Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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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.
* * *
That became her mantra in the early days of their journey. She and Preston were good friends and that made them good travelling companions. It was an ideal concept that explained the ease into which they could lapse with each other, the thoughts they could share with each other without fearing judgement, or the silence they could sit in. It explained the patterns that formed quickly and easily; the days spent in conversation, the walks and roadside picnics as the miles passed, the evenings spent in a private dinner away from the general noise of the taprooms, the companionable stroll as he escorted her to her room and said goodnight before going to his own chamber next door. Often, he carried the baby upstairs for her.
It was the happiest and yet saddest part of the day, watching him talk softly to the baby, who clearly adored him. ‘Pound on the wall if you need anything, Bea,’ he’d say reassuringly. ‘I’ll be right there.’ Sometimes he’d lean over and give Matthew a kiss on the forehead, his hand resting at her back, his body encompassing them in a little group as he said the words, ‘Goodnight, little man, sleep tight.’ Then he’d shut the door behind them, leaving her and Matthew alone until the morning and the sun shone again. Preston would make an excellent father. The instincts were all there: the caring, the gentleness, the devotion, the love. His children would be lucky. His wife would be lucky.
* * *
The fourth day was hard going. It managed to rain in the morning, turning the roads muddy. Progress was slow and there was no chance for outdoor breaks to stretch their legs. Matthew was feeling the confines of the carriage after three days of travel, having cried a large part of the day despite their best efforts to distract him. Even Preston’s unflagging patience was reaching its limits. They put into an inn around five o’clock and Preston jumped down to see about rooms. She could hear the mud squishing around the impact of his boots when he landed and firmly shut the coach door behind him with an admonition, ‘Stay inside, Bea.’
Peeking through the coach window, she saw the reason for it, unnecessary though the caution was. She had no desire to tramp around in the mud. Outside, the sight was dismal. The inn looked rougher and less well kept than the other places they’d stopped, the yard full of men in shabby clothes who apparently didn’t care they were ankle deep in mud and the rain still falling.
This was not where they’d planned to stay tonight. Their destination was still several miles away, a journey that might take up to two hours in this slog, or might see them stranded along the road if a wheel got stuck, or a horse went lame in the dark, victim of a misstep. Matthew began to stir from his brief nap, another reason for not daring more miles on the road. The baby could go no further.
The inn door opened and she watched Preston come out, rain beating on the shoulders of his great coat, dripping in rivulets down his dark hair, turning him somewhat more primitive than the gentleman she was used to. A man called out to him, something she couldn’t hear. Preston did not hesitate to silence him with a scowl and sharp words of his own. The man backed off. So it was that kind of crowd.
Preston climbed inside the coach, looking grim. ‘Bad news, Bea. They’ve only the one room. There’s a horse show in town and rooms everywhere are full. It’s either this or driving on. I suppose we could try. There’s a bit more daylight yet.’ He didn’t sound hopeful. Matthew was fully awake now, sitting on her lap and on the verge of another cranky bawl over being cooped up.
‘Take the room. I am sure we can manage.’ Beatrice smiled bravely. ‘I think it’s the only decision we can make. I know it’s not ideal.’
Preston nodded and twisted at something on his hand. His grandfather’s gold ring with a square emerald in it, a very masculine ring, a gift to him on his eighteenth birthday. She’d been there the night the gift had been given, a sign of maturity, of coming of age, of being recognised as another Worth male in a lineage that spanned generations, a proud moment, a prized possession. He handed it to her. ‘You should put it on, Bea.’ He shrugged, his explanation modest although she’d already divined the reason for it. ‘It will protect you.’ From the bullies in the yard, from whatever clientele existed in the taproom.
Beatrice nodded silently and slipped the ring on. Preston’s fingers were long and slender, a musician’s hands, although she hadn’t heard him play in years. As a result, the ring fit moderately well, only slightly loose. She curled her hand into a fist to ensure it didn’t slide off. What a difference a ring could make. A wife was entitled to all sorts of protections and considerations denied a single woman. Wasn’t that the reason she’d created her own fictitious husband in Scotland? Still, she was confident in her safety, ring or not. Preston would keep her safe. He always had. She had no reason to doubt his capabilities now.
Preston blew out a breath. ‘All right, let’s go. You carry Matthew and I’ll carry you. I’ll have a porter bring the bags.’ He swung her up into his arms, the babe clutched against her chest, and made his way across the muddy inn yard.
The room was small, with barely enough space for a bed, a small table, a fireplace and a dressing screen in the corner. The smallness seemed to emphasise the reality that even between longstanding friends, masquerading as husband and wife carried with it a dangerous intimacy. It was the bed that did it, dominating the tiny space so that one could think of nothing else but bed and all that it implied.
Stay busy, Beatrice told herself. She set Matthew carefully in the bed’s centre and set about starting a fire. Preston was downstairs, overseeing the bags, and he was wet. He’d want heat when he came up. She checked the cleanliness of the towels and the bedding, hanging one towel near the fire to warm for Preston. A maid popped her head in and Beatrice tried to order dinner, but was told the inn was too busy for special orders. Everyone who wanted to eat had to eat in the taproom. Preston relayed the same information when he came up a few minutes later.
‘The room is small.’ Preston’s eyes went briefly to the bed, perhaps drawing the same conclusions she had. Someone was going to end up in a chair or on the floor unless...unless they opted to share the bed. There would be no hiding in the dark if they did. But that was hours away yet.
‘It’s warm and clean, which is more than I expected. We’ll manage.’ She would rely on brisk efficiency to keep the fantasy at bay. ‘Let’s get you dry.’
Spoken like a perfect wife. The errant thought came to him as he stood in the centre of her efficient whirlwind, letting Beatrice strip him out of his coat, his jacket, his waistcoat, laying them over the fireplace screen and picking up the heated towel. ‘Here, dry off with this, it’s warm. I am assuming a hot bath is out of the question if they can’t be bothered to deliver dinner.’ She let him mop his face and neck. His shirt was dry, protected from the damp by his other