Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott
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the thin aristocratic structure of his mouth. It was a face that paired well with his body. His was not the bulkier, muscled body of a man like Liam Casek, but athletically trim. A fencer’s body, lean and quick in its height.
Beatrice shifted, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts. It was something of a shock to think of Preston in those terms. She’d never catalogued Preston’s physical assets in quite such a way—like a debutante or a matchmaking mama looking for a prime eligible parti. ‘I’ll take him now.’ She reached for her son. She’d imposed on Preston long enough and holding the baby would give her something to do, something to think about besides Preston’s physique.
Preston surprised her. ‘No, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hold him a while longer. You can rest, if you want. You must be tired with all the getting up every night. I think Matthew and I are getting on famously.’
She was tired. The nights were indeed difficult. Beatrice didn’t need further urging. She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, hoping the old adage was true—out of sight, out of mind. She’d very much like to dispel certain images of Preston Worth. Harbouring such fanciful notions was one sure way to destroy a friendship. It was probably why men and women were so often unsuccessful in their friendships with one another. It was more difficult than she’d expected to rid her mind of those images, but it was easy to rationalise why. They were in close quarters, there was the baby to look after. Jonathon and Claire’s news had thrown the holes of their own individual lives into sharp relief. It was natural to reach out and grab at the person nearest to you. Even now, wasn’t Preston doing the same thing? He wasn’t the only one who could read minds. She knew very well what he was doing. He was sitting across from her, holding the baby and pretending at fatherhood.
Of course, Preston’s situation wasn’t nearly as dire as hers. He could change his circumstances. She could not. Should not. She had her rules now and the number one rule was that men were dangerous. Rule number two: passion was dangerous. But Preston didn’t need to live by those rules. There was still time for him, all the time in the world. He could marry when he chose and he was young by male marriage standards. Many men didn’t marry until their thirties and Preston was what? Twenty-eight? He was five years older than May and she. She remembered that his birthday was in early April. The realisation almost made her eyes fly open. His birthday was the tenth.
He would likely celebrate it on the road. Away from his family. That was her fault. He’d not wanted to make this journey.
I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else coming for you.
He had sacrificed his comforts for her and she’d been shrewish with him. She would find a way to make it up to him.
In terms of igniting dangerous fantasies about one’s travelling partner, the day got markedly worse; everything seemed to feed those rather uncomfortable considerations. There was the picnic beside a quiet brook and a short walk through a meadow of wildflowers to stretch their legs later in the afternoon while Matthew dozed under the watchful eye of the driver, all of it accompanied by conversation, all of it seemingly meaningful to her, at least. It was a chance to get to know her friend again.
She learned about Preston’s work along the coast. Thanks to high taxes, smuggling was always in season. Danger, too, but he seemed to take it all in his stride. In turn, he asked about her interests—science and herbs, things she hadn’t devoted much time to since Matthew was born. She was starved for such conversation. It had been months since someone had paid attention to her as a singular entity in herself and it was intoxicating. The thoughtful conversation wove an intimacy all its own, a potency further enhanced by her earlier considerations—considerations that were becoming increasingly difficult to tamp down.
‘I think this might be the most pleasant day I’ve had in a long time.’ Beatrice let Preston hand her into the coach after their walk, suddenly conscious of his touch, of its warmth, its strength. ‘Motherhood, I’m discovering, is a lonely occupation. I don’t think I’ve talked to another soul about anything other than babies in for ever.’ Not talking about them had been liberating.
Preston grinned and settled into his seat. ‘I’m glad we stopped, then. I usually don’t talk about my work much. I suspect most find it boring, or somewhat scandalous. It’s one thing for a nobleman’s son to have a position, to be an “officer” of sorts, but it’s another thing to actually do the position.’ Preston shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine just sitting around all day. Apparently, several of my colleagues can manage it just fine. I would go barmy.’ He paused and turned more serious. ‘It killed me not to be able to serve against Napoleon. I was envious of Jonathon and his brother. Jonathon was an heir, too. I thought surely if Jonathon’s parents let him go, mine would as well.’
She hadn’t known. Always a dutiful son, he’d hid his disappointment admirably. ‘But you were posted to the coast instead?’
‘And not even in a military capacity.’ Preston gave a dry laugh. Beatrice could hear the lingering regret. She wanted to say something encouraging but not clichéd.
‘Running Cabot Roan, the infamous arms dealer, to ground is a significant service not just to Britain, but to Europe. One that nearly cost you your life, as sure as any soldier,’ she added pointedly.
‘True enough.’ He leaned back against the seat and pushed a hand through his dark hair. ‘I’m sorry, Bea. I’m being peevish all of the sudden.’ He was silent for a moment, but she felt the frenetic energy radiating from him, struggling to break free of containment. ‘I do enjoy the work. That’s the problem. My parents feel I should give it up now. I’ve spent my twenties serving the Crown, as many young men of noble families do, Bea, and now my parents believe it’s time to move on to serve the Crown in a more traditional sense.’ He chuckled. ‘Of course, they disagree on which tradition that should be. Father would like to see me shift my career to more diplomacy. But Mother...’ He held up his empty left fingers and waggled them indicating the lack of a ring.
Bea nodded her understanding. Of course his mother would want him to marry. Men of good birth were to oversee the land and those that worked it. Their service to England was to be gentlemen, protect the vast tracts of land that had been given into the care of their families generations ago and make sons to carry on the tradition. That was to be the purpose of his life just as her purpose in life had once been to marry such a man and produce that heir. It seemed both of them were determined to deviate from the path laid out for them.
‘You’re restless, that’s all,’ Beatrice said softly, realising that perhaps the conversation had been liberating for him as well. ‘I feel it, too, sometimes.’ In hindsight, she often thought it was that restlessness that had led her to the impetuous affair last winter. She could never regret Matthew, but she did regret giving in to the spontaneity and the desperation that had driven the decision to be with a man she knew very little about except that she found him exciting in an unpredictable sort of way.
She glanced at Preston, the words she wanted to say making her uncharacteristically shy. ‘Do you suppose that makes me a bad mother? Wondering if there’s more than nappies and nursing?’ It was her guiltiest thought these days. Perhaps there wasn’t anything more, perhaps this was why gentlemen preferred empty-headed debutantes. Those girls would never question the duality of motherhood.
Preston gave a friendly chuckle. ‘No, hardly, Bea. You’re a fabulous mother from what I’ve seen. I don’t know how you handle it, how you know it all: when to feed him, to change him, how to burp him.’
Bea felt herself glow. ‘I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’
Preston gave her a wink, his good humour seemingly restored. ‘I know.’
Bea gave him a considering look. ‘I think motherhood comes with a paradox: infinite love and finite limitations. Maybe being a gentleman’s son does, too, in its own way: limited opportunities while providing for eternal perpetuity.’