Marrying The Rebellious Miss. Bronwyn Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ introductions. Beatrice unclenched her fists and smoothed her skirts where her hands had wrinkled them. She drew a deep breath, giving panic one last shove. She could allow herself to tremble all she liked on the inside. She just couldn’t show it, couldn’t let Preston see how much his visit terrified her.

      At the sound of boots at the parlour door, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin with a final admonition: she was Beatrice Penrose, she would survive this, too. She had time for one last breath before the axe fell, his words chopping short her freedom. ‘Hello, Beatrice. I’ve come to fetch you home.’

      She turned from the window to meet her fate—no, not her fate, her future. Fate was something you accepted. The future was something you carved for yourself, something you alone decided. That meant taking charge of this conversation right now. The future was here, standing before her; tall and dark-haired with a sharp hazel gaze, Preston, the friend of her youth as she’d always known him and yet there was a difference about him today that transcended the dusty boots and windblown hair, something she couldn’t put her finger on, not yet. Her mind was still too scattered. She desperately wished she could get her nerves under control.

      Beatrice gestured to the chairs set before the cold fire. ‘Please, come and sit. You should have sent word you were coming.’ At least she’d found her voice even if it sounded reedy.

      ‘And ruin the surprise?’ Preston took the far chair. She took the seat closest to the cradle where her son slept oblivious. Her foot picked up the rocking rhythm it had abandoned a few minutes ago for the window, this time out of a need to quiet her nerves more than putting the babe to sleep. ‘You must tell me all the news from Little Westbury. How are Evie and her new husband? He sounds like a paragon from her letters. I can’t believe I missed her wedding.’ She was talking too fast, rambling, and she couldn’t stop. ‘I want all the details and I’ll want to hear about May and Liam, too. They must be married by now.’ So much for hiding her nerves, but perhaps she could buy some time until she had her control back. At the moment, these questions were the shield behind which she could gather stronger resources.

      Whether he recognised the delaying efforts for what they were or not, Preston obliged her. He was too much of a gentleman, too much of a friend, not to. She’d grown up with him. He’d filled the role of being an older brother to all of May’s friends who had only sisters or, like her, no one, when they were younger. He politely regaled her with tales of Evie’s wedding and the new house her prince had bought in the valley. He told her of Liam’s coming knighthood ceremony and of May’s elegant January wedding at St Martin-in-the-Fields. An hour ticked by and Bea began to hope that he might forget, that she’d succeeded in driving him off course. ‘And May’s dress? You haven’t told me yet what she wore,’ Beatrice pressed him when the conversation began to lag.

      But Preston was finished. He had not forgotten. ‘I won’t say another word. There won’t be anything left for Evie and May to tell you when you get home. They will be so glad to see you.’

      His words brought the conversation full circle. The delaying action was over despite her efforts to steer it away from the one topic she didn’t want to discuss.

      Preston leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, his hazel gaze, so like his sister, May’s, fixed on her with tenacity. The tension that had slipped to 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.

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