but I doubt it.

  He couldn’t tell her that. Such boldness would ruin everything. Then, he wouldn’t even be allowed to visit. At least now, visiting could be his own private purgatory.

  ‘Tea went fine, as I assume you already know?’ Beatrice met his gaze evenly, her stare hard. ‘You did know, didn’t you? About my parents’ plans to protect me? Apparently, my Scottish ruse has followed me home. I have a husband who died at sea and now everyone knows.’

  Bea’s eyes flashed, sharp obsidian shards looking for a target to rip into. She took a step towards him, hands on hips as she made her charge. ‘Why didn’t you tell me what my parents intended?’ That was the real crime, Preston divined immediately. He was her friend and he hadn’t told her.

  ‘Because you wouldn’t have got in the carriage,’ Preston shot back. He’d known this would happen, that it would be this bad when she found out and she only knew half of it.

  ‘Is that your code these days, Preston Worth? Say anything to get what you want? What else did you lie to me about?’ Her words called into question every precious moment of the journey. His own anger began to rise. He would not have her taint their journey with her doubts. What they had shared, what they continued to share, might be confusing, but it was all honest.

  ‘Beatrice, be fair. You lied first. You made up the seafaring husband.’ She could be mad, Preston reasoned, but she could not stand there and play the hypocritical judge, not when she started it.

  ‘But it was my decision,’ Beatrice answered. ‘Now, I find I am caught in a web of others’ making and not by my own choice.’

  Those words shamed him. He might not have supported the lie, or created it, but he’d gone along with it. He’d fetched her home to be part of it without her knowledge. Others had decided they knew what was best for another and he’d allowed it when he knew very well he would not tolerate others doing the same for him. Wasn’t that the source of quiet conflict between him and his father currently? His father thought he knew best. His father wanted to decide his life for him. And yet, he’d allowed it to be done to Beatrice.

  Beatrice’s voice broke at its edges, but her eyes remained hard. ‘My own friends decided not to consult me in a matter that would define my future for ever. What has been done cannot be undone. It is too late for that. It makes me wonder what else has been planned that I don’t know about.’

  Preston made a rapid assessment. Telling her couldn’t make up for what had already been done, but perhaps it could save what was left of her trust. His voice was low and he spoke rapidly. The Penroses might not forgive him this indiscretion. ‘London. You are to go to London for Liam’s knighthood ceremony and to have a bit of a Season with all of us there to help.’

  The calm with which she took the news would be misleading to a man who didn’t know her well. ‘Ah, so there is a husband picked out for me, after all. That’s two lies you’ve told, Preston. Who is it? Does he have a name?’

  ‘No one, in particular. Just a chance to get out and meet people.’ Although he was liking that idea less and less. An errant stab of jealousy took him unawares. What if she did meet someone, someone who was worthy of her and Matthew? Of course, he had no claim on her, as she’d demonstrated a few days ago when she’d argued she didn’t need his nursemaiding any longer.

  ‘I’m not interested in meeting anyone.’ She gave him a pointed look that said the world of men, him currently included, had been a disappointment to date. She gave him a cold smile tinged with triumph. ‘Besides, it’s not possible. The ruse has made it too risky. Going to London during the Season increases the chances of running into Matthew’s father. Something none of us can afford now.’ Fear tinged her voice along with smug condemnation. ‘He will know the lie for what it is. If he ever finds us, he’ll ruin us. Does no one understand that?’

  She was frightened and angry. He wanted nothing more than to go to her and wrap her his arms, perhaps kiss away her fears because he’d heard what she really meant in those words—why hadn’t he understood the risk? Why hadn’t he stopped the lie before it had become dangerous?

  He had failed her. The realisation hung between them as assuredly as if she’d slapped him. They stood in stunned silence, facing each other, letting its wake drag into awkwardness before Preston squared his shoulders and said most formally, ‘Good day. I will show myself out.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The moment he was gone, she wanted him back. Beatrice braced her hands on the work table in an attempt to steady her temper and her thoughts in the aftermath of their confrontation. She’d accused him of failing her, perhaps the worst affront to one’s honour for a man like Preston. He’d wanted to protect her. He’d done nothing more than what her parents had done, what Evie and May and their parents had done: allowed the rest of Little Westbury to believe she’d married a seafaring merchant and lost him to the sea. The general population of Little Westbury had no reason to think the story flawed and those who knew—the Milhams, the Worths and the Penroses—weren’t going to tell them otherwise. For the sake of her honour.

  It was a rather elaborate secret to keep indefinitely and it wasn’t without a price. They all would pay for it in risk and in trust. Her friends were willing to pay that price for her. And what had she done? She’d run Preston off.

  The basil leaves on the work table blurred. She blinked back tears, furiously. She was not going to cry over this. Why did it matter so damn much what Preston did anyway? Because he could have told you, came the whisper of her conscience, if he was really your friend, he would have told you. He’d had seven days in a carriage, for heaven’s sake. There’d been countless opportunities to tell her and he’d chosen to pass them all up. He might not have lied, but he had deliberately omitted some key details to the truth.

  Beatrice breathed deeply, letting the aroma of her herbs bring calm. She reached for her pestle and went back to work, grinding, grinding, grinding. He’d told her personal things about himself, about his reluctance to retire to the country, how much he loved serving the country. He’d held her baby, rocked him, played with him, he’d fought for her in a taproom against armed men with knives. He’d taken injury for her. He’d kissed her. Not once, but twice.

  He’d done all of that for her, and with her, and yet he could not utter the simple truth: your parents will march you off to London and, by the way, it will be easy to marry you off because you’re now a widow in the eyes of Little Westbury and society.

  Beatrice dashed a hand across her eyes, smelling the scent of basil on her fingertips. She should not have let him kiss her. It was all the fault of that kiss. It made her believe they were more than friends, it made her feel dangerous things for a man, things she’d not stopped thinking about since she’d arrived home.

  She’d been betrayed by a kiss. Again. As if the first time with Alton hadn’t been a disaster. This time was proving to be no better. Once more, passion had led her astray, led her to believe there was deeper feeling where there was none, or at least not enough to suggest he
ought to tell her what truly awaited her at home.

  The door from the house opened on to the veranda. Beatrice swallowed hard, wanting to appear steady, to give nothing away. She wasn’t in the mood for probing or for company, especially not her mother’s, not after what she’d just learned.

  Her mother looked around. ‘Is Preston Worth here? I told Annie to bring Matthew down. I thought Preston would like to see him.’

  ‘He just stopped on his way to Seacrest,’ Beatrice said tersely.

  ‘He didn’t stay long.’ Her mother’s gaze fixed on her, sharp and unyielding in the quest for information, as if she knew her daughter was responsible for their guest’s early departure.

  Beatrice grabbed another handful of leaves and began to chop, the knife blade coming down in hard, quick movements. ‘He just stopped by to see how the tea went. It hardly requires a very long stay.’ She reached for the pestle and shot her mother an accusing glance. ‘Especially when he already knew the outcome.’ Time to grind.

  ‘Are you still upset about the ruse? Or is it something else? I hope you don’t blame Preston for it. In time, you’ll see that it was the right choice.’ Her mother took the chair across from her, signalling her intention to stay. ‘You look rather upset for such a brief visit.’

  Bea’s temper rose in spite of her best attempts to contain it. ‘If I’m angry, it’s because Preston told me your plan to take me up to London.’

  ‘It will be good for you. There’s Liam’s ceremony to attend and all of your friends will be there.’ Her mother glossed over her obvious resistance.

  ‘It’s the last place I want to be and the city is a terrible place for a baby.’ If her mother would disregard her wishes, perhaps an appeal to Matthew’s well-being would get her to reconsider.

  ‘Of course it is!’ her mother exclaimed as Annie the nursemaid stepped outside with Matthew.

  Bea took him and lifted him high in the air, blowing gently on his fat belly. He giggled. ‘Then, I’m glad that’s settled.’ Bea settled into a wicker rocking chair, bouncing him on her lap.

  Her mother was all matronly concern. ‘You didn’t think we’d make you take the baby along, did you? He’ll stay here with the best of care. Annie can look after him.’

  ‘Oh, yes, mum.’ Annie made a little dipping curtsy. ‘I’ll look after him like he’s my own. He’s the sweetest baby. You needn’t worry about a thing. Just go and enjoy yourself.’

  Beatrice stopped rocking, stopped bouncing Matthew. She gave her mother an incredulous stare. ‘Leave him? Here? Without me? Absolutely not. I am his mother. I belong with him.’

  ‘It’s just for a few weeks. We’re not staying long,’ her mother coaxed.

  ‘No. I can’t possibly go without him for even a few days.’ Did no one understand? Or did they choose to ignore the realities? The risks? Without the bouncing to distract him, Matthew began to fuss, wanting his afternoon feeding. Beatrice undid her bodice.

  ‘Oh, Beatrice, are you going to do that out here?’ Her mother voiced her disapproval as if it were a scold. ‘Really, that should be limited to the nursery where no one else can see. A gardener could walk by.’

  ‘Horses, cows, cats, pigs, goats, sheep—they don’t relegate feeding to the nursery,’ Beatrice snapped.

  Her mother dismissed Annie with a quick flick of her hand, leaving them alone. ‘They’re animals, dear. You are a gently bred young woman who knows better and it’s time you start acting like it.’ She leaned forward, her voice a stern hiss. ‘Your father and I have done everything we can for you, Beatrice. We sent you to Scotland to have the child in privacy. We arranged for you to come home and keep the child while still being received into society—no small feat. We have asked our friends to support our ruse. All so that you can meet a nice man and have a nice life for yourself and your son. I’d rather you go to London and meet those nice men for yourself and choose one of them of your own volition. Matthew deserves a father.’ Her voice dropped in warning, ‘If you choose not to follow our direction, Beatrice, then I will choose for you. Come hell or high water, Beatrice Elizabeth, you will have a husband on the hook by September. You owe us. That is the price of your redemption.’

  She’d seen her mother mad before, just last spring, in fact, when she told her about the baby. But not even that rivalled the intensity her mother displayed now. ‘I can’t go to London,’ Beatrice said evenly. ‘Not without Matthew. He needs me for milk.’

  ‘We’ll hire a wet nurse. Emily Blaylock, one of your father’s tenants, just had her second. She has plenty of milk and they could use the extra money. The sooner the better. Once your milk dries up, you’ll have your figure back entirely. Nursing ruins one’s bosom. Husbands don’t want wives with sagging cow udders for breasts. She could start tomorrow, if you like.’

  ‘No, I don’t like.’ Beatrice shifted Matthew to her other side, fighting the urge to clutch him tight, to protect him. What if this was a ploy to send her away and then steal the baby? The old fear surged, coupled with new fears, too, selfish fears. Matthew might be able to nurse as long as he liked, but not her. Didn’t her mother understand this was her only chance to nurse a child? Of course not. Her mother expected her to marry, to have another child or two. Reflexively, she squeezed Matthew tight. She wasn’t ready to give this up.

  If her mother wouldn’t consider her wishes, maybe she’d consider the sheer risk of such a trip. Beatrice played her trump card, the one that had routed Preston. ‘Have you thought of the other reason I can’t go to London? My “husband” isn’t really dead.’ She had no desire to meet Malvern Alton on the streets or at a ball.

  It had taken her a while to allow herself to fully embrace what he’d done to her and what that said about his character. Not the sex part—that had been consensual. It was the leaving part, the responsibility part, that had illuminated his true colours. He was a selfish man, out only for his own pleasures. She wanted nothing more to do with him.

  Her mother gave her a condescending look. ‘Do you truly think he’ll come for you now? He’s had over a year to come looking for you and he’s made no contact in any way.’

  ‘But what if he saw me in London? What if he told people about our...affair? Or worse, what if someone told him I’d married and had a child?’

  Her mother raised her brows and smiled. ‘That would be wonderful. Then he’d have no reason to come after you further. He never knew you were pregnant. He’d never suspect the child was his or the father was fabricated.’

  ‘That would be sailing far too close to the rocks,’ Beatrice countered. ‘He’d only have to do the maths to know it’s a lie. I would’ve had to have married someone and conceived within a few weeks of his leaving.’

  ‘He won’t do the maths, Beatrice, because he won’t come. You’re making this difficult because you don’t want to go. But if you’re really worried about him and whatever threats a potential reappearance might pose, you should marry quickly and put yourself beyond his reach for good. A ring changes everything.’ Her mother stood up, finished with the conversation. ‘All roads lead to London, Beatrice. You need to resign yourself to it. We leave in two weeks.’

  Beatrice was livid, seething even. No! She was not going to London. She was not giving up her right to nurse her son for the sake of fashion and a husband she didn’t want. She’d consented to her parents’ ruse, but she would not consent to this.

  She called for Annie to come and take Matthew before her foul mood could wear off on him. She needed an ally. She thought of Preston’s ring upstairs, tucked in her dresser drawer, gold with the emerald in the centre. She’d forgotten to give it back. Maybe that could be her peace offering when he returned. She had a promise to claim, if need be. If anyone could fix this, talk sense into her parents, it would be Preston. Would he do it or had he finally taken her advice and his father’s advice and washed his hands of her?
r />   * * *

  Preston couldn’t sleep. By rights, sleep should have come easily. He’d ridden long and hard to reach Seacrest, hoping to clear his mind with the wind and fresh air. He’d like to blame it on the unfamiliar bedroom at Seacrest, but he knew better. He couldn’t sleep on account of a woman. Nearly twelve hours ago, Beatrice had called him a liar and he was still thinking about it. A sharp tongue wasn’t the best quality to appreciate in a woman, even if the woman in question was right: he should have told her all of it. He should have given her time to accustom herself to what waited at home. He had not.

  He shifted on to his back, trying to find a comfortable position. What was she doing now? Was she lying in bed hating him? Perhaps he should hate her. She’d assaulted his honour after all he’d done. Certainly, her insult was proof that a man wasn’t judged by all of his good deeds, but by his one error in judgement. Just as a woman was judged by one indiscretion instead of a lifetime of virtue.

  Taking his father’s advice and distancing himself from her would certainly make all of this easier. Yet, all he could do was lie here in the dark of these unfamiliar rooms and think about her with her hair down, with her hands on him, her lips on him, and want her. It was not making him feel better. He was, in fact, in a fierce state of arousal, aching and hard. That state would have to be dealt with if he was going to get any sleep. He put a hand on himself and slid down his length with a groan, allowing himself to engage in the fantasy of it being Beatrice’s hand on him. In a few minutes at least the physical agony would be over. The rest would have to wait until he returned.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Malvern Alton drew back the curtain of the coach and surveyed the view outside his window; Bucolic and neat. Two descriptions he despised, although the words described Little Westbury perfectly. There was a tidy row of half-timbered shop fronts mixed with an occasional red brick and, every so often, a white bow window jutting out on what passed as the town’s High Street. A white-steepled church rose at the end of the street, presiding over all of it. Spreading out from the main street were other businesses: the livery, the market, the butcher’s and the baker’s.