Captive Bride (3 page)

He donned his hat and sketched a light bow as the footman opened the door.

“Until tomorrow, then, my girl.”
He went out. On the third step he turned and looked back at her. “Don’t think of leaving without me.”

“I—”

“You will not.”

He tipped his hat at a handsomely devil-may-care angle that choked Bea’s
breath
in her
throat, and continued down the stair and across the drive. She stared after him, as always. She’d done it so many times she had memorized the precise shape of his back and the length of his confident strides. Then the footman closed the door, and she returned to the parlor for her afternoon dose of humility.

Tip had the most pressing urge to hit someone. Glancing about the parlor of
Marke
Lodge, however, he saw no one even remotely resembling Thomas
Sinclaire’s
blue-eyed, golden-haired good looks, so unlike his twin sister’s deep brown eyes and luxurious, coffee-colored tresses. Thomas took after his mother.

Only Tip’s host sat opposite him in a comfortable chair before the fire, nursing a glass of port. Naturally, Tip couldn’t hit
Marke
, even in the absence of the true target of his wrath. The thrashing he ached to deal out must, perforce, wait until he reached Wales.

“Upon your advice,”
Marke
said, “I bought the matched grays from Rutherford.”

Tip swung his attention to his friend. Fifteen years his senior, Averill
Marke
was a fine fellow. He was also astoundingly decent for never minding that Tip used his home as an inn when he came to visit Bea at Hart House three miles distant.

Marke
and his wife never remarked on it. Until a few years earlier, Lady
Marke
had been companion to Tip’s sister, Elizabeth. And when Tip visited, he entertained their young son and offered his host advice on horses. It seemed payment enough for using them so shabbily.

“Like them, do you?” he asked without much enthusiasm.

“Very well.
They’re not in the current fashion, grays, of course.”
Marke
sipped at his brandy.
“But very fine.
You have an enviable eye for horseflesh,
Cheriot
, and an impressive knack for knowing a winner.” 

“You mean those races at
Newmarket
, I suppose.”
Tip’s fingers wrapped around his crystal goblet.
“Had to recoup my father’s losses somehow, didn’t I? That slate merchant you put me in contact with has turned me a tidy profit, too, by the by. I am indebted to you.”

“Glad to be of assistance. A man can’t have enough good advice when it comes to trade.”

Tip threw his host a glance, but the baron looked away uncomfortably.
Marke
engaged in trade out of dire necessity. But Tip didn’t mind it much, and his investment in the Welsh slate quarry was now proving handy in a manner he hadn’t anticipated. While she was clearly resistant to his escort on this journey, Bea couldn’t very well deny him the right to look into his business affairs, even if she could deny him herself—over and over again.

“I’m heading to Wales tomorrow, actually,” he said by way of announcing his early departure. “Don’t think Lady
Marke
will mind me decamping so abruptly, do you?”

Marke
slanted him a curious look. “Nancy always enjoys your visits, but she will understand, certainly. Are you concerned about the quarry?”

“No. No worries there. Only, I would like to see it once, meet the quarry master,
shake
hands and all that.”

Marke
assessed him. “You have a dangerously honest look about you,
Cheriot
, but a clever eye nevertheless. No wonder you do well with tradesmen and horses.”

“I will accept that as a compliment, old man.” Tip stood to leave.

The parlor door opened and Lady
Marke
entered. Her compact form glided toward them as silently as she had always moved when living in Tip’s family home. That, of course, had been before his father died four years ago and his mother a year later, both in the typically dramatic, brutal fashion with which they’d done everything.

Nancy rested her hand upon her husband’s shoulder.

He reached up and grasped it. “Are you off to bed now, my dear?
So early?”

“I chased Avery around all day playing soldiers and am absolutely ragged.” She drew away and smiled at Tip.

“Dearest Nancy,” he said, “
although
I always enjoy your hospitality, I must depart early tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”
Her brow furrowed. “Have you been thrown out of Hart House after only one day? I will not believe it. You haven’t been here in months.”

It felt like an eternity
. “No. All are in fine fettle there. Miss
Sinclaire
is traveling into Wales on an errand and requires an escort.”

“Beatrice is going to Wales? Whatever could she have to do there?” Lady
Marke’s
eyes narrowed. She cast her husband a knowing look before turning back to Tip. “It’s Thomas again, isn’t it? He is in trouble and has sent for her.”

“I will leave that information to the lady to impart to you if she so wishes.” Tip bowed his farewell and moved toward the door. “For my part, I have found that business calls me to Wales conveniently at the same instant she wishes to go,” he threw over his shoulder. A twinge of guilt prickled him for forcing his company on Bea for this journey.
But he wouldn’t allow her to hare off into the wilderness without a man’s protection, and he wasn’t about to let any other man have the job.

“Rather too convenient, I would venture to say,” the baroness remarked.

Tip glanced back at her. She folded her arms in an attitude of mild intolerance. Ignoring her stare, Tip glanced at his host.
Marke
gazed at his wife with measured affection and a hint of pride.

Chest tightening, Tip turned away. Regrettably, he had not been made from the same stuff as
Marke
, the sort that admired without adoring, the sort that could settle into a comfortable love match without wishing to tear out his heart and hand it to the lady upon a plate, then tear hers out as well. No, he came from the sort of poor sod who met his end in a ditch on a road, and drove his lady-love to a similar fate not long after.

Even before his parents’ deaths, though, Tip had recognized Beatrice
Sinclaire’s
rational spirit. That she was pretty as could stare, with silken hair that would ever escape its confines, thick-lashed doe’s eyes, and a sweetly curved figure did not escape his notice, of course. A young man on the town—still at university when he’d made her acquaintance—was far from immune to those sorts of enticements.

But after that first season his susceptibility to her charms had only grown. Now each time he saw her it grew more difficult to pretend he didn’t want her, more than life itself, it sometimes seemed. Like his foolish father, he felt far too deeply. And every time she refused him—for God knew what reason, although Tip had plenty of theories—his fuse shortened.

But Bea was not his mother, as reckless and passionate-natured as her husband. If Tip could keep a cool head in control of his heated heart, Bea would see to the rest.

He turned away from Lady
Marke’s
sharp gaze.

“Tip?”
Her uncluttered voice called his attention back. “You have stayed with us in order to visit Hart House at least seven times in the past two years.”

“Keeping a running account of my bill, are you, Nancy?” He tilted a teasing brow. “Wouldn’t have thought it of you, but I will pay my keep if you like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You will not tell me even if I ask point-blank, will you?”

“If you mean to inquire about my devotion to Lady Harriet, you are correct. With all due respect, it is none of your business.” He
smiled,
a jaunty twist of his lips that rarely failed to
please.

Nancy’s eyes softened, but her arms did not unfold. “Tease all you want, Tip. But I suspect you are not as single-minded in your visits to Hart House as you believe. Lady Harriet’s situation is not unlike your own mother’s at one time. I know Lady
Cheriot
depended upon your company enormously in those months after your father’s death. You were a great comfort to her.”

If the words had come from any other than the person who had shared his family’s home and affection for years, he would have laughed aloud and changed the subject.

“You have always been very clever, haven’t you, Nancy dear?” he said.
“In point of fact, too clever on occasion.”

“Is that an insult,
Cheriot
?”
Marke’s
brow dipped.

“Certainly not.”
Tip bowed. “A compliment to your esteemed wife, don’t you know.”

“Ah, good then.”

“One doesn’t need to be clever,” Nancy continued, “to be astonished over the fact that you haven’t yet come to the point. Or if you have, that she has not accepted you.”

“May I remind you that Lady Harriet is already married, however unconvincingly these past several years?” He kept his tone insubstantial, though his chest constricted again. “It would not be quite the thing for me to pay her formal addresses, you know.”

Nancy’s arms unwrapped and she slapped her hands against the skirt of her frock. “You are hopeless. You will not tell me, so I cannot help you. And Beatrice won’t, either. You both deserve to go on like this for another two years, or twenty.” 

“Trust me,” he said as evenly as he could, “it has already gone on far too long for my tastes.” Not a mere two years.
Four
.
Four interminable cycles of seasons since that fateful evening when across a ballroom floor Bea had lifted her shining dark gaze to his, and he was lost.

He bowed again, met
Marke’s
impassive study with a nod, and left the parlor.

~
~
~

October 20, 1822

Today he proposed in the rose garden. I wore my yellow sprigged muslin, the one he likes so well.

Diary, I am a ninny. I should not wear gowns he admires or meet him without Mama or a maid nearby. But it is very difficult after so many years to remain on formal standing with him.

He stood before me and said
,
Will you do me the honor of becoming my bride, Bea? He calls me Bea despite my objections. It makes my toes curl up deliciously in my slippers.

Before he left he cast me a Very Dark Look, warning me not to depart for Wales without him. I have enlisted the chaperonage of the great-aunts. Aunt Grace certainly will not allow me and Tip any privacy.
A blessing and a curse, at once.

I know very well,
Diary, that
I ought to have turned him off once and for all this time. I wonder if he still pines for
Georgie
. He mentions her infrequently now. Someday, no doubt, he will meet a lady who finally breaks the spell my sister cast on him, and love her as well or perhaps even better. In the meantime, his visits here seem to be a habit for him. I am a habit for him, from a time when visiting me allowed him to be close to
Georgie
, whom he could not have.

I am very wicked to feel so excited. A dark castle, a villainous lord, and Peter
Cheriot
—all at once! If I were a less sensible person, I might swoon. (I will consider it a miracle if I return home with a functioning heart.) 

~
~
~

CHAPTER
TWO

From a corner of the plush-lined carriage, Lady
Marstowe
glowered. Bea didn’t mind it. As soon as they had left Hart House it seemed as though a cool, encouraging hand pressed her along, a voice whispering in her ear that, for the first time in years, she was free.

Free
.

At least for a bit.

“If you want the facing seat, Aunt Grace, I will be glad to switch with you. Or Peg could,” she added, smiling at Lady
Marstowe’s
maid. She’d left her own maid with Mama.
Easier not to fight it, as usual.

“I cannot abide the facing seat.” The dowager’s narrow face drew tight with displeasure. “Why isn’t Lord
Cheriot
riding in the carriage with us again? Have you offended him?”

“I told you, Aunt Grace, he prefers to ride.” He was one of the best horsemen around. Everyone agreed, and Lord
Marke
and Bea’s brother-in-law,
Kievan
, spoke of it regularly enough. Tip always ignored that sort of praise, of course. He was the least vain man she’d ever known.