Marrying The Rebellious Miss

Preston bowed his head in a curt nod. ‘Then you leave me no choice.’ It was an ultimatum.

‘That makes us even. You’ve left me with none either.’ It was bravado at best. If she ran, where would she run to? To whom?

‘I will come in the morning with the carriage in the hopes you will have reconsidered the nature of your exit.’ The words left her cold. The idea that she had no choices left wasn’t not the same as his. He was merely forced now to take action. But she was forced to the opposite—to take no action, to acquiesce. To surrender. For now. Perhaps it was not so much a surrender as a retreat. She was Beatrice Penrose. She would survive this.

Chapter Two (#udf346e0a-5e7f-5679-aef4-674c5ce2dbc8)

It could have been worse, Preston mused an hour down the road, the little village on the Firth firmly behind them. He could have actually had to bodily carry Beatrice out of the farmhouse. He’d more than half-expected to after their conversation the day before. He was glad he didn’t have to. His shoulders were up to it, but his mind wasn’t.

If it was up to him, he would have left her in Scotland. He knew all too well how it felt to be forced into an unwelcome destiny. Wasn’t the very same fate waiting for him upon his return? Hadn’t it already begun years ago when he’d been denied the chance to go to war for his country all because of his birth? He keenly felt the hypocrisy of being sent to retrieve Beatrice to resume a life she no longer wanted and force her to it if he must, when he, too, railed against such strictures. Would her rebellion be as futile as his had been thus far?

Preston studied her, her dark head bent slightly as she read, the baby quietly asleep in his basket on the floor. She was still the Beatrice he knew. There was still in her the girl he’d grown up with who romped the hills and valleys of Little Westbury with long strides, carrying a basket to collect herbs and plants during their hikes. But there was a difference to her now.

Motherhood had changed her, Scotland had changed her. Freedom had changed her. There was an air of serenity about her, moments of softness, and yet there was a fierceness to her that hadn’t been there before. Beatrice had always been a strong personality, always the first to speak up against injustice, sometimes too rashly. He remembered the butcher in the village and the time Beatrice had caught the man cheating a poor woman out of fresh meat. That strength had permutated into something even fiercer than it had once been. Of course, she had something, someone, to protect now.

He’d seen that fierceness on display yesterday. She’d been formidable in her defence and he’d seen her point. Life in Little Westbury would be financially secure, but it would be difficult. She’d deduced correctly that her parents were eager to put the past year behind them, not necessarily by embracing it, but by erasing it.

Beatrice looked up from her reading and smiled tightly, acknowledging his gaze but nothing more as her eyes returned to her pages. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d set foot in the carriage. She was still mad. At him. He understood. She blamed him for this disruption in her life. But there was something else he more rightly deserved the blame for.

Preston felt the guilt return. It had plagued him since he’d ridden away yesterday. It wasn’t his fault she had to come home. That decision lay firmly at the feet of her parents. However, it might possibly be his fault she was in the carriage under somewhat false pretences. He’d told the truth. He and May had advocated the baby be raised at Maidenstone and there were no plans to marry Beatrice off to anyone specifically. He knew the conclusion Beatrice had drawn from that last piece of information: she’d be allowed to stay in Little Westbury, in seclusion. She wouldn’t be forced to go to London and endure a Season. That was where he had not bothered to correct her assumptions.

There was always the chance she wouldn’t mind. That was the balm his conscience had fallen asleep to last night. Once she got home, she might want to go to London. Evie and Dimitri would be there. May and Liam would be there. There was Liam’s knighthood ceremony to look forward to. Surely, London’s allures would be too appealing to resist. The baby stirred and he watched Beatrice’s gaze go directly to the little bundle, her expression soft as she looked at her sleeping son.

No. Preston knew instinctively his hopes were futile. London had no allure that could compete with the contents of that basket. There was no question of the baby going to London. It was hard to catch husbands with babies clinging to one’s skirts. The baby would have to stay behind and Beatrice would never forgive him for that.

The thought of earning Beatrice’s enmity sat poorly with him. He’d argued against being sent on this mission from the start. He’d not wanted to do the Penroses’ dirty work, but neither had he wanted someone less sensitive to Beatrice’s preferences to come in his place. In the end, it was that which had persuaded him to accept, although he’d feared this duty would risk Beatrice’s friendship. That, and the idea this trip was one last reprieve from the new responsibilities that waited for him. If it hadn’t been for this journey, he’d already be at his grandmother’s estate in Shoreham-by-the-Sea, picking up the reins of his inheritance, reins that tugged him in the direction of a landowning gentleman far sooner than he was ready to accept them. Becoming a landowning gentleman was much more bucolic than his current position as the head of coastal patrol. Having an estate that needed him would put an end to his patrol work and to any ambitions he held beyond that. He wasn’t ready for bucolic and all it entailed. He pushed the thoughts away and focused on Beatrice.

‘Are you truly not going to speak to me for an entire week?’ Preston crossed his long legs, attempting to stretch a bit in the cramped space without kicking the baby’s basket.

Beatrice gave him a cool glance. ‘A week? That’s quite optimistic. I intend to not speak to you far longer than that.’

Preston nudged the toe of her shoe, unable to resist the boyish response. ‘You just did. Guess you’ll have to start over.’

Beatrice put down her book in exasperation. ‘You’re acting like a thirteen-year-old.’

Preston grinned. ‘It takes one to know one. I figured giving someone the silent treatment deserved an equal and appropriate response.’ He managed to tease a smile from her with the remark. ‘We both know you aren’t going to hate me for ever.’ At least he hoped not. ‘Why don’t you forgive me now and get it over with? This trip will be a lot more interesting with someone to talk to, especially if that someone is you.’

He gave her a boyish smile before he turned serious. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t want to do it, Bea. May told me how happy you were here. But if it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.’ Preston shook his head, letting the gesture say what he could not put into words. ‘I just couldn’t let someone else come. That’s not what a friend does, even when there’s bad news to deliver.’ Would she understand it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done? He who had faced gun runners and arms dealers in dark alleys, taken knives to the gut rather like she was taking the proverbial blade now.

Beatrice relented. He saw it in her eyes first, the dark depths softening as she began to see this journey from his perspective. She reached out a hand and squeezed his. ‘Thank you for being the one. I doubt I could have borne it otherwise.’ It was settled. They could be friends once more for a few 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 and gave way to a hint of friendly apples when he smiled. Perhaps, though, what gave his face its handsomeness were its two best features: his hazel eyes, intelligent and compassionate by turn, and 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.