Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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the background was front and centre once again. ‘Bea, do you think I don’t know what you are up to? You think to distract me with gossip and run out the clock.’ She did not care for the suspicion of pity that shadowed his eyes. ‘To what end is this game, Beatrice? I will only come again tomorrow and the next day, if I must.’
He spoke bluntly and in that bluntness she discovered the indefinable something about him that had eluded her earlier: reluctance. If he must. He found the job to which her parents had tasked him as distasteful as she did. Preston no more wanted to be here than she wanted him here. She could use that. It was the spark she needed to wage war in truth. If she could turn him into an ally, if she argued hard enough, he might be dissuaded. She could send him back to England with her decision to stay. Beatrice leaned forward in earnest, her nerves settling at last now that she had a glimpse of direction. ‘I’m not going back.’
The announcement was met with silence.
It was apparently true—you could cut tension with a knife. She had misjudged the depth of his reluctance. Reluctant though he was, he meant to see this through. Her announcement was met with the faintest of smiles on his face, his hazel eyes contrite in silent apology, but his jaw was set in firm determination. Well, she could be determined, too, and it started with showing him she didn’t belong in England any more. She belonged here.
Matthew William chose that moment to wake. His little arms stretched, making fists, his mouth puckering up. Bea reached for him, her own body responding to the waking needs of her son. There was no time like the present to show Preston this was where she belonged now, who she’d become. She was no longer the pampered daughter of wealthy gentry, but a sensible, grounded mother. The baby let out a squall and Bea tossed Preston a proud but apologetic smile for her son’s noise. ‘He’s hungry. He always wakes up hungry.’
And hungry babies needed to be fed. Immediately and without qualms. Beatrice loosened the bodice of her dress and put the baby to her bare breast, an action that invoked no sense of embarrassment from her. How often had she nursed the babe these last months, regardless of who was around? She reached for a blanket to drape over her, but the action had already achieved the desired effect. Preston Worth, for all of his worldliness, shifted in his chair, no doubt uncomfortable with the maternal display. This was not the behaviour of a tonnish woman. Gentlewomen didn’t nurse their own children. ‘Have I shocked you? Would you like to go outside until I’ve finished?’ Bea offered, but her sweetness didn’t fool him.
Preston smiled back with a wolfish grin, making this a battle of faux congeniality. ‘Is that a gauntlet you’re throwing down? If so, you’ll be disappointed to know I am more impressed than dismayed. You nurse that child as if it were the most natural thing in the world.’
‘Because it is,’ Beatrice shot back. There seemed little point in maintaining a polite veneer if he was going to call her out. ‘I have nursed him for five months and I intend to keep doing it.’
‘I dare say that will enliven the ladies’ teas in Little Westbury. Perhaps you will start a new fashion.’ Preston was edgier, more sharp-toned than she remembered. It was a reminder that they were not children any more. She had heard of Preston’s life through May, of course. She knew he’d taken on an important position for the Home Office in charge of protecting the coast from sundry illegal traffic and arms dealers. But she had not spent time with him beyond an occasional mercy dance during the Season in London. Dancing, unfortunately, wasn’t precisely the best venue for getting to know someone. She’d learned that the hard way. The father of her son had been an exceptional dancer and that had not been a fair recommendation of his ethics. It made her wonder now what she didn’t know about Preston. He’d certainly ripped through her first line of defence with considerable boldness. He would find she could be bold as well.
She moved the baby to her other breast. ‘I do apologise. My parents have imposed indecently on your time by sending you here. I trust they are the ones who sent you?’
Preston only needed to nod in acknowledgement. Of course her parents had sent him. There was no one else to send. Their families had been friends for years, generations even, and the Penroses were sadly lacking in male progeny, having been ‘blessed’ with a single daughter. Preston was the closest the Penroses had to a son.
‘I will not be going back with you. You can take a message to my parents and convey my wishes to stay.’
This was her next line of defence: refusal.
‘I’ll write a note immediately so as not to delay your return. You can set out tomorrow.’ She put the baby to her shoulder and gently rubbed his back, invoking a burp.
‘Not without you,’ Preston replied firmly. Mistress Maddox came into the room and he slid his gaze her way. ‘Give the baby to the goodwife and come outside with me.’ The steel in his tone caught Beatrice off guard. She’d been focused on Preston as a friend, she’d been heartened by the idea that he was a reluctant messenger. It had lured her into a false sense of security. She’d not been ready for the harsh command. This was a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. She was seeing perhaps a glimpse of the man who commanded the coast of Britain, who protected a whole country. That man would expect abject obedience, which if not given freely might possibly be forced.
So be it. Beatrice rose and handed the baby to Mistress Maddox. She let Preston usher her outside into the mild spring sunshine. She let him be the one to break the silence as they walked. He wanted this conversation, he could damn well start it.
‘You are going back, Beatrice. Make no mistake.’ There was the firm tone of command again. He was no longer just her friend, just the messenger, but a man used to taking charge.
‘Even if you have to throw me over your shoulder and haul me off like a prize of war?’ she said coldly. The gloves were off now, friends or not.
‘Even if. But I hope it doesn’t come to that. I have every hope you’ll see reason before it gets that far.’
‘Or that you will,’ Bea replied drily. ‘There is more reason to see than your own.’
They stopped at a stone wall defining the Maddox property. Preston leaned his elbows against it. The breeze blew his dark hair. For the first time since his arrival, she noted the weariness on his face. She could see the traces of it in the tiny lines around his eyes, the faint grooves at his mouth, all reminders that he’d been seriously wounded in October; had spent the winter recovering. Now, he’d made a long journey to find her. Whatever weariness he felt could be laid at her feet. Her parents had sent him on a fool’s errand. She felt guilty over her part in it, but not guilty enough to grant him the thing he wished. She would not go with him just to appease the guilt.
‘Tell me, Bea.’ He sounded more like her friend. ‘No more prevaricating. Why won’t you go back?’
‘Go back to what? Society will pillory me for this. There is no place for me. Why would I return to a place where there is only shame? There is no life for me there.’
‘And there is a life for you here?’ Preston questioned.
‘Yes! No one looks at me with condemnation. My son is accepted. No one calls him a bastard.’
‘Because you’ve spun them a lie. May has told me all about it. How long do you think your “husband” can stay at sea?’
‘Until he dies. Merchants abroad for trade do die, you know. Mysterious illness, lightning-fast fevers. There’s a hundred perils that might come up.’ It sounded cold hearted even to her and she’d made the fiction up in the first place months ago when she’d arrived.
Preston gave a humourless laugh. ‘You are a bloodthirsty creature, Beatrice. Your poor husband is expendable, then?’
‘Yes,’ Beatrice answered simply. She’d be a grieving widow. It was the best of both worlds. No one would shun her son and no one would expect her to remarry after having loved and lost her devoted husband. It would be good protection for them both. Her son would have the shield of a dead father and she would have the shelter of widowhood.