Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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weeks at least until he needed to beg her forgiveness again.
‘Good.’ Preston settled back against the squabs with satisfaction. ‘Now that’s out of the way, I can tell you about the latest letter from Jonathon and Claire.’
She tossed him a teasingly accusing glare. ‘You were holding out on me yesterday.’ Bea gave his knee a playful swat and just like that they were the people he remembered them to be.
‘Ouch! A good negotiator always holds something back.’ Preston feigned injury with a laugh. ‘Do you want to hear or not?’
‘Of course I want to hear.’ Beatrice bent down to pick up her son, awakened by their banter. She put the baby to her breast with consummate ease, unbothered by the loudness of the baby’s waking squall or the confines of the carriage that put them in such close proximity—a proximity, which to his mind, made the act of nursing seem more personal than it had yesterday.
Quite frankly, yesterday had been fairly intimate in his opinion. He had thought himself a worldly man, and maybe he was by masculine standards: well-travelled, well-educated. But this world of women was beyond his experience. Was there even etiquette for such a situation? He should look away, yet he could not bring himself to avert his eyes. Watching her with the child was new, fascinating, and it did queer things to his stomach, to his mind, filling it with reminders that while they were the same people they’d been growing up, they were different now, too, each having gone their own way for years. Beatrice was a woman now, the angular, thin girl turned into a lush woman made pretty by the contours of motherhood, a woman who knew the capabilities of a man’s body. And he was a man now who had no small experience in that regard when it came to a woman’s. It was an intriguing but uncomfortable lens through which to view an old friend.
* * *
Her eyes met his over the child’s head. For a moment Preston thought she might scold him for his prurience, but while the act of watching her stirred him deeply, it was not prurient in the least, only beautiful, like a Raphael painting of the Madonna and Child. Beatrice arched her eyebrow in query. ‘Well? Are you going to tell me your news or do I have to guess?’
He slanted her a teasing look. ‘You haven’t grown any more patient over the years, Bea. Jonathon wrote to say he and Claire are expecting a child in the autumn.’ Preston cleared his throat. His voice had caught most unexpectedly at the last. He’d been excited for his friend when he’d read the news. He knew how important family was to Jonathon. It was a value the two of them shared.
‘Oh!’ Beatrice’s face shone with pure happiness for her friend. ‘They must be over the moon. They will be good parents. There is so much love between them and now there will be a child to lavish it on.’ Preston did not miss the wistfulness in her tone. He’d felt that same wistfulness, too, when he’d first heard the news. Jonathon had moved on. Jonathon would have a family while he was still where he’d always been. Working for the government, conducting business for his family and their friends.
Preston’s eyes went to the baby in the ensuing silence. Would he ever have what Jonathon had? What Liam had found? He felt a twinge of envy at the thought of his two best friends, Jonathon Lashley and Liam Casek, both happily married and both his own age, both with careers of their own. Jonathon was a diplomat in Vienna. Liam was about to be knighted and looking forward to establishing himself in Parliament as an MP. Both of them proved careers didn’t exclude a family life with a woman he loved beside him. They proved a man could have both. And yet, Preston didn’t. That hole had never felt quite as gaping as it did now.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ Beatrice offered, passing him the baby before he could refuse.
Preston took the bundle gently in his arms. ‘He’s so light. I guess I thought because babies look like a sack of potatoes, they felt like one, too.’
‘He’s sturdy enough. He won’t break,’ Beatrice assured him. ‘You don’t have to treat him as if he’s glass.’
Preston adjusted his hold on the infant, starting to feel more confident. He looked down at the little face looking back at him and grinned. ‘I think he smiled at me. I think he likes me.’ It was such a small thing and yet it pleased him extraordinarily and ridiculously.
‘Mistress Maddox told me babies often smile when they pass gas,’ Beatrice said slyly, laughing and adding as consolation, ‘but I’m sure he likes you.’ She hesitated a moment before asking quietly. ‘Are you jealous? Of Jonathon, I mean?’
‘I shouldn’t be. He’s endured hardship over the last years. He deserves happiness,’ Preston answered truthfully. Why should he be jealous? He could marry whenever he chose, within the Season since his inheritance had been established. It would be ideal and frankly preferred now that he had a home to look after. If he wasn’t married already with an heir in the nursery next spring it was his own fault. His mother had ten willing debutantes to hand at any given time. Any girl would be glad to do her duty and marry him. Wasn’t that part of the problem? Part of his resistance? He wanted a family, but not like that. Not with a girl like that. Bea was watching him with an odd look on her face as he rocked the baby and he couldn’t help but ask her the same. ‘Are you, Bea? Jealous?’
* * *
‘Of Claire? No, of course not.’ Bea shook her head hastily to dispel such an unworthy thought. No true friend would begrudge another friend happiness. ‘I was just thinking about the child.’ Two loving parents and the benefits of a well-born birth. By a random act of fate, the child was poised for success simply by the nature of its birth. Her throat thickened. All the love she possessed for her son couldn’t compensate for what he’d never have. Watching Preston with him now drove it all home, the loss she tried not to think about. There would be no father to rock him, no father to run in the meadows with him, to teach him to fish and hunt and ride. No father to hug him, to help him through his first heartbreak, to usher him into manhood. Malvern could never be that man. It didn’t matter, she told herself. She would be both mother and father to him. She would be enough.
Preston read her thoughts. ‘He’ll have uncles, Bea. He’ll have Dimitri and Liam and me. He will not go wanting for male guidance.’ Something moved in his hazel eyes. She feared she knew what it was and it was the last thing she wanted from anyone, but especially from him.
‘I don’t need pity,’ Beatrice said firmly but quietly. She would not be made a charity case.
‘I’m not offering it,’ he replied with equal sincerity. ‘Of all the people I’ve ever known, Beatrice, you are the least likely to need it.’
‘As are you. You’re handsome and well positioned. I know very well from having seen it first hand—the matchmaking mamas are angling hard for you. You could marry whenever you like.’ Beatrice gave him a wry smile. She needed to direct the discussion away from herself. Their conversation yesterday had strayed in this direction, too, and she had no desire to head down that path again. If they stayed this course they’d end up talking about Alton, about why she wouldn’t seek him out. They could talk about marriage, just not hers. ‘Surely there’s a pretty girl who has captured your heart?’
‘Actually, no.’ Preston was determined not to be distracted, though. ‘Why won’t you talk about him, Bea? Matthew’s father? That’s twice now. Don’t think I don’t notice how you veer away from the subject.’
Bea met his gaze with a strong stare. ‘He is not worth talking about.’ How did she explain talking about him seemed to make Alton more real? She let the silence linger, signalling the finality of that conversation.
Preston shifted in his seat, rearranging his limbs. ‘So,’ he drawled, fixing her with a mischievous stare in return, ‘you think I’m handsome?’
‘You know you are. It’s empirically true.’ Beatrice laughed, but the sound came out a little nervously, her mouth dry. Preston was handsome. He wore his dark hair brushed back off his forehead, revealing the lean, elegant bones of his face, the razor straightness of his nose, the firm line of his jaw, the sweep of enigmatic cheekbones that appeared stark and sharp when he was angry