Marrying The Rebellious Miss

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.

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

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.’ She’d always thought of men as having boundless freedom. Perhaps not.

‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, exactly.’ Preston reached for his book with a rueful half-smile before turning his attention to the pages and she did the same, allowing her thoughts, both old and new, to absorb her.

* * *

Even as she settled beneath the covers for the night, Matthew asleep in a makeshift crib beside her lonely bed, the thought was still with her that today had been a watershed; she was coming alive again, the rivers of her life diverging in different directions once more. She was not just a mother now, whose body was devoted solely to supporting another life, nor was she simply a girl with a past, but a woman with independent interests and needs. The sharpness of that realisation was a double-edged sword; those interests, those needs, carried her down dangerous streams, more passionate streams she’d promised herself not to navigate again for the sake of her son and herself. Hadn’t she learned her lesson already?

She could not allow herself to give in to the reckless passions that had led her into Malvern Alton’s arms, except perhaps in the middle of the night, alone in her bed where no one could see, no one would know. Bea slid her hands beneath the cotton of her nightgown, cupping her breasts, feeling the milky fullness of them and remembering that once, before they’d been a source of nourishment, they’d been a source 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.’

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

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 layers, fortunately for modesty’s sake, but perhaps unfortunately for his other senses. He was rather enjoying being fussed over.

Beatrice passed him another towel, saying, ‘For your hair’, before pushing him down into the room’s one chair and opening his travelling trunk. She pulled out clean clothes for him. ‘Your clothes will be dry in the morning, but you’ll need something for tonight.’ She laid them out on the bed.

‘Take care of yourself, Bea. I’ll do.’ Preston smiled at her efforts. Of course Beatrice would fuss over him. She took care of those in need whether it be a poor woman in a butcher shop or a hungry baby, or a soaking wet man. He didn’t mind. When was the last time someone had done for him? When he was at home, his valet did it, but when he travelled for the Crown, he was on his own. His work often required stealth and one could not be stealthy with a valet in tow.

Beatrice was a caregiver, it came naturally to her, part of how she took charge. Look what she’d done for her friends this past year, inspiring them to take life into their own hands; his sister had told him about the Left Behind Girls Club where the motto was ‘nothing will change until you do’. He’d seen evidence of it these last days, all the attention she selflessly lavished on her son. He supposed he’d always known that about Beatrice. She’d been the leader of the little group of girls since they were young. But to see it in action was another thing altogether, a reminder, too, that he might have grown up with Bea, but their adult lives had been spent separately. He might have known the girl she’d been, but he did not know entirely the woman she’d become. He’d like to know her, though. It was, in large part, what these past days in the coach had focused on. The journey was no longer merely a rescue or retrieval of an old friend, but a discovery. He had the sense she was doing the same with him, both of them exploring the same questions: who had they become in the absence of childhood and the presence of their own adversities?

Perhaps the more important question was: where did that discovery lead? They’d long since superseded the friendship of childhood in Little Westbury and they were fast becoming more than the sum of their friendship in London as new adults come to town. He knew it was due to the enforced proximity of the road. Once the road was gone and they were home, this sense of closeness would fade. It was how the road worked.